A/N: Hello again. I posted this faster than I planned to, just to say that if no one reviews, I won't continue the story. No has said anything so far, and more than fifteen people read it, so if you're reading this again because you liked it, I'd suggest you say something.
Disclaimer: I don't own Batman. You want something better than that, review.
Chapter 2: The Suffering Artists
November 1
9:07 am. The sun had risen a few hours ago, but it was obscured by cloud and rain. It might as well have been night. Leah sat at her desk, doodling on a spare sheet of paper as Mrs. Coyne droned about some sort of parabolic arc or something. She sighed, adjusted her glasses, and looked at the board. The class was going through one of the questions from last night's assignment. She knew the answer already, so she went back to her pictures. She stopped for a moment to inspect what she'd done. A rough sketch of her pocketknife, which was in the jacket hanging over the side of her chair, and the samurai sword she'd been looking at the night before. It wasn't a masterpiece, but Alex would like it well enough. She turned the paper and started on a Chinese broadsword when Mrs. Coyne called on her.
"Miss Bowden?" she asked, "Would you like to share your answer? You seem to have been working on it diligently." Leah swallowed as the teacher started walking over. Quickly, she stuffed the paper beneath her notebook and looked at the page with the answer on it. It was a limit question, written out in her precise hand.
"Approximately nine point three-five-oh-two," she said quickly. The teacher bent over her desk and inspected the work.
"Wonderful. You were paying attention after all."
Leah smiled to herself as Coyne turned away. When the bell rang, she stuffed her books into her bag and grabbed her jacket, then winced at the sound of her Winchester hitting the floor. She bent to pick it up, palming it as the rest of the class streamed out around her. She stuffed it into her pocket and turned to go when she heard the smooth voice of Mrs. Coyne behind her.
"Leah, dear, could you please tell me what you just put into your pocket?" the other students were gone, and Leah knew that she could be expelled for carrying a weapon with her.
"It was nothing, ma'am," she said respectfully. Whatever else they said about her, no teacher could ever deny that Leah Bowden paid her elders due respect, "I knocked over this picture that I'd drawn for my brother. I was playing with my ring, and bumped 'em both," she prayed the excuse would work and that Coyne hadn't seen the actual knife. The three inch blade was pretty unobtrusive, but you could never tell.
"May I see it?"
"Sure," Leah had gently worked the ring off of her finger as she spoke and handed it over with the picture.
"Are these all weapons you own?"
"Oh, no. Just ones I want to…" she trailed off at the look Coyne was giving her and mentally slapped herself. Now she was convincing the suspicious teacher that she was obsessed with weapons. Which, of course, she was, but not in a bad way.
"Well, it's not bad. Are you taking any art classes right now?" Leah nearly fainted with relief.
"No. I don't really have time for much," she glanced at her watch, "Um, could I get going now? I don't want to be late for British Lit."
She nodded and handed the picture and ring back, "Leah?"
"Yeah?"
"Try not to drop your ring again."
"I won't."
2:50 pm. Gordon drove up to Wayne Manor, marveling at the reconstruction. It was just as grand as the old one had been, and slightly cleaner looking. The real amazement was that it had been rebuilt in just under a year. Not a mean feat, just ask the guys who'd done it. He wished that he was there to bring better news, but that wouldn't warrant a personal visit. He pulled up in front of the mansion and sprinted up to the doors through the rain, feeling awkward in on the elaborate steps. Alfred answered a few moments later, looking puzzled at the lieutenant's appearance. Gordon took that as a sign that he hadn't been told.
"Can I help you, Lieutenant?"
"Is Mr. Wayne home, Alfred?" he asked quietly, "I need to talk to him."
"Master Bruce woke up not long ago. He's in the shower right now, but you can wait for him inside."
"Thanks Alfred, that would be great," Gordon followed the elderly butler inside, and gratefully accepted a cup of hot tea. He and Alfred talked for a while, mostly about the generous donations that Bruce and Wayne Enterprises had made to charities over the past year, until the man himself came in. Instead of his usual perfectly tailored suit, he wore a pair of loose black pants and a t-shirt. He looked half dead. Must've had a wild night, Gordon thought, Well this'll put him off of that for a while.
"Afternoon, Bruce," Gordon inserted false cheer into his voice, but both men seemed to have noticed.
Alfred stood, "I'll go and brew some more tea, then."
