Bruce Wayne had the day off so he was waiting in Dick's favorite chair when the boy came home from school. Dick immediately noticed him and the little blur that usually flew to the door was now flying toward the chair.
"How was the rest of your day, chum?" Bruce asked as he scooped the boy up and gently tossed him on the couch.
"Fine," Dick answered through his laughter.
"That boy?"
"Totally ignored me!" Dick exclaimed happily.
"Master Bruce, you have a telephone call."
Alfred didn't want to interrupt such a happy scene but Commissioner Gordon was on the phone for Bruce Wayne.
"Whoever it is, tell them I'll call back, Alfred."
"It's the commissioner, sir."
"For…me?"
Alfred nodded and Bruce glanced at Dick. The boy was already opening his backpack, preparing to do homework.
"I'll be right back, chum."
Shrugging, Dick replied, "Take your time, I have triple-digit long division and a three-paragraph creative story."
His tone was clearly saying 'poor me' and Bruce laughed. Leaving his ward in the living room, the man went to his study and picked up the phone.
"What can I do for you, Jim?"
"I have some bad news for you, Bruce," the commissioner stated, getting right to the point.
"You can't make it to my dinner party next Saturday?" Bruce asked, his tone light.
"Mark Jerkins escaped," the man said gravely. "Not his brother, though, which is good. The brother is the one with the violent streak."
"Except when Mark is with Dick," Bruce nearly snarled. "How did this happen, Jim?!"
"There was a riot at the State Pen. He escaped in the confusion."
"A ri…are you kidding me?!"
"The guards go for the career villains first when there's a riot, Bruce. We're lucky that he's the only one who got away."
"We are, but not Dick!"
"I doubt he'll come after Dick. He probably knows that the two places we would expect him to go would be the school and your home."
"But you can't be sure, Jim."
Commissioner Gordon sighed and said, "No, we can't be sure. I'm sorry, Bruce. This is our top priority right now because we know he's a danger to Dick."
"No, it's because nobody else escaped," Bruce countered furiously. "Dick wouldn't be your top priority if Joker was out."
There was silence – both men knew the millionaire was correct.
"I'm going to let Batman know, Bruce, so I'll keep you updated."
"You do that, Jim," Bruce snapped sarcastically right before slamming the phone down.
"I'm sorry," the commissioner said to the dial tone.
The millionaire and the butler had both left. The doors leading to the garden were wide open and the boy was by himself. He was leaning over a table and carefully writing on a piece of lined paper. Mark grinned; it was the perfect opportunity.
Dick felt a presence and his entire body tensed. There was no logical reason to be scared but he changed the direction of his creative story anyway:
The boy sat at the table doing his homework. Someone is out there and the boy doesn't know what to do. He's afraid that if he tries to run, he'll get hit with a bullet. He thinks about calling out for help but
A smelly cloth wrapped itself around Dick's face and he instantly went limp. Mark Jerkins scooped the nine-year-old up, turned around and raced out the doors through which he had just entered.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
"Yes, Commissioner?" Batman said gruffly.
He had known this call was coming so he had just stayed in his study. The Bat-phone had begun ringing fifteen seconds after Bruce had hung up on the commissioner.
"There's been a riot at the State Pen, Batman."
"Who?" the hero demanded.
"Only Mark Jerkins, thank heavens."
Thank heavens?!
Batman growled as the words repeated themselves in his mind.
"I already called Bruce Wayne," Commissioner Gordon continued. "I told him…"
"This is my top priority, Commissioner," Batman stated. "I will not let that man get near a child, especially Richard Grayson."
Batman slammed the phone down just as Bruce had done sixty seconds earlier.
"Thank heavens," he growled.
Deciding to check on Dick before going down to the Batcave, Bruce strode to the living room. The boy was gone, the white curtains on the open doors swaying gently in the light breeze.
"He already has him," Bruce breathed in anger. "ALFRED!" he yelled.
The butler arrived in less than five seconds and the millionaire quickly explained the situation.
"My word, Master Bruce, will the poor boy ever have some peace?!"
But Bruce was gone, already sliding down his pole into the Batcave.
The next morning - an old shack in a dense forest just outside the eastern edge of Gotham:
"Wake up, kid!"
The words pounded into his sleepy brain, increasing the force of the headache he already had. Dick sluggishly opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as they adjusted to the bright light above his head. He was seated on a metal chair, his arms behind the back of the chair and wrists tightly tied together with a rough rope.
"It's about time," someone in front of him growled.
