A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!

A/N: "Choosing When It's Too Late" written by Sir Tim Rice and John Farrar. Recorded by Cliff Richard on the Heathcliff Live (The Musical) original soundtrack album (EMI, 1996).

Do you now suppose I'll leave with no reply?

Basic laws apply

An eye demands an eye

—Sir Tim Rice, "Choosing When It's Too Late"

Chapter 52—Basic Laws

The barn wasn't heated, but it was dry. Clara was exhausted after having spent the last few hours running for her life, getting lost in a cave, and eluding yet another person keeping her from her uncle. She had no idea whether Derek Powers had meant to kill her, hold her hostage, or give her back to the Mandragoras, but she hadn't been about to wait around and find out.

Meanwhile, she had shelter. There was a pile of hay for cover and warmth. And she wasn't hungry or thirsty yet. At least Powers had given her a sandwich and a Zesti when he'd found her. It didn't make up for his being a bad guy, of course, but she was still grateful.

With that thought in her head, Clara did her best to burrow into the haystack, trying to conceal herself as much as possible, while leaving herself room to see and breathe. That done, she closed her eyes and drifted into a dreamless sleep…

…which lasted until she was unceremoniously jolted awake by a loud blast of noise that sounded like it had come from just outside!

"So," Cadet Angelina Parsons smiled, as the four cadets led their horses back into the stable, "was it worth getting up early this morning?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You appear to be under the impression that all of us got to sleep last night," he deadpanned.

Brenner laughed.

Norton grinned. "I don't think the horses minded," he said, stroking his gelding's neck affectionately. "If you ask me, I think they missed us."

"You, maybe," Bruce grunted, letting Norton precede him into the building. "Brenner and I have been here almost every day—"

Something was wrong. Bruce couldn't put his finger on what, but he'd learned to trust his instincts. "Get back!" he snapped.

"Wha—?" Parsons gaped as Bruce grabbed her horse's reins in the same hand that held those of his own mount and gripped her arm with his other. "Squad Leader, what are you—?"

There was no time for explanations. "MOVE!" He yelled, breaking into a run and dragging her behind him. "NOW!" He was glad to see that Brenner was following instructions. Norton. Norton was inside the stables. For an instant, he thought about running in, but they were already too far off and these two might just follow him if he tried. "PETE!" he bellowed. "PETE, GET OUT OF THERE! GET—"

There was a deafening roar. And then a wind seemed to catch them up and hurl them forward. Cadets and horses shrieked, as a wave of heat blasted the air behind them.

Bruce saw the paddock fence rushing toward them, dropped the horses' reins and flung himself to one side. And then, his world exploded into blood and pain and he knew no more.

He awoke to the smells of smoke and burnt wood and a bright light shining in his eyes. He hadn't hurt this badly in over three years. He couldn't say he'd missed it.

"Cadet Wayne?" It was Fochs's voice.

He was lying on a stretcher and he struggled to sit up. "Sir." His voice wasn't much more than a croak.

"At ease, cadet," Fochs said. "We're getting you to the hospital."

Bruce nodded. "The others?" he asked. Fochs hesitated a fraction of a second too long. Bruce fought once more to raise himself. "The others?" he repeated more forcefully.

"Brenner and Parsons are going with you," Fochs relented. "We don't know how badly hurt any of you are at the moment, but Brenner's the only one who didn't get clear of the horses in time."

Bruce closed his eyes. Then he opened them again. "Norton?" he asked.

Fochs pressed his lips together and pushed them in and out rapidly several times. "We're… still trying to get him out of the stable," he said finally.

Bruce sucked in his breath. From where he was lying, he had a clear view of the Academy stable—or what was left of it. At least one stone wall had collapsed inward and a good part of the roof had fallen in on top of it. And while part of the structure remained intact, that part had a plainly-visible door. If Norton had been in that part of the building, he would have gotten out by now. Which meant…

"Lie back down, Cadet," Fochs snapped. "That's an order."

Bruce shook his head. "If he's still in there—"

"I know," Fochs snapped. "But you're in no shape to go in after him." He shook his head. "And I suspect you know that as well as I do."

