Author's Note: Happy two-fer Tuesday, lovely readers!
"It's tricky," Bruce whispered as they crouched close together in a shadowy passageway across the street from the Harbormaster's office.
It's wide open, Dick moaned to himself, studying the building that stood surrounded by public parking for the marina. During the day there would have at least been cars to crouch between, but after dark on a Sunday evening the lot was mostly empty. The town's budget crisis had not yet, it seemed, extended to shutting off parking lot lights, adding to the difficulty of reaching their destination undetected. "I can probably manage it easier than you can," he breathed back. "I'm smaller, so I'm less likely to be seen, and if someone does see me I have a better chance of getting away without having to punch anybody who's just trying to be a good citizen."
"Mm. Give me a minute to think."
Holding back a sigh, the teen's eyes wandered towards the marina, where just over twenty four hours ago he had watched a good man be killed. I'm so sorry, Bryant. He still felt guilty for not doing something to save him, but at least he was trying to help the people he'd left behind.
He shifted slightly, ignoring the glare Bruce aimed back at him as he tried to fan a little air under his heavy sweater. Alfred had found them a deserted gravel overlook within walking distance of town to change in, and he'd tried again to get away with not wearing it, but the butler had pointed to the line of dark clouds blotting out the stars on the horizon and insisted that it would be needed before the night was through. When Bruce had jumped into the debate and stated that he didn't want it to be obvious that they were armored, Dick had known he was defeated. Now, though, he was wishing he'd fought harder. I'll probably have freaking heat exhaustion if I have to run far in this thing. Ugh.
"Okay." Bruce's low voice interrupted his thoughts. "I want you to see if there's a back door. If there is, try to pick that. No point in picking the street side if we can avoid it. Radio when you're done, and I'll join you."
"Gotcha." Sneaking forward until he balanced just on the edge of the light that bathed the sidewalk, he looked both ways cautiously. No vehicles; no pedestrians. The shops along the street were all closed, he knew; Alfred had driven along the street once they were in position and relayed as much to them. Go.
He sprinted, keeping his head tucked so that if he was somehow spotted it would be difficult to tell that he was masked. Just a crazy kid out running. Nothing to see here, he thought as he rounded the back of the building and pressed his back against the wall. Taking stock of the layout, he slipped several steps to the right and curled himself into the black corner where a short staircase led up to the rear entrance. A stiff wind blew in off the water, sending a few pieces of garbage skittering past. Nothing else moved, and after sixty seconds the teen vaulted himself silently onto the top step and slipped a pick from his belt.
It was a simple residential knob and dead bolt, and both gave quickly under his experienced maneuvers. He slipped inside, keeping the knob turned so that the door would shut without a sound. It was a small building, and someone had been kind enough to pull all the blinds and forget to turn off a desk lamp in the main room. The office in one corner that Dick assumed belonged to whoever it was that actually bore the title of Harbormaster was locked, but no light shone around the entrance and the only sound from inside was the clicking of a ceiling fan. "Premises clear," he whispered after a glance into the bathroom. "Back's open."
"Pinned. Dog walkers."
Fine. I'll start without him. "Proceeding," he informed him, straightening.
"Affirmative."
A huge grid of cubbies covered the back wall of the main room, and he gravitated towards it automatically. Each square was labeled with a unique letter and number, starting with A1 at the top left, and every slot held at least one cardboard tube. So these must correspond to a particular map… He circled the room, searching, but none of the framed cartographs bore marks that matched those on the shelves. Damn. Maybe it's in the back. He turned away with the intention of searching the locked office, then whipped around again as something flashed at the edge of his vision. Ah ha, he grinned towards the battered beige contraption hanging from the ceiling. Spring-roller system. Nice.
Snagging a chair, he climbed up and began pulling down on the handles, revealing four charts before he found the one he wanted. Okay, now I've just got to find Hawthorne Island… He peered at the small type in the semi-darkness, straining his eyes. This thing covers a lot of area, he realized. The island might not even be labeled, depending on how big it is. All I know is that it's close enough to land that there used to be a bridge. Frowning, he dug a small plastic magnifying glass out of his belt and began to scour the areas near shore.
"Find anything?" Bruce's voice sounded in his ear without warning. Dick jumped away in surprise, teeth digging into his lip as he held back the startled cry that ached to escape him. His hands came up, prepared to fight, before he realized who had snuck up on him.
"Not cool!" he hissed. "You could have radioed to say you were coming in!"
"I thought you heard me," the man shrugged.
"No one ever hears you," the boy muttered, scowling uncharacteristically as he wiped at his mouth and returned to his search.
"…You do sometimes," the masked billionaire countered, frowning. You're the only one who manages it regularly, in fact. "Having trouble?"
"Help me find this stupid island, would you?"
