The Way Back #30

He had his grapnel out and in his right hand almost before the floor collapsed. He reached out instinctively as he fell and seized hold of a horizontal pipe in his left hand. At the instant that he caught the pipe, he fired the grapnel toward the ceiling lamp and swung his legs up. He retracted the line, letting it pull him upwards. The planks that had held his foot fell away as they impacted the edge of the hole in the floor. As Batman rose over the second story railing, he kicked out toward the stunned youths who fell back quickly. He let go the line, caught the railing in both hands, pulled up to a handstand, and back-flipped to the ground, half-twisting as he went. As soon as his feet touched the worn carpet on the second floor, he slid effortlessly into a rapid succession of Yurchenko vaults, which plowed through the panicked thugs in short order. While they were still reeling from his assault, he stepped over to the door, shut it, and stood blocking it. He looked at his assailants and smiled. They were moaning and nursing injured limbs. He was unscathed, apart from a few superficial scratches. They were panting from fear and exertion. Two seemed to be close to hyperventilating. He, on the other hand, wasn't even breathing hard.

"That was fun," he said calmly, ignoring the throbbing in his ankle. "So, do you want to surrender, or do you want to start the real fight, now that I'm warmed up?"

The thugs glanced at one another. Then one after another, they slowly raised their hands.

Batman nodded in satisfaction. "I was hoping you'd take the smart way out."

--

Jim waited until Bruce went upstairs to bed before he turned out the light in the kitchen and headed for the front door. The house was quiet now, but somehow, knowing that there were three more people under the roof tonight made it feel less empty—even if he could neither see nor hear the guests.

Smiling to himself, he walked down the hallway, heading for his coat in the vestibule. As he walked past the front room, however, he realized that not everyone had gone upstairs.

He cleared his throat and Martha Kent's eyelids fluttered. "Mmmm?" She asked sleepily. Her eyes opened. "Oh." Slowly, she took in her surroundings. "Oh, my goodness."

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said quietly. "I just thought you might be more comfortable upstairs."

Martha gave him an embarrassed smile. "I was just admiring the tree," she said. "And the next thing I knew..." She looked down and realized for the first time that there was a blanket covering her. She shook her head, still smiling. "I guess Clark didn't want to wake me."

"Ah." Without another word, he sat down in the armchair next to hers.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"About a quarter to midnight, I think." He noted that the fire was nearly down to embers. "I could put another log on before I go, if you mean to be down here a bit longer."

Martha shook her head. "As much as I do love watching a roaring fire, I think it must have been the flames put me to sleep in the first place." She smiled again. "I'm not usually awake this late. Though, I would imagine that as the former police commissioner, you would be."

Gordon nodded. "Guilty as charged, ma'am. Not so much because of the job, mind you, but because most of our toughest cases to crack tended to get solved between dusk and dawn."

"Oh?" Realization dawned a moment later. Martha shot a significant look at the ceiling. "I can't imagine the last few years have been good to you either, his being your friend and all."

He shook his head. "They could have been better. For all concerned." He sighed.

"It is quite a tree," he said a few minutes later.

"Well, it's big enough," Martha agreed. "But it's not at all..." she looked away, and even in the dim light, Jim was sure she was blushing. "Never mind," she said. "I'm being silly."

"Oh?"

Martha was still smiling. "I suppose, when I found out that we were coming here, I imagined that there'd be a tree that stood four stories tall, covered in gold and diamonds, or something equally ostentatious. Instead of a perfectly respectable eight-foot evergreen, with the kind of hand-made ornaments I grew up with."

"If it helps," Jim rumbled, "some of them are probably rare antiques. I wish Sarah were here," he said softly. "She would have loved this kind of thing, too."

"Sarah?"

"My wife," he said bleakly. "Late wife."

Martha leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "How long...?"

"Five years tomorrow." It was hard to get the words past the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat.

"I'm sorry. Do you... did you... want to talk about her?"

Jim sighed. "I suppose I wouldn't have brought her up if I didn't," he admitted. "I guess I've been thinking about her off-and-on as we got closer to Christmas. As much as you try to bury yourself in the season, it's..."

"The elephant in the room," Martha interjected.

"I've never really liked that poem," Jim admitted. "Probably because 'Barbara' happens to be the name of both my daughter and my first wife. You're right, though."

Martha nodded.

"I think I will put that other log on," Jim said after a moment. "It's starting to get chilly in here."

"It is, isn't it?"

Martha waited until he'd returned to his seat before she said, "Jonathan's been gone almost two years, now."

"I'm sorry," Jim said, meaning it. "Was it... sudden?"

"Yes. And no. He'd... the doctor warned him about his heart. He was trying to follow the guidelines for diet and exercise. And then, one day... he just..." She shook her head and smiled sadly. "And your Sarah?"

"It was sudden," Jim allowed. "We didn't even have as much warning as you did. Although looking at it from a different perspective, maybe we shouldn't have been surprised. This is Gotham, after all." He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm not usually this... cryptic. My wife was a police officer. A member of my team at Central. We stayed on during the No Man's Land—I imagine you heard about that." At her nod, he continued. "That Christmas Eve, just before Gotham was repatriated... or whatever you want to call it... Joker kidnapped every infant in the city and threatened to kill them if we didn't find them in time. Sarah... found them. And Joker shot her." His shoulders slumped. "There was no autopsy. I couldn't see a point to it. But from what I know of bullet wounds, in all likelihood, she never felt a thing."