Just because Fochs was right didn't make it any less of a bitter pill to swallow.

"Look," Fochs said softly, "the stable didn't just spontaneously explode. This was deliberate. Assuming you check out medically, I've got a feeling that CSI will be able to use your assistance." He sighed. "Or, you disobey a direct order, stagger off of the stretcher, try to pull Norton out—as if we didn't have a team of experts already tackling that problem—and hope that what's left of the building doesn't fall in on both of you." Fochs sighed again. "For what's it's worth, if you were in better shape, I'd probably let you try it. But you aren't and," he repeated, "we both know it."

Bruce closed his eyes. "I have a broken collarbone," he admitted. "Maybe a hairline fracture of my left humerus, maybe just some bad bruising. A number of additional bruises and lacerations, but I haven't lost enough blood for it to be serious." He winced when he touched his scalp; it hurt even with the gauze bandage. The dressing was damp, and not just with sweat. "The scalp wound needs stitches, too," he continued. "But all of that can be treated here in the infirmary."

"Cadet…"

"Sir, he was under my command." He shook his head and reminded himself that he wasn't anywhere near the top of the food chain in this organization. As much as it galled him, he did have to follow a superior officer's orders. "Sir," he said softly, "I've been injured enough in the past to know that what I'm dealing with now isn't life-threatening. If you patch me up here, then I'll be able to—"

Fochs actually seemed to be considering his words. Then he shook his head. "You might well be right, cadet. But you could also be wrong. And I'm not taking that chance."

"Belay that, Sergeant," a new voice broke in.

Fochs whirled about and immediately came to attention. "Captain!" he exclaimed, snapping off a salute.

"Get them all to the infirmary," MacInnes said. "We've just been informed that what's happened here this morning was part of what's been going on in the city for the last couple of weeks. Until we've got the whole story, we're sealing up the campus. From now until I say differently, nobody goes in or out." He looked at Bruce and gave a heavy sigh.

"For all our sakes, I just hope your assessment of your injuries was accurate. I've got a feeling we're going to need your assistance before this is over."

Ben Bailey groaned and wondered what he'd been thinking when he set his cellphone ringtone to "Macarena". The lively beat seemed to intensify the pounding in his head. Just how many six-packs had he drunk watching the game yesterday? A groan drew his attention to the armchair. Denny was passed out, an empty beer can clutched in his hand and a dark stain on the shag carpet where some of the can's contents had spilled out. Bleary-eyed, Bailey fumbled for the phone, picked it up, and belched. "Yeah?"

"You idiot!" the voice on the other end shrieked loudly enough for Bailey to wish he was still hearing the ringtone. "You were supposed to set off those explosives over an hour ago!"

"Wha—?" Bits and pieces started coming back to him now. There was going to be an explosion at the police academy stable on the other side of the highway. When that happened, he was supposed to set off the munitions in his barn to add to the chaos. But that wasn't supposed to happen until seven AM and it was only—eight seventeen. "Uh… Sorry?"

"Sorry? You incompetent, bottom-feeding, useless, sack of…" Bailey held the phone at arms-length and waited for the caller to finish. When the yelling finally ceased, he pulled it back to his ear once more.

"Uh, see, I w-was gonna set the munitions off, just like you wanted, but then I r-realized that they've got cameras and stuff over there and they'd spot me in a second. But I can do it now, if you want."

"No! By now, they've got their security out in full force. No, you imbecile. Just sit on those munitions until we tell you to use them and when we do, try actually using them!"

Bailey swallowed. "Um… okay. Uh, can I get the stuff out of my truck? I'm gonna need to take it out on the road tomorrow."

The voice on the other end emitted a long-suffering groan. "Fine. Keep it in the barn. Don't let anyone see it. And try not to get yourself killed handling the cargo. That stuff is earmarked for the cops. I'm not wasting good thermite on the likes of you." The line went dead.

