Chapter Two

It was midnight, and all was well in Gotham City.

Or, to be more correct, all was as well as could be ~expected.~

The thought didn't comfort Terry, however, as stood alone and silent on the Brown Bridge, his jacket zipped up against the chilly air. He'd been there alone several times before at that time of night - even out of the suit. This time, though, it felt strange. A light fog hung in the air like a lazy insect, and it was little too quiet for his taste. But he had come out to the old bridge to think, after all, so quiet should have been welcome to him. But it wasn't.

The gentle slosh of the river below was soothing, though. He leaned over the railing and gazed at the water licking at the bridge's support beams. He stared for a moment and started in surprise as something shiny amid the waves caught his eye. The more he tried to focus, however, the dimmer the object seemed. It took him a few moments to realize he was having trouble seeing because the fog had become thicker and was covering everything in a blanket of haze. Terry squinted, trying to focus, but it was useless. The shining thing - whatever it was - had shimmered from view as the fog became more and more dense.

He backed slowly away from the railing, growing slightly alarmed as the wind blew harder and his vision grew dimmer and dimmer. He fumbled at his pockets for his cell phone, and his alarm turned to decided uneasiness when he realized it wasn't there. He never went out - especially at night - without the phone. It was his link to Bruce and the "civilized" world. How else would he know if there were a problem or emergency?

He fought to remain calm. In his haste to get out the house, he'd probably left the phone in his other pair of pants. No big deal. He exhaled slowly, reaching up to tap his left shoulder, as if to reassure himself that his suit, at least, was still there. With the fog coming on so, there were bound to be traffic snarls, and accidents that he could help avert, and -

Terry stopped short, his breath leaving him in one shocked wheeze as he discovered that the backpack, too, was missing. His unease was replaced with a cold, biting fear. He looked around, frantic - had it slipped off somehow? He'd dropped it somewhere on the bridge, maybe. He could discern nothing, however, in the immutable wall of gloom. It was as if the world had been drained of color, leaving only a seemingly immovable screen of stark white behind. It'd be fascinating, he thought irrelevantly, if it weren't so, well, ~weird~.

"Terry?"

He whirled at the voice. Though the wind was howling in his ears, he could hear the voice. It was low and soft, muffled somewhat, but familiar.

"Who's there?" His voice was equally low and cautious, every muscle primed to react if the answer he received was not good. Of all the nights to be without the suit . . . its IR sensors would have been able to cut through the fog like a hot knife through butter. "Hello?"

"Terry?"

He heard footsteps, and then, like the parting of a curtain, a figure appeared through an aperture in the fog. The person walked steadily toward him, and Terry's eyes went wide with shock and recognition as the person advanced.

"~Dana~?" his voice bled disbelief. "Uh . . ."

He stared, mouth agape. The petite girl stood before him with a slight smile on her face. She was clad in her usual attire of blue dress and black boots. And that was all - there was no jacket, no sweater, no scarf, even, to buttress herself against the cold. Terry immediately shucked his jacket, moving to wrap it around her bare shoulders. "How did you know I was here? I thought . . ."

His voice trailed off as she moved closer, slowly, every step as measured and graceful and smooth - almost as if she were floating. The fog had lifted somewhat and he could see her, and most of his surroundings, clearly again. Well, almost. He moved closer, turning toward her with a wide smile, and -

The smile on his face dropped at the same time the fog did. Terry blinked once, twice, a third time . . . staring dumbly, not at the lovely face of the girl he called his own, but at her hair. The lengthy strands fluttered in the breeze like something out a film noir. The effect was rather sexy actually, the hair whipping around that way.

But her hair . . . Dana's hair. Dana's hair?

It was . . . pink.

Pink like the carnations on his dining room table, like the bottle of lotion on his mother's vanity, like the little pills Bruce Wayne took to keep his heart still ticking.

Pink.

Terry began to shiver, and he knew it had nothing to do with the weather.

"Uh, Dane . . ." he paused, suddenly at a loss for words. Could it be the light, maybe? Or was he having some Batcave-induced hallucination? "Dana, your hair. It . . ."

She was an arm's length away from him then, and the gap became even narrower as she grabbed him by his black T-shirt and pulled him close.

"Dana," he stared down at the Technicolor locks, tentatively wrapping a tendril around his forefinger. The petal-like hue was a stark contrast against the peach of his finger. "Uh . . .this is a new look for you. It's . . . um . . . interesting. When did you, uh . . ."

He didn't finish, for suddenly, they were kissing. Terry couldn't be sure how it started or who initiated it, but there they were standing in the middle of the bridge in a lip-lock minted straight from a movie. Any feelings of unease he had drifted away as the kiss grew deeper and more passionate. He held her tightly, paying no attention to the conditions. It didn't even seem that cold any longer. At that moment, his world began and ended on her lips, and nothing mattered. Nothing at all.

The kiss ended as abruptly as it had begun, and Terry stood dazed and breathless, his lips tingling pleasantly. "Whoa. If you thought that would take my mind of this," he stroked her hair, "you were half-right."

She shook her head, smiling. "I don't think, McGinnis. I ~know~."

Terry jumped back, startled. That voice. It wasn't Dana's. It was low, throaty . . . sultry even.

