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Batman 1939: Swimming in the Styx
Chapter 20: Tiresias and Other Implications


Golden Harbor Yacht Club, Gotham City. Three days before the sinking of the Azure.

Folks who entered a life of crime tended to be selfish, paranoid, stubborn, impulsive bullies. As anyone who ever worked with one knew, selfish, paranoid, stubborn, impulsive bullies made terrible partners. Unsurprisingly, criminal gangs tended to self-destruct more often than, say, church choirs or dairy farms.

To succeed, organized crime needed to be tied together by forces stronger than its members' anti-social proclivities. Cohesion usually developed out of a carrot and stick approach. Gangs often started from families or inseparable friends, and they indoctrinated recruits into their private culture as they grew – forming an artificial family. That was the carrot. Meanwhile, gangs enforced loyalty with threats of gruesome retribution. That was the stick.

Of course, gangs could only grow so large before they rubbed against other gangs, and cooperation between gangs had no carrot or stick. The only force keeping the peace was enlightened self-interest, and most gangsters shared little with the Enlightenment besides a love for liquor, opium, and duels. There were no family ties to establish trust and threats eventually led to war. Gangs which lasted five years were rare, but gang alliances lasting five years were extraordinary.

Carmine Falcone's was pushing eleven.

For most of Prohibition, Gotham City was caught in an escalating crime wave called the Bootlegger Vendettas. The Gotham Bay was perfect for smugglers, and the urban maze hid endless distilleries and speakeasies. Liquor was a gold mine, and quite a few gangs made a mint. The money didn't make them any less selfish, paranoid, stubborn, impulsive, or prone to risks, so what might have been a quiet beverage delivery industry became a jungle of raids, counter-raids, bombs, pirates, spies, assassins, and the occasional lawsuit. The noblest fought with undisguised contempt, and the cruelest were monsters. As its name implied, the Vendettas often turned personal.

Carmine Falcone ran a powerful gang, but he knew he would never conquer the city by force. None of them would. Instead, he studied every rival and dreamed a vision of the city shared between them, the slices cut to the perfect balance of each gang's potential. Then he engineered a day when everyone who mattered would see his vision, see past their grudges and mistrust, and understand the value of teamwork. Once the crucial factions were aligned, everyone else could be cleanly removed. It was a moment equal to Bismarck or Richelieu yet praised in no history books. The number of men who recognized the true enormity of Falcone's triumph could fit in a small dining room.

Many of those men presently sat in a small dining room. After Falcone had established a truce, he chaired meetings to establish a new code for cooperation – a sort of gangster's constitutional convention. Part of that code concerned kidnappings. Yesterday, a squad of policemen had intercepted Falcone's car and abducted him. He had not been heard from since. Back in the Vendettas, any gang would have been assumed that a rival was responsible (all the Families had hired cops to do their dirty work in the past, and stolen uniforms were a hot commodity). The Falcone Family still assumed treachery, but their code offered an alternative to bloodshed.

Instead of going to the mattresses, the other three Families had visited the Falcones within hours of the assault to plead their innocence. Within a day, each Family had selected three junior leaders to stay with the Falcones as guests and pledges of good faith until the matter was settled. In the strategic math of such things, three lieutenants weren't worth a boss, but they would be a costly enough loss that the Families believed no one would endure deliberately. Conversely, if this was some trick by the Falcones to unbalance their peers, the loss of three lieutenants would be painful but not paralyzing.

In the drawing room of the yacht club, men argued over final details and said their goodbyes. Finally, the nine lieutenants were escorted out to the pier where they boarded five motorboats. The motorboats unmoored and cruised off towards Falcone safe houses across the state. No individual, not even the Family's acting boss, Carmine's son Mario knew where they were all headed. That information was distributed safely across the Family's senior ranks.

For all their talk of family, gangsters were rarely sentimental, not since the Vendettas ended. As the wake of the departing craft still lapped against the pier, the crowd separated to return to business. Nine lucky soldiers would be given a field promotion today. Seven wives, four girlfriends, and sixteen children would be given disappointing news. And the Falcones would continue to shake heaven and earth to find their don.


Meanwhile, twenty blocks west.

Sergeant James Gordon was the new leader of the homicide squad for the GCPD's River and Maritime Patrol. Essentially, if someone was found dead in any body of water deeper than six feet, and there was any hint of foul play, Gordon's squad investigated.

This meant many things for Gordon. It meant he often needed to travel half a morning to reach a call, since a body might appear out in the Bay or in some marsh by the county line or in one of Gotham City's subterranean canals. Then when he was finished, he would spend half the evening traveling home, the travel cutting out what little family time he once enjoyed.