Martha exhaled. "I can't even begin to imagine."

"I have," Jim said. "Too many times to count."

She stretched out a hand to him. Without really thinking about it, he squeezed it.

They sat for a time in companionable silence. Finally, Jim got up. "I should try to get some sleep before dawn," he said, sighing. "Are you going to be all right?"

"Oh, yes," Martha smiled. "I suppose I should head upstairs myself. I guess I'll see you tomor..." she stopped. "...A bit later today, rather."

"I imagine so," Jim smiled back. "Pleasant dreams, Mrs. Kent."

"And to you."

The smile drooped. "We can hope, I suppose. Good night, Mrs. Kent."

"My name is Martha."

"My friends call me Jim. Good night."

--

"Good thing you can walk on hands," Cass said as she eased his boot off.

Dick sucked in his breath.

"Bad?"

"Well, it wasn't as long as the boot was on," he muttered through clenched teeth. "And as long as I didn't try to put weight on it."

"How did you..." she frowned. "...Win?"

Dick made a face. "Adrenaline, I guess. Plus, it got worse as it got later. Good thing I'm off tomorrow."

"Barbara knows," Cass stated.

"No, I haven't checked in with her—"

"Barbara knows," she repeated. "Called ten minutes before you came here."

"Barbara knows," Dick echoed. "Got it." He could have sworn he'd managed to hide the limp. He grimaced when Cass returned with the gauze and tape. "You sure you know how to do this?"

"No. But think I can."

"Swell." He'd do it himself, but he'd be working at an awkward angle. Best to let Cass try and then get Barbara to check her handiwork later.

"Too bad first aid not on GED. I'd be studying," Cass said with a grimace.

"You know," Dick started to say, "even if..." He stopped.

"If?"

He'd been about to tell her that even if she failed the GED, it wouldn't lessen her standing in his eyes, but instinct told him that if he told it to her now, instead of being reassured, she'd think that he doubted her capabilities. He thought fast.

"Even if this isn't something you've had a lot of practice with, I think you're doing okay."

Cass smiled.

--

"I can't believe you decided to finish patrol after that," Barbara exclaimed when Dick got home. By then, his ankle was throbbing and he actually was contemplating walking on his hands. It almost beat hobbling. Almost.

"I was fine as long at the boot was supporting me," he said wearily. "And until I ran out people to fight."

Barbara shook her head, but she was smiling. "There's a cold compress waiting for you in the freezer and boiling water on the stove for a hot one."

Dick grinned back. "Have I told you lately that I love you?"

"Mmm... not since you got back from work this afternoon."

Despite his pain, Dick chuckled. "By the way," he said casually, "I think I'll be heading to New York next month for a day or so."

"Oh?" Barbara leaned forward. "PMWE business, or Outsiders?"

"Neither, actually," he admitted. "Well, I mean, I'm going to involve the Outsiders, but it's not their issue, it's mine." He took a deep breath. "I asked Cyborg to look into Matheson... or Whitelock, if you prefer. He came up with something."

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "You asked... Never mind. What did he find out?"

"He works for a woman who used to date Flass. Scuttlebutt is that she's not a person to cross."

"So, you're going to cross her."

Dick sighed. "I have to."

Barbara nodded. "Yeah, I guess you do." She pouted. "I'm a little hurt that you didn't come to me first. Did you think I wouldn't understand?"

"Not for a minute," he replied. "I... Look. Sometimes, you know what you have to do, but there's a part of you that fights it and tries to rationalize. It's like, okay. If Flass had died of natural causes, I probably would have broken out the champagne. If it turned out that he got beaten up in jail and the ones that did it were caught, I wouldn't lose sleep. And maybe," he admitted, "even if the ones who did it weren't caught, I'd let it go, seeing as they'd already be locked up. I'd like to think I wouldn't, but I can't really know..." His expression hardened. "But I don't care if Flass was scum of the earth. I can't let someone literally get away with murder. For the last month, there's a part of me that's been trying to rationalize, or trying to put off doing something about it." He closed his eyes. "I've been second-guessing myself enough. Until I knew, really knew, that I was going to deal with this," he sighed. "I know this is going to sound stupid, Babs, but I just didn't want anyone asking me if I was sure about this until I knew I was. Because maybe I'd rethink. Again."

Barbara placed her hand on his elbow. "It doesn't sound stupid," she said. "No, I get why you didn't want to discuss it in the first place. But you went to Vic because..."

"Because mentally, he's not as close to the situation as we are. I told you I'm going to New York in two weeks. But if, just when I'm ready to go, things start heating up in Gotham..." He shrugged. "Well, obviously, I'll deal with trouble at home first. But once that's handled, if I still postpone the other business..." He winced. "I think Vic will start needling me to stop putting it off and get my butt down to NYC before you will."

Barbara considered that for a moment. Then she smiled slowly. "I guess I can't really be angry if what you're saying is that you don't think of me as a nag," she said.

