Chapter Nine
Three days prior…
The lights of the city sped by in a golden blur of bokeh from Austin's seat in the back of the cab. Gotham was dark and warm, the city wrapped tight in a cocoon of smog and humidity. Austin felt the heat of the night from the open driver's side window, like the prolonged exhale of the city's warm breath all over his face.
He huffed out a tired sigh and looked down at his phone. Still no reply from Taylor. He'd called at lunch like he'd promised—lunch being a soggy ham and cheese tortilla wrap from the vending machine in the breakroom, eaten in haste within the confines of his grey-walled cubicle—and then three more times after that when he hadn't received a response. He'd called the landline as well, startled to hear Clara, Taylor's mother, and her warm voice, like honey, telling him they couldn't get to the phone, to leave a message and they'd call back. He wasn't at all surprised that William hadn't changed it. He hung up, wondering if Taylor was giving him the silent treatment, if this was punishment for him not believing her, for not taking her side.
Still, it wasn't like her to ignore him completely, even if they were fighting. He wondered if her phone was off, or perhaps it had died; she wouldn't have brought her charger with her.
He slid his thumb over the screen and typed in his PIN to unlock it, sending her another text message.
Tay, please call me back if you're seeing this. I'm worried about you.
It was another twenty minutes before the cabbie was turning onto Shephard's Street, dumping Austin onto the curb in front of William's house. He craned his neck to glance across the street to where he'd parked earlier that morning, but the car wasn't there, a silver Hyundai now sitting in its place. He fished some tens from his wallet without really looking and thrust them into the hands of the driver as he got out. Had she gone back home without telling him?
He jogged up the steps and unlocked the door.
"Taylor?" he called. The house was dark. He heard the groan of the recliner in the living room as the footrest came down, the sound of voices on TV. He reached the end of the foyer just as William crossed the threshold. The older man looked surprised to see him.
"Austin, I didn't realize you were—"
"I tried to call you," he said. "Where's Taylor?"
William frowned. "She left a note, said she'd gone home. She didn't tell you?"
"She left a note?"
"She'd gone upstairs to rest after breakfast and I fell asleep down here. When I woke she was gone. Left a note on the kitchen counter for me."
"What time was that?"
William pawed at the back of his neck, massaging the stiff vertebrae there. "I'm not really sure, I found it around three when I got up."
Three o'clock. It was six now, that meant she had been gone for three hours, possibly more.
"And you haven't heard from her since?"
William shook his head. Austin could see the burgeoning confusion spreading over his features, but he didn't have time to explain, pulling out his phone instead and dialing the house. No answer.
"I have to get home." He didn't wait for a reply, already walking back the way he'd come, opening the door.
"Austin, what's going on?"
"Keep your phone close!" he shouted. He didn't say anything else as he slammed the door and hailed another taxi, willing his heart to calm as he got in the back of the first available cab and gave the driver their address. Everything is fine. You're overreacting.
This was all probably just some misunderstanding. Dr. Shaw said it was likely that the drugs would keep her mind sluggish, that it might be two or three days before the effects had worn off completely, that she'd want to rest, that she wouldn't have the energy to do anything drastic.
What if Dr. Shaw was wrong?
Taylor's willpower was unlike anything he'd ever seen. When she put her mind to something, she did it, even if she second-guessed herself the whole way, even if her anxiety cast a constant shadow of doubt—somehow her conviction carried her through. It was a tenacity he had always admired about her. Dr. Shaw didn't know what a force of nature Taylor could be when she wanted to be, when she had the right cause to fight for.
The cab pulled into the empty driveway, where the porch lights were off and the house lie shrouded in the burgeoning darkness.
His keys were tucked somewhere inside his briefcase, and he used the light from his phone to illuminate the keypad to open the garage door instead; it creaked and groaned as it rose from the floor. He impatiently ducked beneath it and went to the door leading into the house. It was unlocked.
That was odd, too. She never left the garage door unlocked, even if she was home.
The house was dark, but that was soon rectified by flipping on various lights after depositing his briefcase on the kitchen counter.
"Taylor?" he shouted. "Taylor, are you here?"
His panic—which before had been a phantom of a thing, just a whisper of unease—now began to settle more solidly inside him.
"Taylor?" he called again, this time as he mounted the stairs, skipping two at a time.
The door to their bedroom was open, showcasing the unmade bed, Taylor's scrubs in the hamper, her hospital badge on the dresser, and a towel hanging over the back of a chair. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Fuck. Where are you?
He dug his phone out of his jacket and dialed William.
"Hello?"
"Dad, its Austin. Did the note say anything specific? Like when she was going to be home, or if she was going to go somewhere beforehand?"
"No, son, it just said she was heading home. What's going on?"
"Jesus Christ," he muttered. He ran his hand threw his hair. "I can't find her, I don't know where she is."
A pause. "What's going on?" William asked again. "What didn't you tell me?"
Austin's mouth felt dry and full, bloated with all the things he hadn't said, that he should have said. "Just—" he expelled a heavy breath, descending the stairs, skipping two at a time, "call me if you hear anything, alright? I have to call the police."
"The police?" he asked, startled, the severity of the situation now dawning on him. "What—"
Austin hung up. He didn't have time. He had Shaw's number in his briefcase, on a card the detective had left with him if there was an emergency; this certainly constituted as one now.
When Shaw picked up, everything left his mouth in a tangled rush; if his words had legs then they would have tripped all over each other in their haste to reach their intended destination.
Shaw, almost eerily composed, like he had been expecting this phone call all along, insisted there was no reason to panic, that Austin should remain calm. He assured Austin that she probably wasn't far, that they were going to find her.
A spark of annoyance flickered inside him at how collected Shaw sounded. It was borderline passive. Austin felt his hands clenching into fists as he gave Shaw a list of their mutual contacts—people she might have gone to see, places she tended to frequent. Shaw wanted to know the specific details surrounding her disappearance, the last time she was seen, but Austin didn't know, only that William had found the note when he'd woken around three PM.
"We'll need to speak to him, right away if possible."
"He won't come," Austin said, realizing only after how it sounded, like her father was resistant to help, like he didn't care. "I mean that he hasn't left the house in years," he said, backpedaling. It's just… a thing. You'll have to come to him. He'll answer your questions."
