Chapter 11

The sun had set when William made to City Hall. Night had fallen, as did every possible political luminary fall upon the steps of City Hall: councilmembers, business leaders, state assemblymen, state senators, treasures and secretaries. And then there were the police guarding all of these people. Helicopters roamed overhead. SWAT officers sat among the gargoyles of the parapets and the window edges. Dozens of black, faceless SUVs jammed the main street. William found no parking, not even as a police officer. He had to park three streets away and walk through the medley of beat cops, secret servicemen, and bodyguards patrolling the adjacent blocks.

Lieutenant Greene was waiting at the bottom of the City Hall steps. She hailed him. "Trevor, about time you showed your face."

"Traffic on the main bridge," he explained.

Greene looked at his damp forehead. "Did you just shower?"

"I was taking care of a personal matter— plumbing."

They walked up the steps. William worked to keep up with Green's brisk, relentless pace. He looked around at the beefy security. "It's like Fort Knox around here."

"Most of it's just pomp to send the Commissioner off in style. But, between you and me, the deputy ops got an anonymous tip today."

William tried to look surprised. But he knew that his own father who issued that anonymous tip.

Greene narrowed her eyes. "Apparently the word came down from one of the old guard—you know, the superhumans, the Wonder Woman and the Superman? As if we need their help."

Apparently, Lily's hatred for the Batman spilled over to vigilantes in general. William stayed quiet. They walked by the police officers standing guard at the entrance of City Hall.

"You'd think this city would learn," said Greene. She was looking at the Greek columns standing at the entrance. "Twenty years to the day, and we're still depending on crooks in masks. Do you know that they had to plaster this whole exterior—all the blood," she explained bitterly.

"Do you remember any of it?"

"I was six when the Long Halloween went down, Trevor."

They walked underneath the archway of the entrance. Greene was looking at the architecture as if she could still see the blood. "Yes," she said. "I do remember."

They entered the City Hall. True to its name, a long hallway stretched ahead of them that terminated with the entrance to the large banquet room. The double doors to the banquet room were opened and there was a line of people waiting to get through the metal detectors and security station.

"C'mon," she said. "This way."

She led him through a door on the left side of the hall. It was a small room for presentations and lectures. Two dozen policemen stood patiently. They were facing a lectern. William fell in line with the two dozen. Lily went behind the lectern.

"Okay," she said in her gruff, no-nonsense tone. "There'll be twenty minutes of wining and dining before the Commissioner gives his speech. After that, there'll be some photos and handshaking, and then the Commissioner will exit the building. You all of know your assignments and your beats. We don't expect trouble, but we're prepared for it. Let's do this right, and that way everyone gets to go home to their miserable husbands and wives and children."

That drew a ripple of chuckles from the police. She tapped the lectern with her knuckles. "Let's go to work, boys and girls."

The police began to disperse with the dull sounds of movement. Lily and William headed out together. They walked past the line of people waiting to enter the banquet room and the people waiting in line looked annoyed but accepting of the situation. William knew this was one of the better perks of being police.

Now they were inside the banquet room, and there were dozens of cloth-covered tables and flower arrangements on the tables. The men were dressed in tuxedos and they shook hands and wore polite smiles and the women glided about in their gowns and held champagne in their hands and had many thoughts formulating in their eyes. But there was much laughter and easy conversation. Everyone held themselves easily, and that's how the evening went on.
There was nothing in the air to give anyone suspicion.

Greene looked out on the grandness of the banquet room and she said, disdainfully. "I get the feeling that son of a bitch is going to show his face today."

If her obsession wasn't so all-consumingly hateful, it would have been funny. William stood next to her and observed the banquet. "I don't know, Lieutenant. He'd pick a hell of a night to pull something like that off. Every cop in the city is here."

Lily exhaled sharply. "I never said he was smart, Trevor. I said he was a son of a bitch."