Dick grinned. "Of course, now that you know what I'm planning, I could use whatever intel you can turn up on a certain Vanessa Devereux. From what Vic says, she's a socialite. She dabbles a bit in fashion design, but her brand isn't a household name or anything. Still, that doesn't exactly sound to me like a person who uses bio-weapons to take down an ex-boyfriend. So my first interest is in knowing the source of the anthrax she used to kill Flass. Maybe see what you can dig up on that Whitelock guy who actually administered the spores, too." He frowned. "I mean, I suppose it's possible that she just told him to be creative in eliminating Flass, and he somehow procured the spores. I doubt it, but let's cover all bases."

Barbara nodded. "Are you going to ask Vic to do the same thing?" she teased.

Dick blinked innocently. "Why? You'll find it faster, you'll find it easier, and you'll find it all."

Barbara kissed him. "Just for that? Sit down. I'll get you that cold compress myself." She grinned. "And then I'll type a few keywords into a search program, leave it to run overnight, and see what comes up."

--

Lois came down to breakfast the next morning with an apologetic expression. "Perry just called. I'm on a story. I'm sorry, Martha," she turned to her mother-in-law. "I know we were going to hit the natural history museum today, but I think they'd close early on Christmas Eve."

Martha nodded. "That's all right. I didn't get to bed until fairly late last night."

"I didn't know that," Clark said, concerned.

Martha smiled. "Don't fret yourself, Clark. I just lost track of time is all, and now I'm a mite stiff. It's not serious. I suppose, you're on assignment, too?"

"Um... well... that is..."

She laughed. "Go, go! I'll just relax today, maybe walk around the grounds a bit—that's if it's all right with you, Bruce?" she asked, smiling at him.

Bruce nodded. "I've no objection. Maybe Helena and I will join you later. And Jim," he added, almost as an afterthought.

A slight frown creased his features. Was Martha Kent blushing?

--

"Well, isn't this interesting," Barbara said.

"You found something?" Dick asked, walking over. His ankle felt much better after a hot soak and a good morning's sleep.

"And how." Barbara patted the swivel chair next to her. Dick sat down. "Okay," she began. "The records state that Vanessa Devereux, nee Sinclair, was born in Chicago. She married Martin Devereux in '95. He died five years later in a boating accident—"

"Suspicious?"

"Not according to the report. It looks like he had a habit of mixing cocaine and vodka martinis. Autopsy report confirmed overdose as the cause of death."

"Still doesn't prove it was accidental, but go on. What about Vanessa?"

"Well," Barbara said, "that's the thing. The bio she gives out gives her current age as fifty-five, she lists degrees from a couple of universities, claims to have attended boarding schools abroad..."

"And?"

"The degrees are honorary, the boarding schools don't seem to exist... and there was no Vanessa Sinclair born fifty-five years ago." Barbara typed in a few more commands. "But," she continued, "there was a Heloise V. Sinclair born forty-eight years ago. Dr. Heloise Sinclair is an infectious disease specialist—or at least she was. Now, if you look at her library records," she pointed to a list of titles, "it appears she also had interests in both toxicology and chemical pathology. If you check the dates they were signed out, they tie in with vacation periods—during the academic year, it was strictly course material, from the look of things."

Dick rapidly scanned the library data. "If that's what she read for fun..." His eyes widened.

"More like independent study, I'd say. Still circumstantial—I mean, I'm pretty sure if I accessed Bruce's reading list from a couple of decades ago, I'd be speculating that he was some sort of master criminal... or terrorist, maybe. The thing is, in 1991, Heloise dropped completely off the grid."

"What?"

"She quit her job, moved out of her apartment, and just up and disappeared. 1994, though? That's the first year that I was able to find any concrete reference to Vanessa Sinclair Devereux. I bet you can guess what Heloise's middle name is."

"What about a birth certificate?" Dick asked. "I mean, the ages don't add up."

"No, they don't," Barbara agreed. "I did find two of them; one for Heloise Vanessa, and one for Vanessa, no middle name. However," Barbara continued, "I don't show a hardcopy scan anywhere in the system for Vanessa, just an e-copy. And while it's not the easiest thing in the world to hack into a government system and plant a fake record, give me an hour and I can probably find you about two thousand computer experts who could do it." She smiled. "The other thing? I know it's an old cliché, but usually, if a person is going to lie about their birth year, they'll go in the other direction—younger, not older. I'm thinking she was trying to be clever by aging up." Her smile widened, then vanished entirely as she returned to her display.

"Okay, now going back a couple of years, in 1989, her father, Simon Sinclair died of food poisoning. V. Cholerae."

"Don't tell me," Dick said. "Bivalve shellfish?"

"You got it." She grimaced. "I know what you're thinking, and the answer is... maybe. Four days before his death, he was at a gala dinner at an upscale restaurant. He ordered scallops, as did about 30 other patrons. Twenty-eight of them lived. Owners were fined for negligence. There's a civil suit filed by the victims, which was settled out of court. Restaurant went bankrupt in early '90. Heloise was Simon's sole heir."

"So she waits a reasonable amount of time, disappears, and comes back as the independently wealthy Vanessa—who marries into more money—"

"Which she inherits when her husband passes on..."

"And then...?"

