Chapter 11

Present day Gotham . . .

"Hey, Boss," Gabe entered Oswald's office at The Iceberg Lounge holding a flash drive. "I think there is something you ought to see." He held up the device. "It concerns Cassandra. May I?"

Oswald nodded and pushed away from his desk, allowing room for Gabe to plug the flash drive into the USB port on the other side of the monitor. Oswald had upgraded his systems at Harold's urging and this little beauty had the computer built right into the monitor. It certainly saved room and he no longer had to bend down to fiddle with the tower. These were not even on the market yet. They were still prototypes, but this one worked beautifully.

It certainly is nice to know people in the know.

A security video came up of the aviary, the day before the New Year's party. It was not luck that he used the same software as several of the businesses throughout Gotham. The picture loaded and numerous panels were displayed showing various areas of the interior and outside portions of the bird sanctuary.

"Click on the lower right panel," Gabe said.

Oswald did so.

"Now run it back . . ." The images looked like a silent movie on crack. Oswald chuckled and thought of the black-and-white classics his mother was so fond of—the melodramatic acting, the stark make-up that made the actors look more like porcelain dolls rather than people, and the piano music that built into a frenzy as the players bounced and lurched on the screen.

"At what am I looking?" he asked. He was slumped back in his imported leather-upholstered chair, weary in both mind and body.

"Wait for it." An image appeared onscreen. A woman with dark hair in a white dress and coat.

Oswald bolted upright. Could it be? He ran the video back again and—yes, he was sure of it— saw Cassandra standing in front of their painted tile in the aviary. He checked the stamp time and date, just to be sure. It was indeed the day before the party, December 30, 10 a.m., right when the park opens. The party planners and caterers had not arrived and would not show up until that evening—after 5 p.m., when the zoo closes—to decorate and set up the tables for the soiree the next evening.

"How did you get this? How did you know to get this?" he demanded.

"Fara knows a guy." Gabe did not say more.

"Where is Fara now?"

"With the guy, trying to delicately wheedle a few more details out of him. Fara has it on authority that this lady, if it is Cassandra—."

Oswald interrupted him. "It is. Do you not think I would know my own wife when I see her?" he said with venom, not looking him in the eyes.

"Of course, Boss. Sure you would. My apologizes. She—Cassandra—has shown up five days in a row. Sits on the bench, and then leaves after about half an hour."

Oswald looked toward the screen again and frowned. "She just sits? Does she talk to anyone?"

"No."

"Does anyone attempt to talk to her?"

Gabe hesitated and Oswald shot him a warning glare. "Tell me."

"Just a couple of guys now and then. It looks like either they lose interest or she shuts them down."

Oswald grinned. He liked the idea of Cassandra telling her admirers to go take a flying leap.

"There's more," said Gabe, without waiting for Oswald to tell him to continue.

"There had better be . . ." Oswald remarked. Someone had better tell him where she was staying so he could go get her, whether she liked it or not.

"She . . ." Gabe almost used the term "watches", but that was not correct. After viewing the video, it dawned on him that she did not watch anything. Her black glasses always remained in place, even indoors and, every now and then, she snapped together the pieces of a foldup cane, one she had hidden in her purse, securing each single steel cylinder until they transformed into one solitary staff, a sturdy one that helped her maneuver her way through the zoo. And anywhere else.

"She what?" Oswald sighed impatiently.

"After she sits, she visits the penguin display at feeding time."

Oswald frowned and whipped his head back around to watch her—to absorb into his eyes every move she made. He could not help it. He drank her in, imagined the faint scent of gardenia as she sat or stood or moved. When she brushed an unruly curl back from her cheek, he envisioned that it was he who was touching the strand and tucking it behind her ear. He laughed when she sneezed, the force knocking her glasses to the tip of her nose, wishing it was his skin underneath her fingers as she pushed the lenses back towards her eyes. He was aware of his blood boiling when a man approached her, leaning in too close, and when some teenage kids, once they realized she could not see, teased her behind her back. Brats.

He was glad she could not see the leers she received when she stood to walk, several of the men without effort turned their attentions from the shiny, sleek birds to Cassandra's backside. She probably senses the stares, he thought. He busted out laughing harder this time when she whacked one of the pigs with her cane and made an apologetic gesture afterwards—their wives or girlfriends hustling them away. Others would just stand and stare at her from a corner, glittering eyes appreciating the subtle swing of her hips as she left the room.

Soon it would be him. Him, in front of her. Talking to her. Brushing his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, around her waist. Burying his nose in the crook of her neck. Feeling her heat. Oswald trembled, goosebumps trailing across his flesh.

