Disclaimer: See previous chapters. "Why Haven't I Heard From You" Copyright 1994 by Bash Music. Recorded by Reba McIntyre from her album Read My Mind.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.

Chapter 7

Truth and Consequences

"Is this alright for you?" Dick asks. "Being alone in a car with a man who is 'neither your husband nor a close relative?'"

I nod. "As long as you don't turn off on any deserted side roads." I like the car. It's a midnight blue four-door that almost makes me think of one of those hover cars they used to show on after-school cartoons whenever they did an episode where the protagonists (I will not call them heroes if they're too stupid to listen when their zany uncle tells them not to touch anything in his lab), get zapped into the future. For all I know, they still show cartoons like that—we got rid of the TV about eight years ago. I used to go over to a friend's house to watch, but since we moved to the Mooney area, most of the people around us not only don't have TV, they've never had TV.

It's taken us a little longer to get underway than either of us would have liked. The sky is starting to get lighter.

Anyway, getting back to the car, the... Nightmobile? (Oh, no way I'm going to ask him if that's what he calls it.) The chassis is so low that the car looks like it's gliding—not rolling on the pavement, and it's quiet. The motor doesn't rev, it hums. It still smells like "new car", even though he's been driving this one or its double since the last time I saw him, months ago. If I sit in here too long, it'll spoil me for riding my motorcycle.

Who is rich? One who is content with what he has. Pirkei Avot, again. One who is strong is one who controls himself. One who is honored is one who honors others. I remember discussing those lines in class. It doesn't actually mean that you shouldn't want something better than what you've got, it means that whatever you have is what you need. It beats 'keeping up with the Joneses.'

"You're quiet," he says, as we drive over the George Washington Bridge. There are pink clouds in the sky—the sun is almost up. I'm not usually out this early. Or should that be, 'I'm not usually out this late'?

"So are you," I counter. "My one time in the cave, Batman let me go about three hours before he said something to me. I thought maybe that was typical for you guys."

He frowns. "Don't lump us together," he says. "We're not alike."

"I never said you were. But, if he raised you, it's normal to expect there'd be some similarities." You know, wearing costumes and masks, having a secret identity, fighting crime without a badge number...

"Like with you and, what's-her-name? Silver Dragon?" Well at least he sounds curious, not sarcastic.

I think for a minute. "She's strong, smart, dedicated, super-responsible, and a born leader." I let my temper get away from me on that rooftop. So much for strong. I ran off to a strange city to find someone I barely know to tell him that something bad might have happened to someone he cares about. It's not like I waited around long enough to find out whether the report was exaggerated or anything. Final analysis: not the smartest course of action. Dedicated and super-responsible? Yeah, right. The team—the city needed, likely still needs me, while I super-irresponsibly raced off to the nearest bus station. Born leader? How would I know? When you're the baby of the team, who gives you a chance? Oh, honestly, it's time to stop with the lame excuses. Simple question: would I follow someone I couldn't depend on? "You win," I tell him. "Sil and I are pretty different."

We're both in street clothes. He's in jeans and a T-Shirt. I've got on a cotton button-down over a denim skirt. My hair is still in braids, which makes me look about fifteen or so, instead of nineteen. Some day, I'll change it, or cut it, or something. I pull down the passenger mirror and pull the braids back behind me, holding them so they're hiding behind my neck. Ugh. From the neck up, I look like a little boy. Not the image I want to convey. Guess I've got my answer to what I was wondering—if this really was a 'Nightmobile' we wouldn't be wearing street clothes in it. This is just a really incredible car. I realize Dick's just asked me something. "Sorry?"

"I asked why you do this."

"What, the moonlighting?" At his nod, I shrug. "I'm a brat. Born, Reared, And Trapped into this line of work." And obviously, still not quite a team player. "You?"

He thinks for a minute. "Rat. Born in a circus. My parents were acrobats. So was I."

