"Mom, I called you last weekend, don't you remember?" Rachel asked, a little exasperated. "You told me about your roses. You said the hybrid tea roses were coming on well." Rachel sighed. "I know we talked, I spoke to Dr. Crane about it after."
"You talked to your psychiatrist about me?" asked Mrs. Dawes.
"He's just a friend, Mom, it wasn't like that," said Rachel.
"You called last Saturday, you say? Why don't I remember that?" asked Mrs. Dawes. "Oh well, old age setting in, I suppose."
"You're not old yet, Mom," said Rachel automatically. "You're only fifty-five."
"Which is why I think you're trying to pull the wool over these eyes." She laughed. "I know, never my honest Rachel. You could never lie to me, or anyone else." They spoke for a few more minutes, and then hung up, leaving Rachel feeling a little unsettled. Of course they had spoken; she called her mother every Saturday no matter what. She wondered, as she often did after their conversations, if she should be visiting her mother more often. The little cottage was only an hour train ride away from Gotham, and it was lovely to see the green rolling fields after the dirty gray of the city, but the route took her past Wayne Manor, and brought up memories she would rather leave forgotten.
Forgotten, forgotten, there was something else she was supposed to do today—yes, a brief for Finch. She sighed and ran a brush through her hair. Things had been very tense at the office lately, culminating with the scene on Wednesday . . .
"I don't know what has come over you lately Rachel. Your work is shoddy, the defense attorneys seem to know every move before you make it, and your cross examinations have been weak at best. If you were anyone else, I'd say you were being purposefully incompetent to let these scumbags off, but with you . . ." he let the question hang in the air, unspoken.
"I've just been really tired lately, Kyle," she had said. He gave her a sympathetic look.
"I wish I could cut you some slack, Rachel, but even in Gotham there are other people who want to be district attorneys. If you don't complete this brief on the Mignella case by Saturday evening, and or if the boss man doesn't think it's top notch, they're going to ask you to take a leave of absence. Perhaps indefinitely."
She had not told her mother about that exchange, or even mentioned it to Crane, and instead threw herself into the work. Today she would finish, and prove to the office that it was just a momentary lapse for her. She tugged on her boots and put her hair up in a ponytail, and went to cocoon herself in the library.
From the notebooks of Dr. Jonathan Crane . . .
Reducing Dose F for Subject RD presents more challenges than anticipated. Subject becomes very suspicious whenever she encounters missing memories. Dose F suppresses subject's inquisitive personality, but only temporarily.
Secondary problem: necessity of inventing false memories becomes tedious, especially with regard to RD's friends and family. Invented conversations with co-workers slightly more profitable but still not efficient use of time.
Conclusion: must entirely stop dosages of F—perhaps injection of Sample 225 will effect more permanent personality changes.
Dr. Crane blew on the ink in his notebook for a moment before shutting it carefully. Too much writing this week. I need a new assistant, he thought, as he massaged a cramp out of his hand. His last one had suffered an accident with a too-large dose of the memory-erasing drug after first suffering an unfortunate case of conscience. These people are like a plague, he thought, as he pulled on his lab coat and smoothed out the wrinkles on the arms. At least the inmates were in no position to complain about helping him with his experiments, but some of them were a bit too unreliable for his more delicate work, and certainly, none of them could be trusted with a typewriter.
He went down to his lab in the basement to check on his supplies of sedatives, and on the way passed by the orderly station. "Ms. Hamilton," he said to the dull, heavy-set woman who worked the weekend shift, "please make up an empty room with a bed, an IV, and some restraints. We may have a new transfer here tonight."
Rachel dressed carefully that night, in a long burgundy dress, once Bruce's favorite color for her. She was supposed to meet Dr. Crane for a late dinner, followed by, well . . . as always there was an open-ended kind of promise in his voice when he invited her. A tone that earlier had given her a frisson of anticipation, now made her wonder why she continued to see him. She felt more clear-headed this evening, after a focused day of research in the Gotham University Law Library, than she had in a while.