The position also promised to stall Gordon's career. Generally, there were two ways to advance in the police: play politics and close cases. Gordon was just getting his bearings at the more efficient method, politics, but he had always managed to hold his own by maintaining a sky-high conviction rate. Gordon was a mighty fine cop, but criminals crawled out of the woodwork at his old beats. He could make arrests all day and never run dry. But in the River Patrol, his team was lucky to see three genuine crime scenes a week. And salt water wasn't kind to evidence. Or corpses. In fact, Gordon had yet to collar a single felon. He could feel his golden boy shine wearing off day by day. Soon he'd be just another agitator. The Department tended to serve them early retirement.

Worst of all, Gordon got sea sick easily. He had no idea how his rivals had learned that, but he refused to believe it was a coincidence. It was a nice touch.

On the other hand, his new role was technically a promotion. If he behaved, they would make him a lieutenant before the end of the month. At least his wife would like his new paycheck.

Gordon had endured a particularly useless wild goose chase today. He had been on a rowboat in a pond in Centennial Park dredging the muck with a rookie named Ritter. After two hours, they had pulled up a wristwatch that might have been evidence for a nearby murder. When Officer Ritter returned to shore, the young policeman was immediately ambushed by a wild goose who stole the wristwatch. Gordon chased the wild goose around half the park before tackling the bird. Soon afterward, his team learned that no murder had actually occurred; the original witness confessed to inventing the story out of boredom. His team then arrested the witness, but Gordon knew the case would plead down to a misdemeanor, so their felon record was still zilch. Officer Ritter was given four days leave while his wounds healed. That was a loss, as Ritter was not the least competent officer in Sergeant Gordon's new command.

Gordon opened the door to his apartment around sunset. He legs were dead. His back hurt. His eyes hurt. He had goose feathers in his shirt. Gordan tried to shrug out of his coat. His daughter Barbara was doing her homework at the kitchen table, but she jumped up to help him out of him. Gordon hung the coat while she gave him a hug.

She looked up at him. Her head was almost to his shoulder now. "Hey, Daddy!"

Gordon smiled and took off his glasses. "Hey, Pumpkin."

"How was work? Catch any bad guys?"

"Sorry, not today. Unless you count birds."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Where's your mother and brother?"

"She's at her bridge game. He's at the movies."

"Hmm."

"We left some pot roast on the table. I can warm it up on the stove for you. While you eat I can show you this speech I'm making for Civics class. Ms. Glenn wants us to pick a Founding Father and explore a dilemma they faced, but I think she might give me extra credit if I pick two Founding Fathers and show how they were a dilemma for each other, and I'm trying to turn it into a rhyme, but there aren't many rhymes for 'constitutional' or 'Jeffersonian' or 'legislate'. Well, there's actually a whole bundle for 'legislate', but they're hard to work in. Resuscitate. Magistrate. Conjugate. Regulate. Confiscate. Prostate. Prostrate. Phosphate. Amputate-"

"Uh-huh." Gordon glanced at the wall clock. He winced and patted her shoulder. "Oh, jeez, Barbara, I'm sorry. Daddy needs to go, uh, take a smoke. It's been a long day."

Babara stopped. "Oh." She tried to put on another smile and went to the stove. "Okay. We can talk about it later, Daddy. I'll warm up the pot roast."

Gordon rubbed his eyes. "That's lovely, Barbara. I'll be right back." He trudged down their little hall to the window beside his apartment's fire escape. As he undid the latch, there was a loud knocking on his front door. Gordon spun, hand on his holster. Barbara went to the door and peered through the peephole.

"It's the cops, Daddy."

Gordon frowned and shooed Barbara away from the door. He looked through the peephole. Two cops in patrol blues. He didn't recognize them. They didn't look happy.

"Go to your room, Barbara."

"But-"

"Now." Gordon's voice was firm. Barbara disappeared. Gordon opened the door. "What can I-"

The cops each grabbed one of Gordon's arms and pulled him out. They closed his door without a word and escorted him down the stairwell and out of his building. One of the cops pulled the sidearm from Gordon's holster. Gordon's mind swam through probabilities, trying to remember anything he might have done lately to earn a late night visit, and how bad it might get. He'd probably get out with a warning. If not, he could take a beating. He had faith they wouldn't try anything nastier. Even if the worst stories, he had never heard of a cop offing a cop in cold blood. Certainly not outside his own home.

