The Way Back #26

Vanessa Devereux waited until Calculator was finished before she laughed. "West Gotham Correctional Facility? So he's already in prison?" she demanded scornfully.

"Jail, actually," Calculator corrected. "He hasn't been convicted of anything yet. Meaning he might still walk."

"And what could possibly make you believe that your information has any value for me? I mean, apart from the fact that I don't mind hearing some good news, every now and then?"

Calculator smiled. "Perhaps nothing," he admitted. "On the other hand, there was the sad matter of Tanner Walker, some months ago."

There was a long silence on the other end.

His smile broadened. Tanner Walker had been one of Wall Street's rising stars—until he'd made off with several million dollars of investment funds, entrusted to him by his wealthy clients. At one time, he'd boasted about having his fingers in many pies. Someone had taken the time to make that boast a reality—and nearly driven a local bakery into bankruptcy. The rest of his body had later turned up in Brighton Beach. An autopsy had been unable to determine conclusively whether the actual cause of death had been blood loss from the amputations, asphyxiation due to drowning, or the blue-ringed octopus venom in his bloodstream. Clearly, though, someone had taken great pains to ensure his demise. "You're lucky that the officer heading up the investigation was susceptible to bribery," he added.

"What do you want?"

Calculator leaned back into his cushioned desk chair. "I'm in the business of selling information, ma'am. I find data that I believe to be relevant to certain parties, and I offer it to them... for a price, of course."

"Of course." There was a pause. "As much as I would dearly love to get my hands on... Flass, you say his real name is? Getting close to him might not be feasible. There is the other matter, however." Her voice hardened. "What would it cost to ensure that you do not pass along any data regarding me to certain parties?"

Calculator laughed out loud. "Ms Devereux, it's a genuine pleasure to deal with someone as farsighted as yourself. In fact, if the idea amuses you, I may have several clients interested in doing business with a woman of your... creativity."

"Enough flattery." There was no trace of feigned disinterest now. "Name your price."

He did, and was pleasantly surprised when she accepted it without haggling. It almost made up for Selina backing out of their agreement. Of course, he'd need to be on his guard with Ms Devereux. She had an established history of tying up loose ends in an extremely permanent fashion. Then again, given his usual clientele, being on constant guard was merely part of his work environment.

On the whole, his day was going rather well.

--

"I don't like either option," Dick said seriously. "If I had something concrete to pin on Penguin, I would have done it long ago. It's more... I don't look too hard, and he doesn't test my tolerance. But if something were to drop in my lap..." He shook his head. "And it's not like he's being framed for blackmail. Even if bringing him in is going to send the rest of the underworld digging in deeper..."

"I know," Barbara agreed. "Stopping him is the right thing to do." She sighed. "Even if I do owe him for that whole business with Calculator, last year." She took a sip of coffee and set the mug down on the stand by her work station. "And yes, I do know that he was just trying to get back at Calculator for double-crossing him. I still owe him." She grimaced. "And, considering that I finance my own operations by," she lowered her voice conspiratorially, "skimming the proceeds of organized crime, I... I just can't take the moral high ground on this one."

Dick nodded. "And his intel has always been good. I mean, he could have sent us on wild goose chases, or tried to run me into a trap... well, he's done that, but not by feeding us the wrong information. If he tells me that the smuggled goods will be at wharf four, that's where they are. True, he might neglect to mention that the guard detail knows the Vulcan death-grip—"

"There's no such thing as the Vulcan death-grip."

"Quivering palm technique," he amended, grinning. The smile faded. "Fine. Go ahead."

Barbara brightened. "You're sure?"

"Yeah," he sighed. "Warn him. Once. But, if he doesn't believe you, he's on his own."

--

Alex steepled his fingers and looked across his desk to Bruce. "It sounds like you're planning to leave things that way," he said finally.

Bruce sighed. "It's for the best. I know that. It doesn't really have anything to do with what happened that night. I have enemies and they aren't going to go away. If someone takes it into their head to burn down the manor, or bomb my car, I doubt whether they'll care if my daughter is with me."

"You know, Bruce," Alex said slowly, "many high-profile individuals do have families."

"Among them, Charles Lindbergh."