He slammed his palm down on his desk. "Let us go get her!" he proclaimed as he grabbed his mohair coat—its color as grey as the sky of Gotham—and swung it around him as if he were claiming Zorro's cape, his arms disappearing into the sleeves.

"Do you think that wise?" Gabe asked him. Over the years, he had become a confidant slash big brother slash father figure to Oswald and always felt free to speak his mind, even if Oswald did not want to hear what he had to say. Gabe hesitated. "There's something . . . wrong with her."

"I know there is something wrong with her!" Oswald heard his own words and caught himself, closing his eyes and waving his hands in the air. A grimace played upon his pale face. "There is nothing wrong with her!" he corrected them both, spit flying from his mouth.

"Boss . . ." Gabe started. Oswald held up a finger. Gabe's shoulders slumped. He tried a different tactic. "Oswald . . ."

Oswald glared at him. Dammit, I hate it when he does that. Usually means I actually am going to listen to him and delay my own plans while I mull over whatever it is he is getting ready to tell me. He balled his hands into fists and keep them firmly by his side, staring up at Gabe from underneath heavy-lidded, very angry eyes. He felt like the child at a birthday party whose only balloon had been popped. "Go on," he growled.

"There must be a reason she has not come home. Not for a week."

"It has been only five days, not a whole week," said Oswald. Gabe ignored him.

"Maybe she is afraid," he continued with a shrug. "I don't know why she would be—I really don't. But don't approach her like a bull, ready to throw her upon your back and carry her off." He glanced back at the grainy footage, and Oswald silently appreciated Gabe's allusion to Europa and Zeus. He followed his lieutenant's gaze back to the monitors.

Cassandra had moved out of the building and now was sitting in the garden, right outside the aviary, a little ways down from the artic area where the penguins were housed. Gabe clicked the panel and the picture went full screen. Around her, the trees were bare. Oswald knew it was cold outside and hoped the cream-colored coat she wore had kept her warm. Gabe spoke again.

"Wherever she was, wherever they held her, they did something to her." He looked back at Oswald. "She can't see, you know."

"I know that," he said, his voice as heavy as cement.

"Why don't you watch her for a while?" Gabe grinned like a boy keeping a secret. "Like you did before." He saw his boss's features melt, his eyes glazing over.

I could watch her, he thought. Make sure she has what she needs. But I will not watch for long. I will bring her back here. It will not be as before, when I was timid. I will bring her back, and she will be mine again, and that is final.

Oswald nodded his head in agreement, and for the next few days watched her comings and goings. He tracked her to a nunnery, where she had been swept off the street by the sisters. He took notice of the subtle joke—how the women, all dressed in white and black, looked like penguins—a rookery of them, huddling together and protecting his snowbird. He was grateful at least for that.

Remembering Cassandra and his nights (and days) of hungry desperation—sweat, saliva, the musky wet mix of male and female, shredded clothing (usually his)—made Oswald smirk as he watched her enter the convent. If only they knew, he thought. Such a wild one you have living in your quarters. It was a wonder she had not singed the walls with her very presence.

He would take her soon. There was just the game he and Ed had to play first involving the Orchard and Powers Hotels. It was going to be of Biblical proportions, and would definitely stay the enemy. At least for a while. He thought about the shipments that had just arrived to his office at Oswald's and were being put into place right at this very moment. He only lamented that the parcels could not have arrived sooner—New Year's Eve would have been the best time—but, still, this would do. This annus novus (somehow that term sounded most appropriate), this"new year" was not going to start out well for The Court and it would end even worse. He would make sure of it.

A light came on in the top window and Oswald watched Cassandra's silhouette as he had been doing all week, and as he had done all those years ago, yearning to be up there in the inviting yellow glow with her—that ache causing his chest to hurt now as it did then.

She would appreciate the game, the plagues to come, the first torment for her tormentors would involve roaches. Giant hissing roaches to be exact. With wings. Why is it the scariest things seem to fly? Bleck. Thinking about it caused him to shiver.

He only wished he could be there to witness the infestation as the dark bugs with their tickling little gross legs scurried across the dinner plates and satin sheets of the Powers and Orchard Hotels. Thousands of them. He had just made a few bug breeders very rich. He wrinkled his nose. What possesses somebody to go into that line of business?

He stepped out from the shadows of the alley across the street from the nunnery and heard something crunch beneath his foot. Gag. He imagined white guts resembling vanilla yogurt sticking to his sole. Warily, he lifted his foot to glance underneath, his jaw firmly set and his mouth in an upside down smile. He was relieved. It was only a candy wrapper. No roach. No roach here. Only at the hotels. Another blight would follow soon.