But if they tried to take him somewhere else…

Gordon tensed. Fortunately, the two cops turned and escorted him into the alley behind his building. He saw the looming figure of Detective Arnold Flass smoking in the twilight next to a pile of trash. There was no false twinkle in Flass' eyes tonight, no friendly veneer. Tonight he was all business. Flass nodded and the pair moved back to block the alley entrance.

Gordon folded his arms. "What's this for, Flass?"

Detective Flass was in his regular camel hair coat. It made him look heavy, but he was a very fit man underneath, and many punks had learned to their dismay how quickly he could move those long arms when he had something to prove. Flass stepped forward. In a blink, he seized Gordon by the collar and tossed him against the brick wall. Gordon tasted blood. He raised an arm to defend himself, but Flass drove a fist into his stomach and shoved him to the ground. Gordon bounced off the wall and landed next to the trash pile.

Gordon's vision spun. He could feel lunch in his throat. He eventually tried to stand, put Flass but a polished shoe on his chest.

Gordon dry heaved. "… Why?"

Flass brushed the creases from his sleeves. "You're a pest, Jimmy. A real rock in my shoe." He casually kicked Gordon in the ribs. "But I've mostly let you be, since I'm such a saint. I never guessed you were looking for someone to kill you. Now where's Carmine Falcone?"

Gordon looked up, anger and incredulous. "What? Some penthouse uptown, I don't know."

Flass leaned down and slapped Gordon across the mouth. "Ah, I think you do know. You and your little friends all know. You'll talk, or one of them will."

"Gordon tried to blink his vision into focus. His cheek was numb. "Flass, I don't know from nothing. You're barking up the wrong tree."

Flass slapped him again. It was a long slap, with shoulder rotation and a lot of muscle. "You're lucky here, Jimmy. We officers of the law police our own. If the Falcones thought we weren't up to the task, why Jimmy, you'd really be in deep." Flass slapped again, leading with the edge of the palm so it was almost a chop. "Instead you get my gentle persuasion." Flass backhanded him. "Consider this encouragement." Another slap. "That one was just for fun."

Flass raised his hand for another big swing. Gordon covered his face with his arms. Flass tried to pull away Gordon's wrists, crouching low to get more leverage. They wrestled, then Gordon snatched an open tin can from the trash pile. Flass saw this and tried to stand, but Gordon grabbed Flass' coat and stabbed at him. The jagged edge cut an ugly arc across Flass' cheek, just below his eye. Flass cursed and started pounding on Gordon with his fists like two hammers. Gordon took the punishment until he managed to kick Flass in the hip, forcing him away in a stagger.

Gordon pressed against the wall and managed to stand. "Listen, you can whip me bloody." He held the tin can low like a knife, its edge smeared red. "But you're going to have to earn it."

Flass eyed Gordon with a bull's rage. His two goons flanked him with their nightsticks ready. But like most successful bullies, Detective Arnold Flass was more cunning then he was vicious. He held his ground.

Gordon noticed the hesitation. He wiped away a long nosebleed and coughed. "Flass, you're a half-blind shamus, a common thug, and a first-rate bum, but get this in your thick skull: I have no clue what you're harping on about. Why are you asking about Carmine Falcone?"

Flass straightened the creases on his coat and eyed Gordon warily. "You really don't know?"

"I know your cologne hits harder than you do."

"Carmine Falcone's car was stopped in a tunnel yesterday by some cops. They pulled the man out and disappeared with him."

"And?"

"There's no warrant for him. Every precinct captain in the city swears they don't know nothing about it. He's not in any holding cell."

"There's six thousand sworn officers in the GCPD, and you come straight to me?"

"I did. You're a problem, Jimmy. Seemed right up your alley."

"I was out on a boat all day. Three of my boys from the River Patrol can corroborate that."

"And we're supposed to trust your own team?"

"I've hardly known 'em long enough to remember their names. They don't owe me anything."

"Maybe. And maybe you're just the ringleader. I know you have a little band of friends. The ones who aren't dead, anyway. Maybe you were out fishing and they pulled the job."

"Want do you want here, Flass? I've got nothing to confess, and your little love taps ain't changing that. Come back with some proof and you can put me away for life. Until then, you're wasting time."

Flass glared at Gordon, but eventually gestured at his two cops that they were leaving. One dropped Gordon's gun into a trashcan.

Gordon called behind them. "Hold on, how haven't I heard about this?"

Flass turned back. "Falcone's people paid off about fifty witnesses. We've kept it out of the papers by the skin of our teeth. Doubt that'll last another day. It's gonna be a fun time in the old town when that hits the stands. Keep your nose clean, Jimmy." Flass chuckled.

Flass and his posse turned the corner. Gordon slumped against the bricks and dropped the tin can. He used his sleeve to dam his steady nosebleed.

