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Rated R for violence, language and non-explicit sexual situations.

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Thanks for reading.


Batman: Fall to Grace
By E. Kelly

Part One

The Die is Cast


"They say a city in the desert lies -
The vanity of an ancient king.
The city lies in broken pieces,
Where the wind howls and the vultures sing..."

- Sting


Chapter One

Money and power are like lovers.  Self-absorbed and self-sustaining, they need 
only each other to exist.  Perfect soulmates, they were created at the dawn of 
civilization, and have been rutting joyfully throughout the ages, feeding 
endlessly on human industry and human greed.  Money and power danced together in 
the bright Gotham night.  And the rich and powerful of Gotham danced with them.

Stretch limousines clogged the quarter-mile long circular drive before the 
Mayor's mansion.  The mansion itself was filled to bursting with CEO's, 
celebrities, bluebloods, paparazzi and politicians.  The air was thick with 
extravagance.  It was a shimmer that hung over the gathering, perhaps the 
collective glitter of all the gold and jewels, clasping skin bronzed by the 
Mediterranean sun and set in hair sculpted by obscenely expensive artisans of 
vanity.

Affected laughter and the buzz of wheeling and dealing clashed with the 
requisite white bread pop band in the corner of the ballroom.  Ambition was 
palpable in the air, some material, some the lust for power and some the fever 
for flesh.  Vamps, male and female, stalked the ballroom with hungry eyes.  It 
was a subculture that always existed around the wealthy and influential, a ripe 
undercurrent of decadent sensuality that must accompany the egos of the 
powerful.

If one were there simply to observe, to listen, all sorts of fascinating details 
could be gleaned from overheard conversation.  A sharp eye and a keen ear had 
all the power of Gotham in a single room for careful perusal.  Lawmakers basked 
among their entourages, ripe for a meaningful suggestion from an influential 
mover and shaker.  Business-men and -women joked about exorbitant taxes and 
employee health benefits and did casual million dollar deals between drinks.  
Flunkies dashed to and fro, slobbering decorously, spilling secrets as 
breathlessly as they spilled their drinks.

"Fifty million, I said, fifty million!  You must be trying to fuck me, Salinger!  
Fifty million for the rights to all the chemicals and their by-products to be 
discovered in that country in the next fifteen years - we're talking pure South 
American rain forest.  The cure for goddamned cancer's probably sitting there 
right now in some butterfly's balls just waiting for us to come and harvest..."

"So I called Nedry at the ACLU and told him that if he didn't get off my back 
his little East Side apartment and its occupants were going to be all over the 
front page..."

"That situation was taken care of last night, Mr. Kallenbach."

"Of course, of course the education of Gotham's children is paramount; however, 
the time to move for further appropriations in the budget must be carefully 
selected..."

"Look, look, Tessa's moving in on Charlie Wales.  She won't spread her legs for 
anyone worth less than a hundred mil you know..."

Bruce Wayne stood on the mezzanine, impeccably dressed in a black, velvet-
trimmed Armani tuxedo.  He leaned on the banister, appearing to be casually and 
rather apathetically watching the crowd below.  But the hand in his pocket 
operated a miniature wireless multi-channel transceiver.  In his ear was a 
nearly invisible speaker, which he tuned selectively to the network of tiny bugs 
with which he had seeded the room during his arrival rounds.

* * * * *

My eyes move slowly over the milling crowd below me.  Somewhere among these 
capricious, oblivious people walks my prey.  

Suspect #1 - I look to the rather short, lean fifty year old in the southwest 
corner of the room.  Christopher Jameson, self-made financier, very tight with 
labor interests, several good friends in Washington - given the traditional 
criminal connections with labor unions, and Callas' involvement with the 
Teamsters - Jameson might have been the one.

Suspect #2 - I cut my eyes to the far end of the ballroom - Michael Marion - 
Deputy Director, Eastern Division, Federal Bureau of Investigation.  His agents 
managed to corrupt the evidence, and since they've already been sacrificed as 
scapegoats, that points to Marion.

And Suspect #3 - has not yet made an appearance.

"Excuse me," a feminine voice with a heavy Czech accent breaks in on my 
thoughts, "You are - Bruce Wayne?"

I turn to see Emily Enow, looking even more emaciated in person than she did in 
her fashion spreads.  Automatically I turn on the smile.

"I've been wanting to meet you, but none of the women who know you would 
introduce me," she broke into a high-pitched giggle.  I can see from her dilated 
pupils that she is high on some drug or another.  "They are jealous.  They all 
want to keep you for themselves."

"No woman has accomplished that yet," I say smoothly.

"Perhaps...I will be the first."

I keep her going by giving her enough openings into which she can drop sexual 
innuendos as my eyes search the crowd.  Where was he?  I know he's in Gotham; he 
should be here.  One of these three men had pulled the strings to get Mason 
Callas off.

I hold my anger tightly in check, thinking of Callas walking free.  Even if he 
was gone from Gotham (and had best not ever contemplate returning), even if his 
organization was in a shambles - Callas should not have escaped justice.  
Someone had made a serious mistake, getting that murderer off - a very serious 
mistake.

"Hmmm?  No, I've never been to Prague."

And on she went, now practically hanging on my arm.

It had not been a simple thing to even narrow down who might be responsible for 
Callas' escape.  Callas himself had sat right at the crux of the system where 
the lines of power disappeared into the hazy web of tangled alliances between 
industry, politics and crime.  Therefore I had had to look for my next target 
amongst those well removed from open criminal activity.  Whoever had manipulated 
that Grand Jury investigation was a man with power enough to not have to go 
outside the law - he could use the law for his own purposes.

Then I catch sight of the last one - John Fagen - coming down the stairs from 
the private residence on the third floor with his arm around a young woman's 
waist.  US Senator and industrialist, his family has been a power in Gotham as 
long as mine.  He put Jefferson on the bench so it follows that he could have 
influenced the Grand Jury with ease.

He whispers something in the woman's ear and leaves her to move down the crowded 
main staircase, pressing the flesh every step of the way.  

"Excuse me, Emily," I say, breaking into her chatter.  "I have always thought no 
woman could be too shallow for me - but apparently I was wrong."  I leave her 
there, brow furrowed in empty confusion.

The woman who had come down with Fagen had watched him for a moment, then 
slipped out the French doors that led onto the balcony.  I don't recognize her 
from Fagen's known associates, so I follow her out.  

She hears me approach, but she doesn't turn.  Nice figure, simple flowing 
hairstyle, classically elegant dress.

"Good evening," I say, leaning on the ledge beside her and giving her a smile.  
"I saw you and I just had to introduce myself."  I drop my voice to an intimate 
timbre as she finally turns her head to look at me briefly.  "You're the most 
beautiful woman I've seen tonight.  I'm..."

Her voice is flat as she cuts me off, "Please go away."

That surprises me a little.  The thought occurs that I've begun to take women's 
reactions to me for granted.

I step back and say deferentially, "I apologize for bothering you," and I turn 
to leave.  Then I stop and turn back to her, "Please forgive me.  I don't mean 
to intrude, but...are you all right?"

I see just a glimmer of response to my concern in her eyes, but it is momentary, 
for she turns away quickly.  She smiles - and it chills me.  I notice that she 
actually is beautiful.  Her features are Southern European, maybe Spanish 
ancestry, with dark eyes and bee-stung lips, framed by long, thick, dark auburn 
hair.  Around her slim throat is a single strand of perfect white pearls. 

<<White pearls.  Falling.>>

A small, cynical laugh escapes her lips, and her voice is very soft, "All right?  
As all right as I get, I guess."  Her eyes close for a moment, then she looks at 
me - really looks at me for the first time.

I'm familiar with being the object of avaricious female glances, but this is... 
I don't know what this is.  Not the same.  Her eyes are so dark they appear 
completely black.  And they look straight into mine.  She doesn't see my 
clothes, or my physique, or even my face - just my eyes. 

Slowly, she says, "You are...kind to ask.  I'm fine.  Please leave me alone 
now."

"Would you at least tell me your name?"

"Marlowe DeSeve."

"Thank you." I try the smile again, but she looks away.  I sigh, as if accepting 
defeat.  "I hope your evening improves."

She glances up, a wave of her thick hair falling across her shoulder and masking 
half her face.  Pushing it back with one hand, she laughs just a little and 
shakes her head at me.  That's right - just another smooth operator.  She turns, 
again, to her contemplation of the darkness.  

I head back into the ballroom, adding her name to my list.

* * * * *

It was after midnight when Alfred received the call to bring the car around.

"I trust your evening was successful, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked as he pulled 
the car away from the Mayor's mansion.

"I gathered some leads.  Nothing that helped narrow down the suspects," Bruce 
said.  Then he added, "Yet."  He pulled down the computer concealed in the back 
of the seat and began checking the names of every person he'd seen with his 
targets.

At the manor he went straight to the cave to correlate the information he had so 
far.  But, hours later, nothing was any clearer.  Jameson had spoken with 
businessmen, Marion with politicians, and Fagen with both.  They even shared 
some associates between them.  It was all so blurry at this level - and they 
were all so well protected, hidden behind layers of power and money.  Each one 
had respectability, position, and each was so deeply interconnected with others 
in power...

"Sir?" He'd heard Alfred approach, but didn't look up until he spoke.

"What is it, Alfred?"

The butler poured a fresh cup of coffee and set the pot down, "That is what I 
was about to ask you."

Bruce sat back, rubbing his eyes.  "It's...complicated, is what it is.  
Uncovering these men is a bit more challenging than your average criminal."

"Yes," Alfred said mildly, "I imagine it would be.  One might even wonder 
whether it is wise to attempt taking on such a foe."

"Wise?" Bruce smiled wryly.  "Probably not." The smile faded as his face settled 
into its usual somber lines.  "Probably not," he repeated thoughtfully.

"But, Heaven forbid you should let a lack of wisdom stop you."

Bruce crossed his arms over his chest.  "Say I let it stop me.  Then what am I 
doing?"  He nodded around the cave.  "What is all this?"

Alfred's eyebrows went up, "Borderline psychosis?"

Bruce shot him a narrowed glance, "Besides that.  What good does it do me to 
bring in a crime boss like Callas if someone can just let him go free?  Why does 
someone do that - let an animal like Callas escape justice?  Because they think 
they can get away with it.  They think no one can get to them."

"Perhaps no one can," Alfred paused, "Think about what you are taking on.  A man 
who controls judges on a Grand Jury, who can influence a federal investigation.  
This is taking things to a much higher level than ever before."

Bruce nodded slowly.  "It's not even like going after the Police Commissioner, 
or the Mayor."  He scowled, "For all the good that did."

"It has made a difference in the police.  Captain Gordon..."

"That's a step in the right direction, but it's not enough."

"What will be enough?"

The question hung in the still air of the cave.  Bruce met the gaze of the only 
person who knew him at all.

"I don't know, Alfred," he said.  

Alfred Pennyworth watched the man he had raised from childhood turn away from 
the light between them and plunge his face into the shadows. Would anything ever 
be enough? Could Bruce not stop, no matter how high he had to go - no matter how 
dangerous it became for him?

There had been a time, long ago it seemed, when Alfred still had hope that 
somehow the inexorable course Bruce's life had taken could be diverted.  Though 
it had been plain to him how deeply Bruce had been changed by that terrible 
night, how could he possibly have imagined, then? Even when Bruce had come to 
him, more serious than any twelve-year-old boy should ever be, and asked - no, 
ordered him to make arrangements for an extended trip to China, he had thought 
it a childish whim and tried to dissuade him. 

"Don't be silly, Master Bruce.  You cannot leave school."

"They are not teaching me what I need to know.  I want to go to school in 
China."

"What can they teach you there that you cannot learn here?"

"Martial arts.  They teach them to children younger than me.  I checked."

"Master Bruce, you cannot..."

"I can and I will."  Alfred remembered the look of frightening intensity with 
which he'd said it.  Yes, frightening was what it was - that deep, dark well of 
pure will in the eyes of a child.  And the young master had simply refused to 
argue any more about it.  

Now, as he could see the arc of Bruce's life emerging, Alfred wondered how he 
could have ever thought it a whim.  Now, he realized that Bruce had never had a 
whim, never a frivolous desire, never a diversion from this one fate.  

But what fate was it to be?

Perhaps, Alfred reflected, I should have seen it all coming the first time he 
returned home, which had not been until just before his sixteenth birthday. He 
had allowed Alfred to stay in the East for eight months and assure himself Bruce 
had proper guardians, before sending him back to look after the Manor.  And 
though Alfred had kept in constant contact and checked on him frequently in 
person, Bruce took no breaks in his instruction in the intervening years.  He 
had been so unlike a teenager then - already so disciplined, so driven.  
Alfred's brow furrowed, making his eyes look pained as he thought of Bruce's 
second visit, at twenty, when he had finally told Alfred everything he was 
planning, and, so grave, asked if he wanted to stay.

"I know it sounds crazy, Alfred..."

"Yes, sir," he had replied mildly, "It is quite mad."

"This is how it's going to be," Master Bruce had said, unwavering,  "I can use 
your help, but I'll do it alone if I have to."

"You do not have to do it alone."

There had been no question in his mind, nor the slightest hesitation in his 
response.  Perhaps he had not really believed Bruce, even then.  Perhaps he had. 
It would not have made a difference.

Then came the night a little over a year ago, when Bruce had rung from the study 
just before dawn and Alfred had found him, a bullet wound through his shoulder, 
half-dead from loss of blood - and the window shattered in a thousand glittering 
pieces on the floor.  As he'd worked to save Bruce's life, he had barely heard 
the delirious mutterings issuing from the young man's mouth, though the words 
had come together in his mind later.

"I shall...become...a bat."

Iacta alea est, as Caesar said - the die is cast.  And the foreboding terror 
Alfred had experienced that night, seeing his boy so close to death, had not 
left him since then.