She left him so brusquely that he knew he was not supposed to follow. He saw her head into the well-dressed crowd with her trenchcoat and business slacks and her hand on her firearm. She didn't give one thought to the amused looks she aroused—an average-heighted woman wearing a scornful expression, walking through a crowd of millionaires and billionaires who considered her vigilance a sweet, silly thing. She was like a search dog sniffing out a bomb on a training exercise—and all the trainers watched with adoring admiration at the dog who couldn't figure it out.

"Trevor, you forget your beat?"

Aaron Cash appeared with a coffee in hand and a large pastry in the other and from the crumbs on his uniform lapel it was his third pastry. Cash munched, sipped, and then brought the coffee back down while he waited for Trevor to explain himself.

"Sorry," said William. "I spaced out."

Cash followed William's line of sight: Lily Greene's icy blonde head bobbed up at the far end of the banquet. Cash laughed. "Ah, I see what you have your eyes on, Trevor. Let me give you some unsolicited advice. Do you know why black widows are called black widows? It's because they eatthe male after conjugation—see my point?"

Across the banquet, Lily Greene was like a spherical force of energy; everywhere she went, wide pools of space opened up. She was most likely searching and detaining people.

"She's my superior officer, Cash," said William dully.

Cash let out a big, fatherly laugh. "Oh, man. To be twenty-one again. When forbidden fruit entices the soul, eh?" Cash patted William on the shoulder. "C'mon, Adam. Eve already brought down enough good men. Let's not add to her body count."

The lights of banquet room dimmed intermittently—the Commissioner was due to give his speech. William followed Cash around the side of the banquet room toward the main stage where the Commissioner would speak. At the lip of the stage were a dozen reporters and photographers huddled with their cameras and microphones. Across the audience, William saw a familiar face—Steve Trevor's handsome face was standing in his military jacket, his cap emblazoned with a captain's sigil. There were a dozen similarly dressed military brass standing around Steve. William and his father caught gaze of eachother; Steve nodded solemnly. William pretended to not to have seen him.

"Handsome dad," said Cash, a faint smile on his lips. "He must be proud."

William was silent. Cash laughed that fatherly laugh again.

"What—you think I don't know when Steve Trevor's boy signs up for GCPD? Why do you think we had you in New Gotham for training?"

"I thought you said that was for everyone?"

"Everyone whose father is one of Gotham's most noticeable citizens."

William didn't know what to say. He looked at his feet. "Have you told anyone?"

"No, it's your business. But you might want to say something eventually. You're not going to make many friends if you think you're too cool and rich for the guys."

"That's not why I did not say—"

"I'm just telling you how it looks."

Cash looked back at Steve with a frown. "You don't really look like him, though. I guess you got your mother's looks."

There was a Wayne Enterprises banner hanging along the banquet walls. It was one of many corporations advertising.

"I guess," said William. He tried not to look at the tapestry.

Lily Greene appeared on the main stage in the corner by the curtains. She was speaking lowly with someone who also wore a trenchcoat and cheap slacks—it was the Commissioner. He came up to Lily Greene's height—which should not have been the case because the Commissioner had long, slender limbs but his posture was hunched and it gave off the impression of an injured animal. He wore a gray-white moustache and his cheeks were bristly but not in a fashionable style—it was a plain disregard for daily grooming. The Commissioner was listening to Lily Greene silently but not looking at her. He was staring straight ahead to something unseen and unimportant. This gave William a clear look at the Commissioner's leather-worn skin, his droopy cheeks, and the decrepit state of his trenchcoat—yellowed, crumpled, and sooted in cigar ash.

"Damn," said Cash, saying what was on both of their minds. "It hurts to see that."

"That's the second time I've seen him since my cadet swearing," said William. "And he looks exactly the same."

"He was a real thundercloud back in his day. Make no mistake about that, Trevor."