Batman pushed aside some cans and stepped out of the trash. Gordon glanced at him. "Hey."

"You okay?"

Gordon shrugged. "Eh."

Batman scanned around. He saw the a silhouette of a face in a high window. "Let's move."

Gordon shuffled further into the alley after him.

"If they had tried to escalate, I-"

"No, no, I'm glad you didn't. Thanks for staying out of it."

"Of course." They reached the corner where Batman produced some gauze and ointment. In little time, he had Gordon patched up in a temporary fashion.

"So what's new?"

"Arturo Bertinelli told me that the military has employed the Families to perform counterespionage. I believe he's telling the truth. I believe it was a military agent who helped Arturo escape arrest the night his warrant was signed."

"Why does the Army need their help?"

"I'm investigating that." Batman pulled out a slim file and handed it to Gordon. "They call it Operation Underworld. It's led by an Admiral Bernard Cornwell. He's visited Gotham several times on personal business in the last year, and I'm confident he's here now. Those are photographs of papers I found in his safe. Together they show the format and some details of the deal. "

Gordon tucked the file under his arm. "If this is all true, what's the military going to do once we start arresting the Families? If they want to interfere, Uncle Sam can swing a lot of weight."

"We still have leverage against them if it comes that."

"Not much. I'll guess we'll find out how they react at Arturo's trial."

"Mm." Batman nodded with satisfaction.

"Hey, you didn't take him did you? Falcone, I mean."

"No."

"Any idea where he is?"

Batman paused. "No."

"Think it's related to your big conspiracy?"

"Doubtful."

"Right. Well, if there's nothing else, I better get back."

"I hear congratulations are in order."

"Why?"

"Word is you're going to make lieutenant. You might be a captain some day."

"Ha. With the crummy detail they've stuffed me with, I'm about to toss the badge myself."

Batman offered Gordon a level look. "Hang in there, Sergeant."

Gordon snorted, firing a wad of gauze from his nose. "A pep talk from Batman. Now I'm seen everything."

Batman retreated down the alley. "Enjoy your pot roast." He entered the shadows. "Watch out for geese."


Two days later. In the basement of an undisclosed federal building. Gotham City.

Four doctors had examined Carmine Falcone in the three days since his collapse. They agreed he was comatose: there was no sensory reaction and no sign of dreaming. But none of the doctors could agree on a cause, and they were split on the prognosis. Half them believed he would wake up within a week; the other half believed he wouldn't.

Strangely, Falcone frightened his abductors more vegetative than animate. He had been arrested and held in a manner the War Department's legal counsel once described as "flagrantly unconstitutional" the one time they bothered to ask, but that wasn't the problem. The sort of citizens who ended up here usually had strong reasons to cooperate and could be sent home with a nice story, but a comatose prisoner couldn't cooperate with anyone. A missing person was an emergency that grew more conspicuous with each day missed.

And Carmine Falcone was no mere person. The name carried clout. He routinely backed successful candidates in municipal elections. He owned clubs where senators paid dues. Rumor said he kept a dozen of the city's top law firms on retainer, just so they couldn't challenge him in court. And his abduction would kick over a hornet's nest of friends who practiced their own flagrant disregard for laws.

Falcone's abductors hadn't intended to hold him for longer than an evening, but they still had plans to only handle him with personnel from their entourage instead of any locals. At the moment, that meant his room was guarded by Ensign Chuck Brogan. Brogan was raised in Texas before he joined the Navy. He had never visited Gotham before, and he had no idea who the old man sleeping in the room behind him was.

Inside the room, Carmine Falcone was awake. He didn't understand how the witch was inside his mind, but he knew what she was capable of. She had been silent since she made him collapse. Falcone wondered what her plan was. He never thought he would be so happy to be arrested. He didn't care what happened to him now, so long as she was delivered her just reward. Eventually, her attention would wander, and then he might steal an action of his own. Not today, though. She was alert, even nervous, and her control was absolute. But he could wait. He could do nothing else.

Outside the room, Falcone heard receding footsteps. Someone, presumably his guard was walking away. The guard had walked away about this time the last two days. It was a subtle pattern, but Falcone had little to do but wait and listen, so he noticed these things. If it held, the footsteps would return in about a minute.

Falcone felt a bead of sweat on his forehead. This was odd. The room was cool, and besides, he didn't sweat unless the witch willed it. He felt another and another. For the first time in days, his eyelids opened, but his eyes rolled back in his head. He gasped, suddenly short on air. His fingers gripped his mattress with enough urgency enough to tear it. He shook like a man who was possessed.

