Author's Note: I wrote this chapter originally sometime between May and July of 2009. The section entitled, "Roger's Yacht Basin" has been rewritten in December of 2012 to give Bruce Wayne a darker, more suitable voice.

Chapter 6 - Roger's Yacht Basin

Gotham City

Day 1

Gotham High School

I sat very still as I watched the commotion. Pretty soon the students were ushered out of the classroom and paramedics rushed in to take Frankie. I mean, the body.

Holy shit! I just fucking killed him! He's dead because of me!

Damn it Ryan, hold it the fuck together, otherwise you're going to fucking puke-

"Hey, you okay?"

I flinched away from the touch. It was the guy who had lent me a pen. I looked at him through a haze of thoughts, trying to concentrate and focus. I swallowed and didn't answer.

"I want my pen back."

"Huh?" I asked irritatedly. I looked down at my notebook. I was clutching it folded down the middle, so the title couldn't be seen. I was crumpling it up, crushing like an old rolled up newspaper. The pen was stuck in the middle. I pulled it out with a horribly trembling hand and handed it back to him. He looked barely shaken up, so steady. "Funny how he died after you walked in, isn't it?"

That did it. Before even thinking I reacted, and snapped. I shoved him angrily. "What are you trying to say?" I demanded, panic and rage mixed together in my voice, raising it higher than normal.

He was truly surprised at my attack. He raised both hands. "Hey, take it easy. I was just saying it's weird. Not that...not that you killed him or something."

There were people around, watching. To me everything was a rushing blur. Eyes on me, thinking, wondering...

Did he do it? Was it him? Frankie tripped him, we all saw it.

Shit, cops were going to come to my house. They were going to ask what happened. What I did. Can we look around your room?

Do you have a warrant?

They wouldn't say anything but would look at each other. He asked if we had a warrant. Yeah, he's hiding something. Definite suspect. Instant suspect. Maybe he killed him. But how did he do it?

Our teacher came over and slowly unpried my fingers from around the guy's shirt. "Ryan," he said slowly. "We're all upset."

I shoved the teacher's hands away and shoved the student up against the lockers, clattering the metal doors. "I didn't kill him."

"I didn't say you did," he replied quietly.

The teacher tried once again to stop me from getting more violent.

You were thinking it, I thought. But I let him go and stalked away, the notebook still clutched tightly in my hand. If he wasn't thinking it before, asshole, he's definitely thinking it now. Why did you attack him like that? You should have stayed cool. That's why you get picked on because you never fucking stay cool.

I took off down the hall and into the parking lot.

I had my car. I could go home right away. Shit they're going to search your car too! Get rid of these firearms. But where? Get rid of the receipts. Get rid of the videos. Get rid of everything! They're going to fucking find out! You've seen enough Forensic Files. You've watched enough truTV. You know. You know they'll find you if you're not ready!

You haven't fired any weapons. No gunpowder residue anywhere. No spent shell casings. You're okay so far. Just wipe off the fingerprints. Dump it in the ocean. Don't sell it. Forget the money you spent. Forget the time you spent planning. Your life is more important. You don't want to go to prison for something you didn't even finish doing. Illegal possession of a weapon. Illegal possession with intent to use. Fuck! Get home now!

Once inside my car, I took a deep breath to calm myself. I was almost hyperventilating. And I was disgusted with myself. Is this what I would have done if I had shot him to death? Hopefully not. No, I wouldn't have. I would have been a monster to them, armed with guns, killing anyone in sight. They would have run, cowered, screamed. This was totally different.

I wasn't thinking about the security guards usually at the school exit, but today no one was there. They were probably over at the murder scene.

No! Stop it! It's not a murder scene. They don't know it's a murder scene. As far as they know it's a death.

Unexplainable death. They'd perform an autopsy. They'd find nothing. Except that he died of a heart attack. Cardiac arrest.

Just go home and get rid of everything. That's all you need to do. One thing at a time. Relax. Be cool. Be calm. You're goal was to kill and you did it. You accomplished your goal. You're victorious. Be calm.

By the time I arrived home, I was a little calmer. The Death Note sat on my lap all the way home. No one was here. Mom and Dad were at work and I'd have the whole place to myself for about four or five hours. Perfect.

I turned the TV on. No news about it yet. Leaving the TV on, I went into the kitchen for a cold drink. I was sweating like crazy.

Okay, first thing. Dispose of weapons. I took the Death Note into my room and looked around for a place to hide it. My room was filled with posters. Dimmu Borgir, Slayer, Behemoth...Grabbing a stapler, I stapled the lower edge of one of the thicker posters. Then from the side I slipped the book behind it. The poster was on the wall opposite the entrance. I stepped back and checked it. It was okay for now. As long as no one noticed the extra staples.

That's the murder weapon. And they won't even know that if they don't test it out.

