* * * * *
Criminals didn't have the luxury of indecision either. "Harley!" Ivy snapped. "Take him to the car. Put him in the trunk. I'll join you in a moment."
"You're the boss!" If Harley had any doubts about this course of action, she didn't express them. Humming snatches of 'Turkey in the Straw', she grabbed Robin by the shoulders and dragged him to the fire escape.
Ivy planted the ironvine seed she'd been holding in a crevice by the side of the building. She'd planned to use it to incapacitate her masked opponent, but this would do. In a moment, it sprang up, growing in seconds to thirty feet in length. Gripping it, Ivy lithely rappelled down the side of the building, crossed the alley, and entered the street. Where was that envelope? She had only moments before Arnold Wesker's thuggish antics in the jewelry store brought the cops. She had to be gone by then. When she'd heard he was planning this heist, she had thought it a perfect distraction for the cops and Batman: the Ventriloquist's caper would give Harl and her all the cover they needed so that they could be in and out with the prize, and no one the wiser. Damn that Robin, anyway. They'd known he was there, but were counting on him being preoccupied. When he'd interfered, it had thrown them off, forcing them to reveal themselves. All was not lost, though; if she could just grab that paper, they'd be set.
There it was, lying in the gutter. She frowned; it didn't seem that he could have thrown something so slight so far. The wind must have moved it. She strode forward, but even as she reached for it, the wind sprang up again. The paper flew up in an eddy, then landed at the side of a storm drain. It teetered on the edge and was gone.
She cursed with frustration, but aware of the danger she was in, she didn't belabor the point. Turning, she rushed through the alley and went around back, where Harley had managed to muscle Robin down the fire escape. Ivy was not surprised, though at first glance it might have seemed an impossible task. Looking at her, in her garish costume, people tended to underestimate her, but there was much more to Harley than met the eye. Harley slammed the trunk of their car, a mid-size compact, shut. "I know why the caged bird doesn't sing!" she exclaimed, in a childish sing-song.
"Sure, Harl. Let's go."
As they slipped into the car (Ivy driving) Harley said, "Uh, Red? Where are we going?"
"Back to the apartment."
"With him?"
"I'm afraid so."
Ivy pulled into the street on the far side of the block and drove, careful to keep below the speed limit. Harley knew the drill; as they moved, she removed her cap and mask, and used a cloth to wipe her face clean. There wasn't anything she could do about the suit, but other drivers and pedestrians, seeing the car go by, would only be able to see the faces of two women, pretty, but not otherwise remarkable. No costumed villains here, no sir.
"I don't get it, Red. If we were gonna kill him, why not do it back there?"
"A few reasons," Ivy replied evenly. Both of them knew she was the brains of the outfit. Harl was a bright girl, and on her own turf—psychoanalysis—she was still sharp as a tack, but beyond this the same eccentricities that made her a criminal interfered with her reasoning, especially the long-term, abstract sort. Ivy thus had to do the thinking for both of them. They were both used to it by now. "Firstly, if we killed him, Batman would never rest until he tracked us down."
"Oh, fer sure. And I bet it wouldn't be jail for us, neither! Bats in the belfry..."
Ivy nodded. Yes, Harl still had a good sense of how people would behave, especially the less stable, a category in which Gotham's self-appointed protector certainly fell. "Secondly, if we left him there, we'd lose our only link to the job. The envelope went down the drain. Even if I could get it back, it wouldn't have anything readable in it any more."
"I still don't get it..."
"We can't get the paper back. We can't get our contact back, either; by this time, he's long gone with the money we paid him. The only way to get the code now is to get it out of Robin. We saw him read it, right? He'll tell us the code, and we're back on track."
"Gee, Red, I dunno. How we gonna get him to do that?"
Ivy smiled, thinly and sharply. "We'll find a way..."
* * * * *
Robin came to with a snap; in one moment he made the transition from dreamless unconsciousness to alert awareness.
This is bad. This is very bad.