"Okay," Shaw agreed. "I'll put an APB out on the car. If necessary we'll look into the CCTV cameras in the immediate area, see if we can determine the time she was last seen."
Austin hung up after confirming he'd be there. A part of him wanted to stay where he was in case she showed up, didn't want her to come home to a dark, empty house, but something in his gut told him it wouldn't matter either way; something told him she would not be coming home.
He shoved that thought down, somewhere far away, out of sight, and called another cab, wondering how the hell he was going to explain all of this to her father. He wondered how William would react, if he'd respond in the same helpless passivity he'd exhibited when first told of Taylor's suicide attempt.
At William's, the front door was unlocked when he pushed it open, the hallway empty. Shaw hadn't arrived yet. Austin heard the sound of a glass bottle clinking against the counter in the kitchen, knew it was a beer. His hands clenched into fists. Unlike Taylor, he had little patience or sympathy for William's habit, and it angered him to think that this was the demon that William allowed to cradle him in a soft fist, that lulled him into a dulled sensorium day in and day out. This was the divide he had allowed to wedge itself between him and his family, what drove Terrence away, what caused Taylor so much heartache in her teens, when all she had needed was someone to be there for her, to love her. He knew it wouldn't have been easy for William to kick the habit once it had formed—but there were other comforts he could have sought. Healthier ones. Support groups, friends, meditation—even working more, or getting a second job to keep his mind preoccupied would have been a more agreeable alternative. Instead he had allowed himself to be drowned, dragging what was left of his family down with him.
William appeared moments later, hands empty, temporarily free of his addiction, even though they both knew better as he wiped the wet from his mouth with the back of his hand, sheepish, but not enough to look apologetic about it.
"Austin, what—" he said, and he was about to say more, but Austin cut him off, his words carving a sharp path through the air, like a satellite falling out of space, careening towards earth, the trajectory unstoppable, the crash fiery and painful, leaving behind a crater of scorched dirt. He wanted it to. He wanted it to hurt.
"How could you let her leave?" he shouted, desperate, angry, needing someone to pin all his fury on.
William was taken aback. It'd probably been years since anyone had raised their voice at him, had dared for once not to walk on eggshells, had chosen in their defiance not to tiptoe in sensitivity around all his tender pressure points. Austin had always thought Taylor was too soft with her father, too gentle. She coddled him and fretted over his health and looked at him with her big sorry eyes. What William really needed was a reality check, someone to tell him to wake up. He'd never voiced those opinions to Taylor, but he felt them so strongly now as he stared at William, at this man who'd been so emotionally vacant for most of Taylor's adolescence and adult life, this selfish man who could only see as far as his own self-pity would allow.
"I didn't—I didn't know—" William was at a loss for words, even while a question he already knew the answer to clung to the tip of his tongue. The bruises around Taylor's neck, how she'd tried to hide them, how purposelessly vague Austin had been, because of course she wouldn't want her father to know that she'd tried to commit suicide, of course she wouldn't want to worry him like that. She'd always downplayed the problems in her life for his benefit, pretended everything was fine even when it clearly wasn't.
Austin watched realization bloom as it fanned out over William's face, his eyes widening, mouth parting in disbelief. He was horrified. Austin knew what he was thinking: how could he have recognized all of this only now? How could he have been so blind?
"How could you let this happen?" he heard himself shouting, wanting him to crumble under the weight of his rage, wishing William would react in some way other than the one that had him reaching for the nearest bottle. "I told you to watch her!"
"I didn't know I was on suicide watch!" William roared. His eyes flashed in anger, but only for a second, and then it was gone, and he was stumbling backwards, as if taken aback by the sheer ferocity of his own words. Austin stepped forward to help, afraid he was going to fall, but the man righted himself, gripping the edge of the wall for support. His face was ashen.
"Dad—"
"I'm sorry," William gasped, "I'm sorry. I—I didn't know."
Austin swallowed. His mouth was dry, pulse thrumming. "She didn't try to kill herself, not exactly. I don't have time to explain right now, the police—"
He was interrupted by three quick raps on the door.
William was looking at him in a way Austin had never seen before, like Austin had finally cracked open the frightened shell of a man William had been hiding away all of these years. It didn't give Austin the satisfaction he thought it would. Instead it made him feel sick, like he'd done something terrible and irreversible. No take-backs. Taylor would've been ashamed of his behavior, for purposefully intending to inflict pain.
But it was too late to offer a half-assed apology, not when his legs were propelling him towards the door, opening it for Shaw and the two officers flanked behind him.
Introductions were brief. Austin urged William to sit down, growing concerned over the pallor of his skin, like he'd ceased to be a living thing, drained of all the interior components that made a person human. Austin watched the rise and fall of his chest out of the corner of his eye as Shaw spoke to them, just to make sure the older man was still breathing.
Shaw suggested they all sit, and Austin led them into the living room. He sat on the edge of the couch, too wired and tense to sit fully back, to relax. Shaw and the officers took seats opposite him as William sunk into his recliner, looking lost, like he didn't even recognize his own home.
Austin detailed the situation again—mostly for the benefit of the two officers, and to clarify any residual questions by Shaw—all the while knowing there was so much yet to explain to William, the knowledge of which gnawed at him. He should have insisted from the beginning that Taylor be up front with her father. Why did keeping secrets always backfire like this, like lighting a firecracker only to have it explode in your face?
Shaw drew an invisible map with his hands over the expanse of the glass coffee table, outlining the locations Austin had told him about over the phone, places she might be, friends she might have contacted.
"Can't we just track her phone?" he asked.
"Due to the nature of the situation, we've already looked into exploring that option," Shaw was quick to barrel on before hope could catch wind and soar too high in Austin's chest, "—however, it appears her battery is dead or her phone is off. Even if the phone were on, it wouldn't exactly be time efficient. Pinpointing her exact location would be difficult as our data—"
Austin waved his hand impatiently. He knew this. Two years ago he'd written a story about a local woman who'd gone missing during an evening jog in Central Heights—kidnapped—and how the police had been able to locate her after requesting a "tower dump" from her network provider, which was, essentially, a series of logs that track each phone's serial number. This enabled the cell provider to triangulate her location based on how far she herself was from a cell tower, and the data available from nearby towers. It wasn't exactly rocket science, but even two years ago he'd found the method outdated. Surely they had other means now, even if the phone in question was off or dead?
