She fears him, and will always ask

What fated her to choose him;

She meets in his engaging mask

All reasons to refuse him.

-from Eros Turannos by Edwin Arlington Robinson

…

Stricken by a sudden, nauseating vertigo, she blinked and stared dumbly at him in horror. Thousands of questions rose to her mind like a flock of birds, battering themselves against her eyelids, begging to be set free. But the face of the man in the straitjacket was as unreadable as ever. Now, she realized, it was doubly inscrutable, what with the mirror of insanity reflecting all the efforts of her searching gaze.

"Ms. Crandell," he said slowly, as if setting each word out alone, like an offering, into the silence to see how it would be received, "I had a feeling you'd be coming to pay me a visit soon enough. Have a seat; you seem agitated."

Feeling her knees quiver beneath her, she sat heavily in the nearby chair, fingernails digging into her palms. The confusion in her rose to terrifying maturity, and tears of pure, childish bewilderment dripped out from under her downturned lashes, burning bright paths down her face. He watched them fall with a half-fascinated disgust, as if she were bleeding copiously onto a priceless carpet in his house.

"You are fifteen minutes late to work," he said as he watched her cry. A strange, joking lilt turned his words upward, like a smile, but his face was colder than marble.

"Jonathan…who did this to you?" She managed to gasp out, wiping furiously at her cheeks.

Strapped in tightly as he was, he seemed to settle back like a satisfied cat, relishing the opportunity to tell a story. "A bat got in," he replied with the same not-quite irony still haunting his voice, "He didn't much care for how I was conducting things." Whatever his reasons for being locked in a maximum-security cell, he still had enough acuity about himself to notice her stare of disbelief. "Don't look so appalled, Ms. Crandell—didn't I tell you it was just beginning?"

"What do you mean?" She asked, regaining control, though her grip on the suit of armor was tenuous at best.

"There was a police raid last night," Ingram put in, voice like the slow, sad yawing of a cello. She jumped; she'd almost forgotten he was standing by the door. "The Batman was here too. Well, according to some. Crane was at the head of some illegal operation they were carrying out downstairs…we're still trying to put the pieces together."

"Too late," Jonathan cut in, staring with bruised, furious eyes at Ingram, "Too late."

Darcy glanced between the two men, feeling as if she'd been plunged into ice water.

"Is this true?" She asked, not directing the question to either of them.

"Yes," Jonathan answered, almost smugly, "They say I'm crazy now. I'm being treated by Dr. Connolly at the moment. I hired him myself, last summer. Bright-eyed little idealist from Chicago. I think you've met him once or twice in passing."

"Jonathan?" Darcy asked slowly.

"What is it?"

"I'm going to ask you a question." Her voice sounded like a little girl's; she hated herself for it.

"Don't even try," he remarked brusquely, "You're not a certified psychiatrist yet."

"Jonathan…" She clung to the name, as if it would bring him to his senses. She didn't like this new, volatile man sitting before her, speaking with a madman's sobriety and looking inside her. "Is Mike Laramie dead?"

Jonathan's haughty, contained air dissolved, slowly replaced by a quiet, malevolent mien that was even more unnerving.

"I thought you'd never ask," he said in a faint, leisurely voice, "But you're a smart girl. I should have counted on that." When her only response was a frightened silence, he continued. "Yes. He is dead."

She didn't want to ask; she teetered on the edge of a sheer precipice, terrified, sickened, unable to look at the face of the man she'd almost trusted, almost loved.

"Who killed him?"

"You know the answer to that."

Everything seemed to twist and tighten; her eyes were wrung dry but her mind was in a panic, making the connections she'd thought would be left unmade for the rest of her life.

Jonathan Crane had murdered Mike and given her the poison which had almost cost her her mind. Lied to her with a smiling mouth and in the same breath pressed those lips to her. Held her in the dark, pressed against her, as he had in the dark office—now she knew he was him and him was he—but then, in her apartment, he'd said he loved her. Fingers not her own tangled in her hair. The holding, the murmuring, the gentleness, calming the very fear he himself had sown in her mind.

"You—" Monster rose to her lips, but she couldn't say it. Memories howled in her head, refusing to be pushed away. "I believed you—I let you in—"

"You shouldn't have been so pliant," he snapped back, smiling bitterly though his eyes sparked with a likeness of her own rage, "You should have known."

"How could I have known? I thought—I thought you would talk to me and understand—"

"I did. And I did. Anyone can understand another person, anyone can help. One cannot exorcise his demons alone."