"And then, there's never anything to tie her in directly... but it seems like anyone who crosses her ends up dead. And the method of death has usually involves something which plays into that reading list I showed you. I show six deaths by food poisoning—keep in mind again that there's nothing concrete to connect her with any of them. I mean, food poisoning happens without its being deliberate. Six people who got on her bad side, all dying the same way, though? It's a pretty big coincidence. Then there was the case of Jordan Tanner, an investment adviser who conned her out of three million dollars. She wasn't the only one, mind you—guy was another Warren White. Anyway, they found blue-ring octopus venom in his system."

Dick read the rest of the report and let out a low whistle. "Did the bakery cross her, too?"

"I don't think so," Barbara said. "I mean, I don't know, but if the food poisoning at the restaurant was her... it looks like the only thing they did wrong was give her an opportunity to taint the shellfish. It doesn't look like she had any real reason to want to harm them. However, since Tanner used to boast about having a finger in every pie..."

"She's sick."

"And dangerous. Especially if our hunch is right and Heloise and Vanessa are the same person. Heloise worked at some of the top disease research labs in the US." She sucked in her breath and gripped Dick's arm tightly as she continued, "Including the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta!"

Dick blinked. "So she knows her stuff," he said, glancing down at the hand on his arm and then at Barbara's face. His flippancy died. "Is there something special about Atlanta I'm missing?"

Barbara lowered her chin once and jerked it up again quickly. "Yeah, but don't kick yourself for not knowing. It's not exactly something they pay promoters to advertise." She took a long slow breath. "CDC Atlanta happens to be one of only two known places in the world where they store live samples of smallpox."

Dick whistled again. "All of a sudden, I'm really glad Bruce insisted on giving me the vaccine when I was a kid, even though it hurt like hell, and even though, by that time, about the only people getting the shot were the researchers who actually handled the stuff."

Barbara relaxed visibly. Then her expression turned worried once more. "How about anthrax? Are you protected against that?"

"Right now? No, I'm not," he admitted. "Working on it, though. I checked out what was involved after Flass, and it turns out that I need to get five shots over eighteen months. It took a lot of fast-talking at S.T.A.R. Labs—there can be some pretty nasty side effects, so they usually don't give it out unless there's a real need—but I convinced them to give me the first one last week." He grinned. "And so far, I haven't noticed anything major or minor. Anyway, I can't let this sit for a year and a half. But what I will do when I'm in New York, is stop by St. Vincent's in Greenwich Village. They're pretty cape-friendly. Odds are, I'll find someone to give me some Cipro if I explain why I need it."

Barbara nodded. "And S.T.A.R. Labs is right there, if you do run into trouble." She frowned. "Okay. I know you need to deal with her, but I don't have to like it. And I am going to worry until you come home safe, sound and without so much as a common cold."

Dick grinned. "Believe me, before I take her on, I'm going to be taking full-spectrum immunizations, and stocking my first aid kit with every anti-toxin, antivenin, and anti-biotic known to humankind."

Barbara shook her head. "Now I'm really getting worried," she admitted. "About your risk factor for hernia. That kit's going to be too heavy for you to lift!"

--

Bruce spent the better part of the morning working on Christmas dinner while Martha kept Helena occupied. After lunch, they switched off: he carried Helena back to the nursery, while Martha took over the kitchen.

As soon as they reached the nursery, Helena struggled to get down from Bruce's arms and made a bee-line for the blocks. Bruce watched her fondly for a moment. Then, he left for a moment and returned with a laptop, switched it on, and pulled up his notes on one of the cold cases that Renee had left him months ago. He was nearly halfway through the material when Helena wormed her way under his arm.

"You build me a tower?" Helena asked.

Bruce blinked. "What?"

Helena seized his hand in both of hers and tugged, as though she intended to tow him over to the blocks. "You build me a tower!"

Bruce's lips twitched. "If I build it, are you going to knock it over?"

Helena giggled. "You build me a tower."

Bruce sighed. He built the tower. Helena knocked it over with a shout of glee. Then she clamored for another one.

"How about you build me a tower?" he suggested.

Helena beamed. "Okay!" she said and immediately began gathering blocks.

Bruce watched her, observing, with some satisfaction, that she had already discovered that a wider base would allow for a higher tower. The final result was a triangle that stood five blocks block high with a five block base.

Bruce smiled. "Good work," he said. "Now," he said as Helena smiled back, "what should I do next?"

All at once, Helena's smile disappeared. "No," she protested.

Bruce blinked. "But what do you do when I build one for you?" he asked.

Helena shook her head. "No, don't break."

Bruce regarded her thoughtfully. After a moment, he rocked back on his heels. "I guess it's too nice to break," he said. "Right?"

Helena giggled. "No. I break!" she exclaimed, demolishing it with a sweep of her hand.

Bruce fought down a laugh and went back to his laptop.

--

"Please, tell me you aren't going to hover," Jim said that evening, after the supper dishes had been dried.

Bruce shook his head. "No. But this time of year can be lonely, even if tonight weren't..."

Jim placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Your concern is appreciated. I think I just want to sit in the front room for a bit." He smiled wearily. "And no, I'm not dead set on being alone. I just don't feel much like holding up my end of a conversation tonight."