Bailey tucked the phone into his pocket. Coffee. He needed coffee before he started unloading the truck. And maybe just a little hair of the dog, too…

Barbara hadn't felt this helpless since the shooting that had led to her father's retirement. The only good thing was that she didn't have to play dumb this time, when the police contacted her. The moment she saw Sawyer's number on her Caller ID (actually, the number came up as "Private," but blocked phone numbers were hard to keep secret from a master hacker), she set the voice scrambler and picked up. "Commissioner," she stated.

"Oracle," Sawyer replied tersely. "You know why I'm calling."

If the situation had been any less nerve-wracking, she might have smiled. The commissioner had a direct, cut-the-crap attitude that Barbara admired most of the time. It made her feel that she could, for once, be honest and ditch the stoic act. She sighed—which sounded bizarre with the scrambler and, for a wild moment, she thought about switching it off. Then common sense won out. "Yes," she said. "How bad is it?"

"Don't you know?" Sawyer demanded.

"If I did," the scrambler had no trouble transmitting her irritation, "I wouldn't waste time asking. I monitor systems. Radio communications, satellites, traffic cams… Your radio silence—while understandable—means that I haven't got much more than what's been reported in the news at this hour. Going by that… Is there any assistance we can render?"

Sawyer seemed to consider her offer for a moment. "No," she said finally. "But thanks for asking. As far as the person you aren't asking about," she went on, "I wanted to wait until I had something definite to give you. But," she sighed, "if I was in your shoes, I'd probably be tearing my hair out by now wondering what was going on. So." Sawyer took a deep breath. "His injuries aren't serious. He's already made his own request to render assistance and, even though enlisting a cadet for this kind of investigation is highly irregular, I've already reminded Captain MacInnes that we'd be fools not to use his expertise."

This time, Barbara didn't care how her sigh of relief sounded over the scrambler. "Thank you," she said. "And… I hope you know that the people I represent would be happy to help out even if they didn't have a colleague currently enrolled there."

"Yes, well…" Sawyer paused and when she spoke again, there was a glint of humor in her voice. "He doesn't appreciate outside interference very often, regardless of its qualifications or intent."

"And you have no idea whatsoever how many times the rest of us have taken him to task for that attitude," she shot back. If anything, the voice scrambler only enhanced her already-exaggerated annoyance.

Sawyer laughed. "I'll keep you in the loop as much as I can."

"I'll extend the same courtesy, Commissioner. Oracle out."

Barbara hesitated for a moment before phoning Dick at work. He greeted her cheerfully and asked whether there were any new developments he needed to know about. He hadn't heard yet. She took a breath and braced for his reaction. "If you aren't sitting down already," she said quietly, "I think you'd better. There's been an attack at the academy…"

Someone was finally coming. For what felt like forever, Clara had been sitting against the barn wall next to the wooden double doors, trying to keep a lid on her fears. The noise had scared her. The odors of smoke and burning wood had done worse. She knew the barn wasn't burning; she'd be feeling a lot warmer if it were. Still, the smells had been strong enough to make her wonder whether the fire might spread to her location. She'd read a story once about a forest fire that had almost made her ill. Several animals had tried to find safety in a pond. The fire had spread to the surrounding trees and the heat had boiled the water, cooking the animals alive. Once she'd realized that there was a fire close by, she'd been curled up in a ball, hugging her knees, and wondering if something like that was about to happen to her. But the sirens she'd heard outside had stopped some distance away. And the smells were fainter than they'd been at first. Or maybe she'd just gotten used to them. At any rate, she wasn't afraid of burning now. But she was very much afraid of being discovered.

Whoever it was seemed to be fussing with the barn door and swearing a lot. Clara remembered something Bruno had told her during one of their sessions…

Fear is your friend. It keeps you awake. It keeps you alert and on your toes. It stops you from charging into the thick of things and getting yourself killed. You need fear. Now, panic? That's something else. You never want panic. Panic paralyzes you. It makes you stupid. It makes you dangerous to all the wrong people—especially yourself. You stay calm, you keep your wits about you, you use your fear but keep it under control… and you just might be okay.

