A/N: Description of Planet Krypton Restaurant is adapted from The Daily Planet Guide to Gotham City by Matt Brady and Dwight Williams (Honesdale, PA: WEG, 2000), pages 89–90. Barbara's security code combination explained in Nightwing Vol. 1 #39.

"Never Going Back" written by Mike Curtis, Troy Powers, Colin Raye, and Brittany Raye. Recorded by Colin Raye on his Never Going Back album (Time-Life, 2009).

Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!

This crazy world is rarely black and white
Sometimes right seems wrong but wrong feels right
Follow your heart but don't you get burned...

—Mike Curtis, Troy Powers, Colin Raye, Brittany Raye, "Never Going Back"

Chapter 31—When Right Seems Wrong

Dick assumed an expression of polite interest, even as he felt an imaginary cape and cowl settle over him. A side of him that usually only clocked on outside normal working hours sprang to life and started taking mental notes. His voice, however, remained calm, friendly, and faintly puzzled. "How exactly do you mean, Mr. Powers?" he asked, consciously interjecting the note of slight deference that a low-to-mid-level employee (no matter how well connected) tended to give to a ranking executive (no matter how junior), corporate culture of openness and approachability notwithstanding.

Powers smiled warmly and placed a genial hand on Dick's shoulders. "Dick, please! Call me Derek. After all, I'm only a few years older than you. I think we were even in high school together."

They'd overlapped by a year, but Derek shouldn't have brought it up. Dick had more-or-less forgotten it until now. New to Crest Hill Elementary, Dick had spent most of fourth grade trying to ignore or (at least!) not permanently injure the group of bullies who had taken it upon themselves to remind him daily that he wasn't really one of them and never would be. By the time that September and fifth grade had rolled around, some of the worst of that lot had graduated to middle school, he'd made a few friends, and the fights soon gave way to verbal jabs that gradually faded over the next few years.

In high school, it had started again. Maybe someone had felt faint at the thought of the circus orphan dating, perhaps one day even marrying, one of the debutantes who could trace her family back to the Mayflower and would likely join the DAR as soon as she turned 18.

Derek had never exactly been one of those who had harassed or insulted him, but Dick had noted a pattern. If he so much as glanced at a girl or uttered something as innocuous as a greeting when Derek was in earshot or eyeshot, then later that day (or first thing the next morning, if it happened after the last bell rang), Dick could almost count on being slammed against a locker and given a strong 'warning' to keep away from "Gwendolyn" or "Mavis" or whichever young lady he'd approached. And Derek would always be there in the background when that punishment was doled out, neither participating nor encouraging, but watching with a self-satisfied air.

Dick had never been able to prove anything and he'd tried to convince himself that he'd read too much into things, but Derek's comment brought the old memories back. "That was a long time ago, Mr. Powers," he said with a laugh. "I'm surprised you even remember me." He frowned. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about again?"

Powers glanced about furtively. "You know," he said, "I'm not sure this is the best place to have a conversation. What time do you finish today? Five?"

Only because of that early morning meeting. "That's right."

"Let's meet at Planet Krypton at half-past, then." He smiled affably. "I think you'll find the ambience to your liking."

Dick fought not to roll his eyes. Planet Krypton was a 'hero-themed' restaurant adorned with replicas of such memorabilia as Hawkman's helmet and the JSA's original charter with FDR's signature. The wait-staff wore ersatz JSA, Justice League, and Teen Titans costumes. The menu featured such "delicacies" as the 'Aquamanwich' (a large fish sandwich held together by a harpoon) and the 'Greens Lantern' salad with avocado dressing.

Dick wasn't sure what Powers' game was. It could be that he thought that costumed heroes actually enjoyed places like this, or Powers might still be trying to annoy him without being blatantly obvious about it, just as he had all those years ago, but something told him that there was only one way to get him to spill the beans. "I'll meet you there," he said, forcing a smile.

Not that he'd had any intention of wearing his costume to the meeting, but, as Dick took note in passing by the restaurant host, who was wearing a spandex bat-suit that would have made Stan Laurel look like Oliver Hardy, he had one more reason to be glad he hadn't. Far from 'blending in,' the real suit would have attracted far too much attention.

Powers was already seated, but he immediately got up, walked over to Dick, and clapped him on the back. "I was sure you'd arrive first," he said genially. "Good of you to join me."

Once again, Dick suspected that he was being needled, but Powers' tone was just affable enough to make him wonder whether he could be reading too much into things. Barely affable enough.