Dick slowly lifted his head. The man was short and thin. His muscles weren't overly developed, but they were visible through the short sleeves of his white shirt. A pair of shockingly tight, bright-red jeans were complimented by neon-green tennis shoes. Dick thought he might be dreaming, because who in their right mind would wear an outfit like that?
"Hello, Richard. I'm Oliver, and you have some information I need. You know Batman."
It was a comment, not a question. The man's tone was gruff and there was a trace of an Australian accent. His eyes, their green color as brilliant as the sparkle of a well-cut diamond, seemed to explore every inch of Dick's face. He was searching for a hint of knowledge, but Dick was too lethargic to even accidentally give a clue.
"Tell me what you know," the man commanded.
Dick's mind was still waking up and he couldn't grasp the meaning of the words.
"I'm not a patient man. Tell me what you know!"
"What I…know?" the nine-year-old asked, confusion filling his voice.
"About Batman!"
Batman. Batman was a hero. Bruce was Batman. There was a Batcave underneath Wayne Manor. Bruce had a Bat-pole that took him down there. No matter what. He couldn't say anything about Batman's real identity, no matter what.
"I don't know," he stated confidently, although his voice was trembling noticeably.
"Don't lie, kid! My man saw him talking to you on the playground. I know you know him so you must know who he is!"
Oliver was yelling at him now and dread had replaced the sleepiness in his brain.
"I…don't know," Dick repeated, fear in both his eyes and his voice.
"I said DON'T LIE!"
The last two words were accompanied by a loud 'smack' as the man whipped his hand across the boy's left cheek. Dick cried out in pain but didn't say a word.
No matter what.
If 'no matter what' meant taking a beating well, he'd been through worse. So far, he only had sore wrists and now a throbbing left cheek. This was nothing compared to a fractured rib and two shattered kneecaps.
"You will tell me," the man threatened darkly. "Because if you don't, your rich guardian will find pieces of you scattered around Gotham Harbor."
"You're going to kill me anyway," Dick countered bravely, "so why should I tell you, even if I did know him?"
"You either tell me and die quickly, or don't tell me and die a very slow, very painful death. Bruce Wayne can either have a body to bury or just chunks of flesh and bone."
"Nothing can be more painful than listening to you," the nine-year-old mumbled. He was lucky that the man hadn't heard the insult and immediately commanded himself to stay quiet.
"Do something to make him talk," Oliver said loudly.
Dick didn't know who he was speaking to; there was nobody around them that he could see. Then, from his right, a large man stepped into view.
"Mr. Jerkins?!" the boy exclaimed. "What…how…?!"
"Shut up, Grayson. Even after half a year, I'm still tired of your smart attitude and the way you always show off in class. I'm tired of hearing about how kind Wayne is, taking in an orphan. I'm tired of watching you tumble around at recess and race the boys back to gym and win at everything all the time! I'm tired of YOU!"
The muscular man punched the boy squarely in the chest, grinning when he heard the loud 'crack'. Dick couldn't breathe and bright lights were shooting around the room.
"Bruce!" he gasped painfully.
"He doesn't know where you are," the criminal sneered as he walked behind the chair. "No matter how loud you scream for him, he's not going to come."
This time the punch hit the small of the boy's back and he arched in pain. The movement stretched the broken rib he had just received and tears of agony burst out of his eyes.
"Besides," Jerkins continued, "he doesn't even care about you. Don't you think Batman would have found you by now if Wayne had asked for his help? Nobody cares about you, it would have been better if you had died with your parents."
"No," Dick whispered, "you're wrong. He'll find me."
"He'll find me," the man mocked in a high-pitched voice. "Then why isn't he here?!"
A large fist slammed into the nine-year-old's solar plexus and he immediately raced into the darkness that was beckoning to him.
"You were supposed to make him talk, not knock him out!" Oliver declared angrily.
"Well, let's wake him up then," Mark responded with a smirk.
A well-placed hand shoved itself against Dick's left forearm and the boy shuddered as the loud 'crack' resounded around the room. His eyes flipped open, the light-blue circles glazed over with pain, and he stared at his tormentor.
"Please, stop," he whispered despairingly.
"Let's make a deal," Mark stated. "You tell me who Batman is and I stop beating the crap out of you."
"I…can't."
"Can't or won't," the man snarled.
"I don't know…um, can't?"
"Are you asking me? I think the answer is won't but, obviously, you don't remember. Let me jog your memory, Grayson."
Jerkins spit the name out in disgust before punching Dick in the left eye. Without giving the boy a chance to recover, the man drove his fist into the small chest again. Next came a strong uppercut and the chair toppled backwards.