Not Dana's.

Not even close.

She gave him a puzzled look. "Terry? What's wrong?"

He backed away from her slowly. That voice . . . it sounded familiar, but it wasn't ~hers~. It was comforting, though; a voice he was accustomed to, just not coming from Dana. Just like the hair - on Dana, it looked garish, but the color itself was lovely, soothing.

"What is this?" his voice shook slightly. "Who are you?"

The girl grinned slightly, and shrugged. "Who do you want me to be, Terry?"

He shook his head rapidly, as if to clear it. It was strange. Though he was fairly certain that the girl in front of him was not the Dana Tan he knew and loved, he was conscious of one thing - he wanted to be near her. The hair and the voice alarmed him, but he was strangely drawn to them at the same time. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, lose himself in her kiss.

But it seemed wrong somehow. The desire was there, but it seemed wrong . . . like a perfectly good pair of shoes that didn't quite fit the color scheme of an outfit. He was wrong to want her, but deep down, he could feel a sense of guilt. He should leave. Didn't want to, but he knew it was probably the right thing to do.

Right for ~whom~, however, he couldn't say ...

Opening his mouth to speak, Terry was shocked to hear a scream issue forth instead. It pierced the air, and the whole landscape seemed to tremble with the impact of the sound. He couldn't figure out why he was yelling just as he couldn't stop staring at the girl.

She stood unflinching, nonchalantly toying with her hair. "Who do you want me to be, Terry?" she repeated. "Who? Who?" The words tumbled over another and spiraled upward, wrapping themselves around Terry's anguished scream. Who . . . who . . .who . . .



Terry sat straight up in his bed, his heart pounding painfully. It was some moments before he realized that he was in his room and had been for some time. He'd been dreaming. All of it had just been a dream - one of the freakiest he'd had to date, but a dream, nonetheless. He stared muzzily out of his window into the clear, night sky. Running a hand over his hair, he labored to arrange his thoughts. He'd been dreaming, but what ~could~ it all have been about? It was strange: He could still see the fog . . . still see Dana and that ~hair~ and that ~voice~ . . . still feel her lips against his . . . still hear that scream . . .

"No! No! Nooooooo!"

Terry's head snapped up. Someone ~was~ screaming. He ~hadn't~ been dreaming that. Someone was yelling, and it sounded close.

"Noooo! Dad!"

Matt. It was Matt, screaming his head off. Terry was out of bed and down the hall before he could think. The shouts became more subdued as he hurried down the hall, and Terry could hear Mary's voice, soft and soothing, coming from inside the boy's room. Pushing through the door, Terry saw his mother perched on the edge of Matt's bed, speaking in hushed tones. Matt was cradled in her arms, his face buried in his mother's shoulders.

"Mom? Matt? What's going on?"

Mary looked up, her eyes dull with fatigue. "He had a bad dream," she rocked her youngest son gently. "But it's okay, Matty. It's all over now."

Terry sank onto the bed beside them, a worried frown creasing his forehead. Matt had had nightmares before - usually after watching five or six Fangzitra movies in a row, right before bedtime - but never had he woken the entire household with screams that made it sound as if he were being tortured.

"Hey, squirt," Terry stroked the boy's back. "You all right?"

Matt squirmed out of Mary's arms and turned his fevered, tear-streaked face toward his brother. "Monsters . . . I saw them . . . they were . . . were over near t-t-the closet," he took a deep breath. "They . . .they had long teeth and . . . and c-claws . . ."

"Claws, huh?" he ruffled Matt's hair playfully. "Sounds like Ms. Degronto, my physics teacher. Only ~her~ teeth are fake."

Matt didn't smile. "I ~saw~ them. They . . . " he wallowed hard. "They were . . . were k-k-killing Dad. . ."

Terry's smile faded. "What?"

"They had claws and they . . .they were cutting him," Matt started to tremble. "He was trying to . . . he was hitting them . . . trying to make 'em stop. But they wouldn't. They just kept . . . kept cutting him and . . . and . . ." He took a ragged breath. "There was blood -''

"Matt, honey, it's all right," Mary shot a glance at Terry, who was staring silently at the younger boy. "It was only a dream, sweetie. There aren't any monsters."

"But I ~saw~ them!" his voice was shrill. "Dad was ~crying~. He was telling them to stop, but they just ~laughed~. Dad was crying and bleeding and they laughed at him," Matt's eyes were ringed with fear and sadness. "They were cutting him. I saw it . . . I . . . I saw Dad. I saw Dad d-d-dying. I ~saw~ it. I saw it!" Matt dissolved into fresh tears, burrowing into Terry's chest, his small body convulsing with every sob.

Terry stared numbly down at his brother, knowing that he ~should~ say something reassuring, but able to nothing more than rub the boy's back. The image of their father pleading for his life slammed into his brain like a sledgehammer. Could it have been true? Did he beg? Did he cry? Had he suffered? In his mind, Terry answered "no" to all the questions. But in his heart . . .

In his heart, he could never be sure. He could never know truly how his father spent the final moments of his life or how he met his death. Terry liked to think he went down fighting, but he'd never be absolutely sure . . . because he hadn't ~been~ there.

