Title: Short Walk
Rating: I'm going to go ahead and make this PG-13 now, so I don't have to go and change it later.
Disclaimer: All Batman-related characters belong to DC, the lucky dogs.
Okay, kiddies, it's finally review reply time! Raist: If you want, I could do a ministory with the intervening time. Let me know. Esther-Channah: Always a pleasure to hear from you. I'm doing my best, but stay tuned for an announcement at the end of this chapter. CM: Here you are! Silverwolf: It's a cryin' shame, too, isn't it? Tim will have an official capacity in at least the majority of this story, but I'm not promising he won't slip back into some tights at some point.
Stay tuned for an important announcement at the end of the chapter!
Warning: This chapter is at least mildly graphic. You might not want to read if you have certain... tendencies.
Chapter 6: Return to Gotham
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm actually going to miss this place."
"I know what you mean. It grows on you."
"Like a fungus."
The three men laughed. Tim Drake thoughtfully ran his hand down the length of his beard. It was fun, and useful in distracting his opponents. He wasn't averse to the pre-mature silver than ran through it, and along his temples, either. Sharon told him it was sexy.
"Well," said Fred, "see you around, Old Man."
"Don't be a stranger," Hank said.
"Are you kidding? There's no way I'm coming back here. You guys have to visit us!"
The three laughed again, then shook hands all around.
As Tim made his way to the exit, Sammi ran up to him. "Hey!" she called. "Don't forget Clarke's book!" She held up the thin paperback, then tossed it to him. He caught it easily, and grinned at her. "Take care, Sammi."
"Take care of yourself," she retorted. "You're gonna need to more than me."
She gave him a quick hug, then headed back down the hall.
Tim chuckled to himself, then walked over to the guard. He took off his badge, and handed it to the man. Then, he pushed open the door and walked out into the lobby, where Sharon Clarke, his fiance, waited for him with his coat over one of her arms, her own coat already on.
"Took you long enough," she teased as she handed him the thick, warm coat he had gotten at Christmas the year before. He didn't say a word, just grabbed her and kissed her full on the mouth. When they broke apart, both were laughing.
"Come on," he told her, pulling her against him with an arm, "It's time for us to go to Gotham."
"Glad you're back, Drake. Files're on your desk. Get to work."
"Glad to see you don't waste any time, Commish," Tim told the older man's back as he turned and walked back along the narrow corridor running through the partitioned offices of the Gotham City PD. "I heard that," was the reply, and the cops within earshot grinned.
Tim was no exception. The FBI was nice, but there really was no place like home.
He and Sharon had arrived the night before, and moved right into their new apartment. It was spacier than his old one, that was for sure. He'd been surprised to see how much Gotham had grown in the last five years, and mentally made a note to himself to memorize its new layout.
Tim moved along the corridor to his "office", where his desk was, indeed, thick with files. After sorting through those that were supposed to be there, and throwing away those left as a "Welcome Back" joke, he got to work, carefully reading through each one.
As he read, he noticed a pattern developing. The murders concerned had all taken place along the harbor. Three had been in the south, twelve in the center, and seventeen in the north. In each case, the victim was a young woman, and each had had her throat slashed out by what was thought to be a serrated knife. There were pictures.
Tim leaned back in his chair as he looked at the crime scene photos. They were all so young. They should have had their whole lives ahead of them. Instead, they were covered by dried pools of their own blood.
What kind of monster could do something like this? he asked himself. How was this even conceivable? He read through the standard psychological profile of the killer, but it was completely based on guesswork. There was no evidence anywhere in the files to back any of it up. They were dealing with something totally unknown.
"Drake, the commish wants you in his office," a passing detective said over his wall. Tim sighed, stood up, and stretched. He closed the last file, and walked out and along the corridor to the large glass room used by the commisioner as an office. He knocked, and the older man looked up from a thick pile of paper and beckoned him inside.
Tim entered the room, and stood looking around as the commisioner finished reading... whatever it was. On the desk was a computer, apparently unused, judging by the amount of papers covering it, and a typewriter, which clearly was regularly used. There was also a picture frame facing the commisioner's chair, which Tim assumed was of the man's family.
The commisioner finished what he was reading, and looked up again. "Sit down," he ordered. Tim complied. "What do you think?"
Tim didn't have to ask about what. "I think that I would need to talk to hoever was involved, witnesses, first on the scene investigators, that sort of thing," he replied.
"Good," the commisioner said. "You're in charge. I'm giving you three men. That's all I can spare. Keep me posted."
He picked up another paper, and Tim stood and left.
A young woman runs through the night. Her friends had warned her, but she had laughed them off. There had been no killings in three months, she had told them. Whoever it was was probably gone by now.
The figure chasing her belies the argument.
It catches her.
She screams, shrilly.
A flash of silver.
A crimson spray.
Her jugular has been ripped apart.
She tries to scream again.
There is no sound.
Tears roll down her cheeks.
She collapses, limp, to the ground.
She struggles to breathe.
No air can enter her lungs.
Her mind is thick.
It is hard to think.
It is hard to focus her eyes.
Why can't she scream?
Blackness.
A body named Alice lies on the cold, uncaring ground, surrounding by an expanding pool of blood still steaming from its veins.
TO BE CONTINUED...
From the Author: Next Time: Tim is on the trail of the killer, and meets up with an old friend. Will their meeting go well? Will they be able to find the murderer before they strike again? Stay tuned to find out!
Additional note: I have never known someone who was murdered. I have known people who died unnaturally. I apologize if my description upsets you. The "published" version is much less graphic than my original version, but I didn't want to tone it down all the way. If that seems cruel, well, maybe it is. But I feel that it is necessary.
Important announcement: Due to circumstances beyond my control (ie: schoolwork and lack of ideas to reach planned climax), "Short Walk" will not update again for about a month. I will be continuing my other two multi-chapter stories, "Amy, Perfect Woman" and "Die Laughing", during this time, as well as any other stories of any length I can think of. Don't worry: "Short Walk" will resume posting on Sunday, March 27, 2005. Until then,
Excelsior!
The Mighty Floyd
