A/N Yes! I am officially settled into my summer quarters! Still looking for a job, but hopefully that will come next week.
And now, as a special thank you for sticking with me all through this last semester when updates were few and far between, I now present for your reading pleasure a special, 12 page super-chapter!
Disclaimer Decode the following disclaimer in order to discover my evil plot:
worromot i nalp ot erih eht eugael fo swodahs ot wolb pu cd scimoc – neht namtab lliw eb enim!
Acknowledgement This chapter probably owes equal credit to Orwell's 1984 and Gilbert Morris's In the Twilight, in the Evening.
Chapter 24
I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do, I do not do, but what I hate I do.
- The letter of the Apostle Paul to the Romans
She stood at the edge of the gas station parking lot and punched a number into her phone.
"About time you checked in," a voice informed her.
"I've found it," she said flatly.
"What?"
"Richard Grayson's secret."
- - - - - -
Bruce, Rachel, and Dick had already started on their salads when Somerville tromped into the room.
"I apologize for my tardiness," she said briefly.
Alfred had informed Bruce that the social worker had spent the afternoon interviewing the house staff, a relatively innocuous activity. The severely limited staff came only part of each day to do lightning cleaning sweeps (carefully orchestrated to avoid the activity of house's inhabitants) and, in the case of the chef and his assistant, to take the burden of main meals off Alfred's shoulders.
Salads were finished in silence, with Dick discreetly (or so he thought) mincing his broccoli stalk and hiding it beneath a spinach leaf. "Rachel Jr. knows a magic trick," he bragged, as Alfred cleared away the salad plates. "We've been practicing with the hat."
"What hat?" Rachel Sr. asked, and Dick was busy explaining about the peddler's market when his main course was set in front of him. Glancing down, he saw a neat pile of shredded broccoli next to his lasagna and glanced guiltily up at Alfred. The butler returned the gaze sternly, and Dick hastily shoved the broccoli into his mouth and chewed furiously.
Bruce bit his tongue to keep from smiling, but he nearly lost it when he met Rachel's amused eyes. "Why don't you give us a magic show after dinner?" he suggested hastily. Dick, still valiantly chomping the broccoli, nodded enthusiastically.
After they had finished dessert, Dick popped out of his chair. "Wait in the library," he commanded before racing out of the room.
Bruce stood and pulled out Rachel's chair. "Shall we adjourn to the library, Counselor?" Somerville, to his relief, turned toward the stairs instead of following them down the hall.
Rachel stopped and called, "Won't you be joining us, Miss Somerville?"
"Thank you, but I have work to do."
"But isn't this your work? Observing Dick and Bruce's interaction is why you're paid to be here, or did I misunderstand?"
"No, you're quite right, Miss Dawes. I would be derelict in my duty if I allowed trivialities to keep me from joining you." Wearing a cool smile, Somerville padded down the hall toward them.
Bruce was torn between the desire to shake Rachel and curiosity over the undertones passing between the two women. More than their mutual dislike was at work in the conversation. The three settled themselves in the library, Bruce and Rachel on a short sofa, Somerville in a nearby overstuffed chair.
"Tell me, Miss Dawes, do you still do much work for Henry Judas?"
"Not as much as I would like, especially since last spring. But I try to encourage new associates to do any pro bono there."
"I'm certain Mr. Judas appreciates that."
"I know he does. Nothing's too good for his kids. He's just started up a choir at the home, actually, and is looking for an accompanist. You should offer your services."
Somerville smiled faintly. "I am afraid I no longer play."
"Too many really important things to do?" Rachel asked with faint sarcasm.
Somerville shook her head. "You never were very observant were you?" she asked, with a little laugh, and held up her crippled hand.
Rachel flushed, but before she could respond, Alfred entered the library. "Ladies and gentleman, presenting the master of marvelous mystery, the one and only magician of the manor, Richard Grayson!"
The butler stepped aside, and Dick, top hat on his head and his blanket tucked into the back of his t-shirt, entered. "Hey Alfred, that was pretty good."
"Thank you, sir. I always strive to give satisfaction." Alfred sat down in a straight backed chair near Somerville while Dick stepped in front of the crowd, swept his hat off his head, and flourished a low bow.
"Bravo!" Rachel cried, clapping enthusiastically.