And ~that~, he knew, would be a nightmare he'd never be able to shake.

Terry glanced down, surprised to see what looked like drops of dew glistening in the 8-year-old's dark hair. It wasn't until Mary drew a hand across Terry's cheek that he realized that the wetness in the boy's hair were tears - his own.

~*~

~At this hour, area hospitals are jam-packed with sleep-starved and shaking Gothamites,~ the VR newsman's preternaturally cheerful tone echoed through the halls of Hill High. ~Complaints of nightmares so intense that sleep is impossible have doctors baffled . . .~

The bell rang, cutting through the newscaster's words. Terry, yawning, leaned in, straining to catch the rest of the broadcast.

~. . . Deputy Mayor Lana Monroe, District Attorney Sam Young and Chief of Schools Synclare Gutierrez are among the Gotham officials said to be afflicted. And now, the weather . . .~

"Hey. You look like you could use this."

Terry turned to see Max with a cup of coffee in her outstretched hand. "I guess I don't have to ask how ~your~ night was."

"Thanks," He grasped the cup gratefully. "I got about a half-hour of sleep - 20 minutes of it came in the shower. I was up with Matt until seven."

"How is he?" she asked as they walked toward the gymnasium. "Did he calm down any?"

Terry sighed. "Nope. He'd nod off for awhile, and then 10, 15 minutes later, he'd wake up again, yelling his head off. Mom's taking the day off to stay with him."

"Nightmares?"

Terry halted, remembering Matt's quivering form, the fear in his eyes . . .

~I saw them . . . monsters . . .they were killing Dad . . .~

"Big time," he muttered. They entered the gymnasium and took a seat on the bleachers. "I've never seen him so freaked out. And it seems like half of Gotham's seeing the Bogeyman."

"It's creepy," Max agreed. "Look at that." She nodded toward the center of the gym, where two or three members of the soccer team were doing passing drills. A few players huddled on the sideline, pale and trembling, talking in low voices and sharing a cask of some liquid. At another end of the room, five cheerleaders listlessly practiced their routines, some stumbled into one another, and all looked visibly shaken.

"It's like Night of the Living Dead in here," Max said. "For people who ~are~ here, anyway. Homeroom was like a ghost town and most of the classes are half-empty. Everybody looks slagged."

"You don't look like you had such a cozy night's sleep yourself," Terry noted dark circles under the dark eyes. "You all right?"

"I'm fine, I guess," she shrugged. "Jared's a wreck though. He called late last night, flipping out. It was hard to get back to sleep after that."

"What? You mean he . . ." his inclined his head toward the drowsy soccer players.

"Yup. It was too weird," she leaned against the bleachers, one long, lithe arm snaking behind Terry's back. "The whole night, he seemed fine. We went to dinner, went for a walk . . ."

"A walk, huh?" He took a long draught of the coffee, the warmth flooding into his body, bringing him a little back to himself. "You guys go to the Square?"

"No . . . Jared was real . . . I don't know . . . bouncy. He said he wanted to take a ~real~ walk, whatever that meant," she smiled. "We hiked all the way up to Brown Bridge."

He halted in mid-sip. "Uh . . . really? That's a pretty long ways from downtown."

Terry stared into his cup. So . . . as he was dreaming about the Brown Bridge, Max and Jared had most likely been walking across it. Or toward it, anyway. It was the kind of little irony that he'd normally pass off as inconsequential - but with all the weirdness going on in the city, he couldn't be so sure what, if anything, was normal. He gnawed his lower lip, wondering if he should mention it to Max. After a moment, he decided against it. It wasn't worth getting into right then. They had bigger things to worry about.

"Tell me about it. And ~I~ was in heels - new ones. But he seemed perfectly fine. He dropped me off around twelve-thirty. About two o'clock, my phone rings. I thought it was you - I'd gotten your message, but I thought it might be too late to call -''

"You can't be serious. Since when has twelve-thirty been too late to call ~me~?"

"I know, I know, but on your message, you sounded kind of tired," she replied. "Anyway, it was Jared. . . and he was totally freaked." She ran a hand over her short, pink hair. "His mom's out of town for a couple of days, so he's home alone. He said he'd been having some whacked-out dream about a giant, killer earthworm that was biting the heads off his neighbors."

Terry started. "A killer ~earthworm~?"

"That's what he said," she shrugged. "I saw him in calculus. He says he's okay, but he looks totally out of it." Max rested her chin in her hand. "I wonder why he didn't just stay at home."

"Maybe he figured he'd have more distractions here," Terry's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he was lost in thought. "So you don't think this is all just coincidence . . . do you?"

"I don't ~think~ it isn't; I ~know~ it isn't."

A bolt went through Terry from top to toe. "~What~ did you just say?"

"I said I know it's not a coincidence. This is way too strange, don't you think?"

