A/N I don't even have a bad excuse, much less a good one.
Disclaimer What yo' mama needs for yo' face. (Isn't that a great insult? I just thought it up.)
Chapter 20
Niko raised his arm, ready to hurl the last paper to its destined porch, and paused. He realized he had forgotten to scan the front page, to be ready with the headlines at breakfast for his father. Because of the early hour at which they were both up—Niko coming home from his paper route and his father ready to go to work, they often were the only two at the table, and Niko enjoyed the quiet minutes of man to man conversation without the intrusive comments of Ariadne or his mother.
Coaxing the rubber band off the roll of newssheet, he flattened the crinkling paper and squinted at the print in the amber glow of a streetlight. There were two major headlines decorating the page, but Niko skipped over them both, his eye drawn to the picture centered on the lower half of the sheet. It was a guy who looked like he was about Niko's age, dressed in a v-necked shirt with a white number seven on the sleeve. One hand held a long, skinny mallet, while the other rested on the neck of the horse that stood behind him. He obviously belonged to a world as far removed Niko's shabby tenement as China was from Gotham, and he was equally obviously no one Niko would know. Except that Niko did.
Sure, the hair was lighter and the clothes were strange, but he recognized the crazy grin and the pale blue eyes that were startling even in the grainy newspaper photo. Feeling confused and not entirely sure he was awake, he raised his eyes to the headline and read, "Wayne ward target in school shooting." Wayne? he thought in disbelief. Like Wayne Tower and the Wayne train? His eyes dropped back to the picture, and this time he read the caption under it, "Richard Grayson, 16." Grayson? he wondered. He never mentioned his last name. Guess I never asked. But it couldn't be him. Could it? His initial recognition was now assailed by doubts. They say everyone's got a perfect double walking around somewhere. He suddenly wished he could show the picture to Ariadne, but of course that was impossible. Shoving the rubber band back on the paper, he tossed it onto the porch and pedaled furiously back toward his own section of town, where people didn't spend money on newspaper subscriptions, maybe because they didn't have porches for them to be thrown on.
Ariadne was sitting on the couch when he got home, dressed for school with her coat and other wraps beside her.
"Why are you up so early?" he asked, glancing around to see if anyone else was up, but the rest of the room was empty.
"Too cold to sleep," she said matter-of-factly.
"Yeah," Niko muttered. The landlord turned the heat down at night, and Ariadne's closet bedroom was the iciest spot in the cold apartment. His eye fell on the pile of wraps beside her. "Hey, is that the scarf Rick gave you for your birthday?"
"Yeah." She picked it up and rubbed it against her cheek. "I always wear it. It's nice."
"Can I see it?"
She held it out and he turned on a lamp to examine the scarf in its light. The texture was incredibly soft between his fingers, but the warmth it immediately trapped was astonishing. And it was pretty, too, the soft brown color almost glowing in the light. He looked for a tag or a brand name, but all he could find was a slightly rough spot, where it looked like some stitches may have been pulled out.
"Do you think it's expensive?" he asked finally.
"Yes. But it would have been pretty crummy of him not buy me a nice present since he can afford it."
Niko stared at her. "How do you know that?"
She shrugged. "He uses expensive soap."
"How do you know what expensive soap smells like?" Niko demanded.
"I just do."
"If you knew he was rich, why didn't you ever say anything?"
"It didn't seem important to tell you, and you didn't ask," she answered sweetly, and Niko pulled at his curly hair in frustration.
"You didn't think it was important to tell me that one of my friends is so rich he could buy our whole block? If he doesn't own it already, that is. He was lying to us!"
"Did you ever actually ask him if he was rich?"
"Well … no," Niko grudgingly admitted.
"Did you ask him where he lived or what his dad's job was?"
"No."
"Do you know all that stuff about all the guys you play soccer with?"
"No."
"So there." Ari cross her arms and settled back against the cushions, looking smug.
"But that's different," he argued.
"It is not."
"Yes, it is! Those guys keep secrets because it's safer that way, not because … because …"
"Because what?" she asked challengingly.
"So they can go slumming!" he burst out. "You think he doesn't go home and laugh about it with his rich friends?"
"No," she replied.
"Well what other reason would Bruce Wayne's ward have for—"
"Bruce Wayne?" she demanded, jerking upright.
Glad he'd finally gotten a rise out of her, Niko sneered, "Yeah, Bruce Wayne. As in, the richest man in Gotham."
She sat silently for a moment and then asked slowly, "Wasn't he the one that sent the mayor that cake when he got reelected?"
"With the dancing girls in it," Niko affirmed.