His situation became clear to him in a rush. He was in a largish room, maybe twenty-foot square. The floor was battered hardwood, the walls cheap plaster. A floor lamp, with no shade, sat in a corner, casting harsh yellow light. There was a skylight, a big one, at a forty-five-degree angle from the floor, but fifteen feet up; it didn't seem to open. It was dark outside, but purple instead of black; dawn was coming. Still morning, then. Though the light was bad, he was fairly sure there was nothing beyond the pane, no adjacent building.
The only furnishing in the room, aside from the lamp, was a chair, which at present he was sitting in, securely tied down. Handcuffs, one for each wrist, chained his arms, and his legs were pinioned with some sort of thick cord. Another cord wound around his waist. They had trapped him well.
With a surge of panic, he realized he was out of uniform, without boots, gloves, shirt, or utility belt. Even his tights were gone, leaving him in his briefs. He still wore his mask, though. He relaxed slightly; whatever else had gone wrong tonight, he hadn't lost his secret identity. Word had gotten around, then, of what had happened to Croc when he had tried to remove Batman's mask the one time that Croc had gotten the better of the Dark Knight. The resulting electric shock hadn't killed Croc, but that arm had been out of commission for days.
Okay, inventory. What have we got? Nothing. Without the gloves and the belt, no lockpicks. I could get out of one pair of handcuffs by breaking my hand, but with two pair, I'd be left with two broken hands. Not a good idea. The cords... can't untie them, I bet, and no tools to cut them. All right. If I can't get out of here myself, I have to wait for someone to get me out. The tracer in my belt... eventually, Bruce and the others will come looking for me, and the belt will lead them right here. Wherever here is. Just gotta stay alive, stay safe, until then.
Secured as he was, he could only see one door out of the room, in front of him about fifteen feet away. It opened a crack, and someone stuck her head in. It took him a moment to recognize Harley. She looked very different out of uniform: blond hair done up in pigtails, clear skin, high cheekbones. Amazing what a domino mask and greasepaint can conceal. Harley was, in her own way, as attractive as Ivy, a girl next door to Ivy's femme fatale. She's also as crazy as wounded bear, and as dangerous, too. Stay focused.
"Ayyy-vee!" Harley trilled. "He's awayyyy-ke!" Dancing an impromptu dance, Harley entered. She had ditched her clown suit, too; she wore an old T-shirt ("Property of Gotham University Athletics") and bicycle shorts. Tim tried not to show it, but he was shocked; under that baggy harlequin outfit, Harley was seriously hot. The T-shirt, tight as it was, showed off her slim waist and her surprisingly large chest. She had to wear some sports bra under her costume, and it would have to be at least a 36D. Her legs and arms weren't bad either, slim but well muscled. I guess incarceration at Arkham gives her time to work out. She pranced over and stood before him, striking a pose of mock horror, she cried, "Oh, officer, officer, there's a man in my room!"
"Knock it off, Harl," said Ivy without rancor. Striding in, she brushed Harley aside, who moved off behind Tim, so that he couldn't see her any more. Ivy was still in her costume. In the light, better here than on the rooftop, Tim was all the more aware of how distractingly sexy she was. Though slightly slimmer-chested than Harley, she had wider hips and a narrower waist, giving her a classic hourglass figure. Her hair hung round her face and dripped to her shoulders in an auburn wave. Her almond eyes and her curl of a smile would be, under other circumstances, highly exciting.
Her most prominent feature, at the moment, was the bright green lipstick she wore. "Be strong, baby," she whispered. "This won't hurt a bit." She leaned forward, and Tim, despite his predicament, couldn't help but check out her cleavage. Ivy firmly pressed her lips against his cheek. Making a smacking sound, she pulled away and looked down in satisfaction. Tim looked back at her, saying nothing. A minute passed, then Ivy broke the silence.
"That should have done it. All right, Robin"—she mockingly emphasized the name—"tell Ivy, what was the code, hmmm? The one you read on that piece of paper."
Tim stared at her. He licked his lips, and shuddered slightly. "I... I... I can't resist. I'll tell you. It was..." He paused. Ivy leaned forward expectantly. In the background, Tim heard Harley stop whatever game she had been playing (something involving jumping up and down) to listen. "It was