Chapter 28

Randall was stretched out on a bed, gritting his teeth and hoping that they were almost finished. A medic from Haven was working the shrapnel out of his skin with tweezers, and it hurt far worse getting it out than having it go in. He buried his face in a pillow and fought the urge to yell. Slade certainly knew how to tick him off.

"And we're done," the medic said, fixing a bandage onto the last cut. "Each cut has been given some antiseptic, and each has been bandaged. You're lucky I was able to get all of this stuff out. How do you feel?"

"Like a human pincushion," Randall said, wincing at all of the little twinges from his cuts. "Is it safe for me to get up and walk around?"

"If you move slowly," the medic said, beginning to clean up his kit.

Gingerly, Randall got to his feet and began to get dressed. He could feel the medic's indignation and started speaking before the man could get a breath to protest.

"I'm not going to sit around waiting for a bunch of little cuts to heal while a kid's in danger from Slade," he said, pulling on his shirt. "I'll heal, but I'm not so sure about the kid. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if something happened to him that can't be fixed, and I'm not talking about a physical injury. I've got my job to do."

The medic glared at him. "I can't get you to rest for anything, I suppose, so I'm not going to try. Here," he muttered, pressing a packet into Randall's hand. "Change the bandages morning and night, and use some of the antiseptic on the cuts when you do. You don't want to get an infection in one of these."

"Thanks," Randall said, pulling on his shoes. "I appreciate it."

The medic forestalled any remarks about true appreciation being shown by following doctor's orders, but Randall knew what the guy was thinking. He remembered when he and the guy had bashed heads over a nasty case of flu: He had insisted that he was fine, and the doctor had insisted he wasn't. Randall had known that he wasn't fine, but admitting he was sick would have meant missing out on a mission. The doctor had stepped in and declared him "unfit" until further notice. Randall's convalescence hadn't been easy for either of them, but in some way, it had been a relief. He'd been taking care of himself for several years at that point, and it was nice to realize that adults could still step in and take care of you when you needed it.

He met Batman and the other Titans downstairs. They were gathered around the table studying his Slade information and they looked up when he entered. "Okay, I'm done," he said, referring to his visit with the doctor.

"Great," Cyborg said, fiddling with a piece of scrap paper. "Can you decipher this stuff for us?"

Randall looked. "Oh, this is a bunch of access codes for computer systems."

"Oh," Beast Boy said, looking at it. "Could one of the systems tell us where he took Robin?"

Randall shook his head. "He uses computers for his businesses, not personal matters."

Randall's cell phone went off, and he jumped, surprised. He fished it out and listened to the report.

"Good," he said, hanging up when whoever it was had finished speaking. "He and Robin are in France."

"How do you arrive at that conclusion?" Batman wanted to know.

"I sent out a message to our field agents in Europe, asking them to keep an eye out for Slade and Robin. They were watching the roads, trains, etc., and one in France just called me."

"How many agents are in France?"

"We have about six in each country," Randall said, pulling a small atlas out of one of the pockets of his pack. He opened to France and began checking. "The one who just called is in Bretagne, and he said they were heading towards the center of the province."

Batman stood. "Shall we go?"

Space

Robin followed Slade up the steps of the house to the verandah and stayed beside him as Slade pulled the doorbell. His mind was screaming for him to turn around and run, but experience kept him still. He didn't want one of Slade's tackles right now, and he wasn't sure if he could take it.

"Ah, bon matin, Monsieur Slade," a man said as he opened up the door. "Je suis tres heurex de vous voir. Entrez-vous, s'il vous plait."

"Merci, Monsieur Callais," Slade answered. "I have brought my protégé to you, monsieur, and I'm entrusting him to your care and the care of your wife."

"Tres bien, monsieur," the man said, smiling. "And what is the name of the young gentleman?"

Slade nudged Robin's shoulder, and he sighed. "Je m'appelle Robin, monsieur," he muttered.

Slade took a deep breath and expelled it, reaching for patience. "He is not as tractable as I may wish," Slade said, glaring at Robin. "Nor are his manners completely acceptable. Could you or Madame Callais work with him?"

"But of course," Monsieur Callais said, still smiling. The man strongly resembled oil—slippery and not at all predictable. He'd have to watch what he said or did around here since Monsieur Callais would most likely be reporting to Slade all the time.