"How do you know? About Rick, I mean, not the cake."
"His picture was in the paper. There was a shooting at a fancy private school, and they said he was the target."
"He was shot?" she screeched.
"They said he was fine."
Ariadne blew out a loud breath of relief. "Don't scare me like that!"
"Would've served him right," Niko muttered vindictively.
"Why does being rich mean he doesn't really want to be your friend?" Ari demanded, sounding exasperated.
Even though she couldn't see him, Niko vented his feelings in a glare. Ari was smart about some things, but other times she just didn't get it. "Duh!" he said furiously and stormed off to his room.
Gordon glared at his unoffending pencil holder, wondering whether there was any way today could be as bad as yesterday had been It wasn't starting out well. He'd gotten the report on the mysterious jewels—it was almost the entire list of items stolen by the casino cat burglar. The only thing missing was a hair ornament from the museum that was, of course it was, one of the prize pieces of the collection, which meant an international incident was still pending. But what galled him most was the sheer cheek of the gesture. Certainly, he was relieved to be able to hand the jewels back to their rightful owners, but this woman had made monkeys out of his entire police force, to say nothing of Batman. And for what? For kicks.
To make matters worse, his forensics team had been unable to recover any evidence from the package or its contents—it had been mailed in Metropolis several days ago, and that was all anybody knew.
"Come in," he snapped in response to a knock on his office door. He took one look at O'Hara's grim face and knew that the possibilities of today being a better day had just gotten slimmer. "Don't tell me. Some psycho dressed like the Queen of Sheba has kidnapped the mayor, blown up City Hall, and demanded the entirety of Wayne Enterprises as ransom."
O'Hara didn't smile. "A dead guy," he said briefly, dumping a handful of photos on the desk. "Found near the docks with his neck broken. He's got a short and tame rap sheet—petty theft, a little pushing."
Gordon spread out the photos of the corpse, still not sure why O'Hara looked so grim. Then he saw the extreme angle of the man's neck. "How does the coroner think he broke his neck?"
"By hand." O'Hara gestured expressively.
"Have to be a pretty strong guy. Do you know why he was killed?"
"No. But yesterday we found her." O'Hara handed over a second set of photos. They showed a young woman in a miniskirt and heavy coat, her neck bent at the same angle.
Gordon groaned. "You think we have another serial?"
"Maybe. I thought you'd want to know."
No, Gordon thought. No, not really. "Yeah," he said out loud. "I wanted to know."
It was early afternoon as Bruce sat down at the kitchen counter with a protein shake. After preparing for Richard's trip and delivering his ward to the airport early that morning, he had finally made it to bed and had only just gotten up. The kitchen was too quiet. Even though he knew the kid was over a thousand miles away, he caught himself listening for the slam of a door, the sound of feet pounding up or down the stairs. Sighing, he turned on the TV, just to have something fill the silence. GNN flashed their red "Breaking News" banner as an elegantly suited black man stood on the steps of the art museum. A reporter declared, "We're standing here with Egyptian Consul Abasi Mubarak, who is about to deliver a special message concerning the theft of several Egyptian national treasures from the Gotham Museum of Art several weeks ago." She broke off as the consul began to speak in accented but clear English.
"Several weeks ago, some of the most valued treasures of my country were stolen from this museum. These artifacts are not only very valuable but also bear great cultural significance for Egypt. Most of these artifacts have now been anonymously returned to the Gotham City police. These pieces are undamaged, and for this, I and the people of Egypt thank whoever returned them to us. But one piece from the collection is still missing, one of the ceremonial accessories of the ancient high priestess of Bastet. If this artifact is restored undamaged to the people of Egypt, any investigation into the theft will be halted. It is my belief, and that of the ambassador, that the return of our national treasures signifies remorse on the part of the individual who took them, and we wish to emphasize that if the artifact is returned, we will press no charges. Thank you."
The reporter reappeared. "The artifact Consul Mubarak refers to is an emerald studded hair ornament estimated to be three thousand years old. The Gotham Museum of Art is offering a substantial reward for information leading its return. If you know anything about the whereabouts of this artifact, please call the number on your screen."
The hotline number appeared, beneath a photograph of the missing jewelry. Bruce stared at the screen, a biting feeling of dismay clenching itself around his chest. Shoving back from the kitchen counter, he hurried to his study and opened the safe. It was in a velvet lined box tucked into the back corner, safe from any eyes but his own. He opened the box and stared at the contents, willing them to be other than what they were, but there was no doubt: the jeweled headpiece Selina Kyle had entrusted to him was the same one that was missing from GMA.
Selina Kyle was Catwoman.