"I ran into traffic," he said, as a server set water glasses and menus before them. Dick thanked him with a smile, but Powers gave no indication that he'd even noticed the service.

"Ah," Powers replied.

Dick sighed. "Look, Mr. Powers, what's this all about. You said something about Mr. Paxton overstepping boundaries?"

Powers sighed. "He's become obsessed with the idea that Mr. Wayne is planning to retake the company. I suspect that if Les—Mister Paxton—were to spot Mr. Wayne's limousine driving leisurely past Grand and Neville Street, he'd leap to the conclusion that Wayne was," he coughed, "er... casing the PMWE building."

Dick took a sip of water. "Go on."

Powers leaned forward and dropped his voice a notch. "This whole... thing with the restraining order, hiring an impersonator, the gala... Look, I've been in deep with him. I'm not proud of it. In fact," he looked down diffidently, "I'm more than a little bit embarrassed that I've stuck with him longer than anyone on the board of directors. I... usually try to keep a clear head when it comes to the facts, but Paxton can be persuasive when he tries to be. He claimed that Chester had stabbed him in the back and got the other directors to go along with it. I believed him."

Dick frowned. "What changed your mind?"

"He hired a detective."

Interesting, but hardly earth-shaking. "To...?"

"Well, apparently, to keep tabs on Bruce Wayne. From what I was able to glean without seeming too interested, the idea was to infiltrate the manor somehow and uncover some... leverage to use against Mr. Wayne, should he," Powers coughed, "intend to go ahead with this 'master plan' that Mr. Paxton believes he has for returning to the company." He hesitated. "Dick... I really hate to ask and it's not my business... but has..." he looked away. "This is awkward."

Dick was frowning now, water glass forgotten. "What is?"

"I may have misunderstood, but perhaps not. I'm sorry. I know he's been like your father..."

"He's been my father since I was nine years old," Dick said evenly. "What?"

"The last time I saw Mr. Paxton, I was visiting him at his home a few days ago. We were in his study and he got a call. He'd told me that he was hiring the detective prior, and in fact, when he checked the Caller ID, he apologized and told me that he really needed to take it because it was that detective and it could be important. Now, I only heard one side of the conversation, but Mr. Paxton asked whether he'd found any evidence of children."

Dick went cold. "Children," he repeated.

"Mr. Paxton said that it could be useful information and to follow up. Then he ended the call and we continued our conversation as though there'd been no interruption." He took a deep breath. "Does Mr. Wayne have any other living children besides you?"

Dick wanted nothing more than to bolt out of there, but he reminded himself that doing so would reveal far too much to a man he wasn't sure he could trust. "You know Bruce's reputation," he said with a pained expression. "He's never mentioned any others, but that doesn't mean they don't exist." He extended his hand across the table and Powers took it. "Thanks for the heads-up. I'll... see what I can find out."

"Dick," Powers called softly, "if he does, if they're in danger, Paxton still thinks I'm firmly in his camp. I might be able to misdirect him."

"That's..." Dick gave him a relieved smile. "Thank you, Mr. Powers. I'll remember that."

As soon as he had turned his back on Derek Powers, Dick's smile dropped away.

It wasn't until the academy day was over that Bruce was finally able to retrieve his cell phone from his locker and check his messages for the first time since lunch. He didn't like locking up his cell—particularly with Selina in hiding and unable to reach easily—but the way things were going at the moment, he thought that it was unwise to risk forgetting to set the phone to vibrate and having it go off in class. The instructors would be only too eager to hit the class with more laps or push-ups for such an infraction and, no matter how much Bruce told himself that he didn't care about being unpopular, he also didn't care to be the catalyst for further group punishments. For now, it was best to keep his phone locked up where it could not cause a disturbance. Besides, if Selina was in real trouble, she'd know to contact Oracle ahead of him during the day.

His eyebrows shot up. Jim almost never texted him. He preferred voice or face-to-face contact. The message was terse: Call me ASAP. Trouble.

His eyebrows drew together in a frown as he punched in Jim's phone number from memory. "I just got your text," he said when Jim answered. "What's wrong?"

There was a long-suffering sigh on the other end. "I knew you'd panic as soon as I hit send. Sorry about that. It's not as serious as you think, but I'd rather tell you to your face. Stop off at my place before you put your car in the garage?"

A myriad of worries and speculations raced through his mind, but he knew that Jim wasn't going to divulge anything now. "I'm on my way."