The nine-year-old stopped moving. His body was limp, his eyes closed and his breathing almost non-existent. Oliver rolled his eyes and walked away.
"I need him alive, idiot," he yelled as he left the room. "Take a break!"
Frowning in disappointment, Mark Jerkins walked away from the motionless body and sat down at the desk on the other side of the room. Pulling out a large book, he opened it to page three and began working on his latest word search.
The Batcave:
Batman was frantic and Bruce was panicking. How had Jerkins been able to get to Dick so quickly? And what was he going to do? And how bad would it be? The man wouldn't go so far as to kill Dick. Batman hoped that was the case but the nine-year-old was the reason that Jerkins had gone to jail so….
"He knew, sir," Alfred stated from behind him.
"Knew what?" Batman asked, whipping his head around to face his butler.
Alfred held out a piece of paper and Batman snatched it – Dick's creative story. The boy had no idea who was there but had assumed that the person would have a gun. Of course, he had heard many stories about criminals in Gotham City. He knew that most criminals carried weapons, and one of the easiest ones to get was a gun.
"Where would he take him?" Batman murmured.
Alfred heard the anger but there was also a tinge of panic that the butler had never heard from Batman. And Alfred had no answers. There had been no other clues upstairs. Batman had already scoured the outside of Wayne Manor and all he had found was flattened grass.
Ding.
The Current Criminal Activity Bat-disclosure Unit had been silently whirring away. Alfred was standing right next to it, so he picked up the card while Batman strode toward him.
"Do you know an Oliver Williams, sir?"
"Never heard of him," Batman replied. "Is that all it says?"
"Oliver Williams – Australia. Armed kidnapping, torture, murder."
The Caped Crusader dropped onto the nearest chair, shock on his face. Alfred had already done the same thing.
"That's a, um, rather horrific list, Master Batman."
Alfred's voice was trembling and neither Bruce nor Batman had ever heard him use a filler word.
"If Dick…but why would the Unit give us this name if Dick isn't with him? This is bad, Alfred. Is Jerkins part of it or is it just ransom?"
"Just, sir?"
"I know, it's stupid to say that. But 'just' ransom is better than torture and murder."
"Indeed, Master Batman," the butler murmured, anguish in his voice.
An old shack in a dense forest just outside the eastern edge of Gotham:
Dick was awake but had decided to keep his eyes closed. He was an intelligent boy and thought that maybe he could hear something useful if his captors thought he was still knocked out. The pain in his entire body was intense, and it was difficult to keep his breathing the same as it had been during his short time in the land of unconsciousness.
"Stupid kid," Mark Jerkins muttered.
His voice was coming closer and Dick's body automatically tensed.
"Oh, so you're awake!" the man growled.
He tried to relax but it was too late. Jerkins grabbed the back of the chair and lifted it. Dick was sitting up again, slightly dizzy but alert enough to look at his surroundings. There was a door right in front of him, maybe sixteen feet away. One window on either side, the bright beams from the sun making him squint when he glanced at them. It looked to be about mid-morning, but he couldn't be sure.
Dick's stomach betrayed him, growling loudly. He hadn't been able to eat dinner last night or breakfast this morning. Maybe they were waiting until lunch to feed him.
The nine-year-old was having trouble breathing. He had heard a 'crack' and assumed something had broken but, having no medical knowledge whatsoever, he had to guess that it was a rib. Did one broken rib hurt this bad? Maybe something else had broken, too.
And then the pain in his left arm registered in his mind. Dick gasped as the broken bone in his forearm made itself known.
"Oh, does something hurt?" Jerkins mocked. "Could it be this?"
Lifting a foot, Mark kicked Dick's left arm and the boy screamed.
"Please, stop," he moaned. "What do you want from me?"
"Batman's identity, just like before," Oliver stated as he re-entered the room.
"I don't…he just talked to me."
"What did he say?!" the Australian demanded.
"I don't remember," the boy whispered bravely.
"It was yesterday!" the man yelled. "How can you not remember?!"
"My head hurts," Dick mumbled, and Oliver growled.
"I have other ways of making you talk, kid. I have lots of toys that I don't mind using on little boys."
Dick had no idea what that meant. Was he going to get another beating or was it something else? The kid in his class had told him what a 'toy' was, so maybe it was that?
"I don't know," he stated as Batman's words echoed in his mind.
No matter what.
"Fine, I'll get my bag," Oliver grumbled. "Jerkins, string him up."