"I understand," Bruce nodded. He walked to the high chair to scoop up Helena. "I'm going to put her to bed," he said, bouncing her gently, "and then, maybe I'll come back down for awhile."

Jim grunted a response and headed for the front room.

--

He wasn't surprised to see Martha there already. Bruce had lit another fire earlier, and it was still going strong. She rose immediately to her feet as he entered. "No need for that," he said wearily, sinking back into the same armchair he'd occupied the night before. "I don't mind company if you don't mind quiet."

"I don't mind it a bit," Martha said. Without another word, she resumed her seat and went back to her crocheting.

Jim watched her for a moment. Then, he hunched forward, watched the flames, and let his thoughts drift. He hadn't really come in here to think about Sarah. He didn't need a special room—or a special night—for that. But there was something comforting about the fire. Or perhaps, it took him back to that one year of hell that had been the No Man's Land. Hell... and yet there had been small bits of Heaven mixed in with it; the amazement at discovering what he could live without, the pride he'd felt at coaxing a few cubic feet of soil in some garden boxes to yield up carrots and tomatoes. Love for the woman he'd married, and astonishment that she had supported his decision to remain in Gotham after the No Man's Land bill had been passed into law. The discovery that an old dog like himself could learn the new tricks needed for survival when the rules changed. He watched the flames, and he remembered...

He wasn't sure exactly when he dozed off, but he woke when he felt something soft drape over him, to find the fire not yet gone out. The blanket that had been spread out over Martha's lap now covered him—that must have been what had roused him...

"I'm sorry," Martha apologized. "I was... hoping that might wake you. I did have half a mind to slip out, but, well, it just didn't seem right, your taking time to make sure I didn't sleep last night away sitting up, and then me not showing you the same courtesy."

Jim smiled. "I'm obliged." He glanced at his watch. "Did Bruce come down?"

"He looked in, yes, but he didn't want to disturb you either."

"Ah." He reached for his cane and pulled himself up with a groan. "I guess I'll be go—" He looked out the window. "Good Lord. How long has that been coming down?"

Martha followed his gaze. "Land sakes! I can't see the path at all."

Jim sighed. "Well, the snow's a foot deep, if it's an inch, now, and I'm not about to try clearing it tonight when there's any number of unoccupied bedrooms upstairs."

"You mean you clear the snow?" Martha asked.

Jim shook his head. "Not as a rule, no. As a matter of fact, I think Bruce would be even more horrified than you, if I suggested it. However, the only way for me to get back to the cottage tonight would be if someone clears a path, and I'm not about to wake anyone else up to do it." He frowned. "The room directly across the hall from Bruce's... Would you know if anybody's using it?"

Martha shook her head. "None of us. Why?"

Jim smiled. "When Bruce and I first came back here, that was my room, for a bit. I didn't think it would be currently occupied, but I figured it would be better to ask than surprise someone." If memory served, he'd left a change of clothes and some toiletries behind, just in case an emergency did come up. He glanced at the clock. "Well, I may be jumping the gun by about ten minutes, but seeing as it's already December 25th in most of the Caribbean, may I wish you a Merry Christmas?"

Martha smiled back. "You may, indeed. And to you, Mr. Gor—Jim," she amended.

"I'll see you in the morning, Martha. And thank you."

--

"Well, what do you know?" Barbara said softly, as she wheeled away from her console.

"You found something?"

"A walk down memory lane, believe it or not. Do you remember MAZE?"

Dick blinked. "The international spy ring? I thought we put them out of business years ago."

"Well, maybe it's under new management," Barbara allowed, "but they're definitely active. Only it looks like they've stepped up their operations—at least in one area."

Dick had a feeling he wasn't going to like what came next. "Okay, hit me."

Barbara took a deep breath. "Well, their usual MO was to steal weapons and technology to sell to the highest bidder..."

Dick nodded. "Yeah, I remember. So?"

"So, they're still doing it. Except it looks like they're also trying to create their own. Specifically, they're trying to create bioweapons."

"Devereux." It wasn't a question.

"I found their offshore accounts," Barbara nodded. "And I'm showing several cash transfers in the mid-seven digits, flowing indirectly into her coffers. The funds are being filtered through dummy companies on both sides—that's why it's taken this long to pinpoint the trail—but they are funding her research—and planning to auction off her results, if their old MO holds true. It looks like the fashion line is just a cover. She owns it, but she isn't actually running it. The other thing is, she has an industrial complex about an hour north of NYC. No tenants listed, mind you."

"What else is in the general vicinity?" Dick asked.

"Nothing. It's three thousand hectares of privately-owned land in the middle of nowhere, basically."

"So, it's away from major population centers."

"Exactly."

Dick nodded. "Sounds like a good place to start looking."

"Uh huh." She took another breath. "The search program turned up something else, too," she said. "You... might want to let Raven know about this one. That's if you think..."

Dick frowned when he saw the notation. "No ifs. I'll contact her tomorrow. But first," he smiled, "I think we need to get dressed for dinner."

--

Dinner had been called for six, but the snow removal crews still hadn't made much of a dent in the blizzard of the night before. Dick and Barbara didn't arrive until nearly seven. It might have taken them even longer, had Tim not been snowblowing the path from the manor gates to the parking garage.

"You're not late!" He hollered over the noise of the machine. "I'm going to pick up Cass when I finish!"