"So she should still be locked in Selina's room right now," Jim finished. "I would have waited around, but if she were to escape," he made a face, "well, I didn't exactly try to frisk her and I let my gun permit expire after I retired." He chuckled. "I think the last time I drew a weapon was when I shot off your cowl ear when you thought Joker had murdered Dr. Elliott." His lips twitched. "Besides," he continued, "knowing how you feel about firearms in general, I'm not sure I'd be comfortable carrying one into your home, even if I still owned it."

Bruce smiled faintly. "I appreciate your concern. Let's go talk to our... guest."

Selina's room was empty. A broken window and a depression of snapped twigs in the hedge below told the two men as much of the story as they needed to know.

Bruce raised an eyebrow as he turned to Jim. "That wasn't a soft landing," he remarked. "It looks as though she wrapped her hand in fabric, probably a piece of her uniform," his voice was thoughtful as he pointed to the black threads caught on a pointed shard of glass that was still attached to the window frame. "I'll need to come back up here with the proper tools to confirm that," he added briskly. Did you get a good look at her? Could you identify her again if you needed to?"

Jim considered. "Not really," he admitted sourly. "Height and build, yes, but her back was to me and she had her hair tucked under a scarf. You understand I didn't want to approach her or let her realize she'd been caught."

Bruce nodded. "Anything you can recall will still be more than we have to go on. I doubt she would have given her real name to the domestic service." He pointed below. "There's a ledge about five feet below the window sill. From there, it would be a sheer drop of about nine feet to the lawn, but it's only four from the ledge to the bushes. Now, whether she jumped from the window sill, or tried to climb down and slipped, or misjudged the ability of the hedge to take her weight, stepped onto the top, and crashed, she landed on barberry." He winced. "The thorns are painful under any circumstance, but I don't envy her falling into them."

Jim sucked in his breath. "She couldn't have been too badly hurt if she got away, though I'd bet she feels differently. That is one heck of a security system."

"It became necessary," Bruce said.

"After Bane?" Jim asked.

"No. After Dick started sneaking out on patrol on school nights."

"Ah." Jim took a deep breath. "I know what you're going to say, but as a retired police officer, I think I should point out that involving the GCPD in this might be a good thing. Proof you're following normal procedures instead of taking the law into your own hands, and all that."

Bruce shook his head. "That... has its drawbacks as well." He turned away from the window. "The evidence kit's in the cave," he said tersely, striding for the door.

"Drawbacks?" Jim frowned. "Care to share?" He didn't expect Bruce to take him up on the offer, so he was pleasantly surprised when Bruce stopped with his hand on the knob.

"I... attempted to resolve a situation through permitted channels. There's been fallout."

Jim flipped his eyeglasses up for an instant, then let them return to the bridge of his nose. "Do tell?"

By the time that Bruce had finished talking, they were sitting in the kitchen. Jim had given up on drinking his coffee. He probably would have choked on it a dozen times otherwise. "The IPA," he repeated disbelievingly. "And you thought that this was a good idea, why? How?"

Bruce raised both eyebrows. "MacInnes told me that if I had a concern, I was free to address it to that office."

"Of course he did!" Jim exploded. "That didn't mean he expected you to go on and do it!" He took a deep breath. "When a school teacher says something like 'If you think you can teach this class better than me, why don't you come up to the front of the room and try it?' or 'You two must be having a fascinating conversation. Why not share it with the rest of us?' those are NOT invitations. They are strong suggestions to shut up and sit down!" He gripped the edge of the table as though it was his temper struggling to break loose. "You called down the oversight agency on the investigators' heads for a situation that was already being handled!"

"Or possibly mishandled."

"You don't know that!"

"If they're conducting the investigation properly, it shouldn't be a problem."

Jim fixed him with a steely stare. "Do you ever listen to yourself? Or are you going to tell me why you only ever let me come with you to check out a crime scene and that rarely? I was after you for months to let the MCU shadow you."

Bruce made an irritated gesture. "I hate having someone looking over my..." He flushed.

Jim smiled grimly. He held up his thumb and index finger less than a half-inch apart. "You would have come about this close to fitting right in." He sighed. "Tell me you honestly thought this was going to go well."

Bruce shook his head. "I didn't. But I didn't expect it to go this... badly."

"Your firearms instructor," Jim nodded. "Given the... issues you've been dealing with, he was probably the last person you needed to tick off."

Bruce nodded back glumly. "I'm open to suggestions."