"Bruce," Alex said firmly, "I did some homework after our last session. In 2001 there were over 800,000 missing juveniles in the United States. Of those, roughly 400,000 were runaways, 200,000 were classed as 'family' abductions, custody issues and so on and so forth. Less than one hundred were, what's generally termed 'stereotypical' abductions-that is to say, kidnappings by strangers. One hundred out of eight hundred thousand, Bruce. Point-zero-one-two-five per cent. And keep in mind that most people don't have your security measures. With those in place, I'd say her odds are even better." He glanced at his desk blotter and picked up a sheet of paper. "And homicide ranks a distant fourth among leading causes of child death, behind unintentional injuries," he held the sheet out to Bruce, still reciting, "congenital malformations, and certain types of cancer."

Bruce accepted the page, shaking his head. "I know the statistics, Alex. I'm not going to risk her being one of them. Is that so wrong?"

"No," Alex admitted. "But, forgive me, Bruce. If her mother hadn't burst in on you in a fury and whisked her away, would you still be trying to convince yourself that she was better off without you?"

"This is the second time it's happened," Bruce pointed out.

"I'm aware of that. Which begs the question," Alex pressed. "Are you accepting the situation in order to protect Helena, or yourself?"

Bruce felt his temper ignite. "What if it is me?" He snapped, barely realizing what he was saying. "Aren't I allowed to look out for me, once in awhi-?" One hand flew to his mouth in horror. "Oh my G-" His heart seemed to thud, rather than thump. His eyes stung and he squeezed them shut. He wasn't going to cry. Not now. Not for this. He had to be strong. He had to keep himself together until he got back to the manor. Until he could go down to the Cave and scream and rage to his heart's content. Until then, he just had to stay calm. He could do that.

"Yes," Alex said softly. "Absolutely."

Bruce let out a long shuddering breath and fought for control.

--

"Hands," the guard ordered. Flass half-turned to allow him to undo the cuffs at his wrists. "I'll be outside," he announced. Flass nodded impatiently. He didn't turn when the iron door clanged shut behind him.

"Mr. Flass?" A heavy-set man with thinning red hair greeted him with a tight-lipped smile. "I'm Matt Walters. I'd like to represent you."

"Oh?" Flass smiled back guardedly as he extended his hand. "Hey. What's with...?" He gestured toward the latex glove Walters was sporting on his right hand.

"It's cold and flu season, Mr. Flass. I'm trying to avoid germs." Walters spoke calmly, even slightly apologetically. "And you do seem to be sniffling a bit, sir."

Flass made a face, but he grasped the gloved hand and pumped it once. "It's the damned heating system in this place," he growled. "If it's not sniffles, it's cracked skin, or watery eyes, or... anyway, enough about me. You probably aren't going to want my case when I tell you what I intend to do."

"Oh?"

Flass wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "I'm going down. I know that. I did the crime, I'll do the time. But if I have to go away, it'll be worth it if I can bring the Bat down with me."

"The Bat?" Walters asked. "Clarify?"

"Not the new one. The original. Wayne. Yeah, I was holding Jimbo... um... Gordon. That's what they're charging me with, and it's the truth. But it's only part of it. See, what they aren't saying is that Wayne paid me a visit that night. He broke into my building. And he also," Flass smiled nastily, "broke his probation. He's saying I kidnapped him, well that's a lie. He came onto my property of his own free will. Yeah, I wanted to kill him. Would have, if the new Bat hadn't put in an appearance. Doesn't change the fact that he's looking at more time in Arkham if they find out he turned vidge again."

"Which means that in order to... bring him down with you, you need to go into full details, which are only going to hurt your own case."

"Told you you wouldn't want to take me on. That's fine. I've been expecting to represent myself, anyway."

"It would be tantamount to suicide."

"It's worth it."

Walters did a slow blink. "I... see. Well, if you're that bent on killing yourself..."

Flass looked up sharply. "You still want the case?"

The lawyer nodded. "I think I can help you." He extended his gloved hand for Flass to shake again. Flass did, with considerably more enthusiasm this time.

"What's your plan?"

"For now, nothing. We've got months before the trial. I'm going to start cracking the books, of course, but I also mean to sit back, observe, and see what unfolds." He smiled. "We've got a ways to go, but I think you'll be finding your prospects taking a dramatic change in the very near future."

Flass turned away to sneeze.

Walters flinched.

"Sorry about that." He wiped his nose on the back of his hand again. "Heating system. We done?"

"We are."