Just do it already, Niko argued with himself, staring at the black telephone booth mounted on the wall across from the bar. It's just a stupid phone call. Hopping off his stool with an air of determination, he wove across the crowded floor of the club and grabbed the cracked receiver. Fumbling in his pocket, he produced the wrinkled scrap of paper Rick had given him the night of Ari's birthday party. "In case you need to call and schedule a game or something," he'd said. Just thinking of the casual way he'd dropped the remark made Niko angry all over again, but he jammed three quarters down the slot and punched in the number anyway.
It rang three times, and he thought it would probably go to voice mail, as it had done when Ari had tried calling, but the fourth ring was interrupted by a click, and then a strangely accented voice declared, "Wayne Manor, how may I help you?"
Up to this moment, one part of Niko's mind had still clung to the possibility that there might have been a mistake, that the picture in the paper wasn't of the guy he knew after all. But that was definitely out now. He stared blankly at the side of the booth, where someone had scribbled, Like it hott??? Tani 678-1234.
"Hello?" the voice asked politely.
"Uh, hey," he blurted, almost hanging up in dismay over how flat and rough his own voice sounded in comparison. But he plunged ahead. "Is Rick there?"
"I'm afraid Master Richard is out of town just now. May I take a message?"
Master Richard? Wait until Ari hears about this. "Uh … I was just calling to see if he was ok. I read about the school shooting in the paper." Never mind that that had been over a week ago.
"Are you a friend of his?" the voice asked politely.
"I … not really, man. We just play soccer." Niko paused, but when the voice on the other end didn't say anything, he burst out, "He didn't even tell me his last name or nothin'. I just … Forget it." He slammed down the receiver and stood glaring at it. Stupid, he accused himself. Yeah, you were really smooth just now.
He turned away from the phone, determined to seek consolation elsewhere in the club to block out this uncomfortable feeling of embarrassment, when the receiver rang. Niko jerked back around, staring at it, and it rang again. And again.
"You gonna answer that or what?" a surly waitress demanded on her way past with a tray full of glasses.
He snatched up the receiver. "Yeah?"
It was the same accented voice. "I'm terribly sorry, our connection seems to have been interrupted before I could give you the information you wanted. Richard will be away from Gotham for some time. He has gone to see a trauma specialist."
"But the paper said he wasn't hurt!" Niko protested, feeling alarmed.
"He wasn't shot. But he did see one of his classmates kill himself, and, well, it distressed him a good deal. I'm afraid the facility he's visiting doesn't allow cell phones, but if you'll leave your name, I'll be happy to tell him you called."
"Niko," Niko said automatically. "And you can tell him … tell him we can use him when he gets back. If he wants to play."
"I'll tell him. Thank you for calling, sir. Goodnight."
"Goodnight," Niko answered bemusedly, hanging up for the second time. That was definitely the first time in his life anyone had called him sir.
A trauma specialist, he repeated to himself, frowning over the unfamiliar phrase. As far as he could figure out, that meant a head doctor. Niko prided himself on having seen some rough stuff, but he'd never seen a guy blow his own brains out. He guessed that could maybe mess up your head pretty bad, so much that you'd need a doctor for it, maybe.
At least Ari should be happy, he thought, trying to hold on to some of his earlier irritation. After her own call had gone to voicemail, she'd been pestering him constantly to phone.
Skatz's club had some of the hottest dancing in town, which was why he snuck in as often as he could, hoping to pick up new moves, but tonight he had lost his interest in the crowded floor, even though it was still early. Pulling his scarf out of his pocket and zipping up his coat, he slipped toward the back door, supposing he could just as well go home and tell his sister about the phone call as not.
There was a knot of men huddled by the back door in the alley, and as he left the club, one of them jerked a little, as though startled, and stuffed a white paper into his pocket. As soon as they got a good look at him though, they ignored him and went back to their hushed conversation. Niko ignored them in return—whatever they were doing, it was none of his business.
It was a cold walk home, and by the time he was halfway there, he had lost the feeling in his fingertips and the end of his nose. A trash barrel glowed a few feet back in an alleyway, and he edged cautiously toward the ring of men that surrounded it. They tensed and looked at him sharply as he approached, but almost immediately relaxed. No one seemed to mind as he rubbed his frozen fingers together over the heat.
Usually in a group like this, there was a trickle of chatter—friendly or senseless or threatening—the important thing was that the words were part of sharing the fire. But these men stood silent and occasionally cast glances up at the invisible sky.
Niko had only stood there for about a minute when another man entered the alley and approached the fire. Again there was the tension that evaporated as the men shuffled to make room for the newcomer without a word of complaint, even though it was growing crowded around the barrel.