Jim sighed. "Well," he said, leaning back in his chair, "once you've called down the wrath of the IPA, I hope you don't think inviting a former police commissioner to mediate the situation is going to help. It'll work about as well as having a parent complain to the principal that Little Junior is getting bullied. No matter how well-meaning the parent is, once the bully finds out what's happened, the kid's situation only gets worse. You are following me, right, Little Junior?"

Bruce's lips were pressed tightly together as he nodded again.

"Fine." Jim took a deep breath. "You want my suggestion? Keep your head down from this point on. Do whatever you have to do to keep this from getting to you, so long as it's not forbidden by Academy policy. And I would read that policy manual over a few times, if I were you. Don't just memorize. Internalize. This might blow over. It might not. Don't kid yourself that it will ever be fully forgotten; this is the kind of thing that is going to come up down the line, time and again." He gave Bruce a sad smile. "About the only positive I can see is that folks are finally going to forget about the mob war deaths. Probably."

Bruce closed his eyes. "They should remember those," he whispered. "I do."

Jim raised his mug and took a long sip of cold coffee. "As far as I'm concerned, you're the only one who needs to. As for the firearms instruction," he sighed, "let's go downstairs and I'll see if I can help you out. I may not have used a gun in about three years, but I think I still remember enough to be of some use."

Bruce exhaled. "I made a mess of it," he said miserably.

"You did. The question now is whether you're going to accept the consequences and move on, or stay on the pity pot." He tilted his head. "Well?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "If you know me at all," he said as he pushed his chair away from the table, "you know that isn't a question. Do you want to head downstairs now?"

Jim reached for his cane. "I don't mind. You don't want supper first?"

"Later."

"Lead the way."

Cass waited on Barbara's sofa and tried to stop her hands from sweating. Her dress pants were black, so it wouldn't be that obvious if she wiped them on it, but Barbara had still frowned when she'd tried.

"You look great," Barbara said sincerely. "I love that top."

'That top' was a black silk scoop-neck worn under an open petal-pink jacket. The jacket stopped just above her waist, while the shirt hugged her hips. She'd cinched it in with a braided belt of pink, silver, and black.

"Make-up isn't smeared?" Cass asked.

"It's fine."

Cass absently reached for the ceramic bowl on the coffee table and helped herself to a handful of roasted nuts. "Time?" she asked.

"About three minutes since the last time you asked me," Barbara replied, rolling her eyes. "Relax."

Doug was picking her up here because there was no way that she could have asked him to meet her where she lived. Not when she lived in an underground bunker that didn't appear on any municipal maps, in any case. When she'd broached the subject to Barbara, it hadn't been hard for her to come up with a solution.

"Just tell him that you're spending the afternoon here to study for your GED," Barbara suggested. "He can meet you here when you're done."

Cass frowned. "Lie?"

"Not necessarily," Barbara grinned. "You can study here if you want to."

"But after? He'll want to bring me... home. Then what?"

Barbara thought for a moment. "Here's what we'll do. You'll come here first to study. When Doug shows up to take you to the concert, make sure that you leave at least one textbook behind. After the concert, tell him that you need to come back here to get it. At that point, I'll find an excuse for you to stay here overnight."

"Okay..." she said dubiously. It still sounded like Barbara was going to lie. As much as she appreciated that lying—or at least omission—was sometimes necessary for security, Cass hated the idea. Plus, she couldn't lie convincingly to save her life. When those around her prevaricated, their body language betrayed them. Cass could never quite believe that her own untruths could fool anyone and so, they never did. Having Barbara lie for her made her uncomfortable, but she couldn't see a better solution.

"My hair," she lifted a hand to her bangs automatically. "Not mess?"

Barbara sighed. Then she reached into her purse and took out a small hand mirror. "Maybe this will convince you," she grinned.

As Cass reached for it, the intercom buzzed.

Barbara motioned to Cass to follow her to the control panel on the wall. "Is that him?" she asked, gesturing toward the vid-screen.

"Yes."

"Ready?" Barbara asked.

"Um..."

"Relax. You'll be fine." Then she pressed the reply button and Cass hastily finished her handful of nuts. "Don't wipe your hand on your pants."

Cass's hand froze a scant half-inch from her thigh. "Sorry."

It was raining heavily when they drove back some hours later. A loud thunderclap startled them as they got out of the car. In the time it took for them to cover the few yards from Doug's parking spot to the front door of Barbara's building, Cass and Doug were both dripping wet. They looked at each other and began to laugh, sobering before Doug hit the intercom. Barbara sounded tense as she buzzed them up.

"Your book's on the coffee table," Barbara said, gesturing jerkily toward it.