~I don't think, McGinnis. I know.~

That ~voice~. Memories of his dream came flooding back to him, and he turned pale, realizing all at once why the voice had seemed familiar. It was ~Max's~. He wasn't sure why he hadn't realized it immediately. The warm, almost melodic cadence was as distinctive as the rest of her - from the black armband she almost never took off to the second-skin outfits she often wore. And, of course, there was the hair -

The hair. His eyes shifted and traveled upward. He'd nearly forgotten about the hair. But as fatigued as it was, his mind still retained the image of the pink strands against the white backdrop the fog provided. And there he sat, looking at an exact, real-life match of that shade. Terry was still. It was so bizarre - it had been Max's hair and Max's voice . . . but it hadn't been ~Max~ there - it was Dana. He wasn't so far gone that he couldn't tell the difference between them. It ~had~ been Dana in his dream. He'd held ~Dana~. He'd kissed ~Dana~.

But it was a Dana with Max's hair and Max's ~voice~.

He put the cup down, his stomach doing flip-flops. It was the coffee, he rationalized. It was stupid of him to drink it a virtually empty stomach. And it probably was the caffeine rush that was making him so dizzy.

"Ter, you still conscious?" Max was looking at him, the concern on her face palpable. "You look like you're zoning."

"Huh? Oh . . . sorry," he forced his eyes away. "Just tired, I guess."

"Too tired to take a guess at what we're dealing with here?"

"A little, but don't let that stop ~you~."

"I don't have the faintest clue," Max said. "When I did get back to sleep, I slept all right."

"Yeah? No . . . uh . . . unusual dreams?"

"Nope," she shook her head. "You?"

"Uh . . . no. Uh . . . not really," It took him a few moments to realize he'd been holding his breath. He exhaled slowly, wondering why he felt so nervous all of a sudden. "Neither did my mom. Only Matt. It's weird."

"Sure is. Guess you and the old man are going to have a lot to talk about later."

"Yeah," he grabbed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. "I guess we will."

~*~

The grainy, slightly peppery smell of sawdust tickled Jeremy's nose as he walked through the dark lower story of the building Chaise had dubbed "The Haven." The building was, in itself, pretty unremarkable. It was a red- brick affair, rather retro, actually, and it sat unobtrusively on the corner of a quiet street in the city's northwest sector.

There were three levels: Chaise was using the upper floor as storage space, sometime-bedroom and makeshift laboratory. There was a basement that was fairly sizeable, but for the moment, empty. And then there was the ground floor - the center of more activity than the old structure had probably ever seen. Laser saws whirred, hammers banged, heavy footsteps trooped in and out of the building with an almost-overstated regularity.

The workers took no notice of Jeremy as he trooped past, looking all around with a slight smirk. He had to hand it to Chaise: His men did work quickly. By the looks of it, everything would be in place within a couple of days. Maybe even less. Not that they would open for business right away. No. There was much, ~much~ to be done before that.

The cell phone at his hip sounded, and Wittinger grabbed it before the first ring had died. "Yes?"

"Jeremy! You at The Haven?" Even through the din, Chaise's exuberance was unmistakable. "What do you think? It's not state-of-the art, of course, but- "

"It'll do," Jeremy turned his back on the noise. "It's smaller than I expected. And older. The furnishings you've chosen look as if they've seen better days."

"That's by design, Jer. We want people to think we've ~been~ here for awhile, don't we? The place has to look ~lived-in~. That's why the location's such a gem - hardly anyone comes back to Century Square, so nobody knows what's back there and what isn't."

Jeremy sighed. "Fine. Where ~are~ you? I expected you'd be here supervising."

"Needed to run some errands. You got the news on?"

Jeremy's eyes flickered to the front of the room. "No. The workers are watching some sort of sporting event."

"Well, give it a glance when you get around to it. It is bona-fide nuts out here. The hospitals are completely full. I think they're gonna start filling up the loony bins pretty soon." There was a pause. "Ain't it great?"

"I really think you should get back here. We've got a lot to discuss."

"I won't be long. I really think ~you~ should turn the news on, Jer. Or better yet, get outside and view the fruits of your labor. You've earned it, partner."

Wittinger's gaze strayed out a nearby window at a couple passing by. The male, a large, husky individual, glanced around fitfully, almost fearfully. Jeremy noticed that the man had one hand on a holster at the side of his hip. The other was tucked into his girlfriend's back pocket. Their faces were drawn and dour, and both were yawning mightily. Jeremy turned away with a frown.

"Perhaps later. Please don't dawdle. There's a lot that remains to be done."

"I'll be there soon, Jer. Keep your shirt on!" Merrill sounded amused, but his tone had a slightly annoyed cast to it. "You're a genius and all, but I ~am~ still the boss here." He chuckled softly. "Aren't I?"

"Of course," Wittinger said softly. "You're the boss."

He killed the link before Chaise could utter another word.

~*~

"How is he?"

Bruce Wayne gazed steadily at the vid-link image of a more stern-faced-than- usual Barbara Gordon. "News reports have been characteristically vague."

"On my orders," there was weariness at the edges of her voice. "Until we know what we're dealing with, there's no call to alarm people more than they already are. I also want to keep the details of the content of these dreams out of the papers," her lips compressed into a thin, tight line. "But that probably won't last long, either."

Bruce nodded. "Is that why you have Sam in Lauderhill?"

"We know the staff," she said. "And they know ~me~. If any details about Sam's condition leaked out, well . . ." she shrugged slightly. Bruce hid a smile, knowing firsthand what that little shrug meant.

"And Sam?"