They smiled and headed for the already-cleared ramp to the front door.

To their surprise, Selina was sitting next to Bruce on the couch, while Helena played noisily nearby.

"I still think she's safer here," Selina was saying, "but that doesn't mean I don't want to be part of her—your—lives."

Bruce was smiling. "I'm sure we can work something out." He got up to greet them.

It was too bad Cass wasn't there yet, Dick thought wryly. He wasn't quite as much an expert at reading body language as she was, but he recognized Bruce's 'politician' voice when he heard it. It was the one he usually reserved for social gatherings when he was actually expected to demonstrate a certain degree of intellect—one step up from 'affable fop'. He was trying, Dick reflected. He was still keeping his walls up, but... he was leaving Selina some handholds. And knowing Selina's talents, those handholds would probably be all she needed to work her way in.

Nearly another hour passed before Tim and Cass returned and they finally sat down to dinner.

--

It wasn't a traditional Wayne Manor Christmas dinner. Perhaps one could make a case for traditional fusion. The roast beef was still there, and it was still delicious, even if it was slightly tougher than Alfred's had been in years past. There was cranberry chutney and Yorkshire puddings, but there the old standbys ceased.

Dick had never cared much for smoked trout, but there was more than enough reserved mesclun on hand to provide a portion for him as well as for Clark. Barbara and the others, however, fell on the fish with gusto.

They'd never served a soup course before. The previous night's snowfall and attendant drop in temperature, however, had made Bruce think that a pot of it might be in order. At Martha's suggestion, he'd used minimal salt and pepper.

"You'll never get it just right for everyone," she'd said. "So leave the shakers on the table, and folks'll season to their own taste."

It was good advice. And baby spinach left over from the salad had put a festive accent in the tomato soup.

Clark put his fork down with a smile. "I'm not sure which of the two of you I should thank," he said, looking from Bruce to his mother, "but this tempeh is great!"

Martha and Bruce exchanged knowing glances. The recipe had actually been a joint effort, with Martha doing a lot of the directing and stirring, Bruce doing a lot of the measuring and chopping. Bruce debated whether to ascribe Clark's comment to diplomacy, or whether to take it as an indication that Clark's detective skills were improving.

Tim took a third helping of roasted beets. Barbara had been right on that one, too: nobody actually liked the traditional Brussels sprouts.

Bruce smiled.

"Yeah," Dick said, in a voice that carried no farther than Bruce's ear. "It is going well."

"Not that," Bruce replied. "I mean, yes. It is, but I was actually thinking about when we rebuilt after the No Man's Land. If you recall, I wanted to retain the old traditions then, too."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Dick grinned.

"No. But it's occurred to me that while there isn't anything wrong with doing the same thing year after year, there isn't anything wrong with trying something new, either." He stood up. "Help me clear the table, Dick, and we'll bring out dessert. And then," he smiled once more, "I think it'll be time to go into the front room and start that other new tradition I mentioned to you last week."

--

The tradition to which Bruce had referred was the exchanging of gifts after dinner, when everyone had arrived. In years past, Dick had risen early, run downstairs, and opened his gifts. His loud whoops of delight—and later, the loud electronic beeps and simulated explosions of his videogames—would rouse the others, and after all the gifts were opened, they would go to breakfast. After Dick moved out, Bruce had treated Christmas as one more day to sleep late after a long night's patrol. He'd made it clear that he didn't need gifts from others, and what gifts he gave tended to be large cash transfers—generous, but impersonal.

"I wasn't sure what to buy you," Selina said, as she passed over a small, wrapped parcel, "but..."

Bruce accepted it with a raised eyebrow. "You came back," he said. "It didn't occur to me to expect more." He reached under the tree. "But I was hoping that you would be here tonight," he added, as he handed her a gift of his own.

He'd resigned himself to Cross pens and after shave; Clark and Lois didn't disappoint him on that score. Martha, however, came through with a tin of home-baked Kansas sunflower cookies.

A sweater from Jim, a cookbook from Barbara—he should have expected that one.

"Mine sort of goes with hers," Dick grinned, as Bruce pulled several seed packages out of the gift bag. "I figure, I provide the raw materials, and she tells you what to do with them, once they're ready for harvest." He'd included a book of gardening tips, as well.

Tim's gift was a squash racket. "Note," Tim deadpanned, "this one includes twelve sessions with a partner—you call, I come. Barring the usual emergencies, of course."

"Of course," Bruce smiled.

He was strangely silent after unwrapping Cassandra's. The watercolor sketch depicted the Gotham skyline—but the skyline as it had looked after Cataclysm. The artist—whoever it was—had focused on a pile of rubble in the foreground. And poking out, among the debris, the shattered glass, and the broken bricks and beams, were a number of small wildflowers—pink and purple, yellow and white. It was his city; even in its darkest hour, there were still signs of hope and of the potential for rebirth, if a person—like this artist—knew where to look for it. He took a deep breath. "It's... beautiful," he managed. Then, hesitantly, "Did you paint it?"

Cass smiled. "No. One of the patients at Saint Swithin's. Found in gift shop. Thought you would like."

"You thought right." He smiled back.

There was a commotion near the back of the room.

