At last, we kick it into third gear. I mean to say, things are really starting to happen now. Are we excited? Well, I am. Hopefully you'll share my enthusiasm after reading this one.

Oh, and wishing everyone who celebrates it a very happy Easter.

Chapter Three

"Hallie?" Fuzzy's keys jangled as he came through the door. He closed it behind him and tossed his keys in a ceramic bowl on the table he kept in the tiny nook that he called the front hallway. It was the only thing even remotely decorative about the place; he still hadn't painted anything but the bathroom (the amount of paint cost the least) or hung up any pictures. It was too much work, and it wasn't as if he had anything worthwhile to hang anyway.

"I'm in here," Hallie called back.

"Did you apply today?"

"Yeah."

He turned the short corner into the living room, where she lay on the couch with a cloth on her forehead, watching the TV. In this light, it hit him even harder how pale she was. When she'd first showed up at his door, he'd been uncomfortable to say the least; he hadn't seen her since they were children and she was now part of a large enquiry at the nuthouse. Not exactly the person he was most keen to see. But she'd seemed perfectly sane — and still did, discounting the drinking — and he couldn't turn her out when it was so obvious that she needed help. He was soon used to her presence and disturbed more by how defeated she was than where she'd been before she was here. He wouldn't have said it to her, but he wanted her to stay (if he said it, she'd take it for an invitation). It got lonely in the tiny apartment, and after these few months, he couldn't imagine waking up and not hearing her talking in her sleep in the next room over.

She did that a lot, the talking. Most times he couldn't understand what she was saying, but some nights it was crystal clear, and he'd stay awake listening to her. She talked about Crane an awful lot, and in a way that made him shiver and pull the blankets around him. She hated him, and feared him, perhaps more than she hated and feared herself. She talked about the Small Part — whatever that was — and about Ashley Carr. He'd been on the grapevine when news started spreading within the family that the crazy was finally turning her life around, starting with a good man, but Fuzzy had never met Ash personally. And never would now.

"Not feeling well?" he asked, sitting on the other end of the sofa, next to her feet.

"Splitting headache. I took about twenty ibuprofen but they didn't work."

"You're going to damage your liver. Any idea what caused it?"

"Stress."

"From?"

She pointed to the TV. The news were on, going through the basics of two more brutal murders. Fuzzy's stomach dropped as he realized who it was.

"Isn't that — "

"Yeah. Carl Bremen and Ashley Fallak."

"And they're the ones who — ?"

"Found me, yeah." Hallie closed her eyes.

Fuzzy swallowed with a click. "Are you worried?" he asked.

"Not particularly," said Hallie. "There's no way they can track me to here using Carl and Ashley; I never told them exactly where I'd go. It's just horrible... they were good people."

"Do you think it means anything?"

Hallie shrugged. "Depends on how you look at it. You missed earlier — Ashley's parents are dead too, and their place was completely ransacked. All their money stolen, jewellery, anything expensive. Carl and Ashley were found at her parent's cottage, which was supposed to be a pretty nice place, but nothing was touched. It could be totally random. The Fallaks were rich, and being rich is dangerous right now."

Fuzzy watched her closely for a few seconds, and she watched the TV. "But you don't think it's random," he said quietly.

"No."

"Why not?"

Hallie slid the cloth from her forehead over her eyes. "Because a sledgehammer was used on Mr. and Mrs. Fallak and on Carl, but not on Ashley — she was stabbed."

"Why does that matter?"

"Because Ashley Carr was stabbed to death."

"Your fiancée."

Hallie laughed dryly; it sounded painful. "Yeah. I think they're trying to send me a message. If they are, I heard it, loud and clear."

"Why would they want to send you a message?" he asked, confused. "I mean you don't have any money, and you've never done anything wrong..." He trailed off, watching her uncomfortably, realizing that wasn't exactly true.

Hallie didn't snap at him; she just laughed again. "There are plenty of people who want me dead," she said. "I went to the asylum for killing three men, and now the world knows I'm out. My lawyer got me for insanity, so society has pretty much shook its head sympathetically and forgiven me, but I imagine that's not good enough for the families. Some of them are probably looking for revenge. And then there's Crane."

"Doctor Crane?"

"Yeah."

"He doesn't have any beef with you."

"Doesn't he? It's because of me that he's having an enquiry right now. He already tried to kill me once, Fuzz; I know you don't believe that, but he did. Now he's realized he was unsuccessful, I'm sure he's going to want to finish the job."

"But Dr. Crane wouldn't do stuff like this. This is illegal; it's attention-seeking. He'd get caught."

"He's not doing it personally. He's got a lapdog."

"Hallie, do you know what you're saying?"

Hallie nodded.

"That's a pretty serious accusation."

Nod.

"You could get in trouble for saying something like that."

"Have you got something you want to tell me, Fuzz?"

"I just think you should watch yourself, okay?" His eyes flicked nervously to the television screen. "There's a lot of shit flying around right now and it seems like you're pretty close to the middle of it. And you're living with me. I don't really want to die."

"I'll protect you, Fuzz," Hallie laughed, nudging him with a socked foot.

"Look at you," he said, and she lifted the cloth from her eyes. "You can't even protect yourself."

The hallway had grown dark outside of her husband's study, so night must have fallen. Jane couldn't remember watching the sun set outside the windows, but she couldn't remember much of the day at all. She could have been standing here for hours. Probably had.