"Thanks," the new man muttered, holding out his hands. "No good trying to keep warm alone."
This cryptic comment sent a stir of uneasiness through the group, and Niko frowned for a moment, trying to puzzle it out, until it dawned on him. The bodies. Rumors had been flying about a string of supposed murders, but he hadn't really taken them seriously. The dead people were all supposed to be criminals—street scum who more or less deserved what they got, and so he hadn't worried too much about it. But these men were worried—enough so that they made room for strangers around their small fire to make the group bigger.
Suddenly, he longed to be at home. Shoving his tingling fingers deep in his pockets, he walked away without speaking, down the dark and icy streets, hurrying until he was climbing the stairs to his own landing. He shoved his key into the lock and hustled inside, trying not to let any of the meager heat escape. But he wasn't too busy to notice his parents sitting at the table, or the uneasy way they stiffened as he came in. He caught a flash of white paper as his father shoved it under a placemat.
"Hi," he greeted them casually, trying not to look curious. Or worried. He really wished they'd just admit he was almost an adult and tell him when something was wrong. He hoped his father hadn't lost his job. Kostos worked road construction in the summer and dropped road salt in winter. As bad as Gotham's roads and winters were, you'd think that a guy would never be out of work, but last week Niko had eavesdropped on a nervous conversation about city budget cuts.
His parents exchanged a meaningful look. "You're home early on Friday night," his mother said, rising from the table and busying herself in the kitchen. "You're not sick, are you?"
"Nah. I just didn't feel like hanging out. Is Ari in her room?"
"No. Demetrios is taking her to a friend's house. She forgot something for her homework, so she has to borrow a book." Athena cast a worried look at the clock. "They should be back by now, don't you think, Kostos?"
Niko's father shook his head. "Not yet." He pulled a library book toward himself and patted his various pockets, looking for his reading glasses. Grumbling under his breath, he stood up and disappeared into the bedroom.
Niko cast a swift look into the kitchen to make sure his mother was still peeling potatoes over the sink, and then he pulled the sheet of paper out from under the placemat and stared at the roughly drawn cartoon. A caricature of the police Commissioner was dressed in a fancy suit, smoking a cigar while playing cards with an equally exaggerated depiction of the mayor. Outside the window, a woman dressed in rags was being stabbed by a man in a mask. The caption read, They only protect who they're paid to protect.
Niko heard the telltale creak of the floorboards as his father began to leave the bedroom, so he shoved the paper back under the placemat and darted into his room to think. He remembered he'd seen another of those flyers in the hand of a man outside the club, although he hadn't known then what it was. But why had his father been so intent on hiding it? People always grumbled about the cops, about how the police only came to their part of the city to play with the vices they were supposed to be stamping out.
It wasn't like someone didn't get killed in Gotham every day of the week, but Niko guessed that people were really taking the latest rumors seriously, and they were blaming the cops for it. Maybe the cops should be blamed. He didn't know.
There was a knock on the bedroom door and Kostos stuck his head in. "Come on. We're going to the train station to pick up your brother and sister."
"What, they suddenly can't walk by themselves? It's just two blocks!" he protested, but Kostos was already gone.
Grumbling, Niko pulled his coat back on and followed his father out the door.
A body a day.
That was what the photos tucked into Gordon's pocket declared. A body a day for ten days. Their necks were always broken. Other than that, there was little to tie the murders together—the victims were men and women, young old, crooks and decent people just trying to scrape by. They had all lived and died in the poorest sections of Gotham, which was why the news of the connection between the killings hadn't leaked to the press yet. As far as the upper classes were concerned, the bodies stuffed in dumpsters were business as usual. But the rest of the city knew—the people who didn't depend on channel 5 to bring them their local news. Cops on the beat reported that the streets were unusually tense, that local toughs were jumping at shadows. They also reported that their job was getting steadily harder, that they were constantly harassed. The investigation into the killings had become next to impossible. If there were witnesses, they weren't talking. The people were blaming the police for what was happening, and given his miserable track record for the last couple of month, Gordon didn't know that he blamed them.
"Are you sure he'll come?" Sarah demanded. They were standing together on the roof of the precinct by the lit bat signal.
"No." In fact, if forced to wager on it, he would pick the opposite answer. Over the years, he had used the signal less and less. It was dangerous, and the city had become so aware of Batman that it didn't need the reminder. But then, the Bat usually volunteered an appearance when something this bizarre was happening. Now for almost two weeks, the masked crusader had been both absent and silent.