"So what are we supposed to do then? Sit and wait?"
Austin caught the glimmer of annoyance that flashed in front of Shaw's usual collected façade. It was a quick thing, but he saw it in the crinkling lines near the corner of the man's eyes, and the way his lips pulled into a thin, straight line, like a string of yarn held taut between two equal points.
"As I stated earlier, we've already dispatched men to the locations given to us by you. I have someone stationed at your home in case she should return. Palmer, here," he nodded to the female officer on his left, "has already put in a request to access the surveillance cameras on the street outside, so we can pinpoint the approximate time she left, as well as what direction she went in." Shaw made sure he had Austin's full attention before continuing, his eyes hard and piercing. "Unless you know something that I don't… waiting is exactly what we will do."
Austin's hands instinctively clenched into fists again, his skin prickling at the insinuation that he was withholding pertinent information.
"We fought this morning. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
The female officer had excused herself to take a call out in the hallway. Dr. Shaw quirked an eyebrow, more curious than accusatory. "You hit her?"
"No!" Austin said. He was standing now. "No," he repeated, quieter. "I would never." He looked at William, wanting to gauge his reaction, but the man was staring at some unidentifiable spot on the floor, stuck in a daze, as if he'd become fixated on one of those trippy black and white optical illusions, the ones that made you think the whorls were moving when they were actually still.
"Sir?" The officer—Palmer—was back in the doorway, open cell phone still clutched in her palm. "I think we may have found something."
A new wave of fear reached out and strangled Taylor, different from the fear of death, dying—this was the fear of being alive, of being kept alive by him. She was gripped by the realization that she wished he would have let her starve to death; it would have been merciful in comparison to what he had in store for her now, what monstrosities lie in wait. Some tiger crouched low amongst the foliage, its claws sinking into the plush jungle floor, eye slits narrowing, fixing on the jugular veins throbbing with blood, waiting for the precise moment to pounce.
The Joker's hand on the back of her neck was so painful it was immobilizing. When his gloved fingers traveled further up, over the back of her skull, fisting the tangled strands of her hair, he yanked so hard she thought he would rip them out. Her scalp burned and she cried for him to let go. She wanted to push herself to her feet, but she was too weak, too dizzy, too everything. He may as well have drugged her for as useless as she felt.
Was this what he had wanted all along? To break her down so that she didn't have the energy to fight back? Had he brought her to the brink of death only to yank her back from the craggy precipice at the last second—before the inevitable drop—just so he could edge her closer to it once again, this time slowly, meticulously, by his own careful hand. All the horrific, pretty things he could do with his knife. She'd seen the smiles. Even the black and white photos of the Gotham Inquisitor could not shield her from the brutality of the Joker's handiwork. It was too easy to imagine the exact shade of crimson, or the way it had gushed from their sliced open cheeks, how easy it must have been for him, like running scissors through a single sheet of wrapping paper, the way you could slide the scissors across the paper with no effort at all. And it was easy to imagine the careful way he'd stage the scene afterwards—as he sometimes liked to do—to make it look as if there was nothing wrong, as if it were just another normal day. Two lovers in bed, posed mid-coitus, their legs tangled in blood-dried sheets. Old men seated around a poker table, their cards carefully laid out on the flat, velvet green lawn, one with a cigar between his lips, lodged against the ragged corner where his mouth was split open wide on both sides, forced into a perpetual grin. At first glance, you might not even realize something was amiss. You could almost hear the plastic clink of the poker chips, the gruff, barking laughter. At first glance, you could smell the heady, heavy musk of the cigar smoke, like little white puffy clouds.
Taylor shouted again for him to stop, the pain so severe it made it hard to breathe. He tutted at her as if she were a child crying over having to be put to bed, like this was their nightly routine and he was disappointed she was putting up so much of a fuss. Like she should have known better.
He dragged her along the floor, out into the hallway, into another room. It was the first time in three days she'd seen a set of walls outside of the four she'd been confined in. She wanted to drink in everything. She desperately catalogued the hallway, the number of doors, windows, possible routes of escape—but her vision swam and blurred, and it seemed as if there was no end to the narrow, carpeted hallway, like it was infinite, some sort of smoke and mirrors funhouse trick.
She'd hated them as a child. Funhouses. She'd gone to the carnival only once, with the Higgins—her foster family at the time—and their four foster children. It was one of their big outings before the start of the autumn school year. It was all the kids could talk about for the three weeks leading up to the big day. The kids had all gone the year before, had enjoyed hot apple cider and warm, fluffy funnel cakes sprinkled in powdered sugar, had rode the ferris wheel "a million times" and claimed to have gorged themselves on so much cotton candy that their tongues were blue for days afterwards. They'd laughed and clapped and cheered under the big red and white striped circus tent, watched the acrobats swing and fly from daring heights, the clowns with their big goofy shoes and funny red noses trying to stuff themselves into an impossibly tiny car. And then the beautiful show horses prancing around center ring, the slow-moving elephants and the beautiful show girls perched atop them, swaying, dressed like Arabian princesses. The smell of roasted peanuts and butter-soaked popcorn, the stale, leftover smoke from the canon trick and the pyrotechnics….
They'd promised Taylor, who'd never been, that she'd love it. She had bounced on the balls of her feet in anticipation; she could practically taste the whole carnival on the flat of her tongue.
And so on the day, while the four of them had raced through the funhouse laughing and shouting in rapturous joy, playing tag, racing, popping out from behind corners to spook each other, Taylor had entered the funhouse, rounded the corner, and was instantly lost, transported to another world entirely. Ten, twenty, thirty Taylors stared back at her from the grimy, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, streaked with the grubby fingerprints of children prior. The edges of the mirrors were lined with red and blue flashing bulbs—like police sirens, she hated police sirens—further disorienting her. She took a tentative step forwards, wringing her hands, watching herself do it, her fingers curling against her tummy, over her bright red overalls. There was a flower in the front pocket of her overalls that a clown on stilts had bent down to give her. It was wilted now, looking sad and droopy as it hung over the edge of the pocket. She carefully tucked it deeper inside her pocket to keep it safe.