"He's . . . I've never seen him like this. Not even when it first happened. The doctors say that it's just a bad case of night terrors, but . . ." The police commissioner sighed. "Half my staff is eating coffee straight out of the can, terrified of going to sleep. There are 300-pound men here crying like babies . . . they talk about the most hideous nightmares." She shook her head. "How are ~you~ doing? I haven't seen your name linked to any of this."

"I'm not that big on sleep," he said dryly. "And nightmares have become a way of life for me."

Barbara nodded somberly. "I'd better get back. The mayor has every man I've got working around the clock. There've already been twenty car accidents this afternoon - five fatal . . . people falling asleep at the wheel," her expression was pained. "And something tells me this isn't the worst of it."

"This may be a good time to delegate," Bruce looked thoughtful, "so that you can spend as much time with Sam as you can. He's going to need you-"

She gave him a look that would have cowed any man - any man other than the one she was presently scowling at, that is.

"Bruce. You know better than that. I'll be in touch." The monitor faded to black.

Sighing, the graying man stared at his feet where Ace, trusted guard dog and companion, slept contentedly. The mixed-breed stirred slightly, ears cocked, and the old man's eyes narrowed, jaw set hard.

"How are you feeling?"

Terry halted, chagrined. He'd ~thought~ he was being quiet, but in the cavernous expanse, there really could be no such thing.

"Pretty lousy," the teen answered, stifling a yawn.

Bruce spun around and studied the youth with concerned eyes. "You're yawning."

"Yeah. I think I might have dislocated my jaw."

"Have you been able to sleep?"

"Been able to? Yeah. Have I? No." Terry moved the side of the Batcomputer's console. "Matt's got whatever's going around. He was up all night. I stopped off at home a few minutes ago; Mom says it's gotten worse. They're going to Gotham General. The lines at the pediatric ward aren't as long as everywhere else. Yet."

"It's the same all over the city," Bruce rubbed the top of Ace's head. "I was just talking to Barbara . . ."

"Yeah, I heard about the D.A. How's it going?"

"Not good," Bruce looked up. "Does the name Seymour Cantrell sound familiar?"

"Uh . . . no. Should it?"

"Before your time, but sometimes you'll see news articles with references to him. Seymour Cantrell was one of Gotham's more . . . inventive . . . serial killers," Wayne leaned back in his chair. "He preyed only on couples - most of them elderly, isolated and well-off. He'd tie the husband up in such a way that he'd have no choice but to watch Cantrell rape and disembowel the wife. Then Cantrell would dispose of the husband relatively painlessly - a single bullet to the head. Though that 'single' bullet often came from a shotgun."

"Whoa," Terry digested that for a moment. "He got caught, though . . . right?"

"Yes. Eventually."

"How?"

Bruce looked at him, an eyebrow lifted near to his hairline. Terry fought a smile. Of course. How else?

"But six people died before Cantrell was brought to justice," the blue eyes clouded over a moment. "Cantrell was as slippery as they came."

"Was?"

"Cantrell was the first high-profile murder Sam prosecuted as D.A.," Bruce said. "Sam sent him to the chair."

"Guy sounds like he deserved worse."

Bruce nodded slightly. "There were some problems with the case - a lot of evidence that was ruled inadmissible. The killings had had the whole city in a terror, and some of the GCPD were a little . . . overzealous in culling evidence. A lot of people thought Cantrell might walk. Sam got his conviction, though. Lord knows it wasn't easy."

He paused. "Barbara tells me that Sam dreams that the case ~was~ thrown out . . . and Cantrell goes on a tear - starting with ~Sam~ . . . and Barbara. In his dreams, Sam is the helpless husband tied up and Barbara . . . " the old man fell silent a moment. "It seems every time Sam returns to sleep and starts to dream, Barbara gets more . . . hurt. The dreams are quite . . . explicit."

"Oh geez," Terry shuddered in the nippy air of the cave. "Where is he now? The D.A., I mean."

"A private inpatient facility on the outskirts of Gotham. He's under constant surveillance. The last time he woke up from one of the dreams, he attacked an orderly, thinking it was Cantrell," Wayne's gaze lingered on Terry. "And your brother . . .?"

Terry's eyes slid to the floor. "Matt . . . he . . . he says he dreams of monsters killing . . . uh . . . killing our father," he swallowed hard. "He says he's there watching them, but they can't see him . . . that there's blood everywhere, and he sees Dad . . ." he swiped at his eyes, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth to quell the queasy feeling he had in stomach.

"Even when Dad first . . . you know . . . Matt had a couple of bad nights, but nothing even close to this."

"Does he have any idea how your father died?" Bruce's voice was soft.

"No details," Terry bit his lip. No one knew the details - all of them - of Warren McGinnis' death save Bruce, Terry himself, Commissioner Gordon . . . and Warren's murderers. "I think Mom kinda danced around it. She didn't exactly lie, but . . ."

"And what about you? You said you were able to sleep, but didn't. Why?"

"I was up with Matt," Terry replied. "Me and mom took shifts . . . he couldn't get to sleep all night."

"And you didn't have any nightmares? No odd dreams?"