They introduced the Commissioner and there was great applause but there was something wrong with the grandness of the applause, the grandness of the audience, the grandness of the banquet room compared to the lumbering, quiet, and frailty of the man who came to accept the grandness at the podium. The applause died out uncertainly as the Commissioner slowly reached into his breastpocket and produced a handwritten, coffee-stained paper and flattened it out on the podium's lectern and the crunch, crackle, and snap of the flattening was loud on the loudspeakers. The audience wore their discomfort on their patient smiles while they waited for the Commissioner to begin. And when he did begin to speak, his voice was threadbare and ashy like his coat. It did not inspire confidence nor attention and everyone was nodding as he spoke but nobody remembered anything. This was just a part of the evening that they had to suffer through and when it was over the socializing and drinking could begin again.

Lily Greene stood behind the curtains with her hands laced together. She was listening carefully but even she was not blinded by loyalty—she saw what the Commissioner had become, and it was costing her much to stand there and witness it firsthand.

Then the Commissioner finished to polite applause that was nowhere near the reciprocal of the first grand applause but the Commissioner did mimick himself by shuffling out at the same pace when had entered. Then Cash turned to William.

"There's a car waiting for him over by the main entrance. We get him through the hallway and through the lobby and there'll be a shift in the guard."

William followed Cash through the crowd. The Commissioner was shaking hands and taking a few photos but it was all perfunctory and drained of emotion. Nobody seemed to really smile when they posed for the photo—they were simply flexing the muscles of their lips.

A dozen police officers formed a security detail around the Commissioner and guided him out of the banquet room. Lily lead the way. The security detail reached the hallway and that's where William and Cash picked up their shift. The Commissioner saw Cash and he smiled.

"Sergeant Cash. Are you here to escort me to safety?"

"Yes, sir," said Cash in a deep, respectful tone. "If you'll follow me."

William followed on the flank of the detail. While they were walking, William realized the Commissioner was looking at him closely.

"You're Steve Trevor's boy, aren't you?"

Up ahead, Lily's head twitched to the side. As did Cash's. They were listening.

The Commissioner nodded backward to the banquet room. "Saw him back there. He's a good man, your father. Helped me out a few tight spots, politically speaking. A good friend of our police work. Always respected that."

"Thank you, sir," said William. "My mother wishes she could be here, but she's sick with the flu."

"Your mother," said the Commissioner slowly. "She's Diana Trevor, CEO of Wayne Enterprises?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's strange. Your father told me she sprained her ankle."

"I—"

The Commissioner had watery-grey eyes behind his glasses, and while William tried to justify his lie, those water-grey eyes became animated—they became those mighty thunderclouds that must have been Jim Gordon, back in his day. This lasted for only a moment, but it was such a discrepancy that it made a forever impact on William. But then the moment was gone.

"It's alright, Trevor. That's none of my business. Just wish her a speedy recover from me."

Like Lily, William also trusted his gut. And right now, he was sure that the Commissioner knew more than he let on.

They exited the hallway. Here more reporters and journalists waiting in the pleasant summer night. More police officers lined up on the steps. But these were not the rigid, on-duty formations. These police officers were standing respectfully and saluting. Commissioner Gordon looked at them all and nodded—was it gratitude? Was it disappointment? Nobody could tell.

"This is the exchange, sir," said Lily Greene. She stopped to face the Commissioner. "It's been a honor."

"Keep up the good work, Lieutenant," said Gordon. "You're making me very proud. Cash, say hello to Maria for me."

"Sir," bowed Cash. His face was completely stone.

The Commissioner started walking down the steps. He had his hands in his pockets. He suddenly stopped and turned his neck around so his body still faced down the steps but the contour did an odd thing to his lips and face. He was looking at William. "You, too, Trevor. You're making your father very proud."

The Commissioner's eyes lingered on William. Was the Commissioner smiling? It looked like it—but that was just the streetlights and night playing tricks. But it sure did look like he was smiling. Maybe even smiling slyly.

"Thank you, sir," said William. He wasn't sure what else to say.

The Commissioner went down with the new guard and he entered the black sedan waiting at the bottom of the steps. There was a long procession of police vehicles surrounding the sedan. It was like a caravan for a prince. The sedan, and the caravan, drove forward and disappeared around the corner.