Then he shook like a man who wasn't.

A many-colored vapor fumed off his skin and clothes. It formed the figure of a person standing over him, a slight woman will pale, freckled features and short-cropped blond hair. She wore a thin outfit like a runner, loose and brown, and there were tattoos on her hands and neck.

Falcone gasped and realized he again ruled his body. He was about to call out when the woman smothered his nose and mouth with her hands.

She almost smiled, and she whispered, "Auf Wiedersehen, Carmine. It's been a ride." Her English was perfectly American.

Falcone tried to pull her wrists away. He had aged gracefully, but he had aged, and he was weak from days of immobility and starvation. She was young and strong and eager, and her thin arms could have been welded iron for all the good he did. Falcone was losing his breath. Soon his lungs were hot and empty. His hands slipped from her arms.

Then the door opened. "Ho, there!"

The woman spun. It was an American sailor. The sailor, Ensign Brogan, saw the woman and moved forward, not even reaching for his sidearm. She dived at him. The boy had had a good six inches on her and used to play wide receiver. He easily caught her leading arm and snagged her around the waist. "Now what in tarnation-"

But the woman's free arm reached up and brushed his chin. She rapidly dissolved into a many-colored vapor. Brogan would have called this incredible, but his eyes had rolled back in his head just before he fell to his knees. The vapor melted against him, and his body was still. For a time, the only noise was Carmine Falcone's semi-coherent gasping. Then Brogan stirred. He moved in a stupor, like every joint was a surprise and his hands and feet were three sizes too large. He struggled to prop himself against the wall, falling on his back twice in the process. Finally, he stood and tried to shuffle away. Before he could travel two steps, the outer door opened.

An stern, older officer leaned in. "Ensign, the nurses reported a noise."

Brogan tried to stand up straight. "Was?"

The officer entered the room. "Why is the patient's door open?"

Brogan squinted like he was in great thought. "Well, Kapitan. Um, Captain. I mean, Cap't. Cap't Hill, I-"

The Captain pushed him aside, and Brogan nearly fell over. The Captain didn't notice; he rushed to Falcone. "The patient's hurt!" He lifted his voice. "Nurse! Nurse! Injured man here!" He looked back for Brogan. "Who attacked you, Ensign?"

But when the Captain turned, he only saw a flash of English Brogan as the young man stumbled briskly away. Outside of the guard room was a sterile tiled hallway. Two nurses and a doctor were dashing toward him. Brogan used his bulk to plow through one nurse, bouncing her against a wall. His coordination was sloppy, but it was a move straight out of football camp. The doctor and the other nurse cried in panic. The Captain appeared in a rush and tried to get around them. "Stop that man!"

Ensign Brogan sped into an uneven trot, fumbling with the latch on his holster. He burst through the swinging doors at the end of the hallway and found a stairwell leading up several floors. Three sailors were hurrying down with their sidearms drawn. When they reached the floor, Brogan pointed his thumb over his shoulder, "Quick! Reckon the varmint's back yonder." The three sailors hesitated. Then the Captain passed through the swinging doors at a run. The startled sailors trained their weapons on him. The Captain froze and lifted his hands, growling, "Stand down, nitwits!"

While the sailors lowered their aim, Ensign Brogan finally managed to unholster his own sidearm. He stepped behind the Captain and seized him by the collar, holding the pistol to his neck. The three sailors aimed at Brogan but didn't fire. He sneered. "See here, y'all. You best let me mosey on." Brogan led the Captain in a circle around the sailors, keeping the Captain between them like a shield. He paced slowly backward up the first flight of stairs. The sailors still kept their aim on him from the bottom but didn't follow. When he reached the landing, Brogan shoved the Captain down the and hurried onward. Two of the sailors tried to catch the Captain, but the third eyed down his sights and fired.

Brogan didn't feel the shot for a few few paces. He made it halfway up the next flight of stairs before he felt the wet pain low in his side. He heard footsteps climbing below him. Without looking or slowing, he pointed over the rail and squeezed off a wild shot. The footsteps stopped. Five rounds cracked past him in reply. He pressed ahead, not minding the dark stain pooling along his belt. He opened the first door he found. A pair of men in civilian suits – plainclothes police, perhaps – were running toward the stairwell with their own pistols held low. Brogan fired at one and shut the door. He heard screams beyond it and continued. He climbed higher and higher, occasionally firing over the rail, until he reached the last landing and found no more stairs. There was only a grimy utility door.