Something had changed irrevocably that night.  And each night that had passed 
since it had grown.  The cape and cowl had done more than give Bruce the 
fighting edge he had said was the original intention behind it.  The Batman had 
become something else - what, Alfred was not sure.  He wondered if even Bruce 
was fully aware of what he had created.  Had he foreseen the waves that would 
ripple out from his actions the first time he'd put it on?  Had he known how it 
would change him?

Because Alfred knew that there was to be no turning back.  The question now was 
- how far will it go?  Where would it end?

What will, finally, be enough?

Alfred feared the answer.


Chapter Two

Captain Jim Gordon was working late - again.  He'd left the window of his office 
open as a kind of ... invitation.  He looked up from the reports for the twelfth 
time, and, for the twelfth time, was disappointed.

He lit another cigarette and wondered at how odd his life had become (or was 
that pathetic?), when he was hungry for the company of a man whose face he had 
never seen.

Turning back to his work, he breathed out the noxious smoke and tried to 
concentrate, but the black pit of worry, guilt and anger that roiled in his 
stomach would not let up.  He should be home, he should be...  But at home was a 
resignation he could not bear, and when he couldn't bear it he blew up, and he 
didn't want James and Babs to have to listen to that - again.  Especially since 
Barbara had finally taken to just not responding, which only made him angrier.  
She wasn't even trying anymore.  How much longer until one of them...

He reached up under his glasses and rubbed his eyes hard.  Sighing, he looked up 
- and there he was.

"Evening," Jim said.

He nodded once.

"How are you?" the small pleasantry sounded awkward in the otherwise silent 
room.

"I've been better."

"Callas?"

"Yes."

Jim could feel the anger in the gruff, steely voice.

"Doesn't make sense does it?" Jim sighed.  "We do everything right and the Feds 
and the courts screw it up."

"It makes sense."

Jim frowned, staring hard at the shadowed figure.

"How is that?  We know he had the FBI agents in his pocket - they've been 
indicted.  But even Callas couldn't buy off a Grand Jury."
 
"He didn't have to," he stepped forward, unfolding his arms from over his 
massive chest.  
"I've been working on cleaning up the last of Callas' operations.  I just got 
word that Frank Toll may still be in the city."

"Actually I've heard that too.  Rumor has it he won't leave without his kid.  
We've got 24-hour surveillance on the ex-wife and her relatives."

"And the child?  Where is he?

"The mother is smart - she doesn't trust federal protection.  She won't even 
tell us where he is.  All I know is he's not in Gotham."

Batman nodded curtly.  "Anything on where Toll might be holed up?"

"Not much.  The rumor came to us pretty round about, through a fence named Billy 
Saw.  Said his sister tricked for a guy called the Squid - whose current gig is 
bodyguard for Toll while he finds his son."

"What's the girl's name?"

Gordon searched through the papers on his desk, "Kara...Kara Pensa.  Said she 
works in a house down on the East End.  That's where she met with the Squid.  
Says she doesn't know where he's staying or working."

Batman read over the report Gordon handed him.

"Who are you after?" Gordon asked.

It was a moment before he answered.  "I'd rather keep you out of this, Jim."

Gordon was caught so off-guard by that, a small sound of surprise escaped his 
throat.

Batman looked up quickly, "What?"

Gordon crossed his arms over his chest; "I thought we'd learned to trust each 
other by now."

Another long silence.  "It's not that."  Gordon watched him as he moved, coming 
closer to the desk.  In the time they'd known each other, Jim Gordon had only 
really seen the Batman in action four times.  But that had been enough to 
convince him.  Jim had been in combat.  He knew what kind of soldier he was.  He 
knew what kind of soldier most men were in this day and age.  This man, however, 
was a warrior from another time.  How that had happened, how such a man could 
have appeared here and now - he just didn't try to fathom it anymore.  
	
Somehow it works better for me, Jim thought, if he's not quite...real.

But then he did something so painfully real, that Jim's eyes stung and he had to 
blink several times to clear them.

The black gauntleted hand reached out and touched the photograph of Jim's 
family, turning it just enough so he could look at it.

"Trust me, Jim.  You don't need to be involved in this one."

Jim glanced down at the photo - they looked so happy...

"Well, I ap..." Gordon stopped, as he realized he was alone.

He got up and went to the window.

"Be careful out there."

Looking back at the papers, he decided he'd worked late enough - too late.  It 
was time to go home.  In fact, it was time to remember to be glad he had a 
family to go home to.

* * * * *

Leaving Jim's office, I head down to the East End, slipping over the edge of the 
old hotel at the corner of Mercy Street and 185th.  I make my way down the wall 
and over to the window on the fourth floor.  Good, she's alone.

"Tess."

"Jesus!" she jumps and spills some of her drink. "Couldn't you at least knock?"  
Reaching for a tissue to dab at the spots of her dress she mutters another curse 
under her breath.

"Sorry."

She looks up, "Don't sweat it.  As stains go around here, these aren't so bad."

Tess was that rare animal - an old whore.  She kept her hair colored a brassy 
blonde, though she was well past sixty, and she dressed far too sexily for her 
age.  But she ran the cleanest house on the East End, she took good care of her 
girls, and she was smart and straight dealing.  We had managed to work out a 
kind of alliance.  I kept rivals from driving her out of business with violence, 
and she gave me information from time to time.

"I'm looking for a girl who works in the neighborhood - Kara Pensa."

She just nods, "Give me half an hour."

I move back to the window.

"Sure you don't want to hang around here?  I can send a girl up.  You know it's 
on the house for you."

"I'll pass.  But thanks," and I disappear into the night, hearing her coarse 
chuckle behind me.

An old joke.  Tess thinks it's funny that any man would turn down free sex.

I spend the time making a couple of appearances around the immediate area, to 
keep the neighborhood mindful of my protection of Tess' house.  When I drop back 
by her window, she has Kara's address and the address of the house she works 
for.

She's just a little wisp of a girl, maybe early twenties, far-gone on heroin, 
the track marks plainly visible on her arms.

She's terrified by my presence in her apartment; afraid I've come for her.  She 
breaks down, crying - the tears smearing mascara down her thin face.  I wonder 
briefly about what I'm doing, about what I've become that this poor broken girl 
would stare at me with such abject fear.

"Kara," I keep my voice low, and quiet, to try to calm her, "I'm looking for a 
man.  Squid.  You know him."

She tries to speak, but finally just nods miserably.

"You told the police you didn't know where to find him.  But I think maybe you 
were just scared.  Do you know anything about where he is?"

"He...he got a call while we...were...He wouldn't let me go...I...I mean, he 
kept kissing on me and feeling me up while he was talking."

"What did you hear?"

"S...said they were moving and...and he was supposed to get his group's supplies 
to McKinley by morning.  That's all.  That's all I heard," she's gotten a hold 
of herself and realized she's not in danger.  Reaching up, she wipes her face 
with an abrupt gesture, using her arm and the back of her hand ... God, she's 
just a child, sixteen at most.  I had been fooled by the makeup.

I feel my chest tightening with pain, standing there in her tiny, filthy room.  
What chance does she have?  Just another lost soul - why did Gotham have to have 
so many of them?

"Thank you, Kara.  This will help me stop some brutal men from hurting more 
people."

She rubs her eyes, and then looks up at me.  "If you see Squid, willya kick him 
in the balls for me?"  Pulling at the neck of her shirt, she exposes her 
shoulder.  "Shithead left teeth marks."  The wound is ugly, and enflamed.  She 
covers it again, and looks down, saying in a very small voice, "I can't show you 
where the other ones are."

I close my eyes for a second, then look at her.  I try to control my voice, but 
it is thick with rage, "Kara, I want you to go tomorrow to the house at Mercy 
and 185th.  Ask for Tess.  Tell her I sent you.  If you have to do this, you'll 
be better off working for her.  Then you go to the doctor, and get those bites 
taken care of."

She is shaking her head, "Don't have no money."

"Tess will have the money."  I take a step towards her, "Kara, please tell me 
you'll do this."

She just stands there, frozen, for a second.

"Kara..."

"O...okay," her eyes on me, are wide.  Just a child.  "I will."

I'm gone before she can finish the last word, but, outside, I watch as she lies 
down on the low couch and curls up, trembling.  I don't move until she is 
asleep.

By remote though, I've set the computer working on 'McKinley', and by the time I 
get back to the car there is a short list of probable locations that could serve 
as safehouses for a wanted mobster.

I go by Tess' first, and leave an envelope with a thousand dollars in it on her 
windowsill.  She'll know where to look for it when Kara tells her I said she'd 
have the money.

* * * * *

It's the fourth place on the list - one of the snipers is lazy, or just no good 
at his job.  I spot him from five blocks over, patrolling a rooftop in a group 
of old office buildings left in what was now the McKinley airfield warehouse 
district.  I take him out first and figure the positions of the others from his 
location.  Once I have the other three secured, I reconnoiter around the 
building.  If he's smart, he'll be close to the ground floor, where he can get 
out quickly.  There are cars parked on three sides.  I go down to the street and 
spend ten minutes doing some good old fashioned tire-slashing.  There's movement 
on the first, second and third floors.  Those will be gunmen though; Toll won't 
be near any windows.  I set charges on the fire escape from the second to the 
fifth floor, and one on the external power box, then move around to position 
myself on the opposite side of the building.

Now.  I click the night-vision lenses into p	lace in my mask and trigger the 
charges.  I see the building shake as the lights go out.  As I launch myself at 
a second floor window, I hear the fire escape separate and crash down, the 
horrendous shrieking of metal sliding on brick and concrete.

The glass shatters around me and I catch the floor, flip and land in a crouch.  
Shouts and running feet pound the hallway, as they head for the damage on the 
other side.  Toll will be sitting tight for a minute, until the situation is 
assessed.  Don't have much time.

I slip into the hallway, moving quickly. A few thugs have been deployed as 
sentries.  I take them down as I come across them.  I can hear that they've 
found the cars outside, and a shouted order dispatching some to get new 
transportation.  Too bad, I was hoping they'd take him out in the open.  
Somebody here has a brain.

I find out how much of a brain when gunfire explodes in my direction and I leap 
to the side, smelling burnt powder and feeling heat burn tracks in the air past 
my head.

Flashlights dance along the hallway, but I am already in the ceiling, moving 
past them as they spread out to search.  I'm over the area they were protecting 
and I lift a tile briefly to peer into the room below.

Hello there, Frank.  There are two other men in the room - one an ugly bruiser 
with a shaved head, the other - there's the professional in the bunch.  Neat, 
calm, well-dressed, standing with Magnum raised, keeping watch through the 
cracked door.

I coil up and dive through the ceiling tiles into the professional.  His arm 
cracks as my knee comes down on it and his hand releases the gun.  I sink a drug 
tipped dart into his neck.  He's out and I'm up as the bruiser launches at me.  
I sidestep, but he's a half-second faster than I expect and I go off-balance, 
landing only a glancing blow to help his weight carry him into the wall.  
Grounded again, I seize his arm, coming at me in a roundhouse punch, and jerk, 
to send him flying into Toll, who I'd seen produce a gun.

Toll yells, and I almost miss the sound of running feet outside the room.  The 
door slams open - two swift kicks take the two who emerge into the room, their 
flashlights going flying.  One goes out, but the other's beam falls on the 
bruiser, on his hands and knees, shaking his head.  I see the tattoo - SQUID.  
Toll is scrambling on the floor feeling for a gun, but he's heading in the wrong 
direction.  I smile.

My boot lands, crushingly heavy, on Squid's hand.  His face turns up, twisted 
with fear.  My other boot connects with his chin and his whole body lifts two 
feet off the floor, crashing down on his back.  Toll cowers back into a corner 
at the noise.  Now my foot is on Squid's neck.  I can hear him choking, and I 
feel his hands on my ankle.  I press harder.

I turn up the reflectivity of the lenses so they pick up what little light there 
is in the room.  Squid sees my eyes begin to glow and he shrieks.

"Didn't your mother teach you how to treat women?" I growl, and stomp on his 
groin.  The sound he makes before he loses consciousness from the pain warms my 
heart.

Toll is still frozen, but when I turn on him, he jerks up and runs for the door.  
I clothesline him - he goes down clutching his throat.

I drop to my knees on his chest, and the breath rushes out of him in a sickening 
gasp.

"Frank Toll,"  I say, grinding a knee into his gut, then I let up just enough 
that he can draw in a painful breath.

"oh god no please god no, don't..."

"Quiet, Toll,"  I smack him hard on the side of the head.  "I don't want you in 
Gotham.  Haven't I made that clear?"  I bounce on his chest once and hear a rib 
pop.  He screams.

"Where'd you get the protection, Frank?  A little high class for you, isn't it?"

"He...oh god, he...he came...to me.  He came to me!  Please! God, please..."

"Who sent him?"

"I don't know!" his voice goes off into a low warbling wail as I twist his arm 
right to the breaking point - and hold it there.

"Someone arranged Callas' escape.  That same someone was worried enough about 
you to send help.  Who?"

Tears are squeezing out of his closed eyes as he gasps, "Part... part of... the 
deal... Callas... agreed to run, but... but had... to have someone get... his 
kid.  Not mine... his son!  I'm just cover... for his wife.  Please!"

"Who?"  I snarl.  "Who's protecting him?"

"I don't know," he sobs.  "I swear!  Please, don't..."

I leap to my feet and drag him up, lifting him so his legs dangle.

"Should have left while you had the chance," I say and hurl him into the wall.  
He hits with a very satisfying thud.

I pause to listen, but the building is quiet.  Apparently the rest of the hired 
muscle had taken the better part of valor and run.  I radio the location in to 
the police as an anonymous tip.

Moving to the professional, I search him.  Ankle holster with a snub-nose .38.  
Class ring, University of Virginia, 1979.  Wallet, Italian leather - Paul 
Smithson, D.C. license, two hundred dollars cash and three credit cards.  I drop 
the cash on the floor and put the wallet away in my belt, then I search the 
pockets of his jacket.  In one inner breast pocket is a small address book, but 
it's in the other pocket that I find it.