Callais began showed them into a private dining parlor, insisting that they have breakfast with him. It was a typical continental French breakfast—croissants, café au lait, juice, or milk, fresh fruit, and breakfast pastries. Robin ate only because he was hungry but contributed little to the conversation. Slade remarked on how beautiful the trip had been, how he had enjoyed seeing part of Brittany again, and how well things on the property looked. Callais accepted the compliments and returned Slade kind for kind. Robin sipped at his milk(he didn't like café au lait or the juice served) and tried to think. What sort of place was this? What would it be like here? Could he possibly find an ally? He wasn't sure, but he hoped so.

"Perhaps the young gentleman would care to rest now?" Callais asked as the meal was winding up.

Slade nodded. "He slept some in the car, but I doubt that he managed to really rest," he remarked. "Robin, do you feel as if you would like a nap or rest?"

Robin nodded, quietly voicing his thanks, but he thought Right now I'm so bored that anything would be better than continuing to listen to you two.

Monsieur Callais led the way through the house, saying over and over again how well things were going and thanking Slade for his last generous contribution.

"You make contributions?" Robin asked as they headed up the front staircase.

"Of course," Slade said, smiling. "This is one of my favorite enterprises."

"What is this place exactly?" Robin asked, unable to keep himself from asking any longer.

"Oh, it is a place where youngsters are brought to be raised, usually by parents who find them inconvenient or too difficult. They pay a good deal of money to the Callais' account, and in return their children are raised and educated for them."

"A boarding school?" Robin said skeptically.

"Well, you'll never find it on the government lists," Slade said, smiling again. "It is more informal than most boarding schools are, and there are no pesky school vacations to worry about. Some of the children stay here for years before going home or seeing their families."

"What if their families want to see them?" Robin asked. "They go home then, right?"

"Well, their families have to want them to come home first," Slade explained. "In all the time I've contributed, that's never happened."

Robin began to feel a little sick. The kids here never left? They never saw their families? They never got to go home?

"Oh, you needn't look so worried," Slade said. They were heading down a hallway now. "You won't be here all the time. There are trips into Paris for shopping and museums and fun, and there are trips to other places as well. You're in Brittany, so during the summer you'll be going to the beaches a lot since they're never far away. There is even a two-week camping trip, so don't fret. You won't be only in this house or the grounds until you grow up. There will be plenty of opportunities to get out and about."

By that time, they had reached a room that contained several beds. "This shall be the young gentleman's," Callais said, leading them over to one. An armoire and bedside table stood on either side of it, and Robin could see that the armoire had been packed full of his clothes from the first house. He began to feel even worse: Slade had planned everything.

Callais gave a short tour of the room. There was a row of wooden sleigh bedsteads, armoires, and bedside tables along the left wall, wooden tables and chairs in the center of the floor, and bookshelves and cabinets on the right wall. Another door on the far wall across from the entrance led to that room's bathroom. The cabinets, Monsieur Callais explained, were for keeping small items or projects in. One boy was interested in model-building, and Callais opened the cabinet to show all of his materials and works-in-progress. The young gentleman, he assured Slade, could store whatever he liked in his cabinet as long as he kept it neat and clean.

"Here is a copy of our daily schedule," M. Callais said, handing a small sheaf of papers to Robin, "and our rules, system of demerits, and our calendar. I will leave you both to make your farewells." With that, the oily man left, oozing his way out the door.

"Well, it looks as if you're going to have quite a year," Slade said, looking over the calendar. "You go to Paris in a few weeks to shop for winter clothes, and you'll be there overnight to go to the theater. Lucky you!"

Robin glared at him. "Even prisons have movies, big deal," he snarled. "I am not staying here!"

Slade looked at him, no longer jovial. "You blew regular boarding school, so let's see how you fare here, hmmm? If I receive one bad report about you, I'll take you out of here, and you can believe me when I say that you do not want to be at home with me. I am the most difficult teacher that you'll ever have, and the toughest taskmaster. Fail here, and you'll learn how I react to failure." Slade picked him up and sat him down on the bed, staring him in the face. "You will write to me every two weeks and tell me how you are doing. You are to obey Monsieur and Madame Callais, and you are not to cause any trouble. I'll be looking forward to your first letter."

He left, leaving Robin perched on the edge of his bed with the papers of rules beside him. Feeling depressed, and more than a little scared, he began to look them through, hoping that wherever this place was, Batman, the Titans, or Randall could find him.

Author's Note:

Here's a little French dictionary for those who do not speak French.

Bon matin: Good morning.
Monsieur: Mister
Je suis tres heureux de vous voir: I am very happy to see you.
Entrez-vous, s'il vous plait: Enter, if you please (or literally, if it please you).
Merci: Thank you.
Tres bien: very good
Je m'appelle. . .: My name is...(or literally, I call myself).