She chewed on her bottom lip afterwards and looked up. There were even more mirrors on the ceiling. There was nowhere to turn to escape her own frown and the wild fear in her darting eyes.
When a flurry of kids rushed in from somewhere behind her, she was jumbled in the passing fray of bodies, jostled around like a spinning top, and a shoulder shoved hard against her own, knocking her to the floor. She worked her mouth, tried to call out for help only to find that she couldn't, that her voice was lodged somewhere in her throat, like it'd gotten stuck halfway on the way out. The kids were quick to disappear, their shrill, echoing laughter making the hairs on her arms stand on end. She got on her feet and tried to follow them, but each step was even more disorientating than the last, each corner she turned revealing a brand new set of mirrors. From outside, the faraway notes of some upbeat tune drifted in over the crackle of the loudspeakers. The song was interrupted by a booming voice—a mouth pressed too close to the microphone, muffling the words—announcing the start of the next show under the big top in just fifteen minutes. She heard the animated chatter of the crowd outside as they migrated towards the massive tent, their voices drifting farther and farther away until it was only her and the flashing lights and crackly loudspeakers, somebody singing about a room where the light won't find you.
She was alone for over an hour, her savior manifesting as a group of stoned teenage boys who'd wandered away from the tent, bored from the show, and were going to pass a joint around in one of the upstairs rooms of the funhouse, where some of the lights were burnt out and they could Sharpie crude drawings and other profanity.
Incredible, how distant that memory felt, as if it had fallen out of space, from another lifetime ago.
Taylor shrieked when the Joker kicked open a door, the sharp bang as it hit the wall as startling as a gunshot; she'd been so focused on the never-ending length of hallway she hadn't noticed them approaching it. She cried as she was dragged over the threshold. This room was cooler, a little darker, untouched by the heat of the sun, but still offering little respite. There was a window on the far wall—not boarded, she noticed, a flicker of hope seizing in her chest—revealing a sea of green trees and nothing else. They really were alone. Out in the middle of nowhere.
When the Joker gave her hair an especially hard yank, she tried to reach up a hand to stop him, to relieve the burning pressure radiating from her skull, but he let go of her a second later, letting her crumble to the floor.
"Why don't you sit down, take a load off," he offered, and her stomach rolled, the innuendo not lost on her, not with the way he was grinning. He grabbed her arm, pulled her up, and shoved her into a metal folding chair. Then he was yanking her arms behind her back, braided ropes sliding over her wrists, tied off to the back legs of the chair, so that her ass barely touched the seat. Already her arms burned from the stretch of it. She felt exposed, defenseless. Her scalp was still throbbing.
"Y'know," he said from behind her, securing her restraints, voice all high and tight, as if strung out on some steel wire, "I wasn't sure if it was you at first." He stood in front of her now, and she looked up at him, felt the intensity of his gaze on her, the crazy in his eyes, the excitement, the desperation, and something dark lurking underneath all of that, a monster underneath the bed, waiting for the slip of a foot over the side. "I thought, 'how could it be? After all this time'." He paused, looking at her. His gaze dropped to her bare legs. "But then I saw this," he reached for her left leg, jerking her forward, fisting the fleshy portion of her thigh, felt his fingers digging into a spot just above the back of her knee where there was a small circle of shiny skin darker than the rest. "And this." She watched him reach into his jacket. Her necklace. He dangled it in front of her for a flash, and then it was gone. "And I realized it was you, and look how you've grown. You're not that same little girl anymore, are you?"
Same little girl? What was he talking about? She knew her confusion was written plainly across her features, but she didn't dare give voice to it, afraid it might goad him into anger. He barreled on, unaffected.
"And then I thought… how dare you not remember me." He crouched down in front of her then, gasoline and sweat invading her nostrils, making her eyes water. Eye-level now. She squirmed as he gripped the edges of her chair, his eyes blown, glassy and dark, whites edged out by black. "That hurt, you know, because I remembered you. I thought about you. Always," he said, as if that admission was significant, as if that meant something. He looked at her, pinning her with just his eyes.
That stare, the sobering, pulsing weight of it, like hands clenching and unclenching around her throat, over and over. He cocked his head. "How could I forget you." He looked almost fond for half a second—reached forward to cuff her on the cheek, making her flinch—but his eyes were still wild, dark. "I wondered what sort of, uh, cosmic alliance could ever allow us to meet again. But no… no, no, no, not that. It was Gotham, and her sticky little web that wouldn't let us part." He grinned, like that was funny.
And Taylor swallowed, thinking the Joker was fucking crazy, that he had her confused with someone else, that he was playing at something much bigger than she could understand, that he was trying to trick her. She searched his eyes desperately, trying to read him.
"And I did miss you. All those years, thinking about all the ways time had touched you, how it had shaped you with its dirty hands, in the way only Gotham can… but you… no," he leaned forward, closer, "you're un-touch-ed, aren't you?" The way he said it made the hairs on her arms prickle, standing at attention. She hated that his voice had that effect on her. Wondered if he noticed. "You haven't changed a bit," he said at length, voice pitched low, the kind of voice you used when you had the barrel of a gun pressed against somebody's head, and you were about to say the last words they'd ever hear, forcing your victim to listen with rapt attention. It hypnotized her. "All your innocence and trust. I can see it in your eyes, even now." She'd been staring at him, and only now did her eyes dart away, as if he'd seen a part of her she'd meant to keep hidden. It was a stupid thing to do. Of course she didn't trust him. She was terrified of him. She would have placed more trust in an uncaged lion or some rabid beast from her worst nightmares. And she wanted to disagree with him further, wanted to tell him that she wasn't innocent, that innocence was something she'd lost long ago, something that had been forced from her repeatedly, in the most terrible ways; it wasn't something you could lasso a rope around and pull back, no. Once taken, it was gone forever, like your virginity, or your first kiss. You didn't get those back if you didn't like them the first time around, or if they were taken without consent.