Federal ID.  FBI.

That takes out Jameson, but it leaves Marion and Fagen - either could have sent 
him.  

I take the address book and ID with me as I go through the building to the roof.  
About two hours to dawn.  I decide to make a patrol loop through the city before 
going home.  I send the car instructions, and it takes off to wait for me 
outside of Little Bohemia.

I fire a jumpline and swing off, passing over the screaming squad cars 
converging on the building.  I touch down on a rooftop and sprint, leaping for 
the next, pushing myself, testing my limits.  Am I pushing the limits of my 
powers?  Alfred is wrong if he thinks I don't question the wisdom of my actions.  
I know I am threatening forces that have the ability to destroy me.  But if this 
city is ever to have hope I cannot just unleash my vengeance on those who live 
lives of desperation and have almost no options but crime.  The ones who leave 
no options for others with their greed for wealth and power - they must be 
challenged.  They must be stopped. 

Coming to the edge of downtown,  I swing around the side of a building and use a 
flagpole to vault up, catching the jutting eagle's head of Wayne Tower.  There I 
pause to dial up the police band on the radio receiver in my ear, and listen, 
before choosing my next direction.  From this vantage point, all of Gotham seems 
spread at my feet.  Gotham...it will not be what it is forever.  I will not let 
it.

A call comes in, nearby.  I go to answer it.

* * * * *
Ten blocks away, a silent figure separated itself from the shadows, put away the 
night vision binoculars that had been focused on the Batman, and moved to follow 
him.


Chapter Three

I had been curious, I suppose, when I was called in.  And I'll admit I was more 
than surprised to learn it was him that wanted to see me - but I shouldn't have 
been.  Who else would just jerk me off a deep penetration I'd been setting up 
for seven months?

"Is there a particular reason you flew me halfway around the world with zero 
notice?"  I finally asked.

"I need you here."

"In the States?"  Odd.  Though I still didn't really imagine just how odd.

"Here."

Don't let him see anything.  "That violates our agreement," I reminded him.

"No, it just changes it slightly.  Consider this our new agreement."

"And what exactly is 'our' new agreement?"

"You take care of this situation for me," he indicated the computer and I 
glanced at the screen, "then you can leave again."

I let my eyes narrow as I stared at him.  Finally, I gave a small nod, "All 
right, but why me?"

"Because you are quick and quiet - and you know Gotham intimately."

"It's been almost ten years," I said mildly, bending over to tap on the 
keyboard, watching the files displayed on the computer.

"I doubt it's changed that much."

"No," I said softly, "I doubt it has."  I hid behind scorn, "But, come on, this 
is hardly my speed - or yours.  Why are you even bothering with this?  What 
difference does a street vigilante make to you?"  I got it suddenly - of course.  
"He's put a little crimp in some of your operations, hasn't he?"  I laughed, 
enjoying the anger I saw in his eyes.  "Still, what do you need me for?  He's 
breaking the law.  Put Fibi on it."

"When the time is right.  I don't want him brought in too soon.  And - I don't 
want just him.  Look, this isn't some lone psycho with a hero complex - if he 
was, he could never have gotten close to me, now could he?"

I was beginning to get intrigued.  "I suppose not."

"I need you to track him, find out who's financing him - and why.  Someone is 
trying to take Gotham from me.  They've put the fear of God into the street 
operators and they have their teeth into the police.  I want to know who is 
behind this."  He looked at me, smiling now, magnanimous.  "I know this isn't 
your idea of the ideal assignment, but take care of this for me, and I'll make 
it up to you.  I promise."

I knew my eyes were cold, and so was my voice, "That's very comforting, 
considering what your promises are worth."

But his voice, when he answered, seemed to suck the very light from the room, 
"There are some promises you can be sure I will keep, Nocturne."

Subtlety might be one of his strong suits, but he knew when to turn it off.  And 
he knew me.  What did he tell me; the last time I saw him?  You know why you're 
good, Nocturne?  Because you don't let yourself have any illusions of power.  
You know right where you fit in the scheme of things.  Now, that's arrogance.  
Saying right to another's face - I like you because you know your place.

I don't let it bother me as I work, moving silent as a ghost across the city's 
rooftops, rigging miniscule EM spectral sensors on antennas and lightning rods, 
as well as the occasional jutting statue, laying out the grid I was slowly 
building across Gotham's inner city.  Conditioned as I am, I can't keep my mind 
from turning over the facts again - besides it's better than letting an 
awareness of where I am sink in.

The Batman first appeared fourteen months ago, attacking randomly, but quickly 
moving from junkies, muggers and pimps to suppliers, professional thieves, 
extortion rackets - and he cut a swath through Gotham's more serious crews in 
just a few months.  Then he stepped it up, going straight for the heart of 
corruption in the city.  I chuckle to myself as my mind's eye replays the photo 
from page one of the Gotham Times, May 20, last year - the Mayor's mansion with 
a gaping hole blown in the dining room wall.  I've got to admit I like his 
style.

After that Batman wasn't playing - went after the Roman, the Gallianos and 
Callas.  It had taken me about two days to figure out this was all about Callas.  
That's what has the big guy pissed off enough to call me in.  That, more than 
anything, has me interested.  This 'vigilante' managed to strike pretty damn 
close and he barely dodged that bullet.  With a little checking I could plainly 
see he'd had to move rather obviously to get Callas off and out of the country.  
And he doesn't like ever being forced to do anything obvious, hell, he just 
doesn't like being forced - he prefers to be the one doing the forcing.  So, 
there's no way he'd tolerate this situation.  Something he can't control?  Not 
in *his* city.

I stop and look out over Gotham, the sounds from the street far below me reach 
my ears - a low, painful, constant moan.  The harsh, hot wind blowing up from 
the canyons of the streets pulls at me.  Only here - only in Gotham would 
someone even conceive of making a grab for power in this very bizarre way.  The 
boss is right, though - there's no way this is a loner.  He never could have 
lasted this long and reached so high without a power structure behind him.  And 
his equipment - we're talking big bucks - a custom made car and jet (the 
Batmobile and Batwing the papers call them - gotta love the press this guy's 
getting.)  Then there's that little thing about the cops turning a blind eye.  
That's costing someone some serious cash.

I flip the LCD lens over my left eye.  TRACKING... the display reads, but 
nothing's showing up.  Still don't have enough sensors out.  That's all right - 
I'll finish the night widening the grid, just like I've done for the last two 
weeks, and tomorrow I'll go back undercover on the streets.  The connections are 
there; I just have to work it out.  Find who benefits from his activities, and 
somewhere there are allies.  

The display suddenly changes before my eye.  TARGET blinks red, then a location 
begins to scroll up.  I move immediately, pulling the binoculars out.  I go to 
ground on a rooftop ten blocks from the signal as it begins to move. I crouch, 
searching with the binocs.  There, a shadow, too high and too fast to be 
natural, a glimpse of something flapping like leathery wings.  I dial up the 
magnification and see, just for a second - my god... 

The dark figure seems to fly between the buildings.  It catches a horizontal 
flagpole, changing direction in mid-air.  In the light spilling on the flag, he 
finally resolves into the form of a man, as he swings around like an Olympic 
gymnast and drops out of sight.

I pause - well, that was...what's the word? - gothic? ominous?  Hell, that was 
just freaky.  No wonder on the streets, they talk about whether he's really a 
man.  Luckily, I'm not given to superstition - or to letting an image, no matter 
how impressive, overwhelm my reason.

I move, cautiously.  I'm not used to mountain climbing on fifty floor buildings.  
But then I'm nothing if not adaptable.  Slipping silently down a fire escape - I 
freeze, hearing a muffled cry.  Moving with extreme care, I manage a vantage 
point to catch sight of the last of it.  Two men running for their lives, three 
more unconscious in a heap - and a fourth flying through the air, landing like a 
case of bricks.

He straightens, and for an instant, I see him, cut by stark shadows from the 
streetlamps.  Then he's gone.  I blink, and search the shadows.  But he's simply 
not there.  I feel an eerie shiver crawl up my back, and I have to laugh at 
myself.

This is a clever set up.  A hero, the people call him - as if there was such a 
thing.  Absolutely brilliant.  Get the public behind your enforcer - make them 
think he's working for them - distract them with a mysterious vigilante 
(probably had some marketing exec work up the image).  And they buy it; swallow 
it whole - their hero.

Haven't they heard?  Heroes are dead.


Chapter Four

	
Anthony Jurado had been with the Gotham City field office almost since he'd 
graduated from Quantico.  That was after picking the FBI over the NFL, and he 
retained the bulk, even now, that had made him such a good linebacker.  But it 
would be fairly obvious to even a casual observer watching as he leaned his 
large frame against a desk and pushed his small wire-frame glasses up his nose, 
that he was too thoughtful a man to have chosen a profession that did not 
challenge his mind as much as his body.

"Cyn," Jurado gestured to the woman entering.

She nodded to the others in the room as she made her way over, leaning on the 
desk next to him.

Looking around, she said softly to him, "What is going on?  It looks like every 
agent in the city is here."

He shook his head, "No one seems to know."

She raised an eyebrow, then turned as Jeremy Carter entered.

"OK, people," he said loudly, then waited until he had everyone's attention.  
"I've just returned from Washington with new orders which are going to require 
some... restructuring."

Glances went around the room.

"Karanov - your team is off the Grieco case..."

"What?  We're right on top of them, we can't..."

"It's done, Stan."

"Why?"

"We have a higher priority situation."

"And that is?"

"Your team, and Byrd's, are now on police captain James Gordon for abuse of 
authority and protection of illegal activity.  Randall, your team, and Holt's 
and Turturro's are to join Morton's investigation.  Jurado, you're to head that 
task force and Williams you've got the Gordon teams.  You two will work together 
to coordinate the investigations."

Cynthia stared steadily at Carter as she took the file folders from his hand.

"Who's brilliant idea is all this?" she asked.

"Well, the Director called me in personally."

That stopped the quiet buzzing in the room.

"Didn't happen to tell you why this is suddenly so important, did he?"  Tony 
inquired.

"Actually, his exact words were 'orders from the top'."

"Isn't that what the Nazis said?" Cyn muttered under her breath, but loud enough 
for Carter to hear.

He ignored it.  "I need you two with me right now," Carter said.  "We've got a 
meeting at four with the Gotham PD Internal Affairs office."

"Now *that* ought to be fun," Jurado said.  "We can explain why we're spending 
our time on their people instead of criminals."

"Look, I know they're not likely to happy about this..."

"I don't think I'm happy about this," Tony said.

"Yeah, me neither,"  William's eyes flicked up and bored into Carter's.

Tony let Cyn do the stare down - she was so good at it.  He watched Carter 
squirm.  Why did the weasels always get kicked to the top? he wondered.  Cyn 
wasn't giving him an inch.  A tall, dark-skinned woman, her features weren't 
what was considered pretty in America, but men in West Africa would have killed 
for her.  And she had absolutely perfected that cool, professional demeanor 
common to most female agents - meaning she could come across as a real 
ballbuster when she wanted to.  He loved to watch her work someone, especially 
someone who deserved it as much as Carter did right now.  Mealy-mouthed little 
yes-man... something else was going on here...

"Orders are orders, Williams," Carter finally managed, but he sounded more than 
a little whiny.  "Now I don't want to hear any more about it.  Come on, let's 
get to that meeting."

"Where we'll get to hear lots more about it," Cynthia said.

Carter shot her a warning look, but she just got up and headed for the garage.  
She drove, and the ten-block ride to IA headquarters was quiet.

Carter stopped at the entrance and pinned them both with a glare, "We on the 
same page here?"

"Of course," Cyn replied coolly.  "Sir."

Tony just nodded once.  

Carter opened the door and they followed him in.

Matthew Abel, director, Internal Affairs Division, GCPD, was waiting for them, 
so they were immediately ushered into his office.  At fifty-eight he was the guy 
the stereotype of the Gotham cop was based on - seventy pounds too heavy, 
balding, with a bushy moustache, jowly face and a thick lower West Side accent, 
he nonetheless had an exceptional investigative mind.  More importantly his 
record of integrity was unassailable.

Carter introduced everyone, "Captain Matt Abel - Special Agents Cynthia Williams 
and Tony Jurado."  They shook hands and took seats before his desk.

Abel smiled pleasantly, offered drinks which they refused, then sat back in his 
creaking chair.  "So, Mr. Carter, what's this all about?"

Tony groaned inwardly as Carter shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat 
before answering.  The man had simply no finesse at all.

"You know we've had a team on the Batman vigilante for a month..."

"Sure.  Had any luck?"  Abel tried to hide the amusement in his eyes - but he 
didn't try very hard.

Now Carter was pissed, and it was obvious of course.  "No," he said flatly.  
"But we've just received orders to step up our investigation."

Tony glanced at Cyn, catching her eye.  They could both see that Abel knew what 
was coming.

"Part of those orders," Carter cleared his throat again, "are to create a task 
force to investigate James Gordon."

Abel's face didn't move, but his eyes went cold.  His voice was very calm as he 
spoke, "I appreciate the Bureau informing Internal Affairs."

"We expect..." Carter paused for a split second, "We're going to need your help 
if we expect any charges to stick."

Abel looked at them each in turn, then folded his hands on his ample belly and 
sat back.

"I have to tell you, Agent Carter, I don't think that's realistic."

Tony quickly hid a grin behind his hand and saw that Cyn was loving this.  
Carter was turning red.

"Why not?" he demanded.

"How long have you been in Gotham, Mr. Carter?"

"I was transferred to command of this field office three months ago."

"Ah," Abel said quietly, looking down.  He glanced up at Jurado and Williams, 
"How about you two?"

"Four years," Tony said.

"Two years," Williams answered.

He looked down again, nodding.  Then, he swiveled his chair and stood suddenly.  
Crossing the room, he took a photograph off a low shelf and brought it back to 
his desk.