"And so an era ends in Gotham City," said Cash heavily. "A door opens, another shuts."

"Be quiet, Cash," said Lily Greene. She brushed the crumbs of his lapel. "Don't go into poetry on me now."

"Like you'd understand poetry."

Neither of them were truly being mean to the other. That was obvious to William—and obvious to Cash and Greene.

"He was interested in you, Trevor," said Lily Greene. "How does your dad know him?"

"His Dad's ex-military," said Cash. "They probably work together."

"Worked," said William. That one word did sad, sober things to their faces.

"Let's head back in," said Lily Greene. "There's probably some pastries left, too."

"Ouch," said Cash cheerfully.

They turned and headed back inside. But they weren't underneath the archway of the entrance when they heard the distant sound of gunshots. The sound was light and staticky, like rain on a tin lid.

"Automatic weapons," said Cash immediately. His black beetle eyes scanned the night in the direction of the sound. "Three-round bursts."

The night was silent after the gun shots. There was nothing to accompany the gunshots—no sudden wail of police sirens, no panic, no shouts for help.

For a moment, they all waited for something else to happen. Like smoke lingering after fireworks—they were drifting in the wake of something sudden and violent.

"Or maybe not," said Cash lowly, but his eyes were still searching. "It could have been an exploding firework. Or maybe a—"

The gunshots sounded off again—this time relentlessly, like a downpour of hail on windshields. Now came the shrill wail of police sirens in the distance. Lily's radio cracked with static.

"Officers down! Officers down!" repeated a panicked voice on the radio. "We got multiple assailants with—oh shit, look out!"

Screams erupted in the night. They heard them both in the night and on her radio. Then came volleys of machine gun fire.

The police officers of City Hall coming to life. Inside the hall, the banquet doors were closing shut. The panic was starting to settle in. Boots were stomping loudly on the concrete steps. The cling of jacket pins and gun straps and holsters unbuckling. The police were mobilizing, but Lily was calm the entire time.

"I need eyes on the Commissioner," she said into the radio. As she spoke she signaled with her hands to various police units—beckoning, sending away, organizing, commanding. "I repeat, what's the status on the Commissioner?"

The radio cracked to life again. The voice sounded ragged and out of breath. "Multiple officers down. Need all available backup on Second and Liberty! Multiple assailants."

"The Commissioner!?" said Lily Greene into her receiver with anger in her calmness, as if she was a teacher pressing her students for the correct answer. "I need a location on the Commissioner."

The radio barked back. "They got him. They're putting him on a vehicle…looks like a motorcycle."

"What do you mean looks like a motorcycle—?"

Time slowed. William saw Lily Greene's eyes dilate, her lip tremble, her flesh turn pale. Cash too was looking both terrified and amazed; exhilarated and panicked.

But it makes no sense, thought William. It can't be.

The gunshots gradually stopped—it was like the way curtains slowly close in on a stage. So did the distant police sirens. It became quiet. Then there was a roaring sound, like a jet plane taking off.

"Who has the Commissioner?" said Lily Greene. She was looking ahead, her hand was actually trembling—but she wasn't scared; the look she had in her eyes was the opposite of fear. "Who has the Commissioner?"

The voice that came from the radio was cowed. Barely more than a whisper. Like they were afraid of being overhead by someone nearby.

"Jesus Christ, Lily. It's him. H—he's back."

Emma Trevor sat along the roof of Wayne Enterprises – it was the tallest building in the financial district, and since the financial district was the unofficial center of New Gotham, from here she had perfect command of the city. Her legs hung suspended over the side of the beam, and underneath her dangling legs were the grid patterns of the intersecting streets, the million beads of light refracting from the streetlights, the cars, the skyscrapers. City Hall was a few blocks to her left, and to her far right, the green neon lettering of GothCorp shone like a mosquito lamp. She didn't know which side of the city would need her, but she was prepared for either, nonetheless.