Clara took a deep breath. The door would be opening any second. She could see three options open to her. She could race out of the barn and hope she was fast enough not to get caught. She could hide and hope she wouldn't be discovered. She could stand where whoever was coming in would see her and try to come up with some story for how she'd ended up locked in the barn. She decided against the last option immediately. She'd had too many encounters with too many people she couldn't trust. Until she was back with Uncle Tony, she wasn't going to take a chance on anyone else. Running wasn't the greatest idea either. Whoever was coming in might be faster, might be stronger, might have a gun and not care if he shot a kid in the back…

Hide. She needed a place to hide. A place where she could get away fast if she were detected. Whoever was outside was still fussing with the lock—it sounded like they'd dropped the key. Like he'd dropped the key, unless the person Clara was hearing cursing was a woman with a very deep voice. Wait. Did the doors open out or in? Where were the hinges? She dimly remembered an Encyclopedia Brown mystery where Encyclopedia had solved the case and known that Bugs Meany was lying, because… because Bugs had said that he was locked in a room and had thought about taking the door off its hinges, but the hinges were on the other side. And then he'd said that the door had opened inward and a door always opened on the side where the hinges were! These hinges were on the inside, so…

Clara got to her feet and pressed herself against the wall, so that the door would block her when it opened. Think flat thoughts, she ordered herself. Try to get as close to the wall as you can. And hope that door doesn't crush you when it opens!

It didn't, but then, it was the other door that swung open. Clara froze as a heavyset figure who reeked of beer and stale cigarettes shambled into the barn. He took no notice of her, but moved directly to the truck and began fumbling with the rope holding down the tarp on the truck-bed. He was so preoccupied that he never noticed when Clara slowly edged her way to the open door and slipped out of the barn. She looked around in dismay. She had no idea where she was, but she had a feeling that she didn't want to be anywhere near the compound across the highway. There were too many cop cars and she had no idea whether any of the cops inside them worked for her uncle… or for the Mandragoras.

With a shudder, she began walking briskly along the highway, hoping she'd come to a road sign soon that would tell her where she was. Before she'd gotten too far, though, she saw a wooden barrier blocking the road with more police cars and officers surrounding it. Clara sucked in her breath and doubled back before they could spot her.

Dick was bracing himself for a fight when he drove the Batmobile up to the academy gates some four hours later. He'd been at the office since six that morning—patrol had run late and he'd been keyed up enough to decide that it was better to get to work directly than it was to go home, try to catch some sleep, be up less than two hours later, and try to get to work for nine, so that he could be done for five, so that he could start tonight's patrol around seven. At least, tomorrow was his night off.

When Babs had called, he'd wanted to go tearing over to the academy immediately. Three things had held him back: he didn't want Sal or Lucius to think that he was taking advantage of their generosity by leaving in the middle of his workday, Babs had let him know that the campus had been sealed, and Bruce could probably handle himself. Dick well remembered how mortified he'd been when he'd been injured in one of the few middle school basketball games Bruce had attended. It hadn't been serious. A twisted ankle that had stopped twinging in time for patrol that night. But Bruce had come barrelling out of the spectator stands in front of the whole crowd, demanding to know whether he was all right. The other kids had teased him about it for weeks afterwards. Something told him that if he went charging onto the academy campus now, Bruce would probably react in similar fashion. And really, Bruce probably didn't need anyone hovering over him.

Dick had thrown himself into his work, making sure that by the time he left at two, nobody could say he hadn't put forth his best efforts. By then, Barbara had let him know that, while academy security had been exponentially increased, they were allowing people in and out, now. "It's probably locking the henhouse after the fox has gone," Babs had admitted, "but, at least, you won't have to go breaking into the academy."

He'd been at the closest satellite Batcave at five past two. Ten minutes for a quick change—of clothes and car—and a cup of coffee, and he hit the Aparo Expressway northbound just after two-thirty. He really didn't care that Batman wasn't supposed to show his face during the day. He just wanted to get to the academy. Preferably, before he hit rush hour traffic.