Dick swept another bow, this time gesturing so forcefully with his hat that it flew out of his hand and rolled against the corner of Somerville's chair. "Oops," he grinned, and scrambled to retrieve it. "I shall now perform a most mysterious piece of magic, more marvelous than anything ever seen before in this manor. You see this hat?" He took it off his head and held it toward the audience. "It is empty." He flipped the hat right side up and thumped it for emphasis. "Completely empty. And yet, from this hat, I shall produce, by means of my magic art, a live gerbil." He balanced the hat, brim side up, on the palm of his right hand, and waved his left hand over it mysteriously. "Azarath, metrion, sinthos!" he commanded, and plunged his hand into the hat.
There was a moment of expectation, and then a look of puzzlement crossed the boy's face. He fumbled around the hat a moment longer, then peered inside it. "Uh oh."
A terrified scream brought Bruce to feet at the same time Somerville jerked out of her chair and kicked frantically. A small, furry body sailed through the air and plopped onto the carpet near Dick. "Rachel Jr.!" he shrieked and pounced, but the gerbil was quicker and darted under a sofa.
Somerville, her clenched right hand jammed against her mouth, ran out the door.
Bruce stared after her, then looked from Rachel, who was obviously trying very hard not to laugh, to Dick, who was on his hands and knees and pleading with the gerbil to come out.
"She must have escaped when I dropped the hat," the kid explained, his cheek mashed against the carpet.
Bruce dropped to the floor on the backside of the sofa and peered under. "You'd better go get the cage, Alfred," he suggested.
"Yes, Master Wayne," the butler agreed grimly, and Bruce, glancing up, was surprised at the sharp disapproval on the old man's face.
- - - - - -
Cecilia knelt on the low stool, hands pushing against the polished top of her dressing table. Tiny, cold feet, pricking on hot skin. "No," she muttered, and pressed her palms harder. Think about marble, smooth, cold, feet pricking on hot skin, sharp teeth tearing. "No," she gritted, clutching the edge of the table until her fingers ached. Not this. Not here.
The knock on the door seemed to crash like a bullet through a hundred panes of glass. She forced herself to stand, to breathe evenly, to turn the doorknob, to not look at the floor.
Pennyworth stood in the hallway, his face set in its usual expression of respect. "I thought you would like to know that the animal has been returned to its cage."
She rested her hand on the doorframe, not meeting his eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth."
"Can I bring you anything? A cup of tea?"
"No…yes, thank you. Tea would be nice." A distraction, she thought as she shut the door, to engage the senses and defeat memory.
There was another knock. This time, when she opened the door, Richard stood there, his hands clasped behind his back. "I'm very sorry my gerbil scared you," he said, as he had obviously been instructed say.
"It's quite all right," she said, but he continued to stand there, staring at her. "Is there something else?"
"Why are you so scared of Rachel Jr?"
She sighed inaudibly. "Everyone's afraid of something, Richard. For me, it's rats and anything that resembles a rat."
"Oh," he said, and then repeated more slowly, "Oh." Without another word, he took off down the hall. She was still watching him when he slowed to a stop, stood debating, and then turned and trudged back.
"Yes, Richard?"
"I didn't do my reading today," he admitted.
"Well, we only played one game, so I didn't hold up my end of the bargain, either."
He sighed deeply. "Yes, but half of thirty minutes is fifteen."
"So it is," she agreed, with a hint of her familiar dryness, "and honesty can be a heavy burden. You had better go and choose a book."
- - - - - -
Alfred was on his way upstairs with the tea tray when he heard soft laughter drifting from the front hallway. He made a slight detour and saw Rachel with her coat on, standing patiently while Bruce wound her scarf around her neck and then pulled her hat so low it covered her eyes.
"Bruce! How am I supposed to drive?"
"Blind faith," he said teasingly. "Seriously, Rachel, let me drive you home. The roads are terrible tonight."
"Macho-chauvinist," she accused, her hat still pulled over her eyes. "Would it make you feel big and strong to drive the little woman home?"
"Yes. Be charitable and give my poor ego a boost."
"Your ego can take care of itself," she informed him, finally pushing her hat up. "I've been driving myself through Gotham winters for twelve years, and I don't intend to stop now."
"Well, be careful."
She rolled her eyes. "I always am."
"Whatever," he snorted.
"When have I ever…"
The tea was growing cold, so Alfred moved on, a wrinkle of concern creasing his brow. He liked Rachel Dawes a good deal, but when it came to her relationship with the master, he had to admit to certain reservations. The thought of Rachel and Batman filled him with unease, although he would have been hard put to say just why that was so.
As he came to the second floor landing and passed the TV room, he heard Dick's stumbling voice. "Ig-nit-"
"t-i-o-n," Miss Somerville interrupted.
"Shun. Ig-ni-shun."
"Very good, Richard, that will do for tonight." Dick stood up, NASCAR book tucked under his