Nearly a week had passed since her last evening with Dr. Crane, and certain nagging doubts had begun to trouble her mind. Why did they always go to restaurants he chose, places quiet, private, and always too close to the looming presence of Arkham? Why did she never object? Why did he know so much about her and she so little about him beyond a sketchy picture of him as an intellectual and lonely child, and a concrete one of his complete devotion to his patients? Was there nothing more, some stories from work, some friends besides her?
He has patient confidentiality to respect, she reminded herself as she brushed out her hair and knotted it in a bun at the nape of her neck, and he is supremely dedicated to his work. Tonight, Rachel resolved, she would learn a little more, and shake them out of this weird stalemate.
Upon seeing him again in front of the restaurant, though, Rachel found herself stifled by his icy calm, and it took all her determination to say, "I don't think I want to eat here tonight." But once she said it, the world seemed to snap into focus, and she smiled what felt like the first genuine smile she had managed in weeks.
"Let's try something downtown," she said brightly, gaining momentum Who could object to a little change of pace? "There's this place I've been wanting to go to for a while. Cuban food, some tapas, sangria, and there's after hours music."
Crane stared at her blankly for a moment, and then spared a regretful glance for the restaurant. The corners of his mouth turned down unpleasantly but he inclined his head and said smoothly, "As my lady wishes." Rachel smiled at this and was rewarded with his smile in return. She allowed him to lead her to his car, and open the door for her. After she got in, he bent down to make sure her dress and coat were fully inside, and looked up at her through sooty eyelashes.
"Come on," she said, laughing happily, "it'll be great." He closed the door and came around to the driver side of the car. "Just make the next left," she told him when they turned onto the street, "or the West Express will probably take us there," she added after he missed the last street going downtown.
"I don't think so, Rachel," he said without looking at her.
"What are you doing, Jonathan?" she asked sharply. They stopped at a red light and he turned to look at her. His face looked very pale in the darkness. "Where are we going?" she asked steadily, trying now to mask her fear.
"It's a surprise," he said, and he widened his eyes at her through his glasses. She smiled uneasily.
"But I thought . . ." she trailed off.
"We are not going to your Cuban place," he said. "You do not look well."
"I'm fine!" she snapped. "Let me out, now."
"In the Narrows? Don't be absurd, Rachel," he said as they drove on. "You seem so suspicious tonight. Are you sure you are feeling well?" The lulling tones of his voice, those same tones that had been so comforting to her last week and the week before, and the solicitous words were almost enough to calm her fears.
"I am feeling fine," she said tightly. "I am calling a cab, and you're going to let me out now." She opened her cell phone to do just that.
"Of course, I won't stop you," he said as he pulled into the garage beneath Arkham, "but I wish you'd come in so we could talk about this."
"Hello, Gotham Cab? Can you please send a car for Rachel Dawes up to Arkham. Yes, that is in the Narrows. Send an armored cab if you must, but just send one." As she closed her phone she felt a pressure on her arm through the thick fabric of her coat. She saw the hypodermic needle in Dr. Crane's hand, but did not have time to utter more than a short shriek before the prick of the needle and the smooth oblivion that followed.
Crane picked up her phone and dialed the previous number. "Gotham Cab? I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but we'll need to cancel that pick up. Yes, everything is fine. I do apologize."
Rachel awoke in a tiled room with her arms tied down at her sides and a nylon strap across her chest just below her breasts. She tried moving her legs and found that those, too were restrained—a strap around her thighs and another around her ankles. She turned her head to one side, and saw Dr. Crane looking at her, and holding a stopwatch in his hand.
"Two minutes and twenty-three seconds," he said. He pushed his glasses up his nose and wrote something in his notebook. "Interesting. You're heavier than you look." He walked around behind her head.
"What the hell are you doing?" she yelled.
"Experimentation, Miss Dawes," he said. "But you, you have been a very difficult subject."