He didn't hit traffic, but he did hit a roadblock less than a half-mile from the academy gates. He contemplated driving straight through it, but decided that it was worth it to at least try to be civil. Especially when he realized that he recognized one of the officers standing before the barrier. He rolled down his window. "Officer Harper, isn't it?"

The woman in blue nodded and her expression softened for a moment. "Batman."

He sighed. "Look. I know you have your orders and I understand. Is there someone I can talk to about getting past this point?"

Harper shook her head. "No need. The commissioner notified us you'd probably be coming this way. You can go on through." As she spoke, Batman noticed that another officer behind her was moving the barrier aside.

"Thanks," he said.

Harper nodded. "You're welcome, Batman. I suppose we'll see you on your way out."

It was impossible not to notice the extra security as Dick drove the Batmobile slowly toward the academy parking lot. Knowing the reason for it, he didn't resent it. Besides, he was used to being under the microscope. He suspected that if Bruce and Barbara ever pooled their cameras, sensors, and other surveillance equipment, they could probably supply the FBI for the next six months. He'd just parked the Batmobile in the lot where the gate officer had directed him, when he saw an officer striding toward him. He got out of the car slowly, taking care that he made no sudden moves.

"Batman," the cop greeted him tersely.

Dick nodded. "Officer—?"

"Fochs," the cop returned. "Sergeant Guy Fochs."

"I appreciate your meeting me, Sergeant," Dick said. "Is there any way that I can help?"

Fochs seemed to relax. "That's for the captain to decide," he said politely, but firmly.

"I understand." Batman sighed. "And I can see why you'd want to keep this in-house. However, if there's any assistance I can offer…"

Fochs nodded. "Again, that'll be the captain's decision. Of course," his expressionless façade lifted for a moment, "it would appear that keeping things in-house doesn't necessarily preclude the assistance your outfit is able to offer. It just needs to be coming from the right person. If you take my meaning."

"Oh, I do," Batman smiled. "I do."

A brief answering smile flickered on Fochs's lips. Then his impassive demeanor returned. "If you'll follow me, sir," he directed, "I'll escort you to Captain MacInnes."

The infirmary was smaller than the Thompkins clinic had been, but larger than the main Cave's medical bay. Dick found Bruce sitting on a bench in a corridor outside one of the rooms. The door was closed.

"Hey," Dick said, as he approached. He didn't mention the bandage wrapped around Bruce's head. If Bruce was sitting in the hallway instead of lying in a bed in one of these rooms, then it wasn't serious and Bruce didn't like it when people fussed.

Bruce looked up. "Batman," he said flatly. Dick's eyebrows shot up. It wasn't so much how Bruce had addressed him. He was in costume, after all. Rather, he was surprised that Bruce had acknowledged him at all. Coming from Bruce, a one-word greeting was almost effusive. "Barbara told you," he stated.

Dick nodded. "Sawyer's not saying much, but she at least let us know that you were okay."

Bruce closed his eyes. "Norton is in there."

The name meant nothing to him. "Friend of yours?" he guessed.

For a moment, Bruce didn't respond. Then he gave a hesitant nod. "I… suppose he is," he said in a tone that indicated the idea had never occurred to him before.

Dick put a hand on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce squeezed it. "I've just come from Captain MacInnes's office," he said. "There's going to be a briefing in half an hour. He wants us both there. Or," he added with an ironic smile when Bruce frowned, "Sawyer does, anyway."

Bruce snorted mirthlessly. "That, I'll believe."

"You ask me," Dick said, "the captain's acting a lot like you would if Superman told you to do something you were already planning on doing in the first place. It's not that he doesn't want us, it's that he resents being ordered. And," he sighed, "while that might be his problem, it might just become ours, too."

Bruce nodded slowly. "A half hour," he said.

"Yeah. He asked me to deliver the message, since I was looking for you anyway, but if you need to hear it from him—"

"No," Bruce said, shaking his head. He took a deep breath. "Let's go, then. Sitting here isn't helping anyone—least of all, Norton."

Dick nodded. "Anything I can do?"

"You're doing it," Bruce said, gripping his arm. "Come."