But there was another reason she had looked away, something else that had prompted that sudden coil of fear to spring loose inside her. It was the horrifying thought that he was right, that he'd seen some dark, cavernous and crumbling landscape laid so deeply inside her that even she herself had never seen. The idea throttled her. He was not welcome there, he was not welcome in that place where her deepest fears lay waiting in the shallows of hard, concrete pools, where blinking eyes poked above the filmy green surface. She hated the idea of him nosing around in places inside of her he wasn't allowed, in places she hadn't dare shed light on, not in years, because that wasn't safe. It was dangerous to light a match down there, because wherever there was light, darkness would be bound to follow, waiting to snuff it out. That was the axiom, wasn't it? Light did not and could not exist without its lurking, shadowy counterpart.
It was dangerous to venture into these amaranthine corners of her mind, to poke and prod at the stinking carcasses of memories that weren't really dead—just dormant—waiting for her. She'd ventured into those sharp corners once, dark and spiked like obsidian, and afterwards she'd tried to take her own life.
She didn't want the Joker there, plucking up her darkest truths like you'd pluck chords on a guitar, so simple, so easy, but done with the kind of intensity that made the copper wires snap and furl in on each other, that awful crack when they popped loose, ruined. She wondered if she'd break that easily, if it'd barely take any effort at all.
The corner of the Joker's mouth rose in satisfaction. So sick, she thought. "Yes, you do trust me, don't you? Just like you used to." He sounded so pleased, gripping the edges of her chair with renewed vigor. He was landing the plane now—bringing it home, that final stretch—only the gray metal beast was about to touch down on a raw nerve, where he'd already flayed the skin back. "You used to love me—"
"STOP!" She'd heard enough. She twisted in the chair, trying to break her arms free. She felt her face was red and sweat-slicked in her anger, knew she was helpless to stop the beads rolling down her heated skin, sliding down her jaw, neck. "Stop talking about me as if you knew me! You don't."
"Knew you? Knew you?" The Joker erupted into raucous laughter, so jarring it felt as if it had pierced straight through her eardrums, like the easy, effortless way blades of light slice through slats in the blinds. He held onto her legs, burying his face into her kneecaps as he laughed, like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard, so hilarious he couldn't even remain upright. She saw the streaks of white greasepaint he left behind on the valley of her kneecaps when he raised his head, dirty snow on top of a hill. She flinched when he addressed her, still bent over with his hands on her, warm leather on her thighs, looking up at her. "Oh, sweetheart, I created you. Everything you are is because of me. I flow through your veins, my blood is your blood. I'm practically inside you."
She stared at him. Tears burned at her eyes, hot like acid. She couldn't even brush them away. "What are you talking about?" she cried. "I don't know you!"
She thought about all the things he'd just told her, all his words swimming around in her head like an alphabet soup, too hot to really taste, burning her tongue on all the letters. Look how you've grown. You're not that same little girl anymore. I did miss you. You do trust me, just like you used to, don't you? You used to love me.
Love him? Did he have her confused with somebody else? Was this a trick, some kind of mind game? She wanted to tell him he was confused, he didn't know what he was talking about. Perhaps all that fighting with Batman had knocked one too many screws loose in his brain. But she didn't dare speak, fearful of his volatility. She didn't know him, didn't know what he might do if angered, if he was a wild dog that could be set off with the slightest provocation—jaws opening, all sharp canine teeth, glistening with saliva—or if perhaps he was a firecracker waiting only for a small spark. Boom.
Then another part of her—the part she pressed so deeply down it hardly constituted as a thought, only a glimmer of a thing, like the black shadows you sometimes caught in your peripheral—wondered at the validity of his words. There was much she didn't remember from her past, but it was almost fantastical to imagine that he had once been a part of it.
She swallowed, as if that act alone could shove the idea down farther, somewhere she couldn't reach it. He was playing her. He was confused. This was a trick. He was testing her.
She tried to hide the tremble in her voice. Didn't know why she wanted to sound brave all the sudden, like perhaps that would impress him. Maybe he wouldn't kill her. It was a stupid thought.
"What do you want from me?"
The Joker leaned forward to grip her jaw, slowly, careful to slot his fingers just where he wanted them before forcing her lower, their faces so close. The leather felt warm on her heated skin.
"Everything." He licked his lips, let his words sink in, but did not release his hold, seeming to enjoy her so up close, his eyes raking over her features, hot as coals. She could not look away.
"I'm of no use to you," she said, barely above a whisper. Her jaw ached where he held it tight between his fingers, like he wanted to break it. "Please, please let me go."
He studied her for a beat longer, eyes flicking back and forth between hers, as if he hoped to find something there. "You're of every use to me," he said. He did let go of her then, straightening to his full height. She followed his movements, staring up at him now even as her heart succeeded in sinking lower into her gut. "You don't understand yet," he said. "You will."
You will, he said, like all would be revealed, the shock factor of spilled guts, or the climax at the end of a film.
The finality of his words, like the conversation was over—this was it, the final curtain was being drawn—had desperation clawing at her throat. Don't leave me, she thought suddenly, wildly, torn over whether or not that was how she truly felt. She didn't want to be left alone again, hunger and thirst and humiliation still weighing so heavy on top of her, this fat, fleshy fear, the furry corpse of some dead animal, laid across her shoulders like a pelt. She felt sick from the weight of that fear alone. She did need him to stay. She couldn't bare another three days without food or water. Didn't know if she'd have the strength to survive this time.
She blurted out the first thing she could think of, something to provoke a reaction out of him.
"Why did you kill him?" she blurted, barely having processed the words in her head before they were spilling off her tongue, as if she'd actually been eager to say them.
He paused in the doorway, and there was a perverse thrill in that, in knowing she had made him stay. The heat of the room felt heavy all the sudden, like it too wanted to drape itself across her shoulders, press down until the bones cracked, until her spine gave out.
"Kill who? You'll have to be more spe-cif-ic." He stalked back towards her, knelt down, as if talking to a child. "I've killed a lot of people."
"Jason," she choked. His white, pale face, his bruised neck, the stretch of the leather belt, the slight dip in the metal shower rod, trembling from the weight. It flashed behind her lids when she closed them. Jason. Her coworker, her friend. "You killed him."
The Joker's mouth stretched into a loose, straight line, the illusion of a perpetual smile gone. His eyes rolled upwards and to the right for a moment, as if carefully picking out the kind of lie he wanted to sell her. How he was going to package this fabrication, so many choices, the wrapping paper, the ribbon, the bow.