Flass nodded and moved to the door by which he'd entered. "Guess I'll be seeing you." He gave the door a hard rap. "Guard!"

--

Walters was whistling as he left the building and made his way back to his car. In the parking lot, he reached his clean hand into the front seat of the car where he'd placed a large plastic grocery bag. Slipping that hand into the bag, he removed the glove, taking care that none of his exposed skin touched the latex. Then, just as he'd practiced a dozen times in preparation for today, he slipped a second shopping bag onto his right hand, took a large clear Ziploc bag out of the glove compartment and dropped the glove into it. The shopping bag on his left hand followed. Only then did he start to breathe more easily. He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number from memory.

"This is Matheson," he said when the answering machine came on. "It's done."

--

The office door opened and one of the Ghost Dragons—Eddie thought his name was Yun—exited, looking upset. The guard at the door cleared his throat and Penguin looked up.

"Ah, Devilbane." Penguin gestured for Eddie to come in and approach the desk. "Have I been working you too hard, my good man?"

Beneath his armor, Eddie blinked. "Um..."

"I thought as much. I'll tell you what: why don't you take the rest of the month off?" He scribbled something on a piece of note paper and handed it to him. "Things are expected to slow down quite a bit. If you do find that you need some remuneration, call that number and ask for Rennie. He'll likely have something to tide you over. Otherwise, I'll certainly be in touch once business picks up again." He ended the audience with a quick wave of his hand.

Eddie walked out of the office clutching the paper. The guard at the door motioned to another youth to go inside. Eddie vaguely remembered him from the Ghost Dragons' 'recruitment drive'. Was everyone getting the chop?

As he made his way out of the Iceberg, trying hard not to jostle anyone in the crowd of customers, he couldn't help but wonder whether Penguin suspected that he was a spy. If so, his temporary apartment wasn't going to be safe enough.

"...So," he radioed Wonder Girl a few minutes later, "I think I'd better head back to base tonight."

"Absolutely," Cassie said. "Not because he suspects you, though. Because the mission's over."

"What? But Penguin is—"

"I'll explain at the debriefing. M'Gann's on her way, too," she added. There was a warm smile in her voice. "Good work." She cut the signal.

Eddie frowned. How could he have done good work when he didn't think he'd done much of anything? Unless... He started to grin. Somehow, he didn't think that Mayor Houghton was going to see Penguin behind bars anytime soon.

--

"Dr. Arkham!" Cass looked up in surprise as an orderly wheeled him up to the front desk. "Here, too?"

"I don't plan on leaving this building in a wheelchair," Arkham rasped tartly. "Is this where you're working, now?"

"Short-staffed," Cass nodded. Then, remembering that Erica had told her to be friendly, she smiled. "Welcome."

A man in his late thirties, wearing a white lab coat over green scrubs bounded up. He carried a clipboard under one arm. "Jerry? Hi, I'm Craig. Is this your first time in PT?"

"Dr. Arkham," Cass corrected softly.

"Sorry?"

"It's Dr. Arkham. Not... Jerry."

Craig blinked, but he raised the clipboard and made a note on the attached chart. "Are you able to walk, Doctor?" He asked.

Arkham nodded. "For short distances."

"Good! Let's see if you can make it to the end of the hall and back. Cass? Would you follow behind with the wheelchair?"

For answer, Cass took position behind the chair and waited for Arkham to rise.

"Craig?" Erica Beecham emerged from Gymnasium A. "Will you need her for long?"

"Well, if you can spare me another volunteer to trail behind," he gestured toward Arkham, who was still slowly lifting himself out of the chair, "you can have her now. Otherwise..." he thought for a moment. "Say, twenty minutes?"

"That's fine. Cass, come find me when you're done."

"Okay." She smiled behind Erica's retreating back. She had no idea why the department head wanted to meet with her, but going by her body language, it didn't look like Erica was in any way upset with her.

"Cass," Craig broke into her thoughts, "wait until Dr. Arkham takes about three steps forward, and then start pushing the chair slowly."

Cass nodded. "Understood."

--

"I guess the real question," Alex said, long moment later, "is whether you do want them in your life, either singly or together."

Bruce slumped. "Sometimes," he ventured, "I wonder whether I push people away, only because I trust them to come back. I don't know if Selina will."

"And you didn't push her away."

"Not this time." Bruce hesitated. "But I have before, and I might again." He looked up cautiously, gauging Alex's reaction.