To her immediate left lay a bag. Inside the bag were her gear: a black balaclava, a pair of black taser sticks, rope, and a belt. The balaclava would cover her face, the tasers would disarm any assailants, the rope would tie them up—and the belt was supposed to carry all of her equipment.

She had taken inspiration from that newspaper clipping—in it, the amateurish Batman had worn all black, and so did she. She wore black combat boots, black lycra pants, and a black shirt. She had even painted the skin around her eyes with black shadow, giving her a racoon-esque image. She slung the backpack over her shoulder. It then occurred to her that she didn't need a bag if she had a belt for her gear. Now she felt stupid with the bag over her shoulder. It felt like she was going to school.

Suddenly her phone buzzed. It was her mother. Emma slowly exhaled—she had not forgotten about their scuffle in the kitchen. But she couldn't sound to cross. Right now it was about getting her mother off the phone as quickly as possible. Emma put on her most bored, pleasant voice—the voice she reserved for Wayne Enterprises meetings.

"Hey, Mom," said Emma. "How are you?"

"Emma? Is that you? Hello, are you there?"

"Yes, Mom. I'm here."

"You sound strange—are you okay?"

Emma looked down at the streets – it was more than a thousand-foot drop. "I'm fine, mom. Just hanging around."

She heard her mother breathe very forcibly on the other side of the line. "I'm glad to hear, Emma. How is David? Is he still asleep?"

To Emma's immediate right was a small screen with a camera feed. She had plugged this into David's baby monitor, and was able to see David sleeping in his crib.

"He's fine, Mom. He's sleeping."

"Good, good. And Alfred?"

Emma cycled through the other baby monitors stationed around their home. Alfred was watching a TV program—rather, the TV was on, and Alfred was napping in the chair.

"They're both asleep," said Emma. "Nothing out of the ordinary here, Mom."

"Good," breathed Diana. Her voice was trembling. "Very good."

There was a pause and Emma looked down into the city grid. From her vantage point the car-engines were muted so the cars seemed to go down the streets of their own volition like they were on magnetized tracks and it reminded Emma of the small scale models she played with as a child.

"Emma," began Diana very slowly. "About earlier."

"It's alright, Mom. I'm over it."

"It wasn't right of me to do that, Emma."

"It's alright, Mom. We all make mistakes."

"Yes, but I'm the adult and you're the . . ."

Her mother was going to say 'child,'—but her mother's sudden loss of words meant that she knew, at least on a basic level, that the platitude no longer applied.

"I think I understand, Mom," said Emma. "We don't have to talk about it anymore—how are you two?"

"We're fine," said Diana. It seemed like that was all Diana was going to offer about her operation, but then, added. "We'll be done here soon enough. And then everything will be back to normal. You'll see, baby."

"Sounds good, Mom."

"Okay, then."

Emma was not contributing to the conversation—she answered politely but laconically. She wanted her mother off the phone.

"I have to go, Mom. I have some files Lucius wanted me to read."

"Sure, sure," said Diana. "I'll talk to you later."

"Okay, Mom."

Emma was reaching to press the end-call button.

"Emma, hold on," said Diana suddenly. "Just one more thing."

Emma was holding the phone very delicately. Her heart was pumping hurriedly—did her mother know?
"I just want you to know that you babysitting— which I know is something you really don't want to do—means a lot to me."

"Mom, I get it. We don't have to talk about it anymore."

"All I'm saying is that it is important. I can't tell you how much a relief it is to me that you're at home."

"Thank you, Mom," said Emma in a neutral tone. Although she was starting to feel a shade of guilt from the praise her mother was giving her. "I appreciate it."

"I'm serious, Emma. You let me focus on this operation. So you are helping right now, Emma. You are helping protect this city. I know it's not the way you envisioned it. But it's a start."

"Again, Mom. I appreciate it—wait, what do you mean 'start'?"

Diana inhaled deeply. Emma found herself leaning forward, as if drawn in by her mother's sudden inhalation. Was this really happening?