Cass frowned. "Barbara? Something... wrong?"

Barbara sighed. "Not really. Dick's working late tonight and I hate myself for saying this, but thunderstorms make me edgy." She looked hopefully at Cass. "Do you have to get up early tomorrow? Can you stick around for a bit until Dick comes home? We can drive you back then."

Cass fought not to grin. So, that was what Barbara had dreamed up. She turned to Doug. "Okay?"

"Sure," Doug nodded. "It's fine with me. I... hope you had a good time tonight?"

"Yes." She let the smile escape. "You?"

"Very much."

He wasn't just being polite. He meant it. And so did she. "Then... maybe again?"

Doug smiled back. "I'd like to. Well..." he glanced at Barbara, who was hovering in the background. "Well, I'll see you at Saint Swithins tomorrow, then?"

"Yes." She took a step closer. "Good night."

For a moment, she thought that he might kiss her and wondered whether she wanted him to. Then he shot another quick glance over her shoulder in Barbara's direction, smiled once more, and turned on his heel. With one foot in the hallway, he turned back. "Tomorrow, then. Good night, Cass."

Then he was gone.

Barbara smiled. "Sorry if I cramped your style, there," she said.

"What?"

"I could have gone into the back and given you two a little privacy."

"Oh." Cass felt her cheeks grow warm. "No. It's... okay."

"How was the concert?"

Cass beamed. "Wonderful."

It was after two when Dick came through the window of Barbara's office. Barbara looked up and smiled. "Every time I see that cape outline, I still think of Bela Lugosi's Dracula," she admitted.

"Just as long as it isn't Robert Pattison's Edward Cullen," Dick replied with a shudder.

Barbara winced. "Don't put that image in my mind, Short-pants," she groaned. "I just ate." She tilted her face upward as Dick bent down to kiss her. "Rough night?"

"Not until the signal went up." Dick made a face. "Did you hear about the..." he paused, considering his words, "...the... latest stunt Bruce pulled?" He clapped a hand over his eyes. "Damn. I sound like I've just come back from a parent-teacher conference and gotten an earful. It felt like it, too."

Barbara smiled sympathetically. "Daddy told me about the IPA." She sighed. "Bruce has said he isn't at the Academy to be liked. Maybe this was as good a way as any to remind us?" Her eyebrows shot up. "Or... try this. Up until now, everyone has been saying that he's not a team player. He doesn't go through channels. He has to do things his way. Well... Jandt was on his team. Bruce didn't want to throw him under a bus, so he did everything he could do within the law, within the approved channels, to go to bat for him. And no, he didn't do things their way, but he didn't try to take over the investigation or obstruct justice or anything else that they've accused him of in the past. I'm not saying he was right, and I'm not saying that they don't have a right to be ticked off... but if I was trying to be thorough, and I took my responsibilities seriously, and I really didn't give a damn who I annoyed in the process, I might actually try something like this."

Dick mulled that over. "Makes sense. I still had to assure Sawyer that Bruce never discussed what he was planning with me and that I would have tried to talk him out of it if I'd known."

"Think he'd have listened?"

"No. Well," Dick paused, "not in the old days, but now... maybe. Probably not, but there was a chance. Anyway..."

He took a deep breath. "I need you to do some checking up for me."

"On who?" Barbara asked, all-business once more.

"Derek Powers. He's one of Paxton's protégés, works in accounting, recently made AVP. He may be changing sides or he may be trying to make us think he is. I want to know which." His expression hardened. "He told me Paxton's trying to find out if Bruce has any kids. After what happened to Selina... if Paxton engineered that... or if it's Powers and he's trying to finish the job..." He forced himself to smile. "You know, this is the point where you're supposed to remind me that Bruce is the paranoid one and I'm reading too much into things."

Barbara gazed up at him levelly. "No," she said, her voice firm. "This is the point where I remind you that it's not paranoia if they really are out to get you. I'm on this. You should rest."

"Does Cass need a lift home?"

Barbara smiled. "No, she swung out of here about an hour ago. Floating on air..."

Sleep came all too infrequently to Lester Paxton these nights. The calls he had learned to dread came without warning and at all hours. He feared them, but he feared the possibility of missing one all the more. For if he failed to take those calls, he had no doubt that False Face would make good on his threats, and the evidence of his activities—evidence he had not yet admitted existed to his attorneys—would be made public in the most incendiary way possible.

The call came at 1:30 in the morning. He picked up on the first ring.

"Lester Paxton."