Alex only nodded. "It's good that you're being realistic about that. Old patterns are hard to break. Frankly, I'd be concerned if you'd tried to convince me that you would never do such a thing again, if you had another opportunity."

"So, you don't think I can avoid it."

"I didn't say that, either. Bruce, 'never' is a very long time. I'm not sure how much you know about addiction counselling. It's not something I've had to do to any significant extent since my internship days, but one thing that still stays with me is that we try not to think in terms of 'never' relapsing. It isn't about getting the patient to promise to never take the next bottle, the next hit. It's about staying on-track for the present. Just for today, they're going to stay sober. Sometimes, it's more like 'just for the next hour'."

"And sometimes they fail."

"And sometimes they succeed. And sometimes, they relapse and then call their sponsors, go to that next meeting, resolve to try again—"

"But fail anyway."

"What do you want me to tell you, Bruce? I saw people who came in committed to getting better, who made it. I saw people who treated the whole thing like a joke and relapsed. And I saw people who came in gung-ho and committed to sobriety drop out of the program, and people I was sure would be using again as soon as they left the hospital stay the course. I work on the assumption that every patient I have has the potential to get better, and I do my best to help them along—but ninety-eight per cent of the cure doesn't come from me. All I do is try to guide you to the solutions you likely already know, but haven't allowed yourself to see."

Bruce frowned. "There is a part of me that wants them both in my life," he admitted. "But... no matter what you say, bringing Helena into my—my sphere of influence will put her in danger. The smartest thing to do would be to let them both go... and rebuff any future attempts at contact. Except..."

"Except...?"

Bruce sighed. "I... can't. It may be the wisest choice, but it's also the coward's choice. If I try to keep them in my life, I know I'll make a mess of things... the same way I have in the past." He smiled bitterly. "Well, maybe not the exact same way. But my... track record leaves something to be desired."

"But you still want to try."

"I have to. If Selina will let me. But I don't know if I can."

Alex nodded. "If that's your decision, you're going to have your work cut out for you. You do realize, I hope, that it's not something you'll need to handle alone?"

Bruce gave him a wan smile. That, at least, was one thing about which he had no doubt whatsoever.

--

"Are you happy here, Cassandra?" Erica asked. "Is this something you can see yourself doing regularly?"

Cass frowned. "Maybe. But... is it all... what I do now? Or... more challenge?" Mistake! The word hissed through her thoughts. What if they thought she wanted to go somewhere else? "I am," she said firmly. "Happy."

Erica smiled. "I can tell. You seem to have a real instinct for when to have the chair ready, and when the patient is doing fine without it." She gave Cass a direct look. "As far as challenge goes, there are limits to the duties that we can assign you, if you don't have the proper training."

Cass nodded, thinking she knew where this was going. "Can I... train here?"

Erica motioned her to a chair. "Possibly," she said, once Cass was seated. "Now, I've been speaking with Doug. He told me that you left the education section on your application blank. Have you never been to school?"

Cass shook her head. "No."

"All right. If you want a career in PT, at the very least, you need a high school diploma, or a GED." At Cass' perplexed frown, she clarified, "it's a test that you can take to show that you have high-school level academic skills. It's an alternative to a formal classroom. With a GED, you would qualify for our Physical Therapist Aide program—am I going too fast?"

She shook her head again.

"Ok," Erica took a deep breath and continued briskly. "I'd say about half of the program is what you're doing now: escorting patients to and from therapy and cleaning the equipment. You'll also learn more about the different machines and apparatuses we use, and how to set up for each individual's session and clean up afterwards."

Cass nodded.

Erica smiled encouragingly. "The next level up from an aide," she went on, "would be a Physical Therapy Assistant. Now that's a two-year diploma program, involving both academics and clinical field work. You would learn what sort of exercises a patient needs to do to regain function after an illness or injury." She thought for a moment. "Massage techniques, electrical stimulation... ultrasound..."

Cass realized that she was smiling. That sounded a good deal more interesting than what she was doing now. But she could tell that Erica wasn't quite finished yet. "And... after assistant?" she asked.

Erica hesitated for a moment. "Well, that's going to be the hardest. If you actually want to become a full-fledged physical therapist, you're looking at minimum six years of training—a four year undergraduate degree, and then a two-year masters. Most of our staff members have doctorates in the field. That's full-time," she added. "I'm not saying this to discourage you. I think that, if you want to go that route, you should. But it will take a good deal of time and money."