"Uh . . ." he thought about his Dana dream, and blushed. It was something he really didn't feel too comfortable sharing with Wayne. And he had the feeling the old man wouldn't care much about it anyway.

"No. No nightmares. My mom, either. Or Max . . . and she was out with Jared and ~he~ had 'em."

"You know, it's very odd . . ." Bruce tapped his cane against his foot. "These nightmares appear to be incredibly personalized."

"Huh? Whaddaya mean?"

"Well, the term 'nightmare' is a catch-all," Bruce stood and hobbled toward the row of lit cases displaying costumes of old. "The dreams are disturbing, yes, but in most cases they're a very ~generic~ disturbing - falling off a cliff . . . being chased . . . going in for a test and realizing you've forgotten the material . . ."

"Yeah . . . I'm ~real~ familiar with that one."

"But ~these~ dreams are hardly generic. In fact, they seem to speak to fears or neuroses - some of them buried deep in the subconscious - like Sam's anxiety about prosecuting the Cantrell case or your brother's grief about the death of your father . . ."

"Or Jared's earthworms," Terry added.

"Earthworms?"

"Max says Jared's been dreaming about killer earthworms. Jared's dad - his biological one - was an entomologist . . . and a real jerk," Terry scowled. "Jared told me once that whenever his old man got ticked at him, he'd hide all sorts of freaky-looking bugs in his bed. To this day, Jared can't even look at an ant without flipping - his mom can't either."

"It's almost as if something is probing the subconscious of those affected for the most disturbing incidents, extracting those memories and manufacturing them into nightmares - nightmares that get progressively worse with subsequent sleep."

"And so people don't ~want~ to. That's creepy. Sounds like a weird retro horror movie I saw with Dana "Nightmares on Pine Street" or something."

"It ~is~ like a movie in some ways," Bruce said. "From what I can gather, the dreams pick up where they leave off - only with more intensity. I'm no dream analyst, but that's definitely ~not~ normal."

"Psyches and screwing around in the mind?" Terry grimaced. "You know who ~that~ sounds like."

"Yes," Bruce looked grim. "The police have talked to him . . . he denies having any involvement."

"The cops? I don't think they speak his language," Terry opened his backpack, pulling the suit into view. "Luckily, I'm fluent in lunatic."

Bruce was quiet a moment as Terry pulled on the costume. "This is on a much bigger scale than he usually works. I think it'd be near-impossible to pull off, especially given where he is."

"Maybe so," Terry, now in the guise of the Batman, pulled the cowl down over his face. "But I could use some air. Don't wait up."

~*~

~And Gothamites continue to pour into local healthcare facilities seeking a respite from resting. Officials estimate nearly a third of the city are reporting intense, recurring nightmares. Causes of the phenomenon are, as yet, unknown . . .~

Ira Billings flipped the tiny vid-screen off, a thoughtful, faraway look in his eyes. The screened-in gazebo in Arkham Asylum's west wing was quiet; the air was fresh and carried just a hint of chill. Billings breathed deeply, enjoying the breeze and the semi-semblance of freedom the enclosed section afforded him.

It was refreshing to be alone and in the open - even though the privilege - given to only the most accommodating and trusted of the inmates - allowed him just 20 minutes in the tiny space. He didn't dare complain, however; even two minutes away from the crackpots and crazed individuals, and simple- minded, brutal guards who watched over them, was welcome and necessary for his ~own~ sanity.

He was being monitored, he knew. Not that there was any need, really. Should he be foolish enough to try to break through the gazebo's screen, there would be a nasty surprise in the form of an electric shock waiting for him. Sometimes, though, he thought it might almost be worth it to try to escape. Better a quick, though not entirely painless, death on the outside than the slow murder of his mind and spirit he suffered while a "guest" in the asylum.

Billings always pulled away from those thoughts, however. He considered himself, without question, the most intelligent man ever housed within Arkham's walls. In fact, Dr. Santoro, his psychiatrist, often made comments about his brilliance. Dr. Santoro often praised Billings . . . said he was making real progress . . . a model inmate . . . getting in touch with himself . . . realizing the error of his former ways . . .

Dr. Santoro was a fool.

But that, Billings knew, would be his ticket out of Arkham. As long as he continued to fool them all, he'd get out there with relatively little damage done. And then he'd be free . . . free to show Gotham how grievously they'd misjudged him. Billings smiled slightly, staring out into the darkness.

Ah . . . sweet Gotham, where all continued to be chaotic, if the news reports were any indication. It was really too bad that he was locked up and out of sight - he could be of real help to the city now . . . how else to get citizens' minds off their sleeping sicknesses than with a good, solid illusion?

One day. He turned his back on the night, sighing softly. One day he'd be back to make up for lost time. And then they'd all know just how much they'd missed their Spellbinder.

"A little cold to be out without your straightjacket on, isn't it?"

Billings jumped and spun around, his mind and eyes taking a moment to process the sudden appearance of the shadowy figure on the other side of the screen.

"Batman," Billings grinned, relaxing. "I half-expected a visit from you."

"Uh-huh," the Bat moved as close as he dared to the wiring outside the gazebo. "Keeping tabs on your handiwork?" he pointed to the vid-screen in the doctor's hand.

Billings looked mystified. "My . . . handiwork?"