"You're crazy," she said, trying to suppress the shiver that came over her.
"They all say that, here," he said. "It's a common enough symptom."
"People will miss me. My mother knew I was coming here tonight," she said desperately.
"I'm sure she did. How are her roses?" Dr. Crane looked at her intently again, and put his fingertips against her neck. "Pulse eighty, eighty-five, not bad. You probably have a considerable tolerance by now."
"Tolerance?" she said. She started to gulp with fear. She could feel her pulse coming more and more quickly. "You've been drugging me this whole time?" Rachel's voice was almost a squeak on the last word.
"Shhh, calm," he said, putting a finger to her lips. "Calm now. Of course."
"What, that drink?" She thought back through as much as she could of the past six weeks. Everything seemed a little vague.
"The drink, certainly, but flowers are an excellent vehicle as well," said Dr. Crane. "How do you feel?"
"Like I could kill you," she spat. The anger felt good, it clouded her vision but seemed to clear her head.
"Mmmm. No convulsions, that's good. Do you feel dizzy, or nauseated at all? Any shortness of breath?"
"Fuck you," she said venomously. He turned away from her for a moment to a set of vials and needles on a nearby tray. Rachel tried to feel how the straps were secured to her wrists, but even if she could get out, escape from the asylum and then the Narrows seemed difficult. One thing at a time, she reminded herself.
Dr. Crane turned back to her with a syringe in his hand. Under the fluorescent light in the corner, his face glowed like a marble angel's, all luminous curves and deep shadows. Something in his countenance made Rachel's blood go icy, and instead of hurling a new insult at him, she gulped back a sob.
"What do you want?" she whispered.
"Just answer my questions," he said mildly. He took a clipboard off of the tray, and paged through a few papers. "Please just answer the questions honestly." He walked around to her right arm, and tapped on the inside of her elbow a few times to raise the vein then slid the needle in. "It will take a few minutes to have an effect. You will probably become a little warm."
In a few minutes Rachel did start to sweat. She felt her bangs start to stick to her forehead, and a rivulet of perspiration started to flow down her neck. She felt it inching down her collarbone, and wished to have her hand free for just a moment to brush it away. Sweat dripped off her face and into her ears.
Over the next few hours Dr. Crane read questions to her in a steady monotone. Some regarded detailed ethical situations and quandaries, others minute points of law, and still others seemed like memory games. He paused a few times to lift up his glasses and massage the bridge of his nose, but for the most part, he showed neither fatigue nor impatience. Rachel became confused and tired as the night wore on; sometimes she felt as if her heart would beat its way out of her chest, and sometimes her breathing and pulse became so sluggish she thought she would lose consciousness.
Finally he flipped back the papers on his clipboard and took off his glasses. "You've learned too much. I can't allow you to leave with your mind intact. Unless—" he paused and licked his lips, "—unless we can reach an agreement. First, you agree to shield this institutions from any . . . unnecessary inquiries, and second, you allow certain motions to passed unchallenged. We can work out the details later." He smiled unpleasantly. "As I'm sure you are now aware, I do have the means to enforce any agreement we might make."
"Give you and your mob friends a free pass you mean?" said Rachel. "I don't think so. You can lock me up here in your nuthouse, turn my brain to tapioca, but there are going to be questions asked. People have noticed the effect of your drugs on me, and if I wind up here, you'll have police and DAs crawling all over this place."
"I'm sure you over-estimate your own importance, Miss Dawes," said Dr. Crane, "the insane usually do." He turned back to his table and prepared another vial, this one of a sedative mixed with a high percentage of his favorite memory drug.
Rachel tried one last time. "Whatever you do to me, someone is going to ask questions," she said, straining against the restraints.
Dr. Crane cocked his head to one side as he gave her the injection. "No, no they won't."