That explains a few things about his fighting style. Bronwen used to dance. Ballet. She was almost good enough to go professional. I think some of that translated into her attack moves. Nightwing's similar but better, light-years better—really fast on his feet. And, if you really want to oversimplify, acrobatics are sort of like dancing in the air. To him I say, "Well, if you want to get technical, I wasn't actually born to this kind of life. It's close, though. My psi-powers manifested when I was three. I was in a costume from the time I was five." My fault, not Callie's for that one. She did try to keep me in civvies for longer. Of course, I wanted to do the fun stuff faster.

"Your parents never found out."

I blink "I thought you knew," I say. "My father died in North Africa before I was born. My mother walked out on seven kids, me included, when I was six weeks old."

Guess Bruce left that bit out of whatever he told Dick. It's one of the parts of my past that I really don't have any strong feelings about. Sure, sometimes I miss the concept of parents, but it's hard to get all weepy and mushy about a couple of people you have absolutely no memory of. Not that I didn't put Callie through heck over it, growing up. There was a point when every order, request, demand, or suggestion she'd throw my way would be greeted with "I don't have to—you're not my mother!" Or, even better, "my mother wouldn't make me..." go ahead and fill in the blank with the task of your choice.

Thinking back on it now, it makes me cringe. Because, all that time, Callie could have come back with the ultimate retort: "Exactly. Your mother walked out on you because she couldn't put up with you. So far, I haven't." And that would have shut me up and bundled me off on a slow guilt trip. Only she never did. Not once. No matter how easy a volley it was to return. No matter how much I must have hurt her. So when I finally figured it out for myself, it was like all that guilt was sitting there, waiting for me to discover it. It hit me like a ton of feathers (why does it always have to be bricks? A ton is a ton, after all.) I've spent the last nine years trying to make it up to Callie. Taking the last four days—five days, now into consideration, I think I've blown it. "Batman... doesn't like the unexpected, does he?"

Dick looks at me sharply. "Hates it. Sometimes I think he became the world's greatest detective, just so he could deduce when someone was planning to throw him a surprise party and not show up."

I sigh. "I...didn't tell anyone where I was going. Chances are, your turning up at the manor won't be... expected."

He thinks that over for a minute. Then he glances at me. He looks back quickly at the road, but I get the feeling that if he weren't so anxious to get back to Gotham, he'd pull over to the side of the highway, right now. "You mean to tell me," he says in a voice that seems much too calm, "that your family has no idea where you are, right now?"

"Well, I did leave a message, when I called before." That sounds pitiful, and we both know it. When I phoned home from Dick's apartment, I got the call answer service on Bronwen's cell-phone. She must have the number on forward. I didn't try the other line. I didn't especially want to call the first one, either. Truthfully, it was a relief to get the recording. Recordings don't yell at you or demand explanations. My own cell's mailbox is probably full. I've had it switched off since the bus pulled out of the Gotham terminal.

Dick ignores me. "You've been out of Gotham City for more than four days, without a word or a note to anyone?"

"Oracle knew. How do you think I got your address?" But, as far as I know, the first time Oracle had any dealings with the rest of the team was last Sunday night, when she patched Callie through to Alfred. I'm the only Psion Force-er who knows how to contact her. And believe me, her e-mail address and phone number are not things which I leave lying around unprotected by encryption and three to five password levels.

"More than four days. I can't believe—you're how old? Sixteen?"

"Nineteen!" I think my voice went up a couple of octaves. I think my credibility went down a couple of points.

He groans in disgust. "Nineteen. Your family must be worried sick. And if this 'Bane' dropped Br-Batman in a crowd, the city must be—with the way you can fight... with what you can do ..." he glowers at me. This time, I shudder. "You're just lucky you're not one of my teammates." He turns back to the road. "After fourteen years on a team, don't you think you owe the common courtesy to let your people know when you're leaving them in the lurch? Don't you know better..."

I don't wait to hear the rest. Without any conscious decision, I phase myself out of the car. Rather, I phase myself, and let the car continue on without me. I let myself drift to the ground, changing course just enough to veer toward the shoulder of the road. Once there, I partially solidify, and float a zigzag course to bleed off my momentum. Inertia keeps me moving for what feels like miles. If I'd just stayed phased, I'd have kept moving at whatever velocity the car was going until I lost concentration and had to solidify. If I had fully solidified, my momentum would probably have put a me-shaped hole in whatever I finally hit. Remember the Bugs Bunny cartoons? Think about it. One hundred ten pounds of teenager, hurtling at about ninety miles per, without a car or seatbelt. It probably would have been safer for me to just open the door, and jump out while the engine was running.