"Me?" he said, mouthing the word with exaggerated incredulity. Even the paint around his mouth, that caricature of a smile, felt like a mockery. "That wasn't my belt."
Taylor shook her head, so hot with anger, feeling as if she might make the room spontaneously combust. "You made him do it. You made him kill himself."
"I'd never," he swore, holding up three fingers tucked against each other, his thumb holding down the pinkie, "scout's honor."
He licked his lips, and she could see he was sweating, his purple shirt darker around the pits. Beads of sweat had gathered around his hairline too, where it wasn't quite acid green like the rest. Somehow it made him even more terrifying, this simple act of his body expelling fluid. It cemented the fact that this was a man before her, a man with a pulsing heart, lungs, veins—someone with thoughts, desires, plans. Feelings. She could no longer fool herself into thinking he was an automaton, machine-like, that he could be shut off, overpowered if someone could only locate the right switch. Machines were predictable. They could be controlled. Even rogue machines could be outsmarted. It was nicer to imagine that he was steel and wires rather than flesh and blood, because that was the uncomfortable truth, wasn't it? That it was hard to stomach that a single man could be this evil, that someone could be so cruel and like it, could derive pleasure from such malevolence.
When she didn't reply, the Joker goaded her on. "I gave him a choice," he said.
"You're a liar," she snarled. She twisted in her restraints, the muscles in her thighs and arms burning from the strain. She didn't know how much longer she could stand this position before begging for release. She held off, though, not wanting to betray her vulnerability, her weakness.
The Joker stared at her. His black eyes glittered. "You think you can see right through me, don't you?" he smirked. "Well, consider it a kindness then." He paused, tilting his head. "There are much crueler ways to die than a hangman's noose."
Taylor turned away, disgusted. It was too easy to visualize all the cruel ways the Joker could mutilate someone beyond repair, or how he could leave someone on the threshold of death, could keep them that way for weeks, for months, just barely alive, but alive enough to suffer. She wondered how many bodies nestled in their coffins—behind the safety of graveyard gates—were left marred by Glasgow smiles, courtesy of his hand.
"Aw, cupcake, don't look so down about it," he cooed, placing a heavy hand on her cheek. The heat from it alone made her feel nauseated. She jerked away, and he dropped his hand. "Would it make you feel better to know that he asked me not to hurt you?"
She did turn to look at him then—sharply—her lungs seizing in surprise.
"Yes, that's right. So polite. So forthcoming about our little situation here." He hummed thoughtfully. "Shame about the neighbor, though. Now that was a lot of blood. And the screams." His eyes rolled skyward and he shook his head, as if to show he was both annoyed and amazed. "What a set she had on her… do you want to see them?"
Taylor's chin dropped to her chest, a low, shuddering sob escaping from her chest. How many people would die because of this? How much blood was on her hands?
She heard the Joker stand, and desperation clawed at her once again, so stubborn in its mephitic insistence. She didn't know when she'd decided that being alone with a monster was preferable to being alone.
"You can't keep me here!" she shouted, hating the crazy in her voice, the pitch of her voice, like when she'd yelled at Austin and Shaw and the officers. "They'll come looking for me. They'll find me. I told them where to look."
The Joker look at her from over his shoulder. She craned her neck to look at him as well, wondering what he would do. She watched him stalk back towards her for a third time. Somehow it felt like it would be the last.
"You're so sure, are you? So con-fi-dent, all that hope. You cling to it." He chuckled, like he knew some inside joke she didn't. "You have always clung to it, even when it let you down, when it betrayed you… and it has betrayed you many times, hasn't it?" He tsked, like that was a shame. "I'll tell you why no one will come for you. No one will come to save a dead girl."
The hairs on her arms prickled, like spines on a cactus. Her breath faltered. It was a struggle to control her breathing, to maintain the charade that his words hadn't affected her.
"Are you going to kill me?"
"I don't have to." The Joker licked his lips. Leaned in closer, so his breath could fan her face. "You're already dead."
Taylor heaved out the breath her lungs had been holding hostage, trembling. "I don't understand."
The Joker stood, the movement so sudden that it made her flinch, afraid for a moment he was going to reach out and hit her. She hadn't moved so reflexively in years. Not since she was a child, when some of the women used to strike her on the arm, or the back of the head. Anywhere that wouldn't leave too visible of a mark and sully her appearance for prospective parents.
There was a long, rectangular table she could see in her peripheral, large enough to comfortably seat four or five people on each side. She winced at hearing the metal legs scrape against the floor as the Joker pulled it in front of her. Then he left, and it was several moments before he returned. She tested the ropes while he was gone, tried to find a more comfortable position, one that didn't make her muscles cry out in agony.
Then he was back, and there was a thwap as a newspaper was slapped down in front of her. The Gotham Gazette, page six, a black and white photo of a singed car that had crashed into a tree. 'GOTHAM CITIZEN BURNED TO DEATH IN FIERY CRASH'. Taylor frowned, trying to lean as close as the ropes allowed. That was… that was her car, wasn't it?—their car—
Oh, God.
Austin.
The world fell apart around her, some illusion shattering. The illusion that this was about her, that Austin wouldn't be affected. That he would be safe.
Her eyes darted to the text beneath the header, and a new sensation settled over her, a strange cocktail of relief and horror as she realized it wasn't Austin the article was talking about.
It was her. The article was talking about her.
You're already dead.
"No, no…."
"Yes," he hissed, his tongue holding onto the s for a long beat,like it tasted so good."Isn't it exciting," he said, in front of her once again, separated only be the short width of the table, "being alive when the whole world thinks you're dead. You exist only to me." He giggled, like a child who'd stolen a toy and had no intentions of giving it back to its original owner, or sharing it with anyone else. "Out there—" he gestured behind him with a jerk of his head. Out there. Gotham. "—They think I'm dead, too. We exist only to each other." He looked at her, eyes level with hers with hers as he gripped the edges of the table, leaning in close. His red lips pulled into a smirk. "We're a big secret, you and I."
Taylor squeezed her eyes shut but felt the tears slip past anyway, hot as they sliced a clean path down her cheeks. Austin thought she was dead. He'd think she'd finally done it, that she'd given up on him. That it was a suicide, or that she'd lost her mind. He'd think it was his fault. He'd spend the rest of his life blaming himself for something he had no control over, trying to pinpoint the exact moment it'd all gone wrong, how he could have stopped it, what he could have done better.