"I've been thinking about what you were saying. And it does seem ridiculous to expect you to be something you're not. So, I'm going to talk to Clark and Lucius, and we'll see if we can start teaching you the ropes—"

Just then a descending plane flew over Emma's head. The plane roared like a wave crashing on the bluffs. Emma felt herself go cold, as if an actual wave had fallen upon her—dousing her and the small ember of hope barely taking form inside her chest.

"What on earth was that?" demanded her mother. She had lost all tenderness and understanding in her tone.

"That? I, um, was trying to lower the volume for Alfred and I accidentally put it up…but he looks to be still asleep."

Emma's heart raced. Her lie sounded terrible and meek.

"Emma," said her mother very curtly. "Where are you?"

The plane was descending a little further away. This rounded out the crashing noise to a gentle conclusion, and now there was only the miserable silence for Emma to stew in. A silence that was uncomfortable and prickly. That jabbed at her. That gave a face to her mother's curt voice.

It was make or break time. William once told Emma that the best lies were half-truths: it made them easier to remember. So Emma coughed, scrambling her thoughts together. She would tell a version of the truth.

"I'm on the roof, Mom," said Emma. "I just…I just wanted to be alone for a minute. I can still see David and Alfred, but I couldn't stand to be in there any longer."

That silence was still there, still giving all sorts of faces to her mother's reaction. Would her mother be angry that Emma was lying? Would her mother be disappointed? The disappointment was always the worse—that quiet, unable to meet you in the eyes expression that parents gave children. Emma would take yelling and punishment anytime. She couldn't stand that other kind of disappointment.

"I go up there, too," said Diana after a moment. She sounded wistful. "Whenever Dad or your brother annoys me. It's a beautiful view of the city, isn't it?"

Emma exhaled. It had actually worked.

"Yeah, Mom. It is a nice view, alright."

"Baby," began Diana. "I know you don't understand right now, but I'm looking out for your best interests. You realize that?"

Emma nodded glumly. "Yeah, Mom. I do."

"I was unfair to you earlier. But just hold out a little bit longer, okay? When this is all over, we'll talk about your future. I promise."

The lie had worked beautifully. But instead of relief or exuberance, Emma felt nothing but guilt. Sour, stinky, aching guilt. It sloshed about in her belly like sewage. "Thanks, Mom," said Emma timidly.

"I have to go," said Diana finally. "I'll see you again—and Emma."

"Yeah, Mom?"

"I love you—I always love you."

"I love you, too, Mom."

The call ended. Emma was miserable. The suffocation was on her again—even her attempt at breaking the rules had backfired. Her mother had the upperhand—the moral high ground. Her mother had said 'I love you,' and now Emma felt rotten because she was betraying her family.

There was no escape. Even up here, alone and overwatching the city, she was accompanied by guilt and anger. It was like a talisman she wore around her neck. She was like that for some time, boiling in her guilt and anger. She watched camera feed. She was starting to have second thoughts about this. Maybe she should go home—

A beating of gunfire suddenly exploded from the left side of the city – from City Hall. Emma got up off the edge of the skyscraper. A few seconds later there came the banshee shriek of police sirens echoing in the distance, followed shortly by the chop chop chop of helicopters cutting through the air. Searchlights swarmed the streets.

Emma quickly stuffed the camera feed into her backpack. She brought out the mask and the taser sticks. Something was happening. And whatever it was, it was near City Hall.

William and her father were down at City Hall. But her mother and Uncle Clark were at GothCorp.

Emma was paralyzed, her body split between two choices. Left or right? Mother or Father? Brother or Uncle?

Who was she going to help?

She thought about her mother. Her mother loved her children more than she loved herself, and she would never forgive Emma for neglecting her brother when he needed her the most.

Emma slipped the balaclava over her head. It wasn't impressive or high-tech, but it did the job of disguising her face. She stood on the edge, rolling the bag over her shoulder. Now she was upright, and a little off-balanced by a sudden wind. She rocked gently over the precipice of the fall. Her boots felt heavy and snug over her feet, and the cotton of the balaclava was thick and slightly starchy on her skin. She breathed in as she fixed the belt around her hips. It was not a snug fit, but it hung securely along her hip bone. She breathed out. The world was below her feet. And above her, the star constellations were out.