Bruce nodded and sat in a chair across from Gordon, "You have bad news," he said bluntly.
Gordon was taken aback. Was he really that transparent? Bruce continued to watch him silently, so he cleared his throat, "Yes, uh," he took a breath, "Last night, we got a tip from a trusted source that led us to a body… Bruce, it was Rachel Dawes."
Bruce nodded slightly, almost as if he was expecting this. Gordon knew that there was a connection between Dawes and the billionaire, he'd seen that her mother had worked for the Waynes until they died, and had lived on the property. He figured the real reaction would come after he left.
"Do… do you have any leads?" Bruce asked. He looked like he was holding back a flood of emotions.
Gordon shook his head, "There weren't any fingerprints on the scene. And there were no traces of semen on her, so she wasn't raped."
Bruce looked at the floor, the table, the ceiling, anywhere but Gordon's eyes. When he finally met them, his own were tear-filled, "Thank you, Gordon," he said, "This is the second time you've been there for me like this. Thank you."
Gordon nodded and stood, "I should probably get going. I've got a lot of work to do down at the precinct with this Joker…" he stopped, seeing something flash in Bruce's eyes, but continued hurriedly, "this Joker character running loose. I trust you won't tell anyone about this?"
Bruce gave him a grim smile as they walked to the doors, "No. I won't. Thank you again, Gordon."
Gordon nodded, then turned and ran back to his car through the rain. By the time he was in and settled, the doors to the mansion were closed. He drove away, deep in thought. What was it that he'd seen in Bruce's eyes at the mention of the Joker? It had looked like anger, but it had been so fast that Gordon doubted that he had seen it at all.
Back at the mansion, Bruce was down in the foundation of the house's southeast wing. A huge computer console was in front of him, and he had two joker cards from two different packs on the desk. He was searching the Gotham database for any information on the owner of these cards. He would find the Joker. And when he did, he would have his revenge.
3:00 pm. Leah sat next to her brother's bed, regaling him of the day's excitement. Alex was listening attentively, studying the picture she'd drawn for him.
"Why'd you take it to school with you?" he asked, turning to her.
"You know what it's like to be out on those streets," she smiled sadly, "I'd rather be expelled than dead."
Alex nodded; face grave and suddenly older than his nineteen years, "I feel the same way. Just don't do anything stupid, right?"
"Don't worry about me. You've got yourself to worry about."
"I don't worry about you. It's the guys whose asses you're gonna kick that I'm worried about," he grinned, "You still practicing?"
"Yup. Got class tonight," she smiled back, "That punching bag is so dead."
"Better it than you," he shifted in his bed, a look of discomfort passing briefly over his face.
"How are you feeling today?"
"No worse than usual," he ran a hand through his hair, "No better, but no worse."
She reached for his arm and lifted it gently, inspecting. She pushed up the sleeve of his hospital gown, revealing his scarred skin. An accident at the factory where he worked part-time had left him with third-degree burns over his torso and legs. Most people thought he would die, but he hadn't. He'd survived, but his injuries left him with complications that forced him to remain in the hospital. That had been over a year ago.
The room was private (one of the perks of being the son of two doctors) and there was even a cork board hanging across from his bed. Leah called it the Wall, his life, and almost everyone else had picked up the name. Things that he'd drawn, cards and photographs, quotes from books, anything that had seemed relevant to him. He took his sister's hand into his own and set it back on the bed.
"Could you put your drawing on the Wall?" he asked. He hated the look in her eyes every time she saw his scars, and always distracted her when it came. She nodded and stood, taking the sketches from his hand and pinning them up with the spare thumbtacks stuck in the board. She pushed her glasses up as she sat back down, making him smile.
"Wow, Leah," he laughed, "You look like such a geek when you do that."
"You're just jealous."
"I don't have the astigmatism."
"I didn't have strips of metal cemented to my crooked teeth for five years," she grinned, "You're jealous."
"Do you want to?" he asked, eyes flashing mischievously.
"I'll stick with the astigmatism, thank you very much," she said in a mock-hurt voice. She promptly walked out of the room, and he laughed when she strode back in and picked up her bag. She gave him a gentle hug and before exiting a second time.
"Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."
"Will you visit tomorrow?"
"I'll try," she opened the door, "My teachers are all gearing up for this early graduation thing. Just think, I'll be completely free in a month."
"And then you'll visit me every day and bring me candy bars to celebrate."
"Precisely."