Inzerillo had been waiting for the call since early morning. When his phone finally went off, he grabbed it before the first ring finished. "Yeah?"

"Enrico." Halloran's voice was flat, disclosing nothing.

"Yes."

"I presume that you were behind a tragic occurrence at the Gotham City Police Academy earlier today?"

Inzerillo smiled. "It's possible I might have had something to do with it. Just acting on instructions, of course."

"I'm sure you thought you were," Halloran allowed.

Inzerillo tensed. "Mr. Halloran," he said quickly, "I hope you're not going to reward my assistance by throwing me to the cops as some sort of sacrificial offering. After what I've done for you…"

"You've done nothing for us," Halloran snapped. "The man you targeted is alive and unharmed, apart from some minor, superficial injuries."

"Wh-what?"

"It seems that whoever you engaged to get the job done set things in motion a trifle too soon. Wayne lives."

Inzerillo realized that his hand was starting to sweat around the phone. "So… so we'll try again. There's time. I can…"

Halloran sighed. "I think you've done enough," he said. "You see, Intergang has a number of MPD officers on its payroll—in much the same way that your various Gotham factions have made inroads with the GCPD. Naturally, these men are discreet about their allegiances. They keep them secret from friends, spouses, and… other family members."

Still holding the phone, Inzerillo frowned. There was a connection that Halloran seemed to be wanting him to make, but he just couldn't see it. "I… I don't understand."

Halloran gave another long-suffering sigh. "Perhaps you don't, at that. Very well. I'd like to tell you a story about a young man growing up in a rural community on the outskirts of Gotham. Nice guy, works with horse rescues, enjoys riding. He especially enjoys riding with his cousin—another nice guy, some ten years his senior. He and this cousin are practically like brothers—and I'm not talking Cain and Abel, either. The fact that the one lives in Metropolis and the other right outside Gotham, well the distance doesn't mean very much these days, what with cheap long distance calling plans, email, Skrype… you get the picture. So, when the cousin eventually decides to apply to the Metropolis Police Academy, let's say that it serves as an inspiration to our young man and he decides to give the GCPA a try, once he's old enough. So, he starts making plans, doing his research, taking the right courses and extra-curriculars. And when he finds out that they have riding stables, well… that clinches it."

"I see," Inzerillo said slowly, hoping that the sick feeling in his stomach was unwarranted.

"Now, what our young man doesn't know is that the cousin? Not quite the golden boy, after all. He falls in with Intergang barely out of the academy and rises through our ranks. And when we start planning our Gotham initiative, he starts getting excited. By now, he's got a fair amount of influence. He's been a great help to us in getting our people where they need to get and passing on good intel. We like this cousin. And he asked us to take extra care that Cadet Peter Norton doesn't get hurt in any of this." He paused for a beat. "He was in the stable you had firebombed this morning and our most recent intel has him in critical condition."

Inzerillo nearly dropped the phone. "Y-you could've warned me about that," he stammered. "I could've had my people take precautions. But in these situations… Wait." He fought the mounting wave of horror that threatened to engulf him. "You know all about what can go wrong in these situations," Pure rage suffused him. That's why you had me do your dirty work. Plausible deniability in case things don't go according to plan. Y-you set me up!"

There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then, "It was your plan. It was your responsibility. And now, it's on your head." The call terminated.

Inzerillo screamed an expletive as he flung his phone across the room. It bounced off of his plate glass window and hit the marble floor with an ominous crack. When he looked where it had landed, he saw that it had shattered into at least a dozen pieces.

Clara had walked back and forth along the stretch of highway between the roadblocks several times in the last few hours. They were still up. A couple of officers had seen her. One had even smiled. She imagined that they thought she lived on one of the farms in the vicinity. She still wasn't sure what would happen if she tried to get past them. And if they recognized her, then it really depended. If they were Uncle Tony's people, she'd be safe. But if they were anyone else, she didn't know. She might be a kid, but she was also a Bressi. And if these cops got it into their heads that she might know something about her great uncle's business, she'd heard stories of police brutality. She'd read an exposé on kids getting beaten up in police custody or in juvie. Or tried to, anyway. Aunt Nadia had taken the paper away before she'd quite finished it. And even if that didn't happen to her, if the police thought she was holding back, she might well end up in juvie. Or in some foster home—she'd read horror stories about some of those, too. True, there were probably good ones, like that Starlight House on the old Jem cartoons, but it wasn't like she'd get to pick where she ended up if that was what they decided to do with her.