Let my woman go, he bellowed in his head, imitating an epic actor in a blockbuster movie. Truth was, he already had her—in a way. He glanced up at the window while crossing the street, then turned in the direction of his old club.

Yes, he was the one that truly had her—not the nuns. Hell, he owned them. But The Court did not know that Oswald was aware of her location, that he knew she was all right. Another gift had arrived—they were still trying to torment him into believing they were harming her. They had sent him her bloodied clothing. He had broken down at first, when the package had first arrived—the scent and feel of the hardened blood triggering the stark memory of her being shot as that image slammed into his mind, then of her disappearance and Boo's grandmother coming for her grandchild.

But he had recovered. He had to quickly, for her sake. For his.

He sighed. It was always satisfying to be one step ahead. Oh, all right, who was he kidding—a trillion zillion steps ahead. And when he opened the newspaper the next morning to see the headline: "Roaches Invade Luxury Hotels: Demand Turndown Service", Oswald spilled tea all over his new suit from his laughing.

It was thrilling to read that the news crews could not shoot any of the story from inside the establishments because of the over-excitable bugs crawling on the cameras and lights and flying into the hair and clothing of the unfortunate reporters. Hundreds of room and restaurant reservations had already been cancelled, the paper reported.

Let me see now, Oswald mused. How many plagues were there? Oh, yes, that is correct—ten. Perhaps I can cut it down to half, if only they would invite me over for dinner—then we could go straight to the last one.

The next plague involved creatures with long tails and after turning rodents loose in the businesses, the food and drink companies that sold to the masses that graced the twin hotels started to feel the heat. Ed was ecstatic that Oswald had agreed to let him leave behind clues as to what the next scourge would be.

The cops, of course, were clueless and did not care. On their salaries, they would never be able to take the missus or the mistress or the husband or the stud to a place as fancy and overpriced as these two luxury hotels. Looks like throwing a few bad apples into the GCPD was not working out in The Court's favor. Of course, their sources, if they truly had any on the police force, would end up paying the price for their apathy later.

Upcoming events and conventions that were set to take place in a few weeks were cancelled. Oswald and Ed popped open a bottle of champagne and toasted each other. Two days had passed.

"Tomorrow," Oswald told Ed. "You can try out your theory about the electrical grid that runs to the hotels." He had taken great pride in showing Ed his map on the ceiling. "Remember—only the kitchens and freezers, and any chilled storage, except for the owner's suite. Leave that one alone."

Ed's theory should work. He had turned off all power to Oswald's once. On purpose. Oswald had been livid, thrilled, and impressed.

Ed rubbed his hands together and licked his lips. "I remember."

Rotting meat is a hell of thing to smell. And then, there is its imagery—when the gnats and flies and maggots appear and the dead meat just seems to move on its own.

Oswald knew that the only thing that would not ruin, besides the grains and any canned or jarred product, was the alcohol. The wine would be fine. He was counting on it. Ed had managed to cut off the electricity to all the areas where it was imperative that food was kept fresh and chilled or frozen. Oswald estimated the loss to be in the upper thousands. He knew how much food and drink cost. He knew they were taking a hit in the wallet. Even the new line of bed linens stopped flying off the shelves. Where were these made? Do they have bedbugs or lice? This was the accompanying story to the headline of inedible food the next day.

"So," inquired Ed that morning, as the two of them sat in Oswald's office at this old club eating brunch. "Flood?"

"Of course. I have some rowdy teenagers willing to do the job, for a few bucks, mind you."

"Pulling the fire alarms? How old school."

Oswald laughed and raised a brow. "Are you complaining?"

"Hardly. You don't think The Court will hunt down those kids, do you?"

Oswald's face hardened. "I will not allow The Court to ever find those kids." He thought of Boo and fear seized him. He leaned back in his chair, his head pressed into the soft cushion. "I can have an army too. Even if I have to hide my soldiers." He closed his eyes and smiled. "The alarms should be going off right about now." At that moment, he could hear the fire trucks sounding their sirens.

An hour later, he received a phone call from Sebastian Clark asking him to join him and some colleagues for dinner the next evening.

"Just remember," said Ed, after Oswald replaced the phone in its cradle. The cucumber sandwich was sticking to the roof of his mouth and he poked at it with a fork. "You are walking into his domain. He is inviting you into his parlor."

"That is the point," answered Oswald. "But you mean it in terms such as: the spider and the fly?" he asked his friend.

Ed nodded. "If you recall, it didn't end well for the fly."

"I am not the fly in this scenario," Oswald said as he snorted. "I am the spider."