He'd never know that while he was mourning her death, planning her funeral, consoling her father, trying to make sense of it all… all that time, she would be alive. It meant that he would not be looking for her. No one would be coming to save her.
No one will come to save a dead girl.
She truly was alone. Alone with a monster.
Her eyes were red when she opened them and fixed them on the Joker. Her voice shook. Snot dripped freely down her nose.
"Why are you doing this?"
He sighed, like he was tired, like she was a child and he'd already explained this to her many times before. "Y'know, it really does hurt me that you don't remember. So many memories up there in that noggin' of yours, tucked away." He reached forward to rap his knuckles against the side of her head. "So repressed." She jerked away from his touch, and he straightened. "Don't worry, we'll get them out." The Joker sounded far too chipper for her liking, making fear coil low in her gut. "Every last one of them," he promised. She tracked his movements with her eyes, watching him carefully roll his sleeves up, just past his elbows. "Fortunately for you, I have just the thing."
He cleared his throat, and a man in a clown mask entered. The same masks she'd seen the first time she was taken. He was carrying a metal box. It looked old. Electrical. There were several knobs, wires, and something that resembled a speedometer, like one you'd find on the dashboard of a car. A second man entered—also donning a mask—pushing a small metal cart in front of him. She could hear the items inside one of the drawers rattling around inside. The first masked man set the electrical box on the cart, and the two of them were quick to set to work. With their backs turned towards her, blocking her view, she couldn't make out what they were doing.
She felt her heart speeding up with worry, thundering against the walls of her ribcage, and turned to the Joker for answers.
"You're lucky, you know," he said conversationally, excitedly. One of the men was moving around the table next to her, crouching low to undo the restraints around her ankles first. "Not everyone gets a fresh start like this. Clean slate. A new beginning. Maybe that's a conversation you're familiar with, hm?"
She looked at him. There was no way he could be referring to the conversation she'd had with Austin—his new job opportunity, the move to greener pastures—he couldn't possibly know. Did he even know about Austin at all, or was he just grasping at straws? Just how much did the Joker know about her? About her life? What did he mean by a fresh start?
When the masked man undid the restraints binding her hands, she slumped into the chair at last, her back aching, her muscles burning from the unrelenting strain. She released in that moment that even if she had wanted to run, she couldn't have, her body too weak. Not even adrenaline could fuel her now. She had nothing left.
She pulled her arms in front of her and cradled them, fixated on the red, angry circles around her wrists where the rope had bit into them.
She jumped when she felt a hand clamp down on her upper arm, encircling it. She twisted her neck to look up, startling at the familiar face. She would never forget that tattoo, the black swastika on the high arch of his cheekbone, just below the corner of his eye.
Ace, who'd held her at gunpoint in her own home, threatened her, assaulted her—had brought her before the Joker, like a lamb, like some sacrificial offering to be stretched out on a stone slab, sliced open. Gutted. Flayed.
He smirked at her, knowing, amused.
She looked for the Joker, like he could save her, like he would save her, but he was gone.
She gasped when Ace yanked her out of her chair and onto the smooth, flat surface of the table, where she was immediately pushed onto her back and restrained again.
"What are you doing?!"
She fought them—Ace and one of the other masked men who'd been assisting with the box. She screamed as leather straps were placed over her chest, stomach, thighs, and ankles, so she was completely immobile, with her arms pinned to her sides.
When she was fully strapped down, she noticed for the first time another figure in the room, standing in the shadow cast by the frame of the doorway. It was the same masked clown that had stared at her so intently when she'd first been brought before the Joker. It felt like years ago now. But she remembered that mask. The thin, blue, arched brows, pulled close together into a perpetual expression of anger or contemplativeness, depending on your interpretation. The exaggerated green frown, the red button-nose. She'd overheard one of the other men call him Owen. She remembered the almost breathless way he'd demanded to know what had happened, why she had been brought. She'd sensed how upset he was, that he had not been pleased to see her, like she'd ruined some plan or something. And even now, as he stood in the doorframe, leaning up against it, arms crossed against his chest, head bowed, looking maybe like he didn't want to see what was about to unfold.
She heard the cart roll closer to the table, and it was so much like her nightmare from three days prior that she suddenly couldn't breathe as she recalled it, the intense pain of being torn open so slowly, like the Joker had all the time in the world to dissect her, to tear her apart.
Her eyes darted to the side as the cart rolled to a stop next to her, and she saw clearly for the first time what the box actually was, her eyes widening in a mixture of horror and disbelief.
It was a box for electroconvulsive therapy—shock therapy. He was going to induce a seizure.
She jolted beneath the restraints, heard the leather groan and stretch as it was pulled taut, felt the metal legs rattling beneath the table.
She threw back her head, thrashing, gasping for forgiveness.
"Please, please don't do this!" she screamed. "I don't know what you want me to remember!"
"Oh, shush shush shush," the Joker cooed, back again. His presence was not a comfort. Men she could reason with. She could plead, she could beg, she could tell them the things they wanted to hear. She could debase herself, if she wanted, if that was the right door that led to the exit. With the Joker, there was no bargaining, no amount of pleading or begging or crying that could induce the kind of sympathy that would stop him from carrying out what he wanted to do. It was that kind of dead-set surety that she found most frightening of all. This was not the sort of man whose emotions you could appeal to. There was nothing you could say, and nothing you could do.
One of the men held her head down while the other fitted a leather strap across the expanse of her forehead. She was forced to look up, where the Joker's upside gaze was waiting for her. His green hair curtaining his white face, his eyes appearing as two black holes, his mouth a slash of red. She flinched when she felt his gloved fingers on either side of her temple, coated in a cool, jelly-like substance that he rubbed into her skin. "This isn't about remembering. Not anymore. It's about forgetting, about creating something new. We're knocking down the old structure and rebuilding something better. Something remarkable. Weren't you listening?"
"Please, don't do this," she cried. "I don't want to do this, I don't want to, I don't want to, please—" she couldn't continue on, her lungs quivering, like the fluttering reverberation of strings on a harp.