Clara sighed when she realized that she was passing the barn she'd run off from again. Then she froze. Someone was coming out of the barn now. She couldn't let him see her. She cast about looking for somewhere to hide and spied a number of boards nailed horizontally against a tree trunk. Looking up, she could see a treehouse up in the branches. She hoped it was sturdy and secure in the tree as she scrambled up the makeshift ladder.

Barbara felt a twinge of dismay when she recognized the number on her Caller ID. "Don Bressi," she said, glad that the electronic scrambler didn't relay her trepidation.

"Have you people found anything else?"

Barbara was silent for a moment. "Regrettably, no. It was easy enough to determine the model and make of the tires that made the track, but once the car hit the highway, we couldn't follow the trail. We're still looking."

She could hear Bressi's breathing over the phone line. His silence lasted longer than hers. "All right," he said finally.

"Don Bressi?"

The mobster sighed. "I think I understand you people. Whatever you might think of the way I conduct my business dealings, you wouldn't hold a twelve-year-old girl accountable. I believe that you're doing all you can to find her and I'm not faulting your efforts. However, the fact remains that my great-niece is out there somewhere. I pray she's alive, but we both know that the odds of her staying that way decrease every hour she's missing. I can't wait much longer. If Clara doesn't turn up by midnight tonight, I'm going to have to take some steps of my own. You can back me… or we can part ways. If it's the latter, I'll live with those consequences. That gives you… just under eight hours. So, if there are any stones you haven't turned over looking for her, now's the time. Otherwise, once midnight passes, so does any chance at a peaceful resolution."

"Don Br—" Barbara broke off from what she had been about to say as the call terminated. She took a gulp of coffee, wishing for a moment that it was something colder—and about 150 proof. "Damn," she whispered, staring at her blank call display. "Damn it to Hell."

Concealed in the treehouse, Clara thought that she was swaying with the faintest breeze as her every movement seemed to make the structure creak. After a time, though, she realized that she didn't seem to be in any danger of plunging to the ground. The little wooden shack was, apparently, a bit sturdier than it looked. Lifting her head, she examined her surroundings. There was a beanbag chair, too dusty and grimy for her to contemplate sinking into. A rope hammock stretched against one of the short walls of the rectangular room. Maybe, Clara thought, the house had always rocked. Weren't hammocks used on old ships, because sailors could fall out of beds on rough seas? There was card table with its legs folded beneath it and four folding chairs stacked alongside. And, apart from a scenic calendar from 1989 and some faded posters of heavily made-up teens in horrible clothes—maybe also from the 80s, there was nothing else in the treehouse.

Clara moved carefully to the window, trying to ignore the creaking and swaying. From here, she had a good view of the compound across the street. It was still full of cop cars and there were plenty of people checking out the collapsed building by the fence. Even from her vantage point, she could make out charred timbers. The smoky smell seemed to hit her again, almost full force.

She could see a good deal more of the compound at this height. She hadn't realized that there were so many buildings. There was also a good-sized parking lot with a number of cars inside. And fields, both green and muddy. And…

Clara's eyes snapped back to the parking lot. All at once, she smiled. She recognized the sleek black car with metal fins that rose behind, framing the trunk and a stylized bat on the hood. And, while she might not know which cops were safe to trust, Batman was definitely on her side. He could get her back to Uncle Tony.

She made her way to the trap door in the floor through which she'd entered the treehouse and gasped. Seeing a panorama through a window was very different from seeing the ground directly below. If she lost her footing on the way down…

Clara sucked in her breath and hugged herself. She was going to have to get down sooner or later. Nobody knew where she was. Nobody would think to look for her here. She could stay until she starved—or was so hungry she wouldn't be able to concentrate on getting down… or she could climb. And if she didn't climb soon, the Batmobile was going to leave.