After he made certain Rachel was unconscious again, he opened up his notebook. Possible effects of fear or anger dilute efficacy of sample 192, he wrote Or perhaps the drug just did not work very well. All her answers had indicated confusion and fear, but her ability to distinguish right from wrong was disgustingly intact. Closing Subject RD's file after final administration of Dose F.
Furthermore, she was probably correct—someone would come asking after her if anything untoward happened. He would have to return her to her regular life.
Rachel awoke in Dr. Crane's bed still wearing her burgundy dress. The windows were shadowed by the fire escape on the outside of the building, and although the clock said it was past noon, very little light came into the room.
"Good, you're awake," said Dr. Crane from the door.
"God, my head hurts," said Rachel, sitting up slowly. She took stock of herself—still fully dressed except shoes—but that didn't mean much.
"I should think so. That was quite a bit of sangria you drank." His tone was cool, and a little judgmental. Rachel shook her head a little to try to clear it, and instantly regretted it.
"I never drink that much. It's too dangerous for a woman to get drunk in Gotham," she said, confused. She spotted her bag on the floor with a rose sticking out of it. "Did I take that from the restaurant? What happened last night?"
"I've made you some coffee," said Dr. Crane. "Once you get up." Rachel frowned. There was some reason, wrapped up with the night before, that she should not drink anything he offered, but she could not think what.
"I don't think so. I'll just get the train." For once, he made no move to stop her, and she hastily gathered up her things and left.
During the long ride back downtown, she hugged her coat to her tightly, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. She wracked her brains trying to think what had happened to leave her so uneasy. She couldn't remember ever having consumed enough alcohol to black out—even in college she was too busy holding down waitress jobs and then working as a paralegal to indulge so much. She tried to dredge up some memory from the night before, but all she could remember was the lulling sound of Dr. Crane's voice, and the terrifying feeling of being trapped.
This has to end, she thought. I don't know why, but I'm not myself around him. It has to stop.
"Good job on the brief, Rachel. The bosses are impressed," said Finch when he came in the next Monday. "And you're coming in early again. This is a good sign."
"I'm turning over a new leaf, Finch," she said with a smile. "You don't have to worry about me anymore." Finch gave her an odd look but nodded.
"Just keep it up, okay?"
Around noon the receptionist called her to tell her Dr. Crane was there to see her. Rachel froze where she sat, and felt a rushing in her head. She had hoped to have more time to compose herself before having to end things with him.
"Dr. Crane," she said evenly, when he came in carrying a bouquet of his trademark lilies. "I've been wanting to talk to you."
"Miss Dawes, this is becoming embarrassing," he said loudly.
"What?" said Rachel and frowned at him incredulously.
"The gifts, the flowers—" here he flung the bouquet on her desk, "—how many times do I have to tell you, I'm just not interested?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" she hissed. She saw people starting to poke their heads out of their offices all along the hallway.
"Honestly, Miss Dawes, can't you take a hint?" he said, still in that too-loud voice. Rachel blinked at him stupidly for a moment. Then he turned on his heel and walked out the door, but not before she saw a look of terrible smugness cross his face. Rachel debated storming after him, but that would only make her look worse, and after she was sure he had gone, she poked her head out of her office again.
"Really, he is beautiful, who could blame her?" she heard one of the secretaries say, before the woman saw her, and blushed.
"I was about to dump him!" she said, if dumping was even the right term for ending whatever it was they had.
"Sure, hon," the secretary said, and patted her on the arm.
Post-script: 5 years later"The work offered by organized crime must hold some attraction for the insane," said Dr. Crane. Rachel looked at him with disgust showing plain on her face as he walked away.
From the notebooks of Dr. Jonathan Crane . . .
Addendum to Subject RD's file: Even though samples 183-192 proved ineffective, the case of Subject RD proved definitively the range of use and efficacy of Dose F. Although RD clearly has some subconscious knowledge, five years later, RD still has no memory of any specific events targeted by Dose F.
It is possible, however, that exposure to the fear toxin might cause her to relive them . . .
The End