On the other side was a roof. It was early dusk in Gotham City, and the scenery was a prism of shadows from the looming towers. The roof was only three stories from the street - modest for the neighborhood. He was beginning to feel unsteady again. He staggered forward. Four steps from the edge, two of the sailors appeared behind him and fired. He felt a terrible ripping in his back. He stumbled a little further, fell to his knees, and rolled off the roof.

He fell, bounced off the hood of a bus, and hit the pavement of a busy avenue. He was still rolling when a sedan ran over his legs.

There was no one to see it amid the dusk and the sudden traffic jam, but a many-colored vapor left Ensign Brogan then. He expired soon afterward, but this was no concern to the slight blond woman who appeared on the street. As she got her bearings, a trolley nearly flattened her, and its horn shocked her to action. She jogged away from the government building, not knowing her direction. It would be eighty seconds before any men in uniform reached Ensign Brogan's body, and that was more than enough for her to escape. In many ways, she would soon be gone.


Violence was never Carmine Falcone's tool of choice, not in his organization, and certainly not personally. No one called him a fighter. That said, a certain ruggedness was expected of a crime lord; if he couldn't recover from a little doll of a girl trying to smother him, he wouldn't have survived long enough to reach that rung of his profession in the first place.

When Falcone had caught his breath, the military authorities wanted to question him immediately. The civilian medical staff insisted that he needed a checkup and a meal before the brutes knuckled into him. The military expressed reasonable concerns that if they waited, Falcone would fall into another coma, or telepathically drive someone to madness, or some other inconvenient thing. Eventually the two factions compromised: Falcone would be given a brief checkup under the scrutiny of several armed guards. He said little during his examination, and when they finished, he merely requested a cigarette.

The guards brought him to the same interrogation room as before. Agent Faraday entered several minutes later carrying a box of cheap Chesterfields. He slid the box and a Zippo lighter to Falcone. Falcone caught the Chesterfields and tamped the box against the table, grinning. Faraday realized the old man probably hadn't touched such low-brow tobacco in forty years. It was like feeding Spam to J.P. Morgan. Nonetheless, Falcone gamely fished out a cigarette and lit up. As Falcone smoked, Agent Faraday did his best to read him. Falcone's reputation said he was as unflappable as they came. This seemed true. Despite his ordeal, he didn't look traumatized, not even on edge. The worst one might say was that when the grin was gone, Falcone looked absolutely serious, and this was a man who relaxed through his own kidnapping.

His posture was different as well. A little less refined than before. Less stiff. More of a slouch. Perhaps the change was due to his medical scare, but in Faraday's long experience as a spy, certain details of how a man carried himself were as inherent as a fingerprint, and this Falcone seemed different from the man he saw across the table days ago.

Falcone put out his first cigarette in an ash tray, and Faraday began the interview.

"Mr. Falcone, how do you feel?"

Falcone offered a nod that might have been a smile in a less serious mood. "Good enough." His voice had lost its polish. There was intelligence but nothing crisp. He sounded as he should have: a thoughtful man from a crude world, with all the verbal rough edges intact.

"You fell unconscious several days ago. We were worried about you."

Falcone said nothing and tapped another cigarette out of the box.

Faraday pressed on. "One of our men found you in distress-"

Falcone interrupted. "A military man, I saw. It seems the Justice Department hires the military for sentries now."

"Uh-" Faraday hadn't expected that level of observation from a man exiting a coma. "We're sharing this site with the military. It was a matter of protocol."

"I'm sure."

"You were seen choking, and the man guarding you had opened your door, but he wasn't helping you. He was in the room outside, acting erratically. Soon afterward he, well, seemed to have a mental breakdown. He assaulted some personnel, then committed suicide jumping off the roof."

Falcone lit the cigarette "What's your question, Agent Faraday?"

"Did our guard attack you? You wouldn't tell the doctors."

Falcone didn't' answer immediately. He smoked for a moment. "You want to know what wild thing happened down there, Agent Faraday? I suppose the facts you see makes no sense. Makes no story, huh?"

Faraday glanced at the mirror on the wall. He crossed his arms. "Yes, Mr. Falcone. Tell me what happened down there."

Falcone smoked. He didn't break eye contact, but he rubbed his palm along his unshaven cheek. Faraday wondered if that was a show of insecurity. After another drag, Falcone stubbed out his second cigarette. "Do you believe in miracles, Agent?"

"You mean acts of God? Yes. Yes, I do."

"Not God, no. Not from your homilies, but can you figure a person doing things a person can't do, here and today?"

Faraday glanced at the mirror again. "Spiritual things?"

Falcone shrugged and tapped another cigarette out of the box. "If a man claims he sees a miracle, do you call him mad?"

"I'd ask what evidence he has."