"Oh."

Erica smiled kindly. "My advice to you is to get the GED. With that, once we get our hiring budget, you'd be a prime candidate for the Aide program. Also, if you're a paid full-time staff member, you would qualify for our tuition reimbursement program." Seeing Cass frown again, she explained, "if you're taking courses that will teach you job-related skills, the hospital will pay for them. It's another thing to consider, if you wanted to train as an aide initially and then upgrade your skills."

"I... see." She remembered what Dick had told her before she'd come to volunteer in the first place. She knew that she shouldn't get her hopes up. If it came to a choice between tests and study and Batgirl, then... Two nights on patrol and one night off. I can make time. And if it takes me longer, so what? Not a race. Erica liked her work, Cass reminded herself. Erica thought that she could do more than she already was, if she had more training. Erica didn't care if Cass talked funny, or if it took her five times as long to read the instructions. Erica didn't think she was stupid, just because she had trouble communicating.

She smiled. "I'll think, okay?"

Erica beamed back. "Absolutely." She walked over to her filing cabinet and pulled open the top drawer. "I believe I have some pamphlets... here we go!" She returned, holding the three booklets extended fanlike before her. "Take your time. Look them over. And when you think you know what you want to do, come back and see me." Her eyes twinkled. "Meanwhile, you can heat up three paraffin baths. We're going to need them in a little while."

--

Two days later, Flass woke up in his cell with a sore throat and aching limbs. He groaned and brushed a hand against his forehead. He thought it felt warm.

The klaxon sounded, announcing the dawn of a new day. He stumbled to his feet and made his way to the cell door. When it slid open, he took a few seconds longer than normal to step through.

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably no more than a few minutes, a guard approached. His eyes slid past Flass as he made a notation on his roster. Then they snapped back. "You feeling okay, Flass?"

Flass tried to appear stoic. "Just the usual with this damned building," he muttered. It wasn't easy being a former cop in here. He couldn't afford to demonstrate any weakness.

The guard, however, had other ideas. "Report to the infirmary after breakfast," he ordered. Then he continued down the line of prisoners.

Flass watched him go, willing the inspection to pass quickly. If he had to remain standing here much longer, he knew that he was going to keel over.

--

"What," Kowalski said slowly, "do you mean... nothing?"

The officer tugged at his jacket collar. "Just what I said, sir. We went over the place with a fine-toothed comb. We brought the dogs in, just in case he'd gotten sloppy and there were drugs on the premises. Palmer spent six hours going over the account books, and they all seem to check out. Hell, we couldn't even find a dirty cleaning rag on a food surface in the kitchen! We have nothing."

Lonerghan's jaw dropped. "But the bird books on the shelf... ?"

"We checked them out. Page by page. They're just books."

"But... but I saw those records with my own eyes! I even took photos!"

"I saw them," Kowalski growled. "They're not admissible in court." He made a fist and smacked it into his palm. "Three months of undercover work down the tubes. Damn."

Lonerghan let out a long breath. "So, what happens now?"

"Now? Now you go home, get some rest, and report back to the office on Monday." Kowalski smiled wearily. "I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up. Not where Cobblepot is concerned. Nice try, officer."

Lonerghan nodded dejectedly and headed for his Camaro.

Five minutes later, he was back, and clutching a bulky envelope to his chest. "Sir... you... you might want to have a look at this..."

--

Since Penguin never had cared for computers, it fell to Savant to initiate contact with Oracle later that evening.

They did indeed have a warrant, he messaged. You have my employer's gratitude.

Barbara allowed herself a small smile. I guess that makes us even for your help with Calculator last year.

A new line of text appeared and Barbara's eyes widened.

Actually, my employer rather thinks he likes the idea of the Oracle continuing to owe him. So, here's some new intel. As you're aware, he runs the sort of establishment where people tend to speak freely. One such individual was in there two days ago. He was not local. He paid with a credit card under the name Walter Matheson. And he spoke about something that might be of interest to your organization.

As the lines of text continued to appear, Barbara let loose with a loud expletive. "Batman!" She hit the comm-link frantically. "You've got to get to the jail, right now! You have to tell them that..."

--

"They've transported him to Evanstown General," Dick said tersely, twenty minutes later. "It looked like he just had a bad case of flu until he started showing symptoms of meningitis."