This could kill her. It would kill her. Surely he knew that? It wasn't like it was in the movies. They weren't even going to sedate her, this was all wrong. It would kill her, it would—
She felt the electrodes slip into place against the sides of her head, felt a bare hand grip the edges of her jaw, forcing her mouth open, inserting something smooth and hard—a bit—as the taste of rubber bled all over her tongue, quickly growing damp inside the wet cavern of her mouth.
She tried to look back towards the door, but the clown leaning up against the doorframe was gone.
The Joker knelt close. She could feel his breath in her ear, could smell the acrid, metal stench of his greasepaint. "I've had this done a couple of times myself, y'know." She felt him smile against her ear, like he was recalling a fond memory. "They really went to town on me. Four-hundred and fifty volts of pure electricity. Sometimes I think I can still hear my brain sizzling. Sssss," he hissed, at the same time goose bumps popped over her flesh, like the way rapid gunfire on a battlefield pops all over the dirt. "Gives a whole new meaning to brain fried, doesn't it? Like a brain on fire." He snorted. "But don't worry, cupcake," he stood, and her eyes darted to his hand resting over the knob, "it only hurts after."
The Joker turned the knob, and her body convulsed.
Austin and Shaw exchanged a glance before the detective rose from his seat. "Pardon me for just a moment," he said, excusing himself to both Austin and William, even though it was evident that whatever attention William had been giving the current situation had long since vacated the room.
Shaw and Palmer re-entered the hallway, where Austin could hear the officer speaking in a low murmur over the static of her walkie. Waiting—even in the short intermission that was Shaw's absence—was unbearable to him, and Austin went to the hallway, catching the tail-end of Officer Palmer's words.
"—car on the corner of Holton Road. Looks like an accident—"
"An accident?" Austin interjected. "Is she okay?"
He watched Shaw and Palmer exchange a glance that he didn't like, that made him feel like a child, like his parents were debating on whether or not to break the news that Santa Claus wasn't real, or that the pet goldfish had died because someone had forgotten to feed it.
"We're not sure yet, Mr. James. A pedestrian called it in, we're sending a squad to the scene now." He turned to Palmer. "Tell them I'm on my way."
"I'm coming with you," Austin said.
"Mr. James, I'm not sure that would be an ideal situation with your father-in-law in his current state—"
"If there is any chance that my wife might be out there, I'm going."
Shaw looked at him, knowing they'd reached an impasse. He turned to Palmer. "Tell Morretz to stay with Mr. Tanner. I want all phone calls monitored," he whispered, even though Austin still heard. He pretended not to. Shaw turned to face him. "Come on," he said.
Austin followed Shaw out to his car, where the heat of the day had made the interior unbearable. The maroon, velvet seats were soft and hot after having baked in the sun, and the metal of the seatbelt buckle burned Austin's hand when he clicked it into place. The pain was irritating, setting his nerves alight, as if inflamed by his mounting anger, like they might spontaneously burst if got mad enough.
"What was she doing all the way down in West Chelsea Hill?" he wondered. He expelled a heavy sigh, felt like the inside of his lungs were lined with cement. Heat had never felt more concrete than it did now, like solid matter, like being punched in the gut and having the wind knocked out of you, the painful spasm of the diaphragm as you're left gasping for air that isn't there.
For once, Shaw didn't have any answers, and that perhaps was answer enough. Shaw had no fucking idea. Nobody had any fucking idea. The entire thing was such a clusterfuck, he tried to pinpoint the exact moment it had all gone wrong.
All he could think about was that phone call—the fucking phone call—Taylor's choked voice, asking him to come home, begging, crying, telling him something had happened, something terrible.
He'd believed her when she told him, when they were finally able to sit down and talk about it. He'd been in such a state of shock it hadn't even occurred to him that it could've been a hallucination, that it was anything but the honest truth. And then Shaw, planting that single seed of doubt, telling him it had been a fabrication of the mind, made-up, fantasy, and Austin had believed him. Maybe he'd believed it simply because it had been an easier truth to swallow. No one wants to believe that their wife has been targeted by a psychopath, that she was attacked, kidnapped, and tortured, that she barely escaped with her life.
And now she'd gone missing. Was this punishment? Was she punishing him for not believing in her? Or was there truly something more sinister happening beneath the surface that he couldn't see—that he had refused to see. Austin swore that if they found her—when they found her—he would do everything in his power to investigate her claims. He would fight for her, he would fight for her the way he should have fought for her from the very beginning.
He felt more than saw the heavy, dark thunderclouds, pregnant with rain and ready to burst, like a blown-up balloon waiting for the prick of a needle. The deeper Shaw drove them into the countryside, the darker the clouds became, drowning out the sun. The air felt electric out here. Thunder rumbled in the distance, long and low. Austin leaned forward over the dashboard, looking up, imagining the lightning bolts charging in the clouds, lying in wait, gathering for the coming fray.
Shaw slowed the car, navigating around a sharp curve, just as fat raindrops began to splatter against the windshield. The abruptness of the blue and red flashing lights of the police cruisers—and the shock of the red firetruck—sent a jolt of fear through Austin. He remembered suddenly that Palmer had said they'd found her car, not her.
He saw the smoke then, the thick, gray plumes of it, curling high into the trees, twisting up and around the branches, suffocating the leaves. Shaw pulled to a stop and said something, but Austin could hear nothing, not even the sound of his own heartbeat thudding in his ears, which he felt with startling clarity. Everything was silent as he fumbled with his seatbelt, stumbling out of the car onto the pavement, the grass, the leaves lining the edge of the woods. The noxious fumes of burnt rubber and metal filled his nostrils, the stench of gasoline sharp as it slithered down his throat like a snake, settling low, filling up his lungs so he couldn't breathe.
And there was the car, right there, blackened and crisped, wrapped around a tree like a lover, a sick parody of an embrace.
No. No.
Someone touched his arm, and he jerked out of his trance. He searched the eyes of the police officer speaking to him, felt his eyebrows pull together as he watched the way her mouth moved, forming words slowly, as if he were watching it all happen in slow motion. Still he could hear nothing.
He searched the eyes of the other officers, the firemen, the paramedics. Eyes that all said the same thing, and one thing only.
Austin collapsed to the ground on his knees in the deafening silence, sobbing.