"Of course you do." Falcone didn't light his third cigarette. He looked at it then dropped it on the table. "Your boy saved my life."

"How?"

"There was a bearcat trying to snuff my candle."

"What?"

"This yellow-haired, hotsy-totsy lil' tomato."

"There was a woman in your room?"

"That's right."

"And she was the one who attacked you?"

"She did."

"Where did she come from? How did she get in?"

Falcone slowly lifted his hand, extended an index finger, and firmly tapped his forehead. "It's a miracle."

"Mr. Falcone, just what do you mean?"

"Have you ever seen a mesmerist?" Falcone didn't wait for an answer. "When I was a boy, I saw one at the circus. He made a man act like zoo animals and another eat his bow tie. He had a lady put her hand in a bowl of water, then convinced her it was boiling. Then he made an entire row of the audience fall asleep."

Agent Faraday crossed his arms. "Let's stop these digressions. You suggested that a witch, an actual woman, was hiding in your skull. But she was attacking you when our man came to your rescue, so she must have left your skull. She was visible. So first she had to exit your head somehow, right? Maybe out your ear? Was she very small?"

Falcone offered no sign of annoyance. He calmly picked up his dropped cigarette. "I don't pretend my story makes sense, Agent Faraday." He lit the cigarette, studying the ember. "I can't tell you exactly what happened. I wasn't healthy. And my eyesight is poor. Couldn't get a good look." He took a long smoke and tapped some ash on the floor.

"Mr. Falcone, let's say I'm convinced something strange happened to you. You've still got to give me a leg to stand on here. How does your story explain the sudden mental breakdown of your guard? How does it have anything to do with German spy rings operating in the United States? I've having trouble believing anything you're saying."

"I wouldn't believe me either."

"Is that it? Is that all your testimony?"

Falcone shrugged. "I don't know you, but you know me, and your boss knows me. No matter what line of nonsense I sing, you're going to write it down. You'll commit every last word to record. Because you're a Fed. That's what you do. You don't snatch a man then ignore him. Ridiculous. No, because I'm me, there's going to be a long train of lawmen who are going to read what you report."

"So?"

"I don't believe in coincidence, Agent Faraday, and I don't believe our lives are unique. I didn't know my perdition was possible. But it is possible, so I can't imagine I'm the first. Someone in the past has suffered as I have suffered, from this witch or another. And this power must have been abused. Someone used it to act against the public. I'm sure of it. And the Law saw them, and the Law remembers. It may not understand, but it remembers." Falcone folded his leg over his knee and leaned back. "You'll go and tell your station what I said. Somewhere in your ranks, they'll hear my story, and it will sound familiar. And that old cop will want to talk to me. Then we'll get to business." He took another drag on his cigarette and breathed it at the ceiling. "I'll wait."

"That's an awfully convoluted chain of logic, Mr. Falcone."

"Yes. And what logic do you offer for how I spontaneously fell into my sleep when your questions turned difficult? Is that a trick you've seen before?"

"No."

"And what logic explains how your loyal guard suddenly went mad and killed himself?"

Agent Faraday stiffened. "I'm not sure."

"Listen. I don't understand the witch, but I have an idea what she's capable of. She can enter and exit a body like a ghost, so it seems. Who knows how she got me? Maybe crept into my room like a thief. Or maybe she handed me a flower on the street. I can't remember. But I know she uses a body like you use a puppet. She feels none of my limits. No pain. She could send me to walk on flint until my feet bled or swallow a coal out of a fire. She could decide when I blinked. And she could make me limp, suppressing even a twitch."

"Are you saying?"

"For days, Agent Faraday. For days."

"But people have habits. If this so-called witch exists, and she did capture our officer, she made him act conspicuously different. We noticed a problem immediately. How would she control you? How would she know to talk like you or walk the way you walk?"

"She reads minds. Memories, anyhow. Drinks them up. A few days and she was close enough to fool my dearest family. She made excuses when they caught any difference."

Faraday suddenly glanced around and frowned. "So where is she now? Did she die when our man died?"

Falcone took another long drag. "Good question."

"If she was in your head, could you read her mind as well?"

"No. But she could talk to me."

"About what?"

"Gloating, mostly. She had no reason to ask questions; she could learn about all she wanted on her own with a little time."

"I guess you couldn't talk back."

"If I was alone, sometimes she'd let me talk. Vanity, I would say. And it took effort to control me, I could feel that strain. Often she would let me nearly off my leash, let me act almost freely, just watching the edges in case I pushed."

"Did she talk about her goals or intentions?"

