A hand reached out and clutched a coarse, sweat drenched blanket in a small, dimly lit room that had only the bare essentials – a desk, a chair, a locker to keep one's clothes and of course the bed he now lay upon. Jonathan numbly realized the hand was his own, although he hardly had any sensation in it at the moment due to the intermittent fever and chills running through his body.
When he first was brought to this small room, Ducard had given his men an order "Keep him alive and keep him comfortable." But as Jonathan continued refusing food and only took a little water, the men who came in on scheduled intervals to check on him proved to be poor nurses. They had cold eyes and even worse bedside manners, brusquely removing the untouched food without a word.
As night fell and the room darkened, the illness grew worse and it seemed that Ducard's men had forgotten about him. Jonathan didn't expect much at this point, but the fever seemed to twist his mind in ways even he hadn't anticipated. Thankfully the door was closed and only the slightest muffled sound of men being put through military drills could be heard. A painful loneliness crept into Jonathan's heart and a tear rolled down his cheek. Soon in his misery he sobbed; his trembling hands pressed upon his burning face and a childish voice echoed in the back of his mind:
I want my mom. I want my mom!
But then a more adult Crane thought of Emily, how she might bundle him in a nice warm bed with thick blankets and bring him some hot soup. It was all very infantile and absurd, and Jonathan realized this, even as the fever addled his brain, the tears continued to stream from his eyes and the loneliness hollowed out his heart.
Emily, I wish I didn't leave you now.
Jonathan closed his eyes and his hand loosened its grip upon the sweat soaked blanket.
Dr. Jonathan Crane was finishing his morning rounds at Arkham Asylum as he always had done, although things were different now. He recently had stepped into the shoes of head psychiatrist, replacing Dr. Henry Gooding after his mysterious, yet tragic psychotic breakdown in Mrs. Crane's room during her early morning therapy session. Dr. Crane proved more than adept at shouldering the burden of Gooding's as well as Crane's usual duties and didn't expect this morning to be any different.
As he passed by the nurses' station, clipboard in hand, ready to see his first patient for the morning, Nurse Myers stopped him and mentioned he had a visitor waiting for him.
"I have no visitors on my schedule. If they would like to see me, they must make an appointment like anyone else." Crane stopped a moment. "Is it –?"
"No, it isn't him. A new visitor."
"Then I regretful must decline. Please schedule his appointment with me at some other time, Miss Myers."
Crane was on his way down the hall in his long strided, purposeful steps when Nurse Myers called back to him.
"He's willing to make a very generous donation to the asylum. But I will reschedule as you've requested, Dr. Crane."
He stopped in his tracks and heavily sighed.
"Just how generous is this donation," he asked.
"Please forgive me, Dr. Crane, he didn't cite any figures. I will reschedule."
"No, I will meet with him. If his donation is trivial, our discussion will be a very short one indeed."
Dr. Crane opened the door to the guest suite, a stark contrast to the rest of white washed Arkham with its muted colors. The suite had a fine polished brass handle, plush leather seats and a richly lacquered walnut table. Sitting behind the table wasn't Falcone, as Crane regrettably had grown accustomed to in the last few months in his dealings with the despicable crime boss of Gotham, but a man who was very different from fat cat Falcone.
He was heavy boned and muscular, wearing a fine black suit and a charcoal gray shirt underneath that brought out his storm-colored eyes. Unlike Jonathan, he seemed like a very physical man who had more than a few scuffles in his day as evidenced by his nose, which appeared to have been broken at some time in his life, but oddly did not detract from his rugged charm.
"Dr. Jonathan Crane, the foremost psychiatrist in Gotham City, it's a great honor," the man said.
Crane noted he had a hint of an Irish accent and his mind began to work at what secret benefactor from Ireland might take an interest in Arkham and perhaps if there was a hidden agenda here.
"The honor is all mine, sir," Crane said. "And what brings you to my humble establishment?"
"Oh, it is far from humble. A man like me is always looking for the extraordinary in all things – breakthroughs in science, medicine – psychiatry. Arkham Asylum once was a beacon of hope for many suffering from the scourge of mental illness. Sadly, over the years it has fallen into decay. But word has reached me of a brilliant young psychiatrist who has become the head of this asylum, one with new ideas – daring methods. One who is willing to explore the origins of Fear."
Crane examined the man a moment, trying to gauge whether he was sincere or trying to pry something hidden from him, something that should not be revealed to anyone.
"I am sincerely flattered, ah –"
"Call me Henri."
"Do you have a last name, Henri?"
"Ducard."
"Well then, Mr. Ducard. You are correct in some of your assumptions. I do explore the origins of Fear, but only for the benefit of my patients – to help them. And I was told of a donation on your part by Nurse Myers."