"Docs told you that?"

"Trustee in the infirmary. He seemed a bit rattled over how fast Flass deteriorated. My showing up just spooked him more."

Oracle nodded. "I'll interface with the Evanstown systems and try to make sure the right links come up first if anyone tries an online search for symptoms. Thing is, they might try to treat the symptoms first and wait until he's stable to run full diagnostic tests. And given that once meningitis develops, death usually occurs within 24 to 36 hours, and the odds of survival fall with each hour—"

"You want me to head for the hospital," Batman finished. "I'm on it." He paused. "I... I made it down here in record time tonight. I don't think it even crossed my mind until now that if Flass doesn't make it..."

"Bruce's life gets a lot easier. I know. And I suspect Penguin did too, when he asked Savant to pass this bit of news on to me." Her voice hardened. "He's trying to convince us that we're no better than he is. Showing us how easy it is to cross over to—"

"The dark side of the force?"

"The murky side."

"Did you debate whether to call me when you found out?"

"No. But once I had, I have to admit, there was a part of me that wanted to kick myself."

She heard the grin in his voice when he replied, "I can't blame you for that. But you did right. Got to go; I'll call you from the hospital."

"Hurry."

"I love you." They both said it at the same time. Then Dick clicked off his comm-link and Barbara set about hacking into the Evanstown General Hospital computer network.

--

Kowalski held the photographs as though they were a stick of live dynamite. "Well," he said slowly, we can nail Cobblepot with these—but the mayor's going to have to answer a lot of questions, too. You say they were in your car?"

Lonerghan nodded. "You saw what was sealing the envelope?"

"Oh yes." He peeled the bat-shaped sticker off of the flap. It stuck to his index finger. A second later, the bottom began to curl upwards. "These pics do shed a whole new light on why Houghton's been after us to get to Cobblepot, don't they?"

"So, what happens now?"

"Now?" Kowalski tucked the envelope into his jacket. "Now, I hold on to these until first thing tomorrow morning and find out how the commish wants this played. We thought we had Penguin and right now, he's pointing and laughing at us. We think we have Houghton, but if we're wrong about that too, he's not going to be laughing. We're going to have to play this one very carefully." He smiled. "I wonder if there are any job openings at City Hall you might want to put in an application for. Something that might give you a chance to snoop around outside of normal work hours, maybe..."

--

Batman made the fifteen minute drive from West Gotham to Evanstown in record time. He spent nearly as long looking for a parking spot that wouldn't block the ambulance zones. Finally, he burst through the doors of the ER and dashed to the reception area. "I have some information about a patient arrived from West Gotham Correctional," he said in a low voice.

The man swallowed hard. He took in Batman's determined expression, swallowed again, and got up. "I'll be right back," he said as he opened the door behind him that led into the emergency room proper.

Batman waited. Hesitantly, he looked around the waiting area, noting the apprehension in the eyes of most of the other patients.

"It's okay," he said reassuringly. "I'm here to try to save someone's life. Nothing more, nothing less."

"So, Joker isn't on the loose?" one man asked from the corner.

Batman shook his head. "No. I'm sorry if I startled you." He felt a light but insistent tug on his cape and forced himself to react slowly. He looked down at the face of a boy of about seven, his hand clasped tightly in that of a girl a few years older.

"Are you really Batman?" the boy asked, wide-eyed.

Dick bent down almost to eye level. "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Can we have your autograph?" The girl blurted. Then, as if horrified by her daring, she clapped her free hand to her mouth.

"Um..."

"Batman?" A petite dark-skinned woman in surgical scrubs approached. A surgical mask hung loosely around her neck by its lower straps. She had a stethoscope too. "I'm Dr. Dubois. And while I don't mean to be rude, I really can't spare more than a moment or two. We have a lot of sick people in here."

Batman nodded. "Can we talk somewhere we won't be overheard?"

Her eyes narrowed. "This way." She took led him into the Emergency wing and steered him toward a small kitchenette. "Quickly, if you please."

Batman took a deep breath. "Less than an hour ago, you took in a patient who appeared to be suffering from meningitis," he said evenly. "I've been advised that you might want to examine him a bit more closely." He dropped his voice to a low whisper. "I have reason to believe that he's been exposed to anthrax."

Continued...

Let us know what you think here!