Her husband was on the phone with a business associate who seemed to be giving him a hard time. Mr. Triton was placating him, though; he was good at that. For years he had kept his wife from losing her mind. She had been beautiful once, he remembered, a willowy, graceful creature with bright eyes, but she'd changed after he married her. She came from a middle class family, and new money did strange things to people. It hadn't turned her into a horrible, selfish bitch, but she was constantly harbouring the fear that it would and she'd become dry and insignificant, a Stepford wife. He tried in vain to convince her that she had retained her soul, that she was still the same person he had loved when they were young, but now even he had begun to see that it wasn't true. She still wasn't an awful woman, but the life had gone out of her beautiful eyes. There was no need to be adventurous when everyone brought you everything you could ever want. In a way, he had destroyed her.

Jane knew this, and had contented herself with the fact that Persephone remained unspoiled. Now that was changing too. Her daughter's eyes were getting darker. She had looked at her a few days ago, standing in the kitchen with a knife in her hands, had seen a glimpse of something in her daughter's gaze that wasn't supposed to be there.

Now she stood in the shadows, waiting for her husband to be finished with the latest of his seemingly endless business calls. Her hands were sweating more profusely than they ever had before. Finally, she heard the click that told her the phone had been hung up. She opened the door without knocking and stood in the dim light of the fireplace. Mr. Triton reached out and flipped on the light that sat on the corner of his desk, lighting up the tears that stained lines down his wife's face.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

She walked forward and slammed her hand down on his desk. She pulled it away, leaving a pile of gold and silver.

"What's this?" he asked. He shifted through it and his body temperature dropped a few degrees.

"The Fallak family crest," said Jane, her voice breaking. "It's on every single one of them. I found them in Persephone's room."

Mr. Triton picked up individual pieces; she was right. Necklaces, earrings, bracelets, all with the intricate F in the middle of a coat of armour.

"Do you know where the Fallaks are right now?" he heard his wife ask. Her voice was shaking. "They're dead. Bludgeoned with a sledgehammer in their own home. Their daughter was found in the summer cottage with her boyfriend. He was killed too. He wasn't even related, wasn't even rich, and his head got smashed in just the same."

"Jesus, Jane."

"Jesus has nothing to do with it."

Mr. Triton stood up and put his hand on his wife's shoulder.

"Jane, honey — let's consider this —"

"No!" she screamed, shoving his hand off and backing away. "No! You always want to consider, always want to be reasonable, ever since she started dating that man! I am sick of pretending that nothing is wrong with her! We are losing our daughter and you're not even locking the doors to keep her in!"

"Persephone wouldn't hurt anybody —"

"She's not Persephone anymore! She's something else!"

"Persephone didn't kill the Fallaks. We'd know if she did."

"No, we wouldn't," said Jane stiffly. "She's been spending every night with Crane for the past two weeks. You've been working."

Mr. Triton looked back at the pile of jewellery on his desk. It gleamed menacingly in the flickering twilight.

"We'll talk to her about this," he said. "Is she home? Call her. Right now."

"I did," said Jane darkly. "The number Crane gave us is disconnected."

"Then — where does he live? Where would they go?"

"Hell if I know," she said. "I haven't seen him or Persephone for three days."

Mr. Triton nodded, and the reality of the situation came down on him like a ton of bricks. He took a few deep breaths and stared into the fire.

Where was his daughter?

"Call the police," he said. "Call them now — right now."

Alfred turned off the news with a sigh. Another story about the slaying of the Fallaks, another question of who was behind the murders.

"Don't torture yourself, sir," he said quietly.

Bruce had developed a masochistic compulsion over the latest murders, probably because they had signalled an escalation in brutality. Ashley Fallak and her boyfriend had been staying at the family's summer cottage, where nothing of particular value was touched. Every other murder had been a couple in their own home. After they were killed, they were robbed. Ashley and Carl were the children of the first vein; there was no reason for them to die. They just did.

They were also the youngest people to be killed so far.

"Who does this, Alfred?" Bruce asked, staring at the blank television screen. "What kind of a person does these things?"

"The kind of person who wants to send a big, brash message," Alfred guessed thoughtfully. "A bad person, certainly."

"Certainly."

In his hands, Bruce held the typewritten letter. He'd been carrying it around with him for a while now, as a sort of talisman. He was quickly becoming desperate for contact from this guy, because he needed help. The police were running in circles with their hands in their air, and while Batman was a good way to follow things, he didn't have many resources. And what was Bruce supposed to do as himself? Ask the police for classified information because he was rich and wanted to know? He was caught between people, two different facets of himself, and neither one of them was going to be able to save the city unless one of them got help. If there was someone out there who had the smarts to know that Batman and Bruce Wayne were one in the same, he needed them on board.

"Alfred," he said.

"Yes sir?"

"I need to tell you something."

He held up the note and Alfred took it gingerly. He took out his glasses and read it carefully once, twice, three times.

"Where did you find this?" he asked when he was finished.

"In the place where I was supposed to be intercepting a gang meeting."

"But it's addressed to Bruce Wayne."

"Yes."

Alfred nodded. "That's very interesting, sir."

Bruce turned on the couch to look at his butler incredulously. "That's interesting?" he repeated. "That's interesting? Is that really all you have to say?"

"What other word is there for it?"

Bruce sighed in exasperation.

"When did you find it?"

"A few weeks ago."

"And you haven't heard from them since?"

"No."

"And they haven't gone to the press."

"No."

"Then we'll have to assume that nothing will come of it."

He handed the note back to Bruce, who took it and ran his thumbs over the raised crust of ink. There was something strange about typewritten words, how they were both clean and blurred at the same time. They were... eerie.

What other word is there for it?