Chapter Three--Encounter/Proposal
"Harleen? Harleen, are you all right?"
She shoved Dr. Leland out of the way and ran out of the building. Good, no one had followed her. She had had a similar episode the day that the headlines were spread across the papers; maybe no one noticed she was crying, either. She sat in her car, hands draped over the wheel. Why did she feel this way? Was it because she knew he was alive? Why was she crying? Because she knew that she had not helped him? That he had lied to her? So many things...all at once...
The skid marks her new car made were over an eighth of a mile long, from her parking space with the brass plate marked "Dr. Quinzel" to the wrought-iron gates of the asylum. There was no one on the road, thank god. No one could see her speeding blindly down the winding way to the city. Why did she still care? He was a fascinating case, yes, but she could read all the cases she wanted. This was something else, something she had never felt before. Could it be? No, she couldn't let herself think that she may--
She screeched into the parking lot, ran to the door and up the stairs to her apartment. Flinging open the door, she threw herself on the couch and wept. Why did she feel like this? Absently, she reached for a tissue.
But wait. Hadn't the tissue box been across the room? What...?
Her sight followed, from box to gloved hand to purple sleeves, up to ghastly white face. His mouth was drawn up into a hideous grin, with bright red lips contrasting the tufts of green hair peering out from under his purple hat.
"Hello, Dr. Quinzel. Miss me?"
No...it couldn't be...
He read the look in her eyes. "It's me, doctor. Your favorite patient."
She stammered, her mind racing. "But...but...your face..."
"Ah. You thought I never fell in the acid? You heard I was alive and though I had faked it, didn't you?" It had never occured to her, but he did not wait for a negating answer. "No human could survive that, you thought. Well, as it turns out, some of my old chemical experiments made the acid unable to dissolve me."
He paused, like an actor mentally reviewing his lines. "But it changed me, Dr. Quinzel," he whispered.
Trying to avoid the sight of that smile, she said the first thing that came to mind. "You mean...that makeup...you...really look like that?"
He laughed, more of a high-pitched giggle than a normal laugh. "As the kids say, 'well DUUUUH!'"
His impression of a vally kid never failed to bring a smile to her face, and now was no exception. She giggled along with him, but quickly stopped.
"Answer me one thing, Napier," she demanded, using all her professionalism. "Did you really kill that man?"
He drew a long breath. "I knew you would ask me that, Dr. Quinzel. Yes. Him among many, many others."
She stifled a gasp. Something in her didn't believe him; thought he had to be testing her reaction. So she had to remain calm, no matter what he told her.
Chuckling, he continued. "You didn't know? Oh, don't worry. I could never bring myself to harm a child like you. Children yes, but not one like you. Little girls like you...just the type who love clowns like me!"
She felt weak. Here he was in front of her, alive, confessing his crimes--or at least his imaginings--and enjoying it all. "Why...did you come back to me...?"
"Oh?" He looked shocked. "But, Dr. Quinzel, couldn't you turn that around and ask why NOT you? You do know why I killed that man, don't you? He's the one who called you an imbecile, dear doctor."
Her hand gripped the couch arm, knuckles white with tension. "So that...that's why...?"
He waved his hand, dismissing it. "That and he set me up. But rest assured that his insulting you was a great motivating factor. For you see, doctor, I have always admited you. I've followed your career from day one. I have what you might call an obsession. I always make it my business to know everything about people I admire."
"Oh, Jack..." She still couldn't believe what was happening.
"No. Not Jack. Not Jack Napier ever again."
"Then what...?"
"You'll see. Dr. Quinzel--may I call you Harleen?" She nodded. "Very good. Harleen, I have come to ask you something. Something of utmost importance. I want you to help me bring Gotham to her knees."
The gasp she had held back escaped her lips, and her fingernails dug into the couch. "What...?"
"I know you heard me. I am assembling an army, of sorts. All kinds of lowlives, degenerates...the scum of society. But such kinds must be lead by someone high above them. They need a king--me, of course--and a queen. Queen Quinzel. Nice, huh? Queen Harleen...quite a ring to it, non?" She nodded blankly, the weight of his words heavy in her mind. "Oh, I know, what about your job? What about your friends? What...if you refuse? Well, forget your job. You'll live in riches forever with me. Your friends? Hate to break it to you, HARL," here his voice got very bitter "but you have no friends." It was true, she was quite alone. Perhaps he was the only person who could claim to understand her. "And if you say no...well, quite frankly, you don't want to know. I myself would rather not know." He leaned down to meet her gaze, and picked up a pillow. "Do we have a deal?"
She suddenly remembered something, and shook her head to break whatever spell he had on her. "What about Alicia?"
In a violent rip, he tore the pillow to shreds. "ALICIA?!?! That BIMBO?!?! You expect HER to rule at the side of the--" He cleared his throat, regaining his composure.
"The...what?"
Gloved hand ran through green hair, purple hat settling further back on his head, as he fixed that smile on her. "The greatest criminal mastermind Gotham has ever known. You're not ready yet. I shall ask again, in a few days. For now, I have to leave. Remember--'Neither the angels in Heaven above/Nor the demons down under the sea/Can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful'" his eyes twinkled "Doctor Harleen Quinzel. Fare thee well, my Harlequin."
She watched him leave down the fire escape. My god, she thought. So he does feel the same way for me that I-- What? What was this? She knew all too well.
She was in love with him!
Something on the windowsill caught her eye. Picking it up, she saw that it was a playing card. A grotesque white face, with crimson lips drawn up in frighful grin, and hair so green as to make her think that there was no such color, that all other greens were in cheap imitation of this; all this stared back at her with hypnotic eyes.
The Joker.