He showed it to them.  It was a group of four middle-aged cops, Abel among them. 
They were at a party, wide smiles, arms around each other or holding up beers, 
posing for the camera.

Abel pointed at the man on his right in the photograph.

"Steve Barnet," he said.  "We were partners for 23 years.  It wasn't easy being 
a good cop in Gotham in those days.  The Commissioner and captains were so deep 
in the pockets of the criminal powers they could even afford to buy off IA, so 
all you could do was what little good you could do - and hope they let you keep 
doing it.  Sometimes they didn't.  Steve was a brave man.  When he finally 
couldn't take seeing another criminal he'd arrested sprung by his superiors for 
a pay-off, he tried..." Abel had turned the picture so that he could look at it, 
and his hands were tight on the frame.  "He tried to nail the maggots."  He 
relaxed suddenly and set the picture carefully on his desk, facing Carter.  "I 
heard it was the Commissioner himself that ordered the hit on him."

Always unable to hide his emotions, Carter looked appalled.

"Jim Gordon brought the charges that finally ran that bastard out of town."  
Abel's voice was tight.  "And he's been instrumental every step of the way in 
cleaning up this department.  I wouldn't even have this job if he hadn't started 
the investigation on my predecessor..."

"I understand," Carter interrupted, too loudly, "this may be difficult, given 
personal loyalties.  But that doesn't change the fact that Gordon is breaking 
the law."

Abel came back hard, "How, exactly, is this your jurisdiction, Agent Carter?"

Carter brought up his attaché and popped it open.  He dropped a stack of file 
folders on Abel's desk.

"Six cases of interstate police cooperation in which Gordon is suspected of 
conspiracy to protect illegal activity."

Abel looked at the folders, his jaw tightening.

"If this is about the vigilante, why don't you just go after him?"

Now Carter smirked, "Just good law enforcement tactics.  Gordon is visible and 
once we have him we can offer him immunity in exchange for his information, and 
later, his testimony."

"And you're willing to take down the best cop I've ever known because you're not 
a good enough agent to nail your primary target?"

Carter's eyes narrowed, and he leaned in towards Abel.  "A good cop?" he 
sneered. "And you think *you* are a good cop?  I'm supposed to be impressed that 
you and Gordon are establishing your own power structure by taking down your 
superiors one by one?  And how are you doing that?  With the help of a criminal.  
You use a man who ignores the law, who seems to think he *is* the law, to 
further your own purposes.  Now, we're willing to leave you out of this, 
provided you cooperate.  But if the Gotham City Police are not only going 
ignore, but collaborate in the illegal activities of a vigilante - well, you 
should have kept it within state lines.  I do have jurisdiction and Gordon is 
going down.  Now, do you want to join him?"

The two men's eyes warred for a long moment.

"Jurisdiction," Abel said softly, his gaze unwavering, "from the Latin 'jus' and 
'dictus'.  Meaning the right to apply justice within a certain area.  You 
haven't been in Gotham long enough to learn this yet, Special Agent Carter, but 
for the first time in my life, the right to apply justice here means more than 
who knows how to manipulate the system to get what they want.  Now, if you want 
to threaten me into cooperating with you - then you will get the sort of 
cooperation that earns."

"I can and will take you down too, if I have to.  Warn Gordon - and you're 
gone."

"I said you had my cooperation."

Tony watched Carter try to think of something else to say, so he could have the 
last word.  Finally, he just nodded curtly, scooped up his folders and threw 
them into his briefcase as he stood.  Williams and Jefferson stood too.  Carter 
was already on his way out of the room, so they nodded at Abel and followed him.

On the street, Carter fumed, but kept it to himself.  Tony had them drop him 
about halfway back to the office, saying he needed to go to the grocery on the 
corner and he'd take a cab home.  He entered the store, but exited immediately 
after the car pulled away, and he headed back the way they had come.

Abel was preparing to leave for the day when Tony entered his office again.

"Special Agent Jurado," he said, neutrally.

Tony didn't bother with preliminaries, "I know you're right."

Abel relaxed a bit.  "What's going on?"

"I don't know yet.  Carter's a lackey, some rich boy who was appointed to please 
his daddy, and all he knows how to do is say 'yes, sir'."

"So, who is he saying 'yes, sir' to?"

"Says the orders came from the Director of the Bureau."

"Why?  Why now?"

Tony shrugged.

Abel closed his eyes, shaking his head, "Goddamn, I hate this crap!  To protect 
and to serve - that's what they tell you that you're going to do.  What they 
don't tell you is about this political shit!  Gordon!" he slammed a fist down on 
his desk.  "Do you know what it will do if you take him in?  Finally, finally - 
it's the bad cops who have to hide and live in fear.  You take Gordon...you 
don't understand how important he is."  Abel grinned suddenly, "Ballsiest cop 
I've ever met, Jim is.  And absolutely incorruptible.  I don't blame you for 
being worried about the Batman - it's...weird, to say the least."

"You ever seen him?" Tony asked suddenly.

Abel stopped and looked at him, his grin fading.  "Once, for a second.  He just 
stepped over the edge of a thirty-two story building and dropped out of sight."  
He leaned in, face serious, "He makes me nervous too, okay?  Hell, he makes 
Gordon nervous.  But I trust Jim... and Jim trusts him."

"Why?"

Abel shook his head slowly, "He doesn't talk about it.  I can tell you one 
thing, though - taking Gordon won't get you any closer to the Batman.  Even if 
he knows who he is, he'll never turn on him.  Jim believes in what he's doing.  
He'll never turn," he repeated.

"So," Tony said, pushing up his glasses, "you don't know anything about the 
Batman?"

Abel looked a little surprised by the question.  He thought for a moment.  
Slowly, he said, "I know...he's," he stopped, and frowned, "he's making a 
difference.  I don't know why it should work this way...It's all very strange 
but - something's different now.  A couple of years ago, I wouldn't have," he 
chuckled, "I *never* would have had the guts to chew the ass off an FBI field 
director like I just did.  What is it?  Courage - or insanity?  Whatever it is - 
I'm going to ride it as long as it lasts.  You take what you can get in Gotham - 
to do what good you can do."

Tony contemplated that for a moment, having been in the city long enough to know 
the truth of it.

"I'm in charge of the task force on the Batman," he told Abel.

The older man smiled sympathetically, "You know, Gordon once had orders to bring 
him in, too."

Tony rolled his eyes, "Yeah, and look what it's just gotten him.  Someone *very* 
high up is pretty pissed off.  I can't put the brakes on this.  Neither can 
you."

The older man met his gaze steadily, but Tony couldn't miss the sadness in his 
voice as he said, "I know."

Chapter Five

I had programmed the computer with search routines before I went to sleep, so by 
the time I awoke the results were waiting.  Paul Smithson's driver's license 
checked out with the DC Department of Motor Vehicles.  The credit cards had some 
minor activity, but the accounts were relatively new.  But there is no Paul 
Smithson with the FBI, Special Agent or otherwise.  The ID is a perfect forgery.  
Paper, ink, hologram, embossed seal - all the exact same as the FBI uses.  It 
takes me most of the afternoon to confirm this.

The diluted venom I injected "Smithson" with should keep him out for at least 
twenty-four hours.  Since I had taken all his ID, he's still listed as John Doe 
at the hospital and no one should yet know to clean out his apartment.  
Disguised as an electrician, cropped blond wig in place, complexion lightened, 
face aged slightly and waist padded liberally - I take the elevator to the tenth 
floor.

Picking the lock takes all of thirty seconds.  The apartment is sparsely 
furnished, barely lived in.  There isn't even a dresser in the bedroom - only 
suitcases.  Nothing is revealed among the neatly folded clothes, but I wouldn't 
have expected there to be.  Even if he wasn't FBI, he'd known what he was doing.  
I examine the suitcases themselves.  One has a false bottom, but all I find 
beneath is a fitted foam piece for his guns.

I go over the bed, the mattress, the nightstand.  Nothing.  I remove all the 
vent covers in the apartment.  Nothing.  The bathroom, the kitchen.  Popping the 
cover off the temperature gauge in the freezer, I find a miniaturized computer 
disk.

Handling it carefully with tweezers, I drop it into a small plastic bag.  Then I 
replace the cover, check the apartment to make sure I've left no sign of my 
presence, and exit after waiting for voices to pass down the hall.

On the street, I pass into an alley and pull out the palm computer.  Opening it, 
I put the disk in place and begin the analysis of its contents.  The files are 
encrypted, so the palmtop calls up the main computer, but it's still going to 
take some time.

Night is just falling, the setting sun turning the sky above the city bloody.  I 
walk, heading out of this mid-range neighborhood and making my way down the 
older, less cared for streets.  I watch the faces I pass, people lost in living 
their lives, so many lives, lost in this city.

Always, always my feet lead me back.  Sometimes it seems like my whole world 
revolves around this one spot.

<<White pearls.  Falling.>>

Somehow I always seem to come here, like this - never wearing the mask.  Why is 
that?

<<My father's hand.  Pushing me back.>>

Here - then gone.  If I open my eyes (when did I close them?), they'll be lying 
right here at my feet.

<<My ears.  Ringing.  I'll never hear any sound again except this horrible, 
head-splitting ringing.>>

Right here at my feet, bleeding, dying...

<<Red pearls.>>

Gone.

My body reacts to the sound a millisecond before my mind does.  My head snaps 
up, then I hear it - a body striking brick and a woman's cry, cut off.  Men - 
laughing.  I'm at the corner and I look quickly around it, then pull back.

One woman, six men.  One has her by the hair pressed against the side of the 
building.  I saw the glint of metal in his hand, but couldn't tell if it was a 
knife or a gun at this distance.  The others are ranged around them - they urge 
him on with hoots and laughter.  The woman makes no sound.

Armed.  See if a witness will cool them down.

I step out and walk unhesitatingly towards them.  One sees me and signals the 
others.  I keep walking.

"Bade, man!" one hisses.  "Ease up."

Bade looks over his shoulder as I come close, and I see the woman's face.  I 
recognize her.  And even as that registers, I see her move to take advantage of 
his distraction.  He doubles over with a gasp as her knee connects with his 
crotch, the knife clattering to the sidewalk.  The others are surprised and, as 
she shoves Bade into one, I slam an elbow into another's face, crunch a third's 
knee with a kick, and catch another with a punch to the throat.  The last is 
already halfway down the street.

I move to stand between her and the men as they stumble up, only glancing at us 
and taking off running as best they can.

I turn to her.  Masking my voice with a gruff East End accent, I ask, "Are you 
all right?"

She is not the slightest bit less possessed than when I met her at the Mayor's 
mansion, though she looks as different as night and day.  Her dark hair is 
slicked back, her eyes thickly outlined in black, her full lips painted deep 
red.  Instead of a tasteful evening gown she is wearing a black leather mini-
dress that accentuates her figure to the point of obscenity.

"I'll live," she says, but she doesn't sound too happy about it.  She glances at 
me briefly, "Thanks."

"No problem.  You want me to walk you home?"

She looks surprised by the suggestion.  "No.  I'll be fine.  It isn't far."

I let her go.  Marlowe DeSeve.

The computer beeps softly at me, and I step back into a shadowed doorway, 
pulling it out.  The information on the screen brings it all into focus.

Paul Smithson, FBI, was actually Wilson Paul, National Security Agency.  Only 
John Fagen could leverage an NSA agent.  Fagen had been a Senator for twenty 
years.  By far the most powerful and dangerous one of all.  The last time I'd 
seen him, he'd been with Marlowe DeSeve.

I follow her.

When I'd run her name she'd come up as an employee of Norton-Stewart & 
Associates, a Gotham based political fund-raising consultation firm - though she 
was with the Washington office.  Perhaps she was just a woman with dangerous 
tastes - out walking the streets at night alone, dressed like that.  She's 
stopped two blocks up, and I watch from around a corner as she unlocks a door 
next to an empty storefront with a For Rent sign in the window.  I move 
cautiously as she heads up the stairs, the door closing behind her.  A moment 
later a light goes on in a window above the store.

I raise an eyebrow.  This isn't a residential area - warehouses line the street 
behind her building and just four blocks over the crack houses and hooker hotels 
began.  Strange place for a Washington businesswoman to stay.

Quickly, I cross the street and duck into the alley beside her building.  
Leaping easily, I catch the edge of fire escape and swing myself up, landing 
silently on the platform.  The blinds are down over the window, but one slat has 
caught at the side, leaving a half-inch gap.  Unfortunately, the angle is such 
that I can only see a couple of feet along the wall fronting the street.

I can see her moving behind my line of sight by how the light from the lamp 
changes.  Then she crosses to the front window, pulling the blind up so she can 
look out at the street.  She lifts a cigarette to her lips and I see the glowing 
tip shake in the shadow cast by her face.

She hadn't shown a hint of fear on the street.  Grace under fire.

I leave her to her privacy.  No need to invade it until I find out I have to.  

I walk until I can catch a cab downtown.  Fagen.  I had known he was the most 
likely candidate but I suppose I had hoped it would turn out to be one of the 
lesser men - no such luck.  Staring out the car window I think about the layers 
of power on which Gotham is built, the structure of the system which keeps so 
many good people trapped.  That structure is entrenched and unyielding, and John 
Fagen knows it well - better than I do, for I am outside of it.  I think about 
how far I am willing to go.

The cab pulls up a few blocks from Wayne Tower.  I pay the driver and walk until 
I am alone.  Then, I remove a sewer cover and drop down, making my way to the 
hidden entrance into the old sealed off boiler room of the Tower.  Not the most 
pleasant way to get to an underground lair - but I can keep it secure.

I emerge unseen and take to the roofs.  I want to check on Kara, so I head for 
Tess' place.  But the city is boiling with violence tonight and it is one gang 
fight, three muggings, two armed robberies and one homicide before I reach my 
destination.  Through it all I cannot remove from my mind the image of a 
powerful man sitting in ease and comfort while the city seethes.

Tess doesn't jump this time when I speak from the shadows.  She seems to be 
expecting me.