Grabbing his own magnifier, he began at the edge opposite where Dick was looking and worked his way along slowly. Mm. There are several outcroppings that don't have names. This might take longer than I thought. I hope the designation Margie gave us is the official name, not just a local one.
"Found it!" came a pleased whisper on the heels of his concern. "E5." Pulling down on the chart, he let it roll slowly back up, then froze on his tiptoes. "Uh…nameless compadre? Assistance?"
Bruce bit back a laugh as he realized that the teen was too short to finish guiding the map back up without letting go of it and risking excessive noise from the weighted bottom hitting the metal case. He took the handle from him, finishing the job while his partner pulled out the single tube in the section of wall bearing the proper label.
"Cool. There's one in here that's nothing but Hawthorne Island. Margie wasn't kidding, this place must have been popular back in the day." As he spoke he spread a chart open on the counter. "Wow. She wasn't joking about the caves, either."
It's going to take all night if we have to search the whole island, Bruce thought.
Glancing over to ask how his partner wanted to tackle that particular problem, he noticed that the teen was sucking on his lower lip. "What are you doing? You're going to wipe all the makeup off." Alfred, ever the details man, had produced the materials to expertly cover the scar above the teen's chin, pointing out that if they did find Gina it would be a dead giveaway as to who was behind the mask. Reminded that there were additional elements to his costume this evening, Dick immediately released the flesh he'd been worrying.
"It was bleeding, I was just trying to keep it from going everywhere."
"…You bit through it again," the billionaire said slowly. "When I startled you? Is that when you did it?"
He didn't meet his mentor's eyes. "I didn't bite through it," he insisted. "I just…nicked it. It's fine." Please stop looking guilty. Please? "Did I really mess up the makeup?"
"…I don't think so. It looks all right," he deemed after examining him in the low light. I thought you knew I was here, he lamented. I wasn't trying to scare you.
"Okay. Good. Look, I think that depending on what we find when we get to the island the best way to search is going to be to split up." His finger traced along the lines marked West Point Bridge – washed out. "They won't be on the beach, that would be too obvious, especially since there's a shipping lane the runs pretty close by. There are several places on here, though, that look like they'd make good hiding spots. I'll take the high road and check out this forested area near the middle of the island and the old lighthouse. You should take the caves. It'll make you feel more at home," he elbowed him teasingly. "What do you think?"
"I don't like the idea of splitting up, but I don't think we have a choice if we want to find her before dawn."
"That was my thought."
"Let's keep that as our tentative plan for now. I reserve the right to change it depending on what we find when we get out there."
"Deal. How are we going to get onto the island?"
Bruce's fingers went to the grappling gun at his waist. "The channel between the mainland and island is only about fifty yards wide total," he pointed out. "If any of the bridge infrastructure is still there, which this map seems to be indicating it is, we should be able to swing across with no problem. We can climb down to the water and go from there."
"What's that, you say? An excuse to fly? I'm in."
"All right." He rolled the chart back up to put it away, then paused as he found Dick still staring at it. "…Was there something else?"
"No," he shook his head. He'd zoned out for a second, trying to decide where they would find the girl. If she's even on the island, he taunted himself. What if Margie's wrong? You could be wasting your last chance to find her searching the wrong place. "Hey, Br- unmonikered man," he covered quickly. "…She'll be there, won't she?"
He smiled sadly, the yearning worry in his son's eyes making his stomach twist. "I hope so. The only way to know is to check."
"…I just wish we knew, you know?"
"I know," he sighed back. "Come on. Let's check on those temporary slips," he diverted the topic, sliding the tube back into its space on the wall. "Unless you already did it before I got here?"
"No, I got distracted by the map." They searched the front desk and quickly found a binder entitled 'Daily Slip Rentals.' "This is it," Dick said, his voice growing eager again as he flipped through it. "A45, A45…Vacant. A46…Vacant." He flipped through the records on the rest of the slips they'd been unable to determine from the Harbormaster's computer, only finding a few names. Reaching the month's rental history for the spot at the very end of the dock, he went still, his eyes wide. "Hoooooly shit."
"Watch it," Bruce warned mildly, coming over from where he'd been examining a forecast from the Weather Service. Alfred was right; there's a pretty nasty storm heading this way. Great, just what we need. "What is it?" he asked, dropping a gloved hand onto his shoulder and squinting down at the paperwork. Why did they have to write it in pencil? You can't read pencil in the dark.
Dick pointed out what had grabbed his attention. "Matthew Graves. He rented the slip at the end of the dock, just for Friday. He doesn't even have a boat." His eyes slid down the page. "…But Jack Dunaway does," he added, tapping the register. "A 40 foot yacht called the Irish Mogul." He raised his head to meet Bruce's eyes. "They came off of Dunaway's boat, out of a spot rented by Matt. He…he helped kill his own brother."
The billionaire sighed, squeezing his shoulder tightly. "Well," he said lamely, "I guess holy shit about sums it up."