"You lied—you made me feel like—"

"Like what? Tell me: like what? It can't be anything worse than what I felt."

"You're locked in here. You'll never get out. I hate you." She wanted to rise and strike him, with all her strength, but something bound her to her chair.

He stopped short, surprised by her vehemence. "Go away, Darcy," he said in an unexpectedly quiet, serious voice, almost warning her, "Leave the city tonight. Don't come back. Leave."

"I'm not afraid of you," she replied, lowering her voice to match his, "I'm not afraid of you anymore. You're never going to leave here. I'll never see you again."

She finally found her feet and stood, turning on her heel, trying not to feel the pump of blood, the raging sorrow.

"Darcy!"

She looked back only once as she left, caught a glimpse of him over Ingram's shoulder. Every lineament of his bound form strained toward her, eyes bright but blank and bare of hope.

"The night will come, and I'll find you, Darcy—I'll find—"

The cell door slammed, sealing him off. She stumbled to the opposite wall and felt herself collapse in one graceless, leaden motion, vision swimming in and out of focus.

She didn't cry again, thought. Too much energy had been wasted for her to cry anymore; she was hollowed out now, and dry as bone. She simply coughed and retched and groaned, thinking of everything with a blindness that was animal and frenzied.

"Valencia? Who's with you?"

She looked up just in time to catch the flash of a badge as a wiry man looked down at her in concern.

"James Gordon. I'm with the GCPD."

She nodded without understanding, unable to find her voice.

"She's Darcy Crandell," she heard Ingram say as if from underwater, "She was interning for Crane."

"Is that so? Nice to meet you." That cursory greeting complete, he turned to Ingram, glasses flashing in the sun. "Could you do me a favor and keep her around? I'd love to ask her a few questions."

"Gordon!" A voice from up the hall.

"Be right there, Andy! –Look, just hang out here for a bit. Lemme go see what he wants." He was gone. Everything was so fast, so loud.

"Get up," Ingram murmured to her as the lean officer rounded the corner and disappeared, "Go home and get some sleep."

"But he—"

"I'll cover for you. I know you didn't know about this whole thing. I'll tell him that. Just try and forget it all. You're too good a person to get caught up in it; I always knew you were."

She still didn't move; a massive hand closed about hers and hauled her upwards with a surprising gentleness.

"Ingram—"

"Don't. Just go. If you're still thinking about this tomorrow, give Dr. Connolly a call. You have the Asylum directory at home. He'll help you out and talk you through it; he's a good kid."

"I—I will."

"Go," he repeated quietly, "I wasn't kidding."

"Ingram…thanks." She hugged him, weakly, trying not to think too far ahead.

A faint smile split his stony, weathered face as he looked down at her, but he waved her off.

"Go on; I told you to leave, little girl."

She turned, walked, then ran, every step lifting her higher, taking her farther. The lobby door closed behind her, and she could have sworn she saw Gordon's face, looking at her bewildered, through the glass.

Her car took her even farther. The streets grew prosperous, silver. She counted the blocks under breath, starting over each time her voice began to shake or snag. A passing woman's jewel-blue sweater reminded her of eyes, his eyes, and she had to pull over and stop. He was behind her. Over a bridge, locked in a cell, strapped to a chair. He'd never find her.

She would block him out, she realized as she passed the Clocktower. In her mind, she saw him walking backwards, out of her life, back across the Asylum courtyard, as if in rewind. The crows paused mid-wing and settled on the sidewalk once more, muttering to themselves as if he'd never disturbed them, as if he'd never been born.

Dr. Crane? She asked the void inside herself. I quit.

Doctor's Note

Dear Readers,

This is Dr. Jonathan Crane, writing in lieu of my bizarre hostess to you on this fine evening. Before I continue, I must simply let you know that Ms. Darcy Crandell is of course very, very wrong. I am not gone from her life. That is an absolutely silly and implausible belief to hold.

Continuing on, I wish to extend my heartfelt congratulations to Melismata Maiden, Magdalena Iris Roth, Jonathansgirl18, Firefly4000, Dai Katana, SpadesJade, Trickster Priestess, Jacinta Kenobi, Tigger-180, and Midnight Scribbler for being the first ten reviewers to contact my eccentric authoress. To reward you for your thoughtfulness and enthusiasm, you each are going to receive a free guest pass to visit Arkham Asylum whenever you wish. Do drop by my cell; it would be a pleasure to meet you.

Oh, and please stay tuned for the penultimate chapter in this twisted and, I assure you, altogether factually mangled tale.

Regards,

Dr. Jonathan Crane