"How's Kara?"  I ask.

"Dead."

It is a moment before I can control myself enough to speak.

"What happened?"

"She came in, we got her fixed up - but then, she told me she had a party she 
had to work tonight, something she couldn't get out of.  She wouldn't let me 
send anyone with her.  They found her body in a dumpster a couple of hours ago.  
Kid couldn't catch a break," she says, downing the last of the drink in her 
glass.  Looking over at me she says, "Whoa, big guy," though the only move I've 
made is the involuntary clenching of my fists, "it was just a couple of scumbags 
- got too high and lost control.  The police already have them.  That's how I 
found out."

I feel my jaw tighten painfully.  I nod.

Turning to refill her glass, I hear her say, "You're going to kill your..." but 
she stops when she realizes I am gone.

Outside her window, for a moment, I can only close my eyes.  Death, always at my 
shoulder, seems to be wrapping me in its cold embrace tonight.

Just another lost soul.  Just another dead hooker.  She probably won't even make 
the obituaries in the paper.

How far am I willing to go?

There is only one limit.  And until I reach it, I cannot stop.	


Chapter Six

John Fagen owned four homes; two in Gotham - his residence, and his ancestral 
home; one in Washington, and one in Palm Springs.  At sixty-five, he was fit - 
not given to fat like most men his age, with steel gray hair, impeccable 
grooming and perfect self-possession.  Every item in his house had been chosen 
with extreme care, placed just as he wanted it. His staff learned quickly to 
make sure nothing was moved out of its designated position - or they were no 
longer staff.  

Alone in his office, he stood near a small gaming table, examining a chess 
board.  He loved the game, and generally had a match going on.  Between 
legislative session, he'd taken to playing long distance by email with his good 
friend, the current chairman of the Congressional Ways & Means Committee.  Will 
was a wonder with making the deals necessary to pass a budget through the 
American political system, but he still had a bit to learn about chess.

Everyone thought good strategy was about power.  But what was power, really?  
Money, some said, though Fagen knew that was more a product of power than its 
base.  Information, said others.  That was close, but not quite it.  He had 
found power to reside primarily in the weakness of others.  It was a kind of 
vacuum that begged to be filled - though most simply couldn't.  They couldn't 
even fill the holes in themselves, which was what made them weak.

The only thing that really bothered him about this situation was that.  You had 
to know someone's weakness in order to exploit it.  He had spent his life 
studying the system of wealth and privilege that  he had been born into, 
puzzling out all the intricacies, learning not only the rules - but also the 
underlying dynamics that made it all work.  And he became extraordinarily 
skilled at navigating all the complicated rapids, an expert athlete at the 
heart-pounding sport of power.  Governor at thirty-eight, Senator at forty-
three.  He'd never run for President because he was not a fool - and no one had 
inhabited the Oval Office in fifteen years that he could not control, or work 
around.

His world was built on a supreme order, and Gotham was the foundation of that 
world.  His home, his city,  he had made certain that it was the greatest city 
the world had ever known - he and his family before him.  The law?  They didn't 
follow the law - they made the law and they knew what the law was - a story told 
to the people to keep them quiet; a tool, like any other.  Would Gotham be what 
it was today if his great-grandfather had obeyed the Prohibition laws in the 
30s?  Look what happened to Boston when they closed all the speakeasys - 
everyone came to Gotham.  (Not that his ancestor had not had a hand in making 
sure the G-men concentrated on Boston to begin with.)  And now - would Gotham's 
banks be the most powerful in the world if they did not launder the trillions of 
the drug cartels?  Would his city still be the crossroads of the world if it 
wasn't the place you could have anything or do anything with the right 
connections?  Put a stop to the drugs and guns running through Gotham - and they 
would just move somewhere else. You had to keep the big picture in mind.  
Business was business - and business was always good for the city.  

People didn't understand.  Reality didn't change.  There were pros and cons to 
everything.  Even things that, on the surface, seemed evil and wrong.  Everyone 
was evil and wrong - and everyone was good and right.  And, ultimately, everyone 
had an angle - something they wanted, or needed - something they were trying to 
get.

So, what do they want?  What is their angle?  And why go about it this way?

The Bureau teams have Gordon cornered, office bugged - they already have tapes 
on him giving information to ...god, it's so ridiculous - 'Batman' - what is the 
world coming to?

He examined the chessboard.  His opponent had set up an elegant defense.

I don't want them to move yet.  I don't want him going to ground - I need him 
out and about.  Let him expose himself a bit more.  Nocturne has him targeted 
and should be able to produce some information shortly.  So I will keep my 
counterattack back for the moment, and see what he does next.

His eyes moved over the positions of each of his opponent's remaining pieces.  
Ah, that is where the offensive would come from.  He looked to his pieces to 
decide how to lay his trap.


Part Two

Face to Face

This whole town is haunted.
There will never be anything new.
Precious Pain - 
Empty and cold, it keeps me alive.
I gave it my soul so that I could survive.
Keeping me safe in these chains...

- Melissa Etheridge


Chapter Seven


I've learned a lot about John Fagen in the last three days.

He was born to great wealth and a long line of legislators - his great-
grandfather was Mayor of Gotham for forty years at the turn of the century.   He 
is very active in the party - is one of five men forming the Finance Committee 
as a matter of fact.  His financial holdings are extensive and his political 
record includes a long tenure on Ways & Means, as well as several years as Chair 
of the Senate Intelligence Committee.  Putting it all together is going to take 
patience.  Some of it has already begun to come clear, and it's not pretty.  He 
has a consistent record of sacrificing the weak for the interests of the strong 
- things like cutting free lunch programs for poor children in favor of pork 
contracts to government suppliers - the infamous $200 toilet seat kind of 
contracts.  Worse, I've tracked down a more insidious kind of corruption, a 
callousness that chills me to the bone.  Six years ago, a federal toxic waste 
removal plan 'negotiated' by Fagen that went from a safe, though expensive, 
facility that would have neutralized toxicity, to a cheap and easy dumpsite 
right outside Miller's Station - a pitifully poor immigrant neighborhood that 
has begun to produce more than its fair share of childhood cancer cases.

None of this is anything I can use, because it's all perfectly legal.  It's just 
the way...the system works.

My fists clench until the knuckles are white against the desktop.

So what do I have?  I dug a little deeper into Marlowe DeSeve.  She's been 
receiving paychecks from Norton-Stewart for four years; however, no one at the 
Washington office knows who she is.  There's no other record of employment 
anywhere.  She doesn't have a credit history either.  I did find a Virginia 
driver's license on her, showing her current address as an apartment in 
Arlington, not far from Fagen's Washington home.  A subsidiary of one of Fagen's 
real estate companies owns her building.  I recall how intimately he held her 
about the waist and whispered in her ear.  It seems most likely given how thin 
her cover is, that she is a professional call-girl, kept by Fagen and perhaps 
others.  This may be useful but I doubt it.  Mistresses may often have a lot of 
confidential knowledge, but Fagen is not the sort to be tripped up by one of his 
women talking.

Wilson Paul has turned out to be the kind of agent plausible deniability is 
based on.  He's officially on a leave of absence from the NSA, meaning if I try 
to make a connection between him and Fagen - he will simply be sacrificed and 
I'll be back to square one.  Still, with some information from Jim and the 
computer disk I found in Paul's apartment, I'm beginning to  track down his 
movements over the last few months.  It looks like he's been protecting some of 
Fagen's other interests besides Toll.

Then, there's Callas' Grand Jury.  I can see how easy it was for Fagen to 
manipulate the system, apply pressure at just the right points - but the 
specific reasons why remain foggy, whatever it was Callas had on him - and until 
I can find that, or something like it, I have nothing.

The law is not my ally in this.  It is too much under the influence of my enemy 
and men like him.  This cannot end with John Fagen jailed... I am going to have 
to drive him from Gotham, rip his structure out from under him in order to see 
him fall.

The rage I feel is so intense I am forced to wonder if there is something about 
John Fagen - some reflection of myself and what I might have become if not 
for...

This thought is the worst, the deepest, most taunting question of my life.  The 
thought that comes closest to the insanity Alfred gently accuses me of.  I will 
not let myself push it away, though I feel the madness of it - so close.

Should I be grateful for the bullets that cut my parents down on that dark 
street?  Plummeted into a world that had no reason, forced to wring some sense 
from life... I remember... I remember the night I wrapped my hands around Fate's 
cold throat.

I had not slept normally for a year and that night, even after the customary 
bedside reading I was still sitting up, wide-awake.  Alfred puttered about the 
room, dusting dustless tabletops, rearranging objects on them, then putting them 
back the way they had been, unwilling to turn out the lights and leave me alone 
in the dark.  This night - it was one year ago this night.  I was somewhat aware 
that Alfred was searching for words, for some way to reach me.  Each day that 
had passed saw me withdrawing further and further inside myself.  Isolation was 
my only companion now.  I saw how others wanted to reach out to me but could not 
bear it - my pain, my lost and bleeding woundedness.  No one lasted long in the 
face of such devastation.

Still Alfred found ways to stay busy in the room.  He was waiting.  Every night 
for one year he waited for the question I always asked.

Did the police catch him today, Alfred?

And every night for a year, Alfred had had to give the same answer.  No, Master 
Bruce.  Not today.

"Alfred," I said.

"Yes, sir?"

"What if they never catch him?"

Alfred sighed as he came to sit on the bed, "They may not ever catch him, Master 
Bruce.  The police are doing everything they can, but sometimes criminals escape 
justice.  It is not fair, but..."

"That will be all, Alfred."

I had never dismissed him that way.  It did not even seem to be my voice.  And 
while Alfred was somewhat startled, he instinctually responded to the 
unquestionable tone of command and left the room.  

I sat there in the bed for a long time.

The police might not catch him.  Alfred did not believe they would ever catch 
him.

Sometimes criminals escape justice.

Criminals.  Thieves and murderers.  Sometimes they got away.

That was not what my father had told me.  Justice prevails, he'd said.  I 
remembered because I didn't know the words and asked him what they meant.  He'd 
said, That means the good guys win, Bruce.  We have to believe the good guy 
wins, or what point is there to life?

But my father was the good guy.  He was protecting his family.  He was 
protecting me.  And the man with the gun  <<The Gun.  The eyes of the man with 
the Gun.>> he was the bad guy.  But he got away.

He's not supposed to get away.

I slipped off the bed and padded, bare-foot, down the wide dark hall and grand 
staircase, moving silently as a ghost. (Sometimes I felt like a ghost and I had 
dreams that the man with the gun had killed me too and this life I had been 
living for a year, in the dream it was a dream, a dream of the dead.  And when I 
woke I would feel the tears I could never shed choking me because what I had 
thought in the dream to be a nightmare turned out to be the truth.)

Outside, the night was so cold that the world seemed frozen and eerily still.  I 
thought, rather remotely, that the icy ground burned like fire under my feet.  I 
felt it, acutely, like walking on razor blades, each step.  Strange but, the 
pain didn't seem to bother me.  And I was outside, alone, in the middle of the 
night and it was so dark I couldn't see six feet in front of me.  And I wasn't 
scared.

A thought moved slowly through my somnambulistic mind.

I wonder if I'll ever be scared again.

My body kept moving.  I did not think about where I was going.  There was only 
one place.

The kiss of the cold wind stirred my hair and loose pajamas and made my fingers 
ache.  I passed through the low iron gate and walked slowly past the heavy stone 
monuments that rose in dark shapes around me. Generations of my family, so many 
Waynes, all dead.  I was the last one, the very last one, because everyone else 
was dead.

Less ornate than the older tombstones, two identical monuments stood side by 
side at the back of the graveyard.  I hadn't come here since the day they were 
buried, but I saw the open graves every time I closed my eyes.  Slowly I knelt 
between my mother's and my father's graves.

"He's not supposed to get away," I said.  "It's not supposed to be this way.  
It's not..." my voice cracked, "it's not supposed...to be like this.  How can it 
be like this?"  I felt as if a steel band had closed around my chest; my breath 
was coming harder and harder, until I was gasping in the cold air.  I wanted to 
scream, throw myself to the ground and scream and cry and lay down to die here 
on their graves.  The darkness was closing in on me.

There was a rush of air above my head and, while I heard it, it did not really 
register in my brain until a thick cloud of flapping wings and high-pitched 
keening shrieks descended out of the night.  I looked up, slowly, at the bats 
whizzing across the sky, wheeling and diving, snatching vermin out of the air 
and devouring it.  One flew low and I saw it so clearly in the moonlight - its 
wings beating the air, its horrible face like that of a demon, its mouth open, 
hungry.  It was coming straight at me, coming *for* me, coming to punish me, 
coming to save me.

If only there were someone to save me.

But there was no one.  There was no one that night to save them.  There was no 
one to save all the others, the ones who screamed and died tonight in Gotham 
City.  There was no one to stop the thieves and murderers who prowled the 
streets tonight.

I closed my eyes tightly, covering my head with my arms.  But it was <<White 
pearls.>>  too late, the memories were coming,   <<The roar.  Horrible, 
deafening noise.>> I saw it all again, and again, just like it was happening 
right now, right here.  <<Slowly my parents fall.  Their bodies hit the 
street.>>  I could feel myself trembling, a child alone in the night.

"No!"  My fist struck the hard, frozen ground with every bit of my strength.  
"No, they can't just get away!  Someone has to bring them to justice. If no one 
else can, then I will.  Whatever it takes, whatever I have to do.  I swear to 
you, I will."

Am I mad to think I can change the very nature of Gotham - of the world?  
Cloaked in the city's shadows, contemplating the streets below, I consider how 
impossible is the task I've set myself, but I cannot let it make a difference.

From the shattered pieces that were left in the wake of those gunshots, I have 
rebuilt myself the only way I could.  I do - the only thing I can do.  The thing 
only I can do.