"Les, you old dog!"

So he was playing 'Brucie' tonight. "What do you want?"

"Well, first, my employer wanted to thank you for hiring that detective."

Paxton blinked. "I don't know what you're talking about."

There was a jovial laugh. "Oh, come now. The inquiries you've been making into Wayne's personal life? The attempt on his girlfriend?"

"Again," Paxton said testily, "I have no idea what you mean. I've had no contact with Wayne in months. Frankly, I have no wish to lay eyes on the man again."

The voice on the other end of the line turned dry. "You talk a good game, Lester. Let's hope it's good enough to convince the police. And the Bats." The call ended.

Paxton stared at his handheld for a long moment before he returned it to the cradle.

In a safe-house some miles away, a disgraced surgeon looked at his companion. "I'm glad you've found a way to pass the time," Hush remarked. "Are you sure you want to tip him off that he's being set up, though?"

False Face shrugged. "Can't have the man growing too complacent. He's going to trial for a non-violent crime and he has the finances and legal staff to drag the matter out for years. He might be well into his 80s by the time the verdict is handed down. If he has to live with this thing dangling over his head, I'd like to know that he's loathing every minute of it." He smiled. "I'm not a stupid man, Thomas. I'm hardly about to tell him that it's his protégé playing him for a fool. I think I can live without spoiling that particular surprise. Meanwhile... it's fun to watch him squirm."

"Just don't let it divert you too much from the other objective," Hush gave in. "Speaking of which... What is going on with Intergang?"

"It's early days, yet," False Face replied, "but it looks as though Mannheim might be getting ready for something big. The ringleader seems to be a kid named Fixx. He's looking to make a name for himself. He's the sort that might well end up running things one day—if he doesn't overextend himself and get taken out of the game first."

"Ah. One of those." Hush sounded bored. "Your cover is secure?"

"Thus far."

"Keep me informed. I may need them at some point and I'd like to have the key players and their motivations in mind, should that hour arise."

"Of course," False Face smiled. He gestured toward the TV. "Are you watching that or might I see what else is on?"

Saturday morning dawned cool and crisp, a reminder that it was only April and summer hadn't yet arrived. Dick sighed when he listened to the morning forecast. "I was hoping I could pack away my coat until next fall," he admitted. Then he slapped a hand to his head. "It's in the car. I haven't needed it for the last few days and I keep forgetting to bring it up."

"Well," Barbara smiled, "we're driving over to Daddy's for brunch anyway. Just remember to bring it upstairs when we get back.

They stopped off at the grocery store on the way home. When they made their way upstairs, Dick carried a large paper bag in each arm and Barbara held one on her lap. A reusable canvas shopping bag hung from one arm of her wheelchair.

"I can't believe I let the cupboards get so bare," Barbara admitted.

"Hey," Dick maneuvered his key out of his pocket and into the lock, "it's not like you're the only one living here. I should have noticed before this."

"This is true," Barbara deadpanned.

"Hey!" He pushed the door open. "Can you get the burglar alarm and I'll just put these on the tay—"

WARNING! UNAUTHORIZED ELECTRONIC SURVEILLANCE! WARNING UNAUTHORIZED ELECTRONIC SURVEILLANCE!

Three miniature flying robots closed in on Dick's position, pincer-like claws extended menacingly. Startled, he dropped the bags and whipped his escrima out of the pockets he'd sewn into the lining of his coat sleeves. "What the hell...?" he demanded as one of the bags split and a dozen oranges went rolling in all directions.

Barbara's eyes opened wide. "Grote! Robinson! Cinnamon!" she snapped. At her code-phrase, the robots retracted their claws and retreated. "Dick," Barbara said calmly, "please, take your coat off and check it carefully."

He didn't need to be told twice. His coat and the groceries were the only things that they were bringing into the apartment that they hadn't had with them when they'd left earlier. Either someone had bugged their canned peaches or...

He sucked in his breath, as his fingers found something under his sheepskin collar that didn't belong there. Here's what triggered the defenses, he signed, his expression grim. Aloud, he said, "Seems clean to me. Are you sure your systems are working properly?"

"I guess it could be a false alarm," Barbara said dubiously. "I'll run a diagnostic." On this, she signed back. Maybe there's a way to track who tagged you.

Dick shook his head. I've got a pretty good idea, actually. The last time I had this coat upstairs was on Wednesday morning. That afternoon, I met with Derek Powers after work. He winced as he remembered that 'friendly' clap on the back. So. Now we know.