While Dahlia lay unconscious in the master bedroom, broken and battered from the long and dark night, Crane sat atop a kitchen counter. He was slouched, arms rested on his thighs, hands clasped together, as his glaring eyes stared blankly towards the floor. A systematic series of decisions were being made, almost impulsively, framed with the sound of pouring rain.
After a moment, he slid himself onto the floor and walked to the telephone. He lifted the receiver and dialed a number recently committed to memory. As the line rang, Crane adjusted his sweat-spotted, roughened shirt. His eyes glanced to a dried stain at his chest, observing the blood and remembering how it was acquired. It got there just hours ago from Dahlia's bleeding arm, pressed against him as he had carried her inside from the porch. She wasn't well enough to even begin to tell him what had happened that night, but he had enough information to make an educated guess. And the smeared blood was the resolve he needed to make a move.
The line picked up, and a man with a gruff voice answered, "Lou Rhodes."
For just a faint moment, Crane wondered if his next words were going to be worth the backlash to follow. He knew that he and Lou had at least one thing in common: They weren't the type of men to bow to threats. Well maybe they had two things in common, he thought, as he glanced again to Dahlia's blood stain. He knew he had leverage. Authoritatively, he greeted, "Good morning, Officer Rhodes. It's rather early, I know. Or maybe I should say late?"
There was a pause before Lou sighed with annoyance, and clarified, "Is this who I think it is?"
Crane almost forgot how much he loathed Lou Rhodes. "Ooh, you recognized me so quickly, eh? My younger self would have killed to be so memorable."
"I'm five minutes away from busting your door down. Where is she, scumbag?"
The fire burned in Crane's chest. He didn't have any desire to hold back. "So, Lou, got a question for ya. What could have possibly happened at home to make Dahlia recognize that it wasn't safe for her?"
The change of Lou's tone of voice was telltale to his rising fury. "You've got some pretty big balls, you know that? I'm going to love getting my hands around your fucking throat."
"I wonder if it'll be as easy to snap as Dahlia's." The dark comment silenced a rebuttal. Crane added, before much pause fell between them. "Let's just go ahead and skip the quarreling and get down to brass tacks. Expectation number one: If you come anywhere near me or this house, I'll go into the other room and slice every inch of your daughter's body open like a roast suckling pig." He heard the other end of the line crack loudly. Crane waited a second to hear anything. When he heard a faint exhale, he continued. "Expectation number two: You won't tell a soul about this conversation. You're going to take a personal leave of absence and answer phone calls only from me."
"And do fuck all?"
"Until your new boss comes a-calling."
Another crack or two from the other end of the line again, and the sound of plastic shattering. The connection crackled but didn't drop. Faintly, Lou shouted. Then he hissed into the receiver, "Just you wait, fucker. Just wait. You punks always think you can get around people like me. You have no idea."
Crane sighed with fatigue from the long night. In for the kill. "Get a grip, Lou. She'll be safe in the meantime. I've actually grown quite fond of having a feminine presence around, believe it or not. Especially someone so easy on the eyes. Between us, I'd prefer not to maim a woman so talented with moving her hips."
The cracking, banging noise picked up again with a masculine scream before the line went silent. Satisfied, Crane gently hung up the receiver.
Two mornings later, Crane stood in his kitchen with two teacups. Resting in each was a tea bag, but one alone contained a small pool of a clear liquid. Sedatives weren't his specialty, but he had been practicing with them lately. It took some time to kick into Dahlia's system, but it worked like a charm. He hoped she would sleep peacefully through the evening as he needed. Much as he wanted to be near her, especially after that terrible night, there was something he needed to take care of.
Along with two other men, the Scarecrow took a ride over to Lou Rhodes apartment after the sun set. A third man assigned to watch the building already radioed ahead to let them know that Lou and Linda were both home. And when Lou opened the door to greet them, he looked intensely at the ready. Linda was sitting quietly on the sofa, appearing freshly showered with hair still damp. The bags under her tired eyes sagged liked a wet curtain on a clothesline.