Chapter Eight


The sensor net has gathered enough data for me to track his movements 
specifically, so long as he sticks to the rooftops.  I still can't match his 
speed or familiarity on the strange terrain - but with the sensors I can mostly 
keep up with him and stay out of his way.  Tonight, he seems to have a very 
specific mission.  I almost laugh when I realize where he's heading.

The boss said I couldn't interfere, so - orders are orders.  God, is he going to 
be pissed!  I decide I want to see this close-up.  Dropping from his tail, I 
route around him, going to the street.  Fagen doesn't know it, but I set up a 
backdoor into his computer system and with a palmtop remote I call up his own 
access code to get into the bank through the concealed executive entrance, move 
up to the second floor and set myself in a good spot on the mezzanine.  I can 
hear the workers entering the lobby below.  Peeking down I see a dozen men - 
four carrying the lockboxes, the other eight armed guards around them.  This is 
one of John's money laundering operations - no doubt there are bonds, gold or 
jewels in the boxes, somewhere in the tens of millions from the size of the 
them, heading off for Europe to run through an intricate system and come out the 
other end as squeaky clean cash.

I'd known from the start that Fagen hadn't told me everything - he never does. 
But I'm a bit surprised.  Batman knows who he is after.  This isn't something he 
could have just tipped to - he'd have had to be looking into Fagen's businesses 
and know what kind of thing John greases the wheels to make happen.  This guy is 
actually gunning for John Fagen.  Can you say cojones?

The men moving across the space below, heading for the armored truck at the 
loading dock, were all complete professionals - cool, precise and competent.  
But that's to be expected.  At this level you don't get fired for mistakes.

I force myself not to start as I hear the ornate skylight shatter and alarms 
begin to scream.  I don't want to be too impressed, but as he falls, the cape 
billowing, a black anvil of coiled power, dropping past me - I can't help it.  I 
see something fly from his hands - a swirling bola and small dark pellets.  I 
hear a man choke and fall back, his shotgun now roped to his neck.  Smoke hisses 
as he lands with the seeming ease of a panther, moving too quickly for me to see 
it all - black hands grapple and punch, powerful kicks sending one and then 
another flying.  A gun, forced high by his forearm, goes off and two chandeliers 
explode; sparks showering the room.  He never hesitates, leaping off one to 
launch himself at another.  I've never seen such a large man move with such 
speed.  I think of a panther again - brutal, quick, bestial.

I hope I never have to go hand-to-hand with him.  I wouldn't have a chance in a 
straight fight.  But then, I've always thought if it comes down to a straight 
fight, I haven't done my job.

The smoke begins to clear and I see him standing in the middle of scattered 
bodies, half already bound up and waiting for the police - I can hear the squad 
cars' sirens screaming over the bank's alarm system.  He takes the time to blow 
open the two lockboxes and examine their contents.  No doubt he knows that Fagen 
will make this look like an attempted robbery (I'd hate to be one of the poor 
saps hired for this job - I figure they have about two weeks to live now), and 
so he is not interested in the legal implications per se.  He's looking for 
information.

An instant before the police cars pull up outside, he raises an arm to fire a 
grapple hook and is flying for the ceiling as the cops come pouring in - only 
one of them even sees him, and then only for a second.

I slip out the way I came in and head for the rooftops again, the display 
blinking in front of my eye - TRACKING...  TRACKING...  I wait, scanning the 
uneven horizon.

When I first started I had to consider the possibility that there was more than 
one guy in the suit.  I'm certain it is a single man, now that I've had a chance 
to see him a few times.  Same moves, same utter disregard for danger.  There's 
no way they could have found two men with that kind of death wish.

Still nothing on the display, which means he must have gone to the car.  I've 
had to revise my estimates of the bankroll behind this operation because of that 
damn car.  I've only managed to get a look at it twice, but it appears to be the 
only true auto-motive I've ever seen in operation, though I've encountered a few 
prototypes in the last couple of years.  It not only drives itself through the 
highly complicated environment of Gotham City without hitting anything or 
anybody, but it has the most sophisticated proximity system I've ever seen - or 
even heard of.  Two nights ago, I had been just about to try to approach it when 
a couple of young toughs thought they'd show off to their friends by smashing 
the windshield of the Batmobile.  They couldn't even get close to it.  It moved 
itself if they approached closer than four feet, in any direction.  And I do 
mean any.  One finally tried to leap onto the roof and found himself eating 
pavement.  Then it chased them around the block, which, frankly, was funny as 
hell.  Building that, including R&D, had to cost at least a cool hundred to two 
hundred and fifty mil - and I don't even want to think about the upkeep on it.

This is my problem.  That kind of money can afford real secrecy which I am 
unlikely to be able to penetrate.  And the irony is, I've got all kinds of 
information about what he does and who he does it to - and it is telling me 
nothing.  Who benefits.  That is always the way to find the real power behind 
any operation.  Always.  But, so far, the only ones I've seen benefit are the 
ones without power.  The poor.  The helpless.  The veritable huddled masses.

I've set up an encrypted link to the police network, hospitals and newspapers to 
cross-reference every criminal he's ever been credited with bringing in, plus 
every hit I see him make, against FBI, DEA, ATF, NSA, even CIA, and every other 
state and federal database - as well as Fagen's connections and his extensive 
records of his rivals' businesses in Gotham.  I've tracked down who he busts up 
and who they work for dozens of times.  But there's no link to any of Fagen's 
enemies.  Only so many people have the resources to support this, and all seem 
to hate and fear him as much as Fagen  does which is understandable - he goes 
after them all.  They, like Fagen, are certain he must be a pawn of someone like 
them; that he has to be under someone's control somewhere.

And of course, he must be.  There has to be a connection I'm missing.  There has 
to be - because the alternative is impossible.  He can't...he just cannot be 
what he seems.  No one could do this alone.  Even if they could - why?  Why 
declare war against Gotham?

No, not against Gotham - for Gotham.

How crazy do you have to be to think you can frighten the demons out of Hell?


Chapter Nine

He has to know by  now.  He has to be feeling the heat.  I hope he's sweating.

I don't kid myself though - he's not.  None of the hits I've made have come 
close to threatening him in any real way.  Even night before last.  I knew going 
in there would be no way to prove the source of those diamonds - so the bank 
still has them, and Fagen will just move them out from another place at another 
time.  I'm just an inconvenience to him right now.

And that is not enough.

It is only just evening and I work at the computer, waiting for night.  I know 
what I need - and I know how unlikely it is that I will get it.  But I keep 
searching.  It doesn't matter how long it takes.  With time, I will come to know 
him.  Sooner or later I will find a way to get close to him.

I look up as an alarm begins to beep from the security systems.  Frowning, I 
look to the display of the grounds that instantly appears on one of the side 
screens.  Someone is moving along the outer wall not far from the gate.  I punch 
up the camera - there is a dark car pulled to the side of the road, just before 
the turn into the drive.  It is just dusk and the exterior lights have not yet 
come on, but the gathering darkness makes me unable to see more than a shadowed 
figure.

By the time I reach the wall, I can hear him on the other side, heading back 
towards the gate.  Silently I follow, coming though the wrought iron door set in 
the wall, emerging behind...her.

"Who are you?"

She jumps and spins to face me.  I keep my expression unchanged.

Marlowe DeSeve.

"God!  You scared me!  I'm sorry - I didn't mean to trespass.  I'm ... 
sightseeing..." she sounds unsure of the last word.  Then she blinks, "Oh!  
We...didn't we meet?  A couple of weeks ago - the fundraiser at the Mayor's...?"  
She seems embarrassed.

"I believe we did.  Marlowe, wasn't it?"

She takes my proffered hand, blushing, "Marlowe DeSeve.  And you must be..."

"Bruce Wayne."

Pulling her hand back to rake her fingers through her thick hair, she grins a 
little sheepishly at me, "I guess this will teach me to find out who someone is 
before I blow them off."

I smile easily and shrug.  My thoughts are keen as razors.  Keep her talking.

"I found it rather refreshing actually," I say, moving a little closer to her.  
"It was...interesting to be dealt with just as a man, instead of as 'Bruce 
Wayne'."

She doesn't say anything to that - only looks at me.  And though I cannot read 
her expression, her eyes are sharp, cutting through the twilight shadows 
gathering around me.

"What did you mean." I ask, "when you said you were sight seeing?"

Breaking her intense gaze, she glances over my shoulder and nods at the house 
behind me, "Wayne Manor.  I haven't seen it since I was a kid."  She stops, her 
eyes turning inward suddenly, and she seems to forget I am here for a moment.  
Then she closes her eyes for a second, sighing.  Smiling wryly, she says, "If 
you want to know the truth, I really don't have any idea what I'm doing here."

Something...there's something beneath the surface...

I smile and take another step closer, "Well, there's nothing that says you have 
to have a reason for everything you do, is there?"

She glances up at me from under the wave of hair which has fallen back over her 
cheek.  A little grin is tugging at the corner of her lips.  "No, I guess there 
isn't."

Hooked.  Now reel her in - carefully.

"If you wanted to see my house, all you had to do was ask.  I'd be pleased to 
have you as my guest any time."

She laughs, ducking her head coyly.  Her grin is wicked as she says, "I'd think 
you would be afraid I was some crazed stalker after this.  Maybe it's not too 
smart to invite me in."

"Well, I don't think I'd mind being stalked by you."

"Then you are a brave man," she says, giving me an arch look.

I smile my most charming smile, "We should do this properly.  Would you join me 
for dinner tomorrow night?"

Her eyes flicker over my shoulder, looking at the Manor and I catch a glimpse of 
fleeting emotions passing over her face before she looks down.

"I ... shouldn't.  My work is... I'm very busy right now."

Fear.  I sense fear in her answer.  Gently now.

I chuckle easily, "So, make it work.  What do you do?  If you sell something - 
I'll buy some.  My business interests are far-ranging.  I'm sure we could find a 
connection that would satisfy your employers."

"I doubt it," she says softly.  And there it is again - fear.  I can smell it on 
her.

Reaching out, I touch her arm.  She starts and looks up at me.  

"It's," she takes a deep breath, her eyes steady, "really not...a good idea."

"I've always believed a good idea is what you make of it," I say, smiling 
softly.  "How bad can it be?  And everyone deserves a few hours off now and 
then."  I take her hand in mine, "You know you want to."

Her eyes narrow as her face takes on a knowing expression, "Oh, you're just so 
sure you can get whatever you want, aren't you, Bruce?"

I grin and give a small shrug.  Her eyes flicker once more to the Manor behind 
me, and she makes her decision.

"What time?"

"Eight o'clock?"

She nods.  "All right.  I'll be here."

Without another word, she goes to her car and drives off.  I stay and watch with 
a look of seemingly normal male interest in a lovely young woman.

This woman I was very interested in.  It was not likely a man such as John Fagen 
would be tripped up by one of his women talking, I remind myself.  Unless she 
was afraid...

This could be the bit of luck I've been needing.  I may have finally found 
something I can 
use.


Chapter Ten

"What's the problem, Nocturne?  I didn't expect this to take so long."

Not many people would be aware of what he's feeling, but I have begun to realize 
this situation is more serious to him than it seemed at first.  I know he may 
really be in danger, and I can tell he's beginning to consider the possibility 
too.  How I know what he's thinking, I'm not sure.  It's nothing in his voice, 
or the way he moves - he's far too practiced at controlling himself.  But I can 
still feel it with that simple sense that has always kept me alive.

I run it down for him.  "Problem one - they've got enough money to protect 
themselves well.  Problem two - as odd as it is, this whole Batman thing is 
brilliant.  He's completely unconnected so there's nothing to trace between him 
and anyone else.  Problem three - as far as I can tell the police are not being 
paid off.  They don't all like him, but... it seems to have something to do with 
his alliance with that Captain Gordon.  They're mostly willing to leave him 
alone because of it - the good cops, of course.  The ones on the take would love 
to kill him.  And problem four - he inspires real loyalty.  I've talked to a 
dozen people on the streets - shopkeepers and bar owners, hookers and newsstand 
workers - the people no one pays attention to, but they see everything that 
happens on the street.  He meets with them to get information.  They not only 
don't know who he is, they don't want to know.  They don't want him to be a man 
- they believe in the Dark Knight."

"What?"

"Some tabloid started calling him that, but lots of people on the street have 
picked it up."

Fagen shakes his head in disgust.  "That's what you've come up with for his 
support system?  Where's the money coming from?"

"Like I said.  Nothing to trace.  Yet."

He looks at me questioningly.

"I've reprogrammed my tracking system to recognize the car - up till now I've 
not been 
able to track it.  It's still spotty - difficult to follow with all the activity 
at street level.  But I've been able to confirm that his base is not within the 
city itself, and I think I've found a way to at least get a sensor on the car, 
one small enough to get through its security system.  That might get me the home 
base, wherever it is, or enough to find something on who built the car - and 
then I can find who paid for it."

"You can't get a tracker on a car? Or him?  You haven't found a base of 
operations?  I thought you were supposed to be one of the best black operatives 
we have."

"There's nobody I can't get to, given the time."  Now, he's pissing me off.  
"From what you gave me I expected to find some pattern to lead me to the power 
behind him - but there isn't one.  So, it's going to take a little longer.  
Don't push, John.  If I step out of the shadows and this guy gets a bead on me - 
and he just might, he's very, very good - then it's all up and you'll have to 
start over.  The kind of money he's working with..."

"Can't be hidden!" He almost shouts, but controls himself at the last moment.

"Yes, it can," I say calmly, "- if the money is not the important thing.  Look, 
I think you need to consider the possibility that we are dealing with something 
out of the ordinary here.  People not working from normal motivations."

"What are you talking about?"

"There is a kind of power play at work here - but it's not the one you think."

"Then what is it?" He is perfectly cool again.

"We may be dealing with some kind of, I don't know...fanatics.  I can just feel 
it - everything about him.  There is some very personal reason behind all this.  
Some belief.  And it's not about making money or gaining political power."

"No one spends this kind of money on a operation if not to gain an advantage," 
he insists.  "So, what are they gaining from it?"