When she was a little girl, their mother told them about astronomy and astrology—they were once a fused language. You could navigate the oceans with the same stars that you could read your fortune. Stars carried meaning about the world and about yourself. And all the gods and myths and religions tied up in the constellations were forever linked with the emerging science of the day.

She never learned her constellations, not like William, but she did remember the stories: the joyride of Phatheon that scorched the earth with his father's sun chariot; how Theseus slew the Cretan Bull; the treacherous quest of Jason and argonauts for the fleeced sheep. So many of those stories were epic victories, while others were epic defeats. Lessons in hubris, lessons in courage.

What would her story be? She easily saw it both ways in a newspaper obituary—'here lies Emma Trevor, the girl who thought she could be her mother'; or 'Emma Trevor, the savior of the city.'

She didn't feel the push her legs as she launched herself into the air. She was looking at the stars—for a long, short moment. She was sailing in the ocean of stories—beside her she saw Phatheon riding out of control, Theseus with his sword, and Jason with the prized sheep. But these were really giant pieces of steel and concrete from the propulsion of her jump. She had torn out the ledge. And she was tearing out her throat, from all her screaming.

It did not come to her immediately. She crashed horribly into the next building. The impact sent concrete, electrical wiring, and air conditioning units flying into the air. But she kept rolling forward, the balaclava feeling more and more sweaty and thick on her face, the belt jangling excitedly like a cowboy on her hips. She again pushed off the ledge and flew into the night.

She was flying, she was living. The cold air was unforgiving on her bare eyelids, and she made a mental note to buy lenses for the next time—but there was nothing in the world like this, and she had already had some very good sexual partners. Sex did not come close.

She leaped from skyscraper to skyscraper in pursuit of the police caterwauling. She followed the helicopters. They were leaving City Hall, slowly moving across Main Avenue. Underneath the helicopters, an entire caravan of police vehicles were blitzing down the avenue. The cacophony had a bizarre nightclub quality: redblue redblue redblue whorled the fast and furious strobelights, and the sirens lapped endlessly like electronic synthesizers over the steady doo-wop of the helicopter rotors. It was carnivalesque, a neon parade. And at the head of the parade was their conductor: a massive motorbike drabbed in black. The police caravan followed this conductor doggedly and closely as they ricocheted down the avenue.

So it's a police chase, she thought. The police were after the motorbike. She recognized the bike from her report on her computer—the matted black texture, the daredevil simplicity, the angular curve. A coldness was entering her chest. A growing, numbing disbelief. It was not possible. He was supposed to be dead.

She followed the chase through the Diamond Square where the giant jumbotrons blew up the chase on their massive screens. In clear type ran the headline: Commissioner Gordon kidnapped. Police in pursuit. Vigilante Returns? And above the headline was a live feed on the motorbike. There were two riders, both of whom she recognized: Commissioner Gordon sat in the rear seat, gagged and handcuffed with a bewildered, almost exhilarated look. The other rider, the driver, was shrouded in black with a furious cowl over his face. His lips were fixed and flat, but there was a slight derision to the flatness, almost a mirthful upturn at his lips, that made him looked pleased with himself.

She steadied herself against a gargoyle and watched. The coldness in her chest was pressing and contracting her lungs. She was taking hard, swiping breaths. He was supposed to be dead, gone, vanished into the mythos of the city's ether memory. And yet here he was before her, a materialization of her most far-fetched dreams.

Somewhere in the city a church's bells were tolling. But the bells did not sound grave nor austere. In the excitement of the police chase, they sounded obscene and joyful, like a perverted pipe organ at a funeral procession. Everything was wrong and out of place. The tolling of the bells marked no death, but the opposite of the death. Not a birth but the inverse of the dying. Someone, clearly—wrongly—had just returned from the other world. And this oversaturation before her was the loud, squawking trumpet of their return.