I pick myself up from the gravel, and brush myself off. The clothes are more than a little dusty, but they're wash-and-wear. One sleeve button got torn off, there are new holes in the elbows, and my arms are both a little scraped. There's a run in my tights, too. On the whole, though, I think I got off pretty easy. Good thing for me there aren't too many cars on the road, either. I'm not invisible when I phase. The sight of me in the middle of the highway would almost definitely spook other drivers, and probably cause a few accidents.

It looks like I have a long walk ahead of me. It's Friday. Shabbes tonight. No way I'll make it back to Gotham in time. Okay, so I have to find a town with a synagogue and a kosher take-out place by nightfall. That's more than twelve hours away. No problem. Then it hits me. Problem. Everything I brought with me, costume, clean clothes, the muffins I grabbed from B & H Vegetarian Restaurant yesterday afternoon, it's all in the car. My purse. It should be around here, somewhere... Now where... in the front seat of the Nightmobile, sitting in front of where my toes were, that's where. Arrh! I want to scream. I don't know where I am, or whether this highway goes direct to Gotham or if I have to turn off somewhere, I'm broke, and when the sun gets higher, and I have to worry about dehydration, I'm not going to have seventy-five cents on me to buy a bottle of water. How? How can I be so... together... when I'm on the town, or covering my tracks, or having a combat workout against the rest of the team, and still mess up on something as basic as remembering not to let everything I need speed away from me at one hundred miles per hour! Why did I phase out in the first place, anyway? It's not like anything Dick was saying was precisely a new concept. Arrh! If it would accomplish anything, I'd kick myself.

Slow down. What's done is done. You've still got your health, and you've still got your head—even if that last is only because it's conveniently attached to your neck. And, as much as the team probably wants it on a plate, right now, they're not going to leave you stranded if there's anything they can do about it. Follow the highway. Sooner or later, you're going to hit either a restaurant or a gas station. You'll find a payphone at either. Call home collect. Take your lumps, like the adult you pretend to be. Face it. You messed up. There are going to be consequences. The more you try to postpone them, the worse it's going to get. You figured that out the first time Callie read you The Story about Ping, as a bedtime story.

I start moving. After about a half hour, I see a car pulled over on the shoulder. The passenger door is open, but there's nobody outside, fussing with the hood or tires. Midnight Blue. Hold on; I know that car.

"Get in," Dick says. I look left and right, checking if there's anyone else he means. One corner of his mouth quirks up. That's familiar from somewhere. His eyes are smiling, too. That's not. "I mean you. Come on, time's wasting." I hesitate. He sighs. "I'm not going to bite," he says.

I close the door behind me. Before he can start the engine, I phase through the front seat and grab the bag from B & H. Thinking about not having the food made me hungrier than it should have. I pull out a carrot muffin, and jerk the bag in Dick's direction as he turns the motor. "Want?"

"No thanks. I seem to recall someone force-feeding me cheesecake a couple of hours ago."

Right. "Sorry. When I'm stressed, I eat."

"Yeah, but you don't wear spandex tights." I snicker. He does have a point. We pass the exit for Passaic. One of my friends from high school moved there after graduation. There's definitely an Orthodox community. I take note for next time. Next time?

"I'm worried about him," he says a few minutes later.

"Me too." And yet, he stopped to wait for me. That, as Bronwen would say, is something. I reach into my purse and pull out my cell-phone. It's doubtful that they'd leave a message about Batman for me that way. Still, it's all I've got. Twenty-five messages. My mailbox is full. Surprise, surprise. Most of them are variations on 'where in the heck are you?' My family is pretty creative. Some of the messages are in Morse code, fifth variant, and pig Latin. Well, if they were really furious, there'd just be an empty mailbox. If they're keeping the communication lines open, it's a good sign. I hope. I actually laugh when I get to message number twenty-one. That one has to be from Jill. She's the only one who'd put Reba McIntyre in my voicemail:

...Well there's no problem gettin' to me

Baby you can dial direct

I got call forwarding and call waiting

You can even call collect

The service man he told me that my phone is working fine

And I've come to the conclusion trouble isn't with my line

I'm sure the operator will be glad to put you through

So dial zero for assistance

IF THIS ALL CONFUSES YOU!