"Well, what I think he's after is ... justice."

Fagen frowns.  "Justice? Are you starting to believe the tabloids too?"

I spread my hands, "Just telling you what I've found."

He shakes his head angrily, "No.  That can't be it!  Taking Callas out, coming 
after me - it leaves too much of an opportunity for someone else to take over 
whole sections of business in the city.  And no one with the kind of money he 
has behind him would have a reason to do all this for...justice."  He sounds 
scornful.

Good point.

I consider him for a moment, then say reasonably, "I think you should just let 
me take him out.  It would give me his identity, plus whatever he has on him - 
which might be enough to lead to the money.  Regardless, the powers that be 
would be hard pressed to replace him.  This is no ordinary man.  Trust me."

"I trust you," he growls.  "What makes you think you can kill him?  Bastard 
seems immortal.  There are three multi-million dollar contracts on him and he's 
still alive.  I also know of at least one bounty hunter - Richard Mosana no less 
- who quit the business after an encounter with him."

"Mosana?"  I raise an eyebrow, but then I scoff.  "I'm no bounty hunter.  Has 
there ever been anybody I couldn't kill?  I've been tailing him for two weeks.  
There were three times last night alone when I could have taken him down with a 
single shot."

He looks at me with that stare of...ownership.  I realize how much I hate this 
man.  Come on, you bloodthirsty bastard.  Tell me I can just kill him and get 
the hell out of here.

"It might lead to the money.  And it might not.  I need information, Nocturne.  
I'm losing influence over this - can't control my own city.  And he interferes 
nightly with half my interests in Gotham..."

I can't help smiling though I know it will anger him, "I know.  I've been 
watching him do it."

"I want it stopped.  But I have to know who is responsible.  It might not even 
be necessary to destroy them - in fact it would be a waste.  Information.  I 
need to know."

"That takes time, John."

"Time is a funny thing," he says, eyes so cold I truly wonder for a moment if he 
has a soul, "it has a way of running out on you.  Am I making myself clear?"

Yeah, I get it already - it's me or Gotham.  Guess who wins that toss up?  "Of 
course.  I will find what you need."



Chapter Eleven

I had Alfred prepare the whole nine yards and then some.  But I know impressing 
her with my willingness to spend money for the company of a woman will not be 
enough.  I have to find a way to gain her trust.

So, I study her as we go through the pleasantries when she arrives.  Her dress 
is a red so dark it is almost black, and it serves to enhance the effect of dark 
fire in her hair and eyes.  She seems amused by Alfred, saying in a difficult to 
interpret tone, "A butler - how very Old World.  Classy, though."  And then she 
introduces herself to him, politely asking his name and shaking his hand.  After 
this she steps from the foyer into the main hall, turning in a slow circle to 
take it all in.

Alfred gives me a subtle glance with a raised eyebrow, and withdraws to finish 
dinner.

"We have a little time before we eat.  Would you like to see some of the Manor?"  
I ask as I approach her.

She looks over her shoulder, giving me that sly half-smile from under the wave 
of her hair, "Better just give me the nickel tour.  It's all I can afford."

I take her around a few rooms on the first floor, leading her into the parlor.

"Have you been in Gotham long?"

"I just moved a couple of months ago, but it's already been too long."  She 
makes a face, "I hate this city."

"Then what are you doing here?"

Moving to examine the painting over the fireplace, she replies, "Oh, I grew up 
here - and Gotham has a way of haunting you.  It was probably inevitable that 
I'd end up back here.  This is Boklin's Isle of the Dead, isn't it?"

"Yes," well, she knows her Symbolist painters.

"I could have sworn I saw it at the Kuntsmuseum Basel just a few years ago."

"There are five versions of it - three in museums, two in private collections.  
What were you doing in Bavaria?"

Whatever it was, she's remembering it with an odd cynical smile on her face.  "I 
was ... entertaining a very wealthy nobleman for my employer," she says finally.  
She is still staring at the painting.  "It's lovely - if a little sad," her 
voice becomes low,  "It is a far, far better resting place I go to than I have 
ever known..." She quotes, then shakes herself and recovers her enigmatic smile, 
"Sorry.  I don't mean to wax poetic. It must be the surroundings."  As she 
passes her hand over her face I catch a glimpse of a struggle, a kind of 
tension, and I remember her fear from last night.

She hides it well though, smiling prettily at me, "So, tell me about 'stately 
Wayne Manor'."

"What would you like to know?"  I ask while I usher her into the ballroom.

"Come on," she looks up to admire the crystal chandeliers, "this place has been 
here forever - since Gotham was a little coastal village.  Surely there are 
stories.  Got any ghosts?"

She says it playfully, but the question echoes in my mind.

"I don't know about ghosts," I say easily.

"Hey, are you related to Mad Anthony Wayne?"

"Yes, actually."  I am suddenly aware that she has skillfully turned the 
conversation away from herself.  "He was my great-granduncle, several times 
removed."

"So, does insanity run in the family?" she asks with a wicked grin.

"They say it skips a generation."

She laughs.

"Dinner should be almost ready."  I offer her my arm and she takes it.  As we 
climb the stairs, I tell her, "It's such a nice night, I had Alfred set us a 
table on the balcony."

We enter the second floor sitting room, where the tall French doors stand open 
to display a candlelit table.  I pour two glasses of wine and we move to stand 
at the railing.

"So, what do you do for a living, Marlowe?"

She smiles, "Oh, this and that.  Fundraising mostly."

"That must be interesting."  I lean over to rest my forearms on the ledge.

"Not at all," she says lightly.  Then she tilts her head slightly as she looks 
at me.  She reaches over and slips a finger under the edge of my shirt where the 
top buttons are undone and it has fallen open a little.  "That's some scar."

Sharp eyes.  I glance down to where she's peering under the material,  "Skiing 
accident about a year ago.  I hit a tree doing about twenty-five miles an hour.  
The stump of an old limb punctured my shoulder.  Broke the collarbone and one of 
my legs."

She winces, "Ouch."  As she slowly draws her hand back, her fingernails just 
brush the skin of my chest.

I smile, posturing a bit to make her think I'm trying to impress her, but her 
next words send a spark up my spine.

"It looks a little like the scar a bullet leaves," she says.

"Does it?"  I lift the edge of my shirt and pretend to examine it.  Then I frown 
and turn to her, "How do you know what that looks like?"

A slow smile curves her lips as her right leg appears through the slit in her 
skirt.  Reaching down she pulls the material aside, turning a bit.  Just above 
the top of her black stocking is a spidery scar on the side of her leg where she 
had been shot through the thigh muscle.  It's at least fifteen years old, 
meaning it had to have happened when she was perhaps twelve or thirteen.

I meet her eyes, which still look amused. "Oh, I've lived quite a life," she 
says, sliding her leg back and smoothing the material demurely.

"I guess you have."

Alfred arrives just then, with dinner.  I hold her chair for her and seat myself 
as he goes about the presentation.  I watch her.  That's the advantage of 
playing a womanizer - I can observe her unhindered and it will be read as sexual 
interest.  She handles it with perfect composure.  She is tremendously skilled 
at being provocative - and that is what she is.  Mysterious and alluring - with 
no hint of obviousness about her.  I've only met a few professional girls who 
work at the level of wealth that she must, and they have all had exactly this 
air.  Calling them call girls or prostitutes never seems quite accurate.  They 
are courtesans - and their profession is as much about entertaining a man with 
charm and conversation as with sex.

I would be completely sure that is what she is, but for one thing.  Courtesans 
are always well heeled enough to afford the best.  They don't stay in storefront 
lofts in bad neighborhoods.  But then, that may have to do with the fear I still 
sense buried deep beneath her practiced façade.  Perhaps she is hiding from 
someone.

She plays my eyes with hers like she is playing a harp - a pluck, then a 
trilling stroke.  She raises her glass to take a sip, licking the dark wine from 
her lips.

As we eat, I try again.  "What kind of fundraising do you do?"

"Political, mostly."

"Have you done any work for anyone I might know?"

"My firm has worked on the campaigns of Representatives Sharon Kelley and Drew 
Mostanowicz."

"Didn't I see you with Senator Fagen at the fundraiser?"  I see nothing but the 
most off-hand reaction to Fagen's name.

Precisely nonchalant, she says,  "You might have.  I know John well.  My firm 
was practically founded on his campaigns."

I watch her carefully, "He has always struck me as smart and capable - a good 
man."

She raises an eyebrow at me, "Good?  Now there's a word I don't often hear 
applied to him."

"Really?  Why not?"

She gives me a grin, "I work for politicians, Bruce.  None of them are good 
people."

"So, what in Gotham has you so busy?"

I catch a flash of emotion passing over her face before she drops her eyes, 
"John asked me to work on ... a couple of long-term projects for some friends of 
his."  Sighing she lightly touches my hand where it rests on the table,  "I'm 
sorry, but I'd really rather not talk about work if you don't mind."

"Why not? Don't you like what you do?"

"Like it?  I...don't know.  I'm good at it.  I've never really done anything 
else," her voice has gone soft, and I see the struggle again.  It is plain to me 
she is talking about her real work, not her cover story when she says,  "It's 
just..." she shakes her head, "It's complicated...what I do."

"Complicated how?"  I keep my tone casual, though I know I am close to 
something.  She is - troubled.

She sighs suddenly, narrowing her eyes at me, and giving me a dangerous little 
smile, "What part of 'I don't want to talk about work' don't you understand, 
Bruce?"

Back off, or you'll lose her, "Well, what are we supposed to talk about?"

"We can talk about what you do," she suggests.

I laugh, "Me?  I don't do anything."

"Except court famous, beautiful, wealthy women."

I lean in, still laughing lightly, "You shouldn't believe everything you hear."

"You mean you're not a shallow womanizer who lives to collect notches on his 
bedpost?" she asks, in an innocent tone.

With exaggerated offense, I respond, "Absolutely not.  I am a deeply sensitive 
man looking for a soul-mate with whom to share my life."

She laughs, shaking her head.  "Doesn't matter, either way.  I told you last 
night, I'm far too busy these days for even a brief fling."  Then she runs her 
eyes over me in a searing glance, "And don't think it doesn't pain me to say it.  
You are definitely my type."  Closing her eyes for the briefest second, she 
opens them to look at me, smiling kindly, "Besides, you seem like a fairly 
decent person.  And I've come to realize recently, that I really - am not.  
Forgive me for sounding like a film noir femme fatale, but - you wouldn't want 
to get involved with a woman like me."

"Why don't you give me a chance to make that decision?"

"Okay," she laughs softly, looking at her watch.  "I've got about another hour."

"Do you have another date tonight?"

Her laugh stops suddenly.  She runs a hand over her face and through her hair, 
tilting her head back and searching the sky for a moment with her eyes.  "I 
don't think you can call it that," and her voice holds a hint of pain.

Gently, I ask, "Do you want to tell me about it?"

She turns an indulgent smile on me, "No."

"You really don't make it very easy to get to know you."

She looks down to where her hand slowly turns her wine glass on the table.  
Glancing up, there is that wicked grin, "Be glad."

I raise an eyebrow at her.  For all her mysterious evasions, she seems strangely 
honest in her reactions, and I can tell that I have managed to make some 
connection with her - unfortunately, I don't know what it is.

"If I only have you for another hour - why don't you tell me the story of your 
life?  I'm going to find out something about you before you leave."

She raises her glass to take a drink, grimacing slightly, "I don't know, Bruce.  
We just ate.  How strong is your stomach?"

"I think I can take it."

"Well...I'll tell you part of it anyway.  It's relevant to why I came here 
tonight.  One thing though," and here she looks at me very seriously, "no pity.  
I don't do pity."

I look questioningly at her, but agree, "Okay."

"It works both ways.  You'll see."  She smiles, but is watching my reaction 
carefully as she begins, "I never knew my father, and my mother was an alcoholic 
whore who just didn't come home one night when I was a kid.  The apartment 
landlord ran me off as soon as he figured out she was gone and I lived on the 
street for about a year."

I keep my voice carefully neutral, "How old were you?"

She shrugs, "About six."

I nod.

"I caught a bit of luck then and got taken in by..." she stops, smiling softly 
in remembrance, "by a fabulous old broad named Annie Karanolstikov - but we just 
called her Annie K."  Grinning at me, she says, "Annie was a madam.  She ran a 
house down on the East End.  She let me earn a room."  Then she laughs, "Oh, get 
that look off your face, Bruce.  I didn't turn tricks when I was six years old.  
I did chores, cleaned up, did the laundry.  You have to wash the sheets a lot."  
She throws extra emphasis on the last word, and laughs at me again.  Leaning 
over, she runs a hand up my arm, giving my shoulder a playful squeeze, "I love 
bluebloods.  So prim and proper."  Still laughing softly, she sits back, taking 
another drink.

"You really have lived quite a life," I say.  "How long did you stay there?"

"Several years, actually."  She sets her glass down,  "Annie was eventually 
killed by some gangs taking over the prostitution in the neighborhood.  That was 
the night I got this..." she touches her leg absently. 

She says it all as easily as I've had other women tell me about their ponies and 
birthday parties growing up.  She says it in exactly the same way as they did - 
as if she expected me to understand completely.

"You wouldn't believe the characters that lived at Annie's place.  I haven't 
thought about them in so long...Annie, Kim, Marguerite, Cassie," she laughs.  
"God, Cassie was amazing!  She was this two hundred pound Guatemalan who chain-
smoked from waking to bed.  She smoked while she ate, in the bathtub, while she 
tricked even - and she ate like you would not believe.  She was only, maybe, 
five foot three, so she was almost as wide as she was tall.  Had a real mother 
complex too.  I don't remember how she ended up in Gotham, but she hooked so she 
could send money to her mom, who had her three kids back in Guatemala.  She sort 
of acted out on me, since she missed them so much.  She and Annie, they really 
took care of me..."

She rises suddenly and goes to stand at the balcony's railing, for a moment, 
looking out over the grounds.  When she turns back, there is something different 
about her, about the set to her body and a strange twist to her mouth.