The men wasted no time. One scouted the perimeter of the disheveled apartment, adding to its disarray by rudely pulling some objects to the floor at random. Some books, some papers, some knick knacks, it didn't matter. The other man was keeping watch by the door, with a tactical rifle at the ready. Lou appeared visibly confused by their actions, and glanced towards the sound of a particularly loud crash as they yanked some kitchen shelving down, sending dishware to the vinyl sheet flooring.
The Scarecrow beckoned Lou to sit by Linda, then it took a seat itself at the edge of their coffee table. There, it addressed its primary concern, voice moderately distorted and deepened by the mask. "It's Linda Reinhart, is that correct?"
Sober, exhausted, scared Linda nodded weakly. Her lower lip trembled.
"And you're the one who beat Dahlia?"
Lou's eyes cast down. It took a shamed moment for Linda to finally nod through watering eyes. This talk seemed like it had already happened between the two. Next, the Scarecrow addressed Lou directly.
"And ... how did you respond to that?"
The response was aggressive, as expected. Yet also restrained. "She's leaving, and I'm pressing charges."
Crane felt that answer lacked resolve.
"Hm." The Scarecrow looked back to Linda. "That good enough?" Both appeared visibly confused, unsure of what they were supposed to say or do next. Then the Scarecrow stood, withdrew a pistol from its waist, aimed it at Linda, and fired a bullet into her head.
The piercing action came completely unexpectedly, and Lou and the man with the rifle both had flinched at the sound. Crane and the other man didn't waver. Linda's body fell limp and slumped to her side as blood began rushing out from the wound between her eyebrows, soaking the cushion and rushing to pool on the floor. Her skin was already growing more pale. Lou's throat was seized, hardly able to react.
The Scarecrow answered its previous question.
"No, that's not good enough. Not for my ... 'Mistress of Fear.' I'm honestly pretty astounded: Her own father failed at delivering justice. That doesn't say a lot of great things about you, Officer Rhodes, on multiple levels." In another moment, the Scarecrow dispensed a plume of the toxin from its sleeve and into Lou's weeping face. The man didn't move, except to futily attempt controlling his coughs. The way his pupils shrunk when looking back to the Scarecrow confirmed the compound's effectiveness.
The Scarecrow barked to its men. "Light it up."
It was too distracted to notice that the man with the rifle didn't jump straight to attention. After a hesitation, the man caught up with his colleague and joined in on splashing gasoline across all surfaces and furniture. Eyes not leaving Lou, the Scarecrow leaned closer to him to observe the reaction. Fascinating that nothing about the mask seemed to spark the same level of intense fear from the others. Lou was probably too distracted by the death that took place in front of his eyes moments ago, and from the rage of seeing Jonathan Crane in grabbing distance. The Scarecrow could forgive that.
"Man to man, monster to monster, I never did like you either. Your will to act is lacking. You just don't care at all, do you?"
After a moment, the unflinching man threw a lighter at a painting hung between the bedroom doors. Flames quickly grabbed on and spread, engulfing the section of wall in a matter of seconds. The man stood there a moment to admire his work, then started back towards Crane in the front room.
"Let's get to know each other better at Arkham. Sound good, champ?"
Finally something reacted. Lou's coughing turned into shouting, and he was fixated on the Scarecrow's eyes. Much to its surprise, Lou possessed the strength to wildly swing a right hook straight into its cheek. The movement followed through and pushed them both sideways to the floor. Crane grunted with frustration and scrambled up onto his knees, feeling red with rage. He aimed the pistol again, this time at Lou, pressing the muzzle into his head. His fingers were trembling.
"Do it!" The comment fueled Crane's rage. Lou managed to shout between his cries of terror. "Do it, freak! You freak! Fucking freak!" Again and again he shouted.
An inch was holding the Crane's finger rigid, unable to fully squeeze the trigger. It was almost physically discomforting, rattling his entire skeletal frame. Then the heat of the spreading fire pulled him back into the present, back into the Scarecrow's body.
Just one inch. Give her that one inch.
Lou was still shouting but the Scarecrow wasn't processing it anymore. With a barking command, it waved its men to leave as the fire grew.