"What if he doesn't show?"
Gordon chewed furiously on the corner of his mustache and glared at his detective and girlfriend, wishing he knew exactly which of them it was who was pushing the envelope tonight. Sarah Essen didn't like things she couldn't see, and she had always held the opinion that Gordon risked himself personally and professionally by his reliance on the mysterious Batman. But since the Riddler had emerged, her objections had become increasingly more vocal and now, with this new spate of killings, he got the feeling she was on the verge of some sort of ultimatum.
"It means he's busy," he said finally.
"Doing what?"
"I trust him Sarah. We've fought a lot of battles together. I may not know who he is, but I know him."
She didn't quite snort, but he could read the incredulity in her expression.
"If you want the truth, your being up here increases the chances of his not showing."
She sighed and tried to speak more softly. "Jim, the majority of the force is solidly behind you. We trust your leadership. But a lot of us aren't so sure about him. Sure, he's done us a lot of favors in the past, but he's a volatile ally. You feel that, or you wouldn't have accused him of murder after Harvey Dent's death."
Gordon remembered those few terrible weeks, all those years ago, when the Bat had become a fugitive. The Joker, for unfathomable reasons of his own, had eventually claimed credit for the murders, and the manhunt for the Bat had been called off, but dark suspicions about Batman's innocence remained in the minds of some who could remember that far back. The real truth, that the Bat had taken responsibility in order to preserve Harvey Dent's reputation, had never been revealed and never could be.
"That was a long time ago," was the best answer he could come up with. "A lot of water's gone under the bridge since then."
Sarah's sigh told him what she thought of his response, but she kept quiet.
They waited for an hour, but Batman didn't come.
"The mail, sir."
Bruce caught an odd tone in Alfred's voice, but the butler remained expressionless as he handed over the envelopes and retreated.
The answer, however, was apparent in the top envelope, which bore the return address of Selina Kyle. Tensing, Bruce ripped it open and scanned the brief note.
Bruce- I'm back. Dinner on Tuesday at 7. –Selina
He stared at the unrevealing message in frustration, then tossed it down onto the desk. Not that he had been expecting it to say P.S. Hope you don't mind I'm a jewel thief, but he had been hoping for some kind of clue to whatever the hell game she was playing. By now, she had to know that he knew, since the mysterious return of the final artifact to the museum had been announced on the news.
Groaning, he leaned back in his chair and tried to think. it became increasingly easy to believe that Luthor's personal assistant and the lithe thief of the rooftops were the same person. They were the same size, and they moved with the same easy grace. Both had the same sharp-edged sense of humor and the same flexible idea of morality. In fact, as he began to recall their past conversations, the wonder became not that Selina was Catwoman but that he hadn't realized it a long time ago.
Wincing, he remembered the first time they had met, when she had commented on the poor security at the art museum. At the time, he had written it off as idle conversation, but now her remarks were loaded with obvious meaning.
Once he had absorbed the shock of the revelation, he was left with three urgent questions. First, how much did Catwoman guess or know about Batman's other identity? Second, why did Selina Kyle want Bruce Wayne to know the truth? And third, what was he going to do about it?
During the past week, he had endlessly speculated over the answers to the first two questions, and had come up with nothing productive. Now he forced himself to consider the last question. If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he wanted to accept her dinner invitation, even though it meant faking a return to Gotham. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about their last encounter, and he had dreamt about it more nights than not. Sometimes the dreams ended well, and sometimes they didn't.
He hadn't been seriously involved with a woman since Rachel Dawes, and that relationship had been painful enough to shelter him from every subsequent temptation to romance. He didn't foster any illusions about what had almost happened with Selina in the hotel Jacuzzi—it had very little to do with affection and everything to do with an appetite he'd controlled for so long that the suppression had become nearly automatic. But the fact that she had so easily crumbled years of discipline was only part of her appeal.
He wasn't so idiotic as to think himself in love, but he couldn't deny that he was fascinated.
Selina Kyle was dangerous. Seeing her again was playing with fire. He should blow off the invitation.
On the other hand, he needed to find out how much she knew and what she was going to do about it. The easiest way to get those answers was to talk to her.
And why was he expending so much energy on the problem when there was yet another psycho running loose in the streets, snapping necks? He'd seen Gordon's signal the night before but had been in pursuit of a lead he had hoped would give him some clue to their latest killer. The trail had petered out, as empty as all the others.
Bruce pulled out a piece of stationery and accepted the invitation to dinner.
To Be Continued
A/N Aren't we glad I didn't give up and delete this entire chapter like I almost did?
Cows say moo. Just thought I'd share that.