"You have to pardon me, Bruce.  I'm," she stops and rubs her fingertips lightly 
between her closed eyes.  She looks up, but not at me, "I'm having trouble these 
days."

Don't push.  Let her tell what she wants to tell.

"I've become - I don't know...disconnected." Her voice is quiet, remote.  "It's 
like I ... don't know who I am all of a sudden.  And I keep coming across these 
memories...  I thought the bad ones were hard to take, but the good ones are 
unbearable."

I move to stand beside her, not too close.  She turns to face me.

"This is all so bizarre," she says, just above a whisper, "being here."

"In Gotham?"  I ask.

She shakes her head, laughing softly, but it has a sad sound to it, "No, being 
here," she turns her head to look around the balcony and the room beyond the 
open doors, up the towering walls of the Manor.  She raises her eyes to mine, 
and she is smiling and frowning at the same time.  Now her small laugh has an 
almost desperate sound to it.  "How did I end up here, telling my secrets - to 
you?"  Reaching up, she slides her fingertips lightly down the lapel of my 
jacket, and her eyes follow her hand.  "The poor little rich boy," she says 
softly.

When she looks up I see a flicker of something... quickly masked.  As her eyes 
become inscrutable again, she says to me, "What I was doing here last night was 
reliving a moment from my childhood.  Many moments, really.  I used to come here 
a lot when I was kid - just to sit on the wall and look at the house.  There was 
a tree not far from the front east corner..."

"Yes, it had to be cut down a few years ago.  It had died."

She laughs a little, "It was kind of on its last legs back then."  She turns to 
look at the spot she is describing.  "Wayne Manor," she whispers, slowly 
brushing back a stray strand of hair the breeze has blown across her face.

Then she looks at me, "The first time I came here was the night after your 
parents were murdered."

My face does not change.  I do not move.  I do not even blink.

"I'd gone down to the corner that morning to get the paper and doughnuts for 
Cassie like I always did.  I didn't pay any attention to the headline - but the 
whole place just went nuts when I got back and everyone saw it - 'Thomas and 
Martha Wayne Killed' - and the story about it happening in front of you."

*No one* speaks to me of it so - openly.  And no one has ever spoken to me of it 
so completely without... pity.

"The whole city was strange that day.  People seemed to whisper a lot so noises 
were louder.  Everyone sort of huddled together in groups out on the street, 
like they were... seeking protection.  I was very bewildered by it all.  It was 
like some fundamental law had been broken.  If it could happen to the richest 
family in Gotham...  It just didn't make sense - I kept hearing adults saying 
that over and over.  And it frightened me because I had always believed that 
money was supposed to keep you safe.  I simply couldn't stand that not to be 
true.  All I'd ever wanted was to find a way - "  She stops abruptly, then seems 
to force herself to go on in her previous casual tone.  

"I got this idea that if I could just see you, I'd be able to figure it all out.  
You had lived, and I guess I thought you knew the secret."  She shrugs. "Kid's 
logic."

"The article in the paper mentioned Wayne Manor and where it was - so I set out 
to come here.  It took me all day, because I had to walk the last part.  By the 
time I got here, it was pitch-black night.  Everything was so strange.  I'd 
never been out of the inner city in my life, and it was so dark, and so quiet - 
no people anywhere.  I finally got here, and climbed the tree and saw this 
house..." her voice has become hushed, almost reverent.  "It looked like every 
light in the house was on, and the whole place was just shining - like a castle 
in a fairy tale.  Except it was real.  And I suddenly understood that you were 
real too.  All those lights - I knew if I were you I wouldn't want to be alone 
in the dark.  And it came to me suddenly that even though you lived in a castle 
and had everything I didn't - even though your life was the complete opposite of 
mine," her gaze had been growing in intensity as she spoke, until it seems to be 
spearing me.  Her next words are like a knife.  "You were just like me."

"I had come to learn a lesson, but it turned out to be one far different than I 
expected.  If money wasn't safety, then..." her voice breaks and she stops, but 
does not look away for once.  And I see it again, flashing behind her eyes, 
identifying it at last.  She looks...hunted.

She clears her eyes with a small shake of her head, and she goes on in that 
same, soft remembering tone, "I used to come here when I needed to get away from 
the city.  It was a kind of haven for me."  She smiles just a little, dropping 
her eyes, "I saw you once, close to Christmas that same year.  I always 
thought...you saw me too.  I probably imagined it."

Silence falls.  I cannot speak.

She looks up quickly and her eyes search my face.  Her dark eyes...they seem to 
see right through me.

I know her.

Barely above a whisper, she says, "You still hold it so close?"  Her hand 
reaches up.

I cannot move.

"*That's* what it is about you..." Her fingertips touch my cheek.

My hand is wrapped around her wrist before even I know I have moved.  I hear her 
gasp softly and her other hand flies up to try to push me away.  Then she 
freezes and I am frozen too - our gazes locked in an instant that seems to last 
an eternity.

I *know* her.

I see her eyes change, feel her fingernails score my skin as her hand clenches 
on my shirt.  I hear a freight train and know it is my blood pounding in my 
ears.

My arms close around her as she pulls herself to me, and our lips meet.  I am 
aware of nothing but softness and heat, her body against mine.  I lift her 
almost off her feet.  She is shaking in my embrace.

Suddenly, she rips herself away from me, holding me back.  For an instant her 
eyes are unmasked - and she is terrified.

What have I done?

Too many thoughts spill through my mind at once - Fagen.  Gotham.  Who I am.  
Who am I?  Marlowe.

She backs away from me, eyes wide, shaking her head.

"Marlowe..." I reach towards her.

"No!" she flinches away.  I see the marks my fingers have left on her wrist, 
bruises beginning to form.

What have I done?

She turns, almost running, weaving around furniture, brushing past Alfred as he 
enters, nearly knocking the tray he carries from his hands.

And she is gone.

Alfred straightens the dessert dishes on the tray.  I stand as she left me.

"Once again," Alfred says mildly, "my hopes for a future Mrs. Wayne are dashed."

I turn my head to look at him - and he almost takes a step back.

Before I can think of what it means that I can frighten even Alfred, I go to the 
cave.

* * * * *


A little girl alone in the dark.  Sitting on the stone wall that surrounds the 
Manor, looking at it like it is some forbidden paradise.

I stand in the pitch darkness of the cave and though my eyes are blinded I can 
see her before me as clearly as I saw her that winter's night.

I had waited, as I always did, for Alfred to turn out the lights and retire to 
his room in the far wing of the Manor, before getting up to switch them back on.  
Going to the windows that looked out to the road, I stood watching the full moon 
rise over the snow-covered ground.

At first I thought I was imagining it, for what person could be out on such a 
brutal night as this?  But then she had moved and I saw her clearly in the cold 
moonlight - a child, no older than myself, shivering as she curled up, hugging 
her knees to her chest.  

What was she doing here?  There were no houses for miles, no other children 
anywhere nearby.  Didn't she have a family, someone, to wonder where she was?

But I knew as I looked at her that she did not.

That she was like me.

A sudden piercing pain shoots through me as I remember that realization - that 
there were others like me, others who'd had their lives shattered, others who 
suffered this crushing loneliness.  Others ... who had even less to fight with 
than I did.

That night I reached out to her, that tiny figure in the dark, pressing my hand 
to the cold glass.  When she'd raised her hand in response and I knew she could 
see me too, there had come a moment when I had almost felt we were touching 
across that wide, cold distance.  For one moment not alone.

Just one moment of grace.	


Chapter Twelve


My security has been breached.  Someone has put a sensor on the car.  It is a 
clever device, small enough that it did not trigger the proximity system, and 
sophisticated enough that its signal almost passed for electrical interference.  
I discovered it, but it may well have been on the car all night.  It is no 
simple homing device, though I am sure that is one of its functions.  I have not 
deactivated it yet, though I am keeping it from reading anything significant.  
Whoever put it here is no doubt watching me right now, where I've pulled into an 
alley to try to pinpoint the destination of its signal.

Up - that is all I can tell, then it disperses and I lose it.

Slamming the car into reverse, I pull out of the alley and speed off, keeping 
one eye on how the signal changes - but it moves with me, always up, then - 
smeared.

I push two buttons, sending an electrical charge along the frame of the car, and 
the signal shorts out.  My jaw clenches, as do my hands on the steering wheel.  
I knew he'd come after me - I just didn't think he'd get so close so quickly.  I 
almost missed it.  I had been about to head home...

I continue to drive, pushing the car with the turning and weaving to throw off 
any tail.  I toss in a 180 on the bridge and satisfy myself that no one is 
following.  Heading back into the city, I leave the car and go - up.

What I find leaves me cold, cold and focused and perfectly clear. I should have 
realized... The sophistication of the sensors are that of state-of-the-art 
intelligence technology.  Tiny microcomputers embedded in thin adhesive strips 
deployed to create a net across the city.

How long has someone been watching me?

And I know with that same arctic certainty that Fagen could have had me killed 
any time he wanted.  An assassin could have me in his sights this very moment.

Quickly, but precisely, I remove one of the sensors and wire it into the palm 
computer, set one system to record the sensor's signal, while on another I bring 
up a worm program and search for a way to insert it into the system.  Not quite 
a virus, this program would lock up the system without destroying it, then 
search for the master computer which I will be able to access through this 
sensor.

Until the worm does its work I am vulnerable on the rooftops, so I move 
immediately.  As I touch down on the street, the computer signals me and I open 
it...to find a melted lump where the sensor had been.

Gritting my teeth, I call up the recorded signal and see if I have enough to do 
a search.  There is, and I find no evidence of it in the surrounding airwaves.  
Since the sensor did not self-destruct immediately when I wired into it - it may 
have been a result of penetration by the worm into its programming.  In which 
case, it may have taken out the whole net.

I travel a mile before returning to the rooftops to search for the signal again 
- nothing.  I search every inch of this roof, and the next, and the next before 
I find the sizzled, melted lump on an antenna.

It looks like I've bought myself some time; though I now have no connection to 
whoever has been tracking me.  I have not thought enough about how Fagen would 
come at me, what he would use against me...He has at his disposal the FBI, the 
NSA, even the CIA - perhaps another agent on a 'leave of absence'.

Wilson Paul's computer disk had included a location for the downtown FBI field 
base.  I radio the car.  At this time of night I expect, and find, only a couple 
of security personnel on duty.  Compared to the sophistication of the sensor 
net, it is easy to get in - only basic magnetic contact locks, infrared motion 
sensors and cameras.

I go in through the basement, which is dark and cluttered enough to give me a 
chance to hook into the camera system and record empty rooms.  I store the 
recordings so I can call them up as needed to cover my movements.

Looking around, I realize I'm in something a strategic operations center right 
here - one devoted to their investigation of me.  They even have a photograph, 
though not much of one - I'm mostly a blur in it.  There's an unusual custom-
built computer center and I set to work on it.  This is more like what I was 
expecting - tough, idiosyncratic security, at a level similar to the sensor net, 
but of a completely different character.  Whoever has been on my tail is not 
Bureau, I'm almost certain.

It is well past dawn.  I'm running out of time - can't get through.  Voices.  As 
quickly as possible I back out of the computer's systems, wiping away the traces 
of my presence as I go.  They're at the door.  I shut the computer down and melt 
into the shadows as the door opens.

"...know how we're supposed to feel good about this.  You shouldn't serve a man, 
especially another cop, before breakfast."  A woman's voice.

"I know, Cyn.  But there's nothing we can do unless we can find out where the 
orders came from."  A man, going straight to the computer.  I move around the 
edges of the room.  I glimpse them - a bulky man hunches over the keyboard while 
the woman stands at his shoulder, looking angry.

"We're running out of time!"

"Look, I don't want to see him go down.  I think Gordon's a good man too."

Gordon?  I feel my stomach go icy.

He continues, "But he's not making it easy for us.  He has been breaking the 
law.  He didn't even try to deny it."

She sighs heavily, "If this isn't just the most... insane...  How did we get 
here, Tony?  He *is* breaking the law - "

"Yeah, and it was working," Tony said quietly.  "So, we're stuck.  We can't just 
not do our jobs - but we can keep looking... into..." his voice trails off.  I 
hear him punch several keys, each one fiercer and faster.  "Who the hell," he 
sounds enraged suddenly, "has been on my machine?"  He picks up the phone, 
dialing furiously.  "Carter!  What the fuck is going on?  Who's been on my 
computer?"  A pause.  "Bullshit!  Someone's been into my security system - did 
you authorize this?"  Pause.  "I'm looking at the keystrokes file..."

Didn't have time to erase it.

The man is slowly lowering the phone, not hanging it up, just laying it on the 
desk.  I can hear the tinny sounds of someone still speaking on the other end.  
I move to where I can see them better.  He has his hand on the gun in his 
shoulder holster and is slowly standing, looking around.  The woman is staring 
at him, ready, but not sure what he's worried about.

Then I hear him hiss, "He's been here."

Her eyes widen.  He gestures, and they begin to move very quietly.

I have about ten seconds.  They haven't actually drawn their weapons, but that's 
about the only thing I have going for me.  They are too far apart for me to take 
them both at once but the close quarters may keep them from firing.  I ready a 
batarang and approach the man.  As I launch myself at his back, I loose the 
'rang at the woman's head.

He's quick, rolling as we go down and though I get in a good blow to his head, 
he's already pushing up, throwing us onto our backs.  The impact is intense, and 
the half-Nelson I have on him slips.  He pounds my head with his fists as I wrap 
my other arm around his throat in a chokehold.  I wonder about the woman, but 
cannot hear any movement.  He's weakening and I manage to roll us back over.  
Two more seconds and he's out.  I leap up...but the woman is down.  Lucky shot - 
I hit her just right.

I'm out just as I hear feet pounding the stairs to the basement.  I catch the 
car a block over.  Broad daylight mocks me, reminding me of each and every 
mistake I've