"No, Helena," Selina was saying. "Helena! Put that down."

His daughter had discovered the fireplace tools. As Selina uncurled tiny fingers from the poker, Helena let out a wail.

"Someone sounds overtired."

Bruce had to admit she had a point. "She did nap this afternoon," he said, coming forward. "It's probably the excitement."

"Most likely," Selina agreed. She smiled wearily up at Bruce. "I guess I'd better put her to bed, then."

"I'll show you where her room is now," Bruce said, extending a hand to help her up. He looked at the others. "Why don't you keep exchanging gifts without us," he suggested, "and we'll rejoin you shortly?"

--

Another six inches of snow fell overnight, but it didn't stop Cass from making it to the hospital in time for her shift. She felt a bit odd wearing her costume in broad daylight, but she suspected she would have felt stranger swinging from building to building in her winter coat. Besides, after the lengths that Barbara had gone through to purge her likeness from the government databases, she wasn't about to let herself get captured on film in anything other than her costume.

She stopped on the roof of an apartment building two blocks away from the hospital, doffed mask and gloves, and hastily pulled civilian clothing out of her backpack. A sweater and cargo pants went over the costume. She doubted that her black boots would invite suspicion if the rest of her costume was concealed. She zipped her mask into the inner pocket of her lightweight down jacket and, after a moment's hesitation, added her gloves as well. Then she clambered down the fire escape and walked the rest of the way to Saint Swithin's.

--

A glance at the clock told her that she was more than an hour early. Cass considered for a moment. Then she shouldered her backpack and headed for the solarium, glad that she had decided to bring her GED preparation guide with her, after all.

She was surprised to find Dr. Arkham in the solarium, reading a newspaper. He grunted in response to her cheerful 'good morning', and turned the page over.

Cass shrugged and tackled her preparation guide.

Which sentence below would be a better way to begin paragraph B?

She frowned and looked at the choices. A was definitely wrong, and so was C... at least, she thought so. But B and D? It was hopel—no. No, it wasn't hopeless. Because one month ago, she hadn't been able to narrow down any of her choices. One year ago, she had still been trying to memorize the alphabet. She eyed the paragraph again. "I will beat you," she said under her breath.

"What are you doing?"

She jerked her head up at Dr. Arkham's rasp. Then she lowered it with a sigh. "Studying."

He held out a hand. "Show me."

Cass hesitated. Arkham stretched his had further. Dubiously, Cass handed over the study guide. He scanned the page rapidly.

"You mean to take this test?"

She nodded.

"You're writing your answers on paper, not in the book."

"Yes. Easier to do over."

He held out his hand again for the paper. She passed it over with greater reluctance.

"Two. In ten minutes."

Cass sighed. "Getting faster. Honest."

Dr. Arkham frowned. Then he looked at the book again. "Cass. With your permission, I would like to try an experiment."

She blinked. "O... Kay." She wasn't entirely sure she understood his meaning. Experiments, in her experience, involved test tubes and chemicals, and usually took place in the Cave.

"I am going to read you a passage," he rasped. "Slowly. And then, I will ask you the accompanying questions."

She frowned. "But... your voice..."

"Young woman," Dr. Arkham snapped, "I am in this facility in order to learn to speak again. Allow me to practice."

He was right. Cass nodded. "Okay."

Arkham fixed her with a steely gaze. Then he flipped several pages ahead. "This passage is an employee code of conduct," he said. "I will read each sentence slowly, and," he wheezed, "let us hope, clearly." He gave her a thin smile. "You may ask me to repeat myself at any time. If there is something that you do not understand, you may ask. If you have no questions, I will continue. Clear?"

Cass nodded again. "Clear."

"Very well." He cleared his throat. "Guidelines for conducting business with those outside our company. Our employees are the most efficient..."

Cass listened intently. The phrasing was a bit more formal than she usually encountered, but she had no difficulty understanding the meaning of the text. The telepath who had rewired her brain to allow her to understand verbal language had also imparted to her the meanings of virtually every word he knew. Colloquialisms and context sometimes gave her pause, but it was rare for her to come across a word where she couldn't grasp its simple definition.

"First question," Arkham began. "And if you know the answer before you hear the choices, you may state it. Based only on the passage that I just read, what would be this company's policy on accepting gifts or entertainment from competitors?"

Cass hesitated. "Not to," she replied.

Arkham nodded. "Would accepting such gifts be deemed, a: impractical, b: inappropriate, c: unobjectionable, d: dangerous, or e: strictly prohibited?"

She thought for a moment. "Not unobjectionable," she said. "Not... impractical. Dangerous? Maybe if only three choices, but not best word here. So... inappropriate or strictly prohibited." She frowned. "Both are right... but... strictly prohibited is best fit." She took a deep breath. "E."

Arkham nodded.

"Based on the information in this excerpt, when may one give money which may be termed a bribe or a tip to a government official or financial officer, for the purpose of circumventing existing legislation or otherwise facilitating operations?"

She didn't need to hear the choices. "Never."

Arkham asked her another six questions. She answered them all. When she finished, he handed her back the book.

"There is an audio version of this material available," he said, wheezing a bit. "Get it."

Cass frowned. "But the test is... writing," she said.