Once the book was safe in my room, I snatched up everything to do with all I had planned and ran back out to the car and took a moment to think about where to toss the weapons. In broad daylight was probably the wrong time to be doing anything like that, but if the police chose to show up at my house right away, I couldn't have those things lying around. I didn't think I had anything else remaining in my room, but I had to do a thorough search as soon as I got back. I drove to the edge of the city, near a harbor. Most of the harbor was actually full of people, except for the docks near Amusement Mile, where people just generally parked their yachts and boats. There was really no easy way for me to get through the crowds of people without being noticed, so I just pulled on the backpack and paid the small cover fee and went in. If I walked too fast I could hear the guns and bullets clicking together in my backpack, so I had to slow down.

But once I drew near the docks, I saw some people lying on the planks of wood, having a picnic! I stopped walking as soon as I saw them. There was no way I was going to dump those weapons here and now. When the people saw me stop, they lazily looked up at me. I spun around and left the area. I'd have to find another place.

Gotham City

Day 1

Roger's Yacht Basin

The late-morning sea breeze is Death stroking my back. The whispering howl is Death calling me. I look down at the swirling foam, fingers curling, beckoning me into an icy grave.

For several minutes I contemplate it. To climb over the stern's railing of my multimillion-dollar yacht as people dance and laugh and clink glasses of pear champagne together. To raise my arms and take a dive into the deep blue under the smiling sun. To meet the water's cold, shattering embrace. To meet it and fall asleep. To wake up and see Rachel again. I can think of no sweeter bliss.

My guests are enjoying the luxuriously catered occasion, swaying to the live musicians plucking jaunty Latino tunes on Mexican mariachis, shaking maracas and strumming the wooden grooves on guiros. The yacht's sails beat like a bass drum.

I glance over my shoulder. My unbuttoned blazer jacket whips over my arm. My brown hair is tossed by the tempestuous wind, styling gel be damned. I feel invisible. How long will it take them to notice Bruce Wayne is missing from his own party?

Not long, I realize, just as I meet Alfred's watchful eyes. He nods at me. I nod back and turn to the water as it twinkles like a reef of blue diamonds.

When I look again, Alfred is still watching me, casting a wary glance now and then as he browses through the crowds, checking up on servers dressed smartly in black and white.

This is the first social soiree I'm hosting since Rachel died. I cannot help but think I see her everywhere. Every time a woman with those smooth sloping shoulders and a swept up bun walks by, my heart jumps in my chest. It makes me sick to remember she had been there at the last fundraiser, the one I felt compelled to give the fresh-faced Gotham District Attorney, Harvey Dent. But that was before I knew how close he was to the cliff of madness. That was before the Joker destroyed him. Has it only been seven months? Just seven months since the Joker had threatened Rachel's life? I cannot believe it. It has been only a paltry seven months after I dove after her through the shattered window without a second thought.

My eyes sting with tears. I cannot tell if it's because of the wind or hellish guilt. I crave the cowl, the skin-tight armor of the Batsuit. I want to hide, I want to disappear behind it, even though it is the very reason Rachel is gone.

I feel naked without my mask, helpless. A man in a battle without armor. Without a weapon. I feel exposed to be out here among these people who don't know me. To them I am just another tabloid headline. Another wealthy man in a three-thousand dollar suit and power tie, equipped with a confident smile and a checkbook, fountain pen poised to write out all kinds of numbers on pure whim.

There is a roar of screams far off. Then a few minutes later, there is another, starting low, then rising to a cresendo of thrill. Roger's Yacht Basin is a large bay right near Amusement Mile. Passengers on the roller coaster hoot up more cries of fun.

"Thinking of going for a swim, Mr. Wayne?" A woman's voice says behind me, a smile in her voice.

I straighten, swipe my eyes with my thumb and turn, offering a disarming smile. "Yes, actually."

She gives a sly glance at the people on the yacht deck, then looks out at the docks lining the harbor. I follow her gaze, noting the paparazzi mingling with the late morning picnickers. Even from this distance I can see the camera lenses catching flashes of jolly sunlight. Then she fingers the top button of her yellow crème, transparent blouse. I find it abominable that this woman could be alive and breathing, blinking and full of life while there wasn't even anything left of Rachel to bury. I glance down at her fingers dancing playfully over the top button, which is shaped like a little conch shell. My jaws clench involuntarily. The sight of her enrages me. What gives her the right to live?

"How many papers do you think are out there today?" She asks, taking my brief glance to be a signal for her to go on teasing me. "How many TV stations? The paparazzi need a feeding."

I glance at one of the docks where two or three groups of picknickers laze around with sandwiches and drinks. I'm about to turn back to the woman when I see a young man dressed all in black come storming to the end of the dock, trampling over beach towels and kicking a child's ball into the water. He bumps past a paparazzi photographer who makes some sort of obscene gesture because he ruined the shot.

I realize that the woman is still waiting for some playful flirting. She thinks I'm watching the media wolves. But my eyes are glued to the unusual young man in black, clutching a bookbag. I'm too far away get his expression. But from his hunched posture he looks tense, almost frightened. Then he stops, looks around, turns, and marches off the way he came.

The young man disappears into the crowds, a spot of black moving through a sea of bright sunny colors.

I turn to the woman and catch Alfred's bored expression. A roll of the eyes.

I loosen my tie. "Vintage Indian silk," I explain and tie it to the railing. I smile at the woman. "Can't get it wet."