So tell me why, haven't I heard from you

Tell me why, haven't I heard from you...

Ouch. That's pointed. Deserved, but pointed. Dick sees me smiling. "Good news?"

Stupid, of course he was watching. There I go, building up his hopes. I apologize and explain.

"This Phasma sounds like someone I might enjoy meeting."

"She's great," I say sincerely. "Best sister-in-law I could ask for."

"Oh, so she and Pathwarden..."

I nod. "It'll be two years at the end of July." Two older married siblings. Jill had a crush on my brother since she was ten and he was fourteen. When he left the team and spent four years on the road, they kept in contact. Admittedly, a lot of that was probably because he didn't want to risk connecting with Callie. For most of the time he was away, well, let's just say that bringing up my brother's name in casual conversation with Cal was up there with petting a cobra, and jumping off the CN tower without a parachute on a list of 'things to do in Toronto when you've got a death wish.' Toronto's where we lived, before we moved to Gotham when I was eleven. Bran came back about a month or so before we closed up the apartment.

Anyway, getting back off my tangent, it wasn't until Jill turned eighteen that my brother woke up and realized that she hadn't been the "little kid with the braided barrettes" in a very long time. I don't think they really dated, our time is fairly limited in that regard, but at night, we often work in teams of two or more. My guess would be that during slower moments when they were paired together, they probably found non-work-related topics to discuss. It was almost four years before they made it official. The wedding was three months later.

I realize Dick's waiting for me to reply to something. "Sorry, I zoned out. What?"

He sighs. "I was trying to apologize."

I try to think. "For?"

"For? For blasting you when we crossed into New Jersey."

Now I'm confused. I messed up. I acted like the thoughtless flighty adolescent I never had a chance to be. Why should he apologize for handing me the heck I deserve? Sure, it got me angry. That's not the point. I shouldn't have rabbitted. "Look," I say, "everything you told me was right. Okay? My family needed me in Gotham. I should have waited for things to settle down before trying to find you." I wasted more than four days just waiting for him to get back from Brazil. "Or you would have gotten a call from Robin, or—"does he know her as 'Green', 'Barbara', or 'Oracle'? "...Or you would have called up the mutual friend who left you that last message on your machine. My coming out to find you wasn't necessary. Silver Dragon's going to phrase it a little differently, but she'll end up telling me the same thing. And what's going to make it worse," I say, realizing for the first time that this isn't just accurate, it's true, "is that you were right about something else you said, too." I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I do know better."

Dick doesn't say anything for a while. He slides a box of tissues over to me, but I shake my head. I'm not about to cry. After we pass what's probably the fifth farm that has cows grazing right up near the road, he finally opens his mouth. "Your execution was lousy, not your idea. I think... what you had to tell me, I think it's better you told me face to face. Thanks." Fine, it looks like my hunch was right on that score, at least. I finish my muffin. There are a few more in the bag, but spandex tights or not, I probably shouldn't take another one just yet. The closest I've had to a decent workout since arriving in Manhattan was beating up Bluto, and he was too smashed to put up any real defense.

"So," he continues, sounding slightly more cheerful, "you said a 'mutual friend.'"

I nod, and wait for him to continue. He doesn't. That's when it hits me. We're both trying to figure out if we're giving anything away by mentioning her name, because I don't know if he calls her 'Barbara' or 'Oracle', and he doesn't know if I know she's 'Oracle' but don't know about 'Barbara', or vice versa. I don't know if he knows them both but doesn't realize they're the same person, and he's probably wondering the same about me, and neither of us wants to give anything away... "Gee, these secret identities are a pain sometimes, aren't they?" I ask brightly.

He chuckles. "Sometimes a voice can sound different on the phone," he says, finally. "The person who left me that message she and I go back a long time. Her name's Barbara."

I nod. "The commissioner's daughter. That's who I thought it was."