"My dear young woman," Arkham said, pinning her with a steely eye, "the GED does make provision for students with reading disabilities."

"What?"

"The test assesses whether you have learned the material. If you have difficulty reading it, they will allow you to have the examination read to you. If circumstances warrant, they will provide you a scribe, who will write down the answers you dictate."

She couldn't believe it. "How?"

"The first step," Arkham said, "would be to get your doctor to write a letter attesting to your situation."

Cass frowned. "I... have no doctor." Her eye fell on the clock. "Oh! Late!" She stuffed the book into her backpack. "Bye."

Arkham watched her leave. Then, shaking his head, he went back to his newspaper.

--

Clark found Bruce in the nursery, reading to Helena. "I think we may need to stay another few days," he said quietly. "I'm not sure if you heard, but the same weather system that dumped two feet of snow over Gotham dropped five in the Midwest. There won't be any flights leaving Gotham until tomorrow at the earliest—but there's no telling when Wichita will have its runways cleared."

He waited for Bruce to point out that a few seconds of heat vision could solve the problems with both airports. He'd thought about it. The problem was, when his powers had returned, he'd found that he needed to relearn their control. He could melt the snow, yes. But there was a good possibility that he'd tear up the runways while he did it. He couldn't simply fly his mother back home; the neighbors would wonder how she had returned with the airport closed.

Bruce only nodded. "So, you need to extend your stay."

"We can look into a hotel—"

"They'll be booked," Bruce said. "Not only is it the holidays, but if Goodwin is closed, then the airlines will be scrambling to find rooms for stranded passengers. Besides," he deadpanned, "you've been helping with the dishes." His lips twitched. "Stay as long as you need to."

"We didn't want to impose—"

"You aren't," Bruce smiled. "Although, if you're so inclined, there is a..." he hesitated, "...a favor I'd like to ask."

Actually, he didn't want to ask it, but he'd promised Alex he'd try—at least once, over the holidays-to request someone's help when he didn't actually think he needed it.

Clark blinked. "What kind of favor?"

Bruce hesitated again. "I was thinking that Helena might enjoy sledding," he said, "if there was a large enough hill of snow. And if the course was cleared of rocks and other hazards." He took another breath. "It's too much for me to do alone, but if you were to lend a hand...?"

Clark smiled. "I used to love sledding, as a kid. Actually, I'm not sure anyone really outgrows that kind of fun." He thought for a moment. "The horse meadow would probably be the best spot. We'll need to make sure that the snow is banked against the fence, in case the sled ends up going faster than expected."

"I concur." Bruce nodded. "Thanks. I... appreciate it." It was getting easier to say. He looked out the window. "I think there's maybe another hour to go before dusk."

"Did you want to start now? Or would you prefer tomorrow morning?"

Bruce considered. "Tomorrow. After breakfast." And thanks for knowing that when I said 'we', I didn't only mean 'you'.

He started to look down to the book again, but hesitated. The circumstances seemed to call for a bit more. He took a deep breath. "I'm going to warm supper in a few minutes. I don't know what you had planned, but you and yours are welcome to join me."

"Actually," Clark said, "if there's any more of the tomato soup from last night..."

"There is," Bruce said. "The tempeh's finished, but I was planning on pasta and marinara sauce in any case." He could leave out the sausage this one time.

"Throw in some canned beans, and I'm sold. Lois is working on her story, but I think Ma might come downstairs and join us."

That was easy enough. "Done." Bruce went back to the storybook.

--

If Raven was surprised by Dick's revelation, there was no hint of it on her face. "I can see why you're bringing this to my attention. When were you planning to leave?"

"Next week, some time." He paused. "I'd like your opinion. Is he ready?"

"His skills are," she hedged. "Emotionally, he's made great strides, but the only way to be certain would be..."

"To see how he performs in the field." Dick sighed. "Okay. The Outsiders will be around, in case things get out of hand. At the end of the day, I think he deserves to confront her." His expression hardened. "But not if he's going to go running off half-cocked—I don't care what immunity his condition gives him; I have to be able to trust him to follow instructions, and I have to be able to trust him not to kill her. In your estimation, can I do that?"

Raven considered. "I believe so."

Dick let out a breath. "All right. Tell Dodge we've found one of the people responsible for his father's kidnapping..."

To be continued!

Let us know what you think here!

--

A/N: This chapter contains a reference to the poem, "The Elephant in the Room" by Terry Kettering. The full text of the work, as found in Bereavement Magazine (Date unknown) reads as follows:

There's an elephant in the room.
It is large and squatting,
So it is hard to get around it.
Yet we squeeze by with "How are you?" And "I'm Fine."
And a thousand other forms of trivial chatter.

We talk about the weather.
We talk about work.
We talk about everything - except the elephant in the room.

There's an elephant in the room.
We all know it is there.
We are thinking about the elephant as we talk together.
It is constantly on our minds.

For you see, it is a very big elephant.
It has hurt us all.
But we do not talk about the elephant in the room.

Oh, please say her name.
Oh, please, say "Barbara" again.
Oh, please, let's talk about the elephant in the room.
For if we talk about her death,
Perhaps we can talk about her life?

Can I say, "Barbara" to you and not have you look away?
For if I cannot, then you are leaving me

Alone...

In a room...

With an elephant...