"Come on, doctor. You may have fooled the cops, but I'm not biting. People are having nightmares that play on their deepest fears, and mind-tapping's your bag."

"Ah . . . the nightmares," the wiry man sat on the sad-looking wooden structure that passed for a bench. "I have been, as you say, "keeping tabs" on the situation in Gotham, but my interest is of a professional nature. As I have told the authorities, I have nothing to do with the latest pickle the city finds itself in."

"And you expect me to believe that? You really ~have~ lost it."

"You can believe what you wish," Billings regarded his visitor calmly. "What's going on in Gotham City is not - what is the police term for it?" he adjusted his glasses, thinking. "It's not my . . . m.o."

"Messing around with people's minds? Sounds pretty dead-on to me."

"But with dreams? No." Billings shook his head slowly. "I employed ~illusions~ you could touch, taste, ~feel~. My illusions were as ~real~ as you can get, Batman. Nothing so ephemeral and intangible as dreams. That would almost be like . . . slumming."

"The kids you fried with your whacked-out version of VR knew they were dipping into a fantasy world. It may've seemed real while they were in the bubble, but as soon as they were out-"

"Yes, but they hungered for more," Ira's eyes shone predator-like behind his glasses. "They ~ached~ for it. Like your good friend Maxine Gibson. She resisted only when you ~forced~ your blasted reality upon her."

Beneath the cowl, Terry's face burned at the mention of Max's brush with the madman's brain-poaching virtual-reality machine. He fought the urge to kick Billings' teeth in. Another time. Right then, he had a job to do.

"From what I gather, no one's rushing to embrace the Sandman. These are quite . . . disturbing dreams," Billings clicked the vid-screen on, and held it level to the Batman's eyes. Footage rolled of shaking, bug-eyed men, women and children huddled in hospitals. Fifteen-car pile-ups on the main bridges . . . one near-miss at the airport after an air-traffic controller fell asleep standing up, and then awoke in terror, sprinting from the runway. The scene cut to and stayed on a building in front of which people were lined for blocks. Billings turned up the volume.

~. . . outside one of Gotham's largest superstores, where, insiders say, there has been a run on caffeine products. Whatever illness has the city in its grip, it sure isn't hurting the coffee industry any. . . ~

"People are doing what they can to avoid sleep, to avoid these dreams," Billings carelessly threw the vid-screen on the bench. "Now where is the fun in that?"

Batman's eyes narrowed. "If it's such a drag, then why the 'personal interest'?"

"Well, it is ~mildly~ interesting," Billings said with a shrug. "If events continue in this vein, the city will have a very different problem on its hand other than a cappuccino shortage."

"And what might that be?"

"Sleep is ~not~ a luxury, Batman. I'm sure even ~you~ are aware of that. The more these unfortunate individuals attempt to fight it, the more their bodies will crave it. Tell me - how long do you imagine a person can function normally having had little or no sleep? Moreover, what do you think the effect on a person's mind would be after continual subjection to terrifying nightmares?" Billings smiled slightly.

"Sleep-deprivation is an ugly thing, I assure you. I've done studies. But even uglier is schizophrenia . . . and as sure as we're both standing here, if people continue to be barraged by such hideous dreams, well, Arkham will have to rush its expansion in order to house all the people who will have gone insane."

"Sounds like something straight out of your fantasies, Billings."

"You think about ~my~ fantasies? And they say ~I'm~ disturbed," Billings waggled his eyebrows at the Bat. The teasing smile dropped at the sound of footsteps. Two guards rushed into the gazebo, weapons drawn.

"Dr. Billings? Who in blazes are you talking to out here?" the more portly of the two asked as the other searched the gazebo area.

Billings looked away for a moment, sneering. "An old friend. Apparently, he's not much a believer in the Arkham method of rehabilitation."

"~Who~ doesn't, Dr. Billings?" The guards were staring stupidly at him, open-mouthed.

Billings sighed. "Come, gentlemen. Surely you've made the acquaintance of the great . . ." he turned back toward his visitor, and then stopped, stupefied. The air was still . . . the breeze had quieted . . .

And Batman was gone.

"But . . . but . . ." Billings sputtered. "He was right there a moment ago. Surely you caught him on the surveillance cameras!"

The guards exchanged a knowing glance. "You'd better come inside, Dr. Billings. Your 20 minutes are up, you know," said the thinner one.

"I . . . he was there. He was ~there~," Billings scanned the area wildly, trying to make sense of it all. "Not a moment before you came in, he . . ." The man stopped abruptly, frowning slightly. There was no way the Bat could have gotten away so quickly without snapping a twig or two underfoot - and such a sound would be so much more amplified in the stillness of the evening - like the backfiring of a car on a quiet dirt road. And the guards hadn't seen him . . . yet he'd been there.

Or had he? Perhaps it had all just been . . . an illusion.

Yes! Billings straightened a little, the frown fast disappearing. Of course! The only asnwer was that he was now so powerful that he could conjure illusions by thought alone. The police officers' earlier visit had inevitably gotten him thinking about the shadowy crime-fighter . . . and it had been rather quiet and boring all alone in the enclosed space. He'd needed some excitement. Someone to talk to - even an annoying someone - and he, Ira Bilings, was able to create an illusion with the most powerful tool he'd ever known - his mind.