"No, but I was there to see everything she did. Who she met with. What she said. How she lied. I have ideas."

"And?"

Falcone stared keenly across the table, doing nothing for a time. Then he rubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray and folded his hands. "I'll tell you, and I need your trust."

"What?"

"You won't trust my words at first. That would be foolish. But him in there?" Falcone gestured at the mirror. "I want him to call out every man in your office. Get them working tonight. Tonight! No going home to the wife. Confirm my story as quickly as you can. Do your job. The sooner you verify me, the sooner you trust me. And you need to trust me, because I'm going to hand you the prize of the century. It might win you the war."

Faraday raised an eyebrow. "That's a tall claim, Mr. Falcone."

"As I said, you know me. I've never welshed on a deal in my life. And I've had much higher stakes than a little kidnapping. Why would I start today?"

"And why do you care so much that we act on your tip? Because your release is conditional on good behavior?"

"Peh." Falcone pointed a finger at Faraday. "I've never been spiteful. Understand? If ambition is a sin, get me a priest confessor, but I've never been spiteful. I never felt the draw of it like hot-blooded men do. Not until now. See, now I understand spite. That witch paid me a grave injury, and I'll see it returned with interest. Nothing matters more in the world. I'm going to slay her, Agent Faraday, and I want you to be my club."


The South Atlantic. Eleven hours after the sinking of the Azure.

Wonder Woman could feel the sun dawning on her back. That was a welcome sign: it meant she was still swimming west. The passengers on her crude raft hadn't spoken since last evening. She had noticed around midnight that the motionless one had disappeared. She had almost stopped to search for him but decided that would be futile. He had surely slipped beneath the waves in seconds. The other two were still sleeping. Wonder Woman supposed a sailor could sleep through just about anything.

She was starting to feel tired herself. Not physically fatigued, not yet, but sleepy. She knew fatigue was soon to follow, but it didn't matter. She pressed on. The water stopped feeling cold long ago, yet it was still briny on her skin, and it still smelled. She wondered again how close she was to Brazil, and what she might do when she arrived. Most of all, she wondered how Steve was, and she prayed he was well.

Then, amid the empty vastness, Wonder Woman heard a horn. She stopped, her muscles cramping from their first rest in hours. She fought through the pain to turn around. First Mate Zhang and the other sailor roused themselves from sleep. There on the horizon was a ship!

After half a day of steady swimming, the minutes of waiting that followed seemed to take months. It was soon clear that the ship was headed in their direction. Wonder Woman dipped under the waves and changed into Diana Price in her weathered farmer's clothes, a change her companions didn't bother commenting on. It was well into the morning when the vessel, a freighter flying Dutch colors, threw them a line and helped them aboard.

First Mate Zhang did all the talking. Diana quietly wondered whether he was still a First Mate, whether that title outlived the ship he was mating on. She understood enough to hear him explain to their rescuers that they were serving on the Azure when it was attacked by an unknown warship. The tide had pulled them far from the other debris. Such strange things were known to happen at sea. Their new captain promised that he would radio a warning to the authorities and circle the area to search for other survivors.

After a time, they were finally left alone. Zhang stood beside Diana at the rail.

Diana stretched her weary neck. "Zhang, I need to share a truth. I am wanted by the guards of Argentina. I confess that is why I joined your crew. Do you think that is why we were sent torpedoes?"

Zhang made a small shake of his head. "You and half the world's merchant fleet, I wager. I do not know your crimes, but even if the most despised rebel would not bring such wrath on a neutral ship."

Diana hung her head in relief. "Thank you. That brings me great peace."

"You are a rare specimen, Diana. I don't imagine you would like to share your secrets?"

Diana smiled ruefully. "No. I fear you would not be safe if I did. Some day, I hope."

Zhang looked out to sea with a philosophical gaze. "I await that day with keen anticipation. What are your plans in Brazil?"

Diana folded her arms on the rail and considered this. "Perhaps we were not attacked for my actions in Argentina, but I suspect our attack was meant for me. Though I did not expect it before, and I do not know why."

"I am not surprised. Remarkable people attract remarkable events."

"If I'm correct, I'm sorry I brought you and your crew into it."

Zhang shook his head. "If you did not know, then you cannot hold yourself accountable for the brutality of others. Do you plan to hide?"

"No. At least not for long. Though it wouldn't be wise to show my face immediately."

"At least not to anyone who possesses warships, I suspect."

Diana chuckled. "Yes. I can't go to any warship-owners for help."

"So you'll seek help?"

"I think I will. If I can't go to any warship-owners, there's one other man I've been told I can trust."

"Where is this man?"

"America. In Gotham City."