That last thought decided her. She closed her eyes, thought a quick prayer, and carefully lowered herself partially through the trap door, planting the toes of her sneakers firmly on one of the thick wooden boards of the makeshift ladder. Gripping the edge of the treehouse floor in both hands, she lifted one foot and lowered it, feeling for the next rung down. She exhaled her relief when she found it. It occurred to her that she didn't need her eyes for this. All she had to do was hold tight and keep feeling for the next step until she reached bottom.

Yes, it would probably be better if she kept her eyes closed for the descent, so she wouldn't know how far away the ground was until it wasn't anymore.

She screwed her eyes shut and lifted her foot once more.

"Well?" MacInnes snapped, almost as soon as he'd arrived on the scene. Bruce immediately snapped to attention. From out the corner of his eye, he saw that Dick had done the same. It didn't look ridiculous in the Bat-suit. Bruce filed the observation away for future reference.

"Thermite, Captain," Bruce reported tersely. "Set off with a sparkler, from the look of it."

MacInnes had been nodding as Bruce started speaking. Now he frowned. "You're sure?"

For answer, Batman held up a plastic evidence bag with a slender charred stick. "I know your people will want to do their own analysis, but I think it'll bear out Cadet Wayne's findings."

MacInnes grunted. "CSI is ready to move in," he snapped. "Cadet Wayne, you're ordered to render them whatever assistance they think necessary. Batman, I'll request the same from you." His stern expression relaxed for a moment. "Docs say Norton's going to pull through," he added softly. "Figured you'd want to know."

A slow smile spread Bruce's lips. "Thank you, Sir," he replied formally.

MacInnes gave him a curt nod. "I'll expect a copy of your report on my desk by seventeen hundred hours tomorrow," he returned. Then he motioned to a small knot of onlookers in street clothes who were patiently waiting, their instruments in hand.

Clara knew better than to try to talk to the guard at the front gate. If a nightclub bouncer wouldn't give her the time of day or pass on a message, she doubted the cop in the glass booth would be any friendlier. In her mind, he looked like the bouncer at the Iceberg: clean-shaven, beefy, built like Gorilla Grodd and probably about as hairy under his uniform. Maybe not as bright, though. Pleading her case to him would be a waste of breath. Or worse, if he was working for the Mandragoras or one of their allies.

The hole in the fence was also out. She wasn't going anywhere near all of those guys with flashlights or Geiger counters or whatever that gear was supposed to be. Tricorders, maybe? Her eyes widened. Batman was there with them. Maybe she could risk it. Or on second thought… Clara smiled. Batman wasn't going to leave the area without his car. All she had to do was get to the parking lot and wait.

She was over the fence and climbing down to the grassy lawn, when she heard a loud voice cry out, "Halt! Stay right there and don't move!" For a moment, she froze. Then she dropped the last three feet to the ground, landed solidly, and started running. "Halt!" the voice ordered. "Stop or I will fire!" Clara raced around the corner of a building. If she could just lose this guy long enough, she could find a place to hide until he gave up. She just had to keep moving until she did.

There came a noise, incredibly loud, incredibly close. It sounded like it might be another explosion. Then she felt a searing pain in her shoulder and she stumbled and fell heavily to the ground. She tried to get up again, but she was exhausted and her shoulder was on fire and… and there was blood and she had a feeling it was hers. She closed her eyes and lay there, her breath coming in ragged gasps and whimpers.

Running footsteps approached. "Intruder appears to be down," a gruff voice said in clipped tones. The footsteps drew closer and then stopped. Someone sucked in his breath. "No! No, no, no... Sarge! I need a medical team here now! It's just a kid! I shot a kid!"

And then the person was beside her, whispering, "Hold on, kid. Help is coming. Just hang on till it gets here. Hang on…"

She wanted to. She really did. But she was so tired and it was getting harder to focus…