An illusion. Yes. That had to be the answer. It had all been an illusion. One so seamless, so perfect, he almost thought it was real.

But he knew better. After all, he was Spellbinder. And with Spellbinder, nothing was ever as it appeared.

"Dr. Billings? Is . . .um . . . everything okay?"

"Why, yes," Ira scooped up his vid-screen and tucked it gently under his arm. "Everything is just fine."

Smiling, Billings allowed himself to be led back into the building.

*

"He's nuts, and they just let him walk around like he's on vacation," Terry, sans cowl, paced around Bruce's chair. "I still think he knows more than he lets on. He was way too willing to talk."

"You never know with Billings," Bruce muttered absently. His fingers were a blur over the Batcomputer's console. "But he's consistent, at least. He told the police virtually the same thing he told you."

"So he's good at getting his story straight," Terry shrugged. "He knows all about sleep-deprivation and mind-control. He's gotta be the guy. You should have seen the smarmy look he was giving me."

"I ~did~ see it."

"Yeah, well . . . it was like he was getting off on it. I swear, he's hiding something. . ." Terry peered up at the computer screen, his brow furrowed. "T-bone . . . chicken cordon bleu . . . smothered pork chops . . . you planning a dinner party?"

"Working on a theory," Bruce turned to face the teen. "On the Web, they're reporting that the city's going to do tests on the water supply."

"The water supply?" Terry echoed, scowling. "So it's something in the water? Great. So the whole town's going to be peeing their beds by tomorrow."

"I don't think so," Wayne said. "If the water supply had been tampered with, many more people would be exhibiting symptoms. And since there's no evidence that there's a delay in the onset of the nightmares . . ."

"Okay, I follow," Terry nodded. "But what does food have to do with it?"

"I've been studying the medical files of some of those affected," Bruce continued. "And I noticed a couple of peculiar things. First off, in each case, the person reported a marked surge in energy ~after~ eating a meal - usually the final meal of the day. I checked in with Barbara. She and Sam had dinner at Le Jirque last night, and later, Sam insisted on going on a 10-mile jog."

"So? That doesn't seem too unusual."

"It is at three in the morning."

"You kidding? That's when I get most of my exercise."

"Barbara tells me Sam had dragging all day. Big caseload. She'd taken him out to dinner to try to get his mind off things. After dinner, he was practically bouncing off the walls." Bruce noticed a thoughtful look on Terry's face. "What is it?"

"Max said that she and Jared walked all the way from a restaurant downtown to the Brown Bridge."

"A long walk."

"Yeah . . . and Jared ~hates~ to walk. I didn't think of it until just now. He'd drive his car just to go to the corner store - when he ~had~ his car, that is. And Max isn't ~that~ big on midnight strolls . . ."

"Hmmm. And what about your brother? What was his behavior like?"

"Matt? He seemed his usual, twippy self," Terry shrugged. "He and my mom had been at one of his Silver Scout parties. I was in the middle of something . . . didn't really notice anything out of the ordinary."

"And where was this little get-together?"

"The usual place. Cheezy Dan's."

"Do you know what he might have eaten there? Or your mother?"

"Uh . . . pizza probably," Terry frowned, thinking. "Or . . . hey, wait: He had a Beefy Burger. I think he had a couple. My mom said there was a run on them. They must have been pretty good, because he usually has pizza. No idea what Mom might've had. She's on this health-food kick, so she probably had what passes for salad there."

"And Sam had a porterhouse steak," Wayne said. "Barbara had eggplant terrine. Do you know what was on the menu for Maxine and Jared?"

"Uh . . . no. I know Max is big into lobster. But -''

"What did ~you~ have for dinner last night?"

"Me? Um . . . dunno . . . some cereal. A couple of Cheezy Squares. It was a slow night."

"But no meat?"

"Well . . ." Terry raked his fingers through his hair. "Um . . . I don't know. I guess not."

"I didn't either," Bruce rested his chin on steepled fingers. "Yet, according to cash-card records, everyone who's affected seems to have eaten ~some~ meat product in the past 24 hours."

"Meat product?" Terry cast a skeptical eye on the screen. "Geez . . . I dunno. Seems kinda iffy. I mean, just about everybody eats meat -''

"~You~ didn't. I didn't. Barbara didn't. And your mother and Max probably didn't. Not yesterday, at least," Bruce replied. "And none of us are affected. Neither is a sizeable portion of the city . . . and I'd be willing to bet ~they~ didn't have any last night, either."

"Yeah, but -''

"There's something else," Bruce swiveled back to the computer, punching up a map of Gotham. "I've done a little digging. Cheezy Dan's, Le Jirque, all of the restaurants downtown and in Old Town and many of the area's supermarkets all get their meat supplied from ~one~ plant. Care to guess which?"

"How should I know?" Terry glanced at the screen. He then did a double- take, his jaw slack. "No . . . you've ~got~ to be kidding."

"Gotham Meat Packing Inc. The plant that was ~burglarized~ the night before last." Bruce whirled around, his expression grim. "It seems the men who'd broken into the plant that night had a purpose after all - one that has the whole city in an uproar."