"Ah, a man of business! Something also to be admired."
Ducard slipped from his black coat a check book and something else, which he held tightly in his left fist. Crane gazed warily at the fist, reminded of his high school beatings and realizing what a physically powerful man Ducard was in comparison to Jonathan's slight build. But then Crane remembered the toxin he had hidden beneath his coat sleeve and felt more at ease.
Ducard tore a check out and turned it around and displayed it to him. Crane gazed at the check a moment, waiting for him to write out an amount, but when he didn't and just continued to sit there with a bemused grin upon his lips, Crane said:
"I am a very busy man and have no time for games, Mr. Ducard."
"Oh, this is no game, as you soon will see, Dr. Crane. You are a business man and I will make you very lucrative offer if indeed you are up to the challenge."
"And what 'challenge' are you implying, Mr. Ducard?"
He opened his closed fist and from it tumbled a small blue flower. Crane for a moment thought Ducard would be an apt candidate to be admitted to his asylum or if he wasn't insane, he might be an interesting study if Crane made him a patient. Vaguely Crane's fingers twitched at his briefcase, the Scarecrow mask lying hidden in its dark recesses.
"Now you would give me a boutonniere," Crane spat. "I know blue is my color but I have no taste for flowers."
Slowly Ducard picked up the delicate, slightly withered flower between his thumb and forefinger and gazed at it almost in awe.
"This little flower is the Key to Fear, more powerful than you can imagine. If you can unlock its secret, you may find greater rewards than you ever dreamed of."
"And does that include the donation you promised?"
The excitement and joy suddenly left Ducard's eyes at Crane's words.
"Yes – yes, of course it does."
Ducard turned the empty check around and scribbled out an amount before crumpling it into Crane's awaiting hand.
"Discover what's in that flower. Although others may not know it yet, you are the genius we've been waiting for who can do it – the Psychiatrist of Fear."
As the door slammed shut and Crane was left alone he looked at the amount written on the check – $40,000. He twirled the unassuming blue flower in between his fingers, studying it a moment, wondering what this rich lunatic might want from what looked like a cross between a poppy and a weed.
Well, I'll distill it and discover its chemical properties, but am not expecting much. I can do that while I'm refining some of my toxin inhalants and at least there might be some money involved.
He tucked the blue flower into his suit pocket and forgot about it for the rest of the day.
Dignitaries and the elite of society mingled easily at their circular tables draped with a fine linen cloth, nursing their vintage wines over their poached salmon with a sherry scallop sauce. A large banner spanned the stage, written in bold letters: The Society for the Improvement and Advancement of Humanity. Below this banner sat the honored guests and the committee for the society at a long table. Soon the awards would be given out and recognition to several nonprofits and organizations in the upcoming year.
In the dim candlelight at the table, Jonathan picked at his salmon with his fork, but he had little appetite. He had no taste tonight for the rich food and his mind was on Arkham and all the work he was missing by attending this function, but he couldn't afford to miss it if indeed Arkham was one of the beneficiaries this year; the grant could be substantial. So he suffered with the simpering socialites, the dull conversation, the tedious hours and the boring speeches, awaiting the moment when indeed the grants would be announced.
There was a hum of expectation in the audience as the lights dramatically dimmed and a woman in her early fifties with a stylish yet conservative black gown began with her long and well rehearsed speech about the founding and the mission statement of the society. Jonathan tried to stifle a sigh; he had heard this speech before and he felt his impatience grow much as it does toward the ramblings of an insane patient.
"And now, with your generosity and in keeping with the spirit of our founder, we will bestow the awards and grants on the following organizations," said woman in the black dress.
Slowly, dramatically she opened the list and began to read.
"To Anne Harkness House, we bestow $250,000 for the shelter for battered women."
Jonathan's eyes wandered around the table, gazing at the wealthy patrons whose eyes were riveted to the speaker, their polite smiles glued to their faces. He gazed at their fine clothes and the jewels about many of the matrons' necks, many of which would pay handsomely for his research at Arkham. How he hated having to scrape and beg for funds at these charity functions!
"To Anthony the Martyr Hospital, $2.5 million for construction of its new patient wing. To Astoria Retirement Home, $150,000 for its community-based assisted living facilities."
Jonathan suddenly froze, his fork pressed firmly between his thumb and forefinger. He stared at the woman, wondering if there had been some mistake. Perhaps she had skipped over one by accident?
"To Bethany Hospice, $15,000 for its in home care of the dying."
No! It can't be. They couldn't have overlooked me! Not the crucial groundbreaking work I'm doing! A hospital, a shelter – a nursing home! What do they know of the inner workings and complexities of the mind? What do they know of the meaning of Fear!
The fork clattered to the china plate loudly and startled some of the wealthy patrons at the table, who gazed at Jonathan in disapproval.
"If you mind," gasped a wealthy woman, a string of pearls studded with diamonds and emeralds glittering from her throat.
Jonathan gazed at the necklace – that alone would pay for his research for several years he was sure.
But wealth is wasted on frivolous, empty-headed people like you – like all of you who have the money to give out to stupid causes like – like –
"To the Dalmation Rescue and Rehabilitation Society, $5,000."
I can't stay here! I can't listen to this idiocy any longer. I'm wasting my time when I can be back at Arkham doing something meaningful!
Jonathan slid his coat off his chair and stooped, trying to make his departure from the table as unnoticeable as possible.
"What? You're leaving Dr. Crane," asked one of the gentlemen. "In the middle of the grants ceremony?"
"Please forgive me, but I have a very pressing matter at Arkham Asylum that demands my attention. It's been a pleasure making your acquaintance."
They still gazed in stunned shock as he folded his coat over his arm and carefully wound his way around the chairs in the darkened auditorium and made his way out the door. Her voice still echoed through the open door as she continued down her list.
"To the Dandelion Children's Daycare –"
Jonathan slammed the door shut so he wouldn't hear her voice anymore.
Darkness shrouded the docks and wetness gleamed upon the concrete as the workmen were busy loading crates on to barges and huge steamer ships, looming huge and ominous in the moonlight. A man in a long black coat gazed with little interest at the work going on into the late hours of the night. He checked his watch, then turned at the sound of approaching footsteps.
Henri Ducard grinned with some amusement.
"Punctual as always, Dr. Crane. Although I must confess, after our last appointment I had the impression you might not meet me again."
Jonathan's face tensed, his lips pursing as he gazed around at the workmen busy, but safely out of earshot. They were quite alone and assured of their privacy.
"You said you were willing to make me a lucrative offer if I met you here. So here I am," said Jonathan.
"Here you are indeed," said Henri with great satisfaction. "Come, let's start walking. I must say I was most impressed with how easily you were able to analyze and extract the chemical compounds from the blue flower I gave you. You have great potential, more than I believe many realize."
"And what do you see in me, Mr. Ducard?"
"A wonderful future, but one you don't yet see perhaps. You're frustrated, alone in your endeavors. No one sees your genius, appreciates your hard work. When someone has a vision, one so unique from the rest of the world, it's not always accepted, even when it is to the world's benefit and only you can see it."
Jonathan stopped walking and studied the older man's eyes, filled with pain but also fire at whatever vision only Ducard could see.
"What have others told you about me," Jonathan asked.
Ducard hesitated a moment, his grin gone, all seriousness in his face and gray eyes.
"That you've worked for all you've achieved, Jonathan. That you've made great sacrifices for all you've accomplished and you should be very proud of that. Your research – namely in Fear – the origins of Fear is what fascinated me. It is what brought me here to you – and to this city."
"Gotham City? I fail to see how this has anything to do with the business proposition you spoke of."
"Oh, but it does, Jonathan. It is your home, but it also is seething with corruption and crime. The only way to remedy this is to weaken the power structure of this corruption. That little blue flower you synthesized is just the beginning, but from such beginnings how the mighty do fall!"
Jonathan gazed at the shining lights of Gotham City, but also knew all the deep shadows, the filthy alleys, the simmering corruption, the crime taking place even at this moment at the hands of Falcone.
"If I didn't know better, I would think you were one of my patients back at Arkham, suffering from delusions."
"No, I don't think you do, because from such madness is born genius," said Ducard. "Money is power, but hold the city to ransom and then who does hold the power?"
"Are you saying we will be the ones terrorizing the city," asked Jonathan, his eyes growing cold. "Demanding ransom in exchange for innocent lives?"
"Ah, you are far too dramatic. Nothing so dire. No innocent life will be hurt – only the corrupt and the criminal will suffer. But we need something – Fear – as leverage to make our ransom work, to destabilize their power structure. We will use the drug, derived from the blue flower, and bring it into Gotham – and I will need your help."
Jonathan kept his face an unreadable mask and his eyes cool and distant while inside he was in turmoil and doubt. As Ducard kept talking, the warmth vanished from his eyes and fire replaced them until Jonathan realized that the man he originally met at Arkham was someone very different now, perhaps someone sinister and deadly.
Jonathan gazed at Ducard a moment and paused, the air thick with silence. Ducard was anxious for his answer, almost demanding it with his tense body language as though every muscle was ready to spring into action.
"I am sorry, Mr. Ducard. But I fear you have made the wrong choice. I am not the man for the job. You see, I am no criminal and have no desire to be one."
Jonathan turned around and began to walk away down the gleaming docks, keeping his line of sight toward the ships and the wading barges, no longer gazing at Ducard who was just a few feet behind him.
"Tell me, Jonathan, is it by mistake then you work for Carmine Falcone?"
Jonathan suddenly stopped and closed his eyes. He could hear Ducard slowly approaching him, his footsteps nearly muffled upon the damp concrete.
"Jonathan, it's okay. There's no need to worry. I am not with Falcone. I only ask you this: Do you want to work for Falcone forever?"
He lightly sighed and opened his eyes.
"No, not forever."
"But you must – for the money, for your research. Then I must tell you after this, never will you need Falcone, never will you have to bow or grovel to any of those rich empty-headed buffoons you have to curry favors from just to keep your asylum running."
The thought was attractive even though there was a warning deep within Jonathan's heart. There was always a price to pay no matter how good an offer seemed. Every quick and easy answer Jonathan had tried in the past seemed to crumble in his hands or twist into an outcome he hadn't expected.
"Don't be a slave to Falcone!"
"Instead I would be your slave, Henri?"
Ducard paused – it was the first time Jonathan had used Ducard's first name and he seemed genuinely touched.
"No, Jonathan – never. You will help bring in the shipments and place it in the water supply. You yourself said the drug is harmless ingested. But this will be enough to shock the corrupt and give us the leverage we need."
"It's too risky and I have a reputation to keep."
"Of course, you will keep complete anonymity. The ransom will take place through a separate party – a league of sorts."
"And the toxin will not be released on anyone?"
"Not unless you give the word on it," said Ducard.
"Very well. And what happens after the ransom?"
"Twenty percent of the ransom will be delivered to you – say $10 million. Then the rest is up to you if you want to have further dealings with me. You and Gotham City may never see me again if you wish."
Jonathan nodded, wondering if this was all a lie, a carefully planned plot to seduce him into a scheme. Perhaps Ducard was working for Falcone and this was just to ensnare him and then kill him for his betrayal. But never to be beholden to the snobs of society and to have that kind of money for research would be of great use to him. That was more money than he could ever hope for from Falcone, especially when of late he was more interested in exchanging favors than cash.
"Do we have a deal," asked Ducard.
Jonathan's hands were cold and his heart suddenly raced within his chest. He studied the gentle smile upon Ducard's lips, the warmth in his eyes again.
This could be my death – or a new life.
He raised his trembling hand and quickly and firmly Ducard grasped it and shook it within his.
"A wise decision, Jonathan. I thank you and mankind will thank you. Whether you realize it or not, tonight you are a hero."
Then why do I not feel like a hero, Jonathan thought as a sinking feeling settled into his heart.
He suddenly gasped and opened his eyes. The blanket no longer was damp and pale sunlight filtered through the small, heavily grated window that was high to the ceiling, reminding Jonathan of a room in a basement – or a cell. His eyes wandered about the room and slowly he recalled what had happened to him since that fateful night, that night that had changed everything for him. There had been no money after all; no promise of a bright future, no secure funds for Arkham Asylum, which now lay in ruin thanks to Ducard's scheme. It was betrayal and deceit on a massive scale and Jonathan, as much as he was awash in bitterness and hatred toward Ducard, was filled with self-reproach at not rejecting his proposal outright.
You know how these always end, Jonathan Crane and now you've lost what you most love.
He swallowed, his throat dry and hot, and reached for the glass of water on the table. Jonathan began to drink thirstily, even the room temperature water seeming refreshing and when he was ready to set it back on the table, he heard:
"Glad to see you're finally awake."
Jonathan nearly dropped the glass in shock. He hadn't seen anyone in the room. Was it Ducard? No it couldn't be, not in this early hour and not in his room! He gazed in panic at the four walls and saw no one.
"You knew you would not be rid of me so easily, Jonathan."
Within his mind he felt Scarecrow crawling up from the depths of his subconscious, but this time he was not creeping like a thief, hoping Jonathan would approve of his presence. This time he emerged with more bravado, triumphant and proud, his presence like a scythe ripping through the clouds of thought.
"Ah, Jonathan at last, we shall make something of ourselves, you and I. What great things we shall do together!"
Jonathan fumbled within his pants pocket, searching for his medication bottle, realizing it must have been over 14 hours since his last dose – which might be enough to give Scarecrow a solid foothold into his psyche.
"Jonathan, don't fight me. It's destiny you and I are together. Gotham City will be ours and Emily, ah sweet Emily – is there something wrong, Jonathan? You're trembling."
He was frantically searching his pants pockets, turning them inside out and even grabbed the suit coat that had been thrown over the chair next to the bed and dug through its pockets too.
The pharmaceutical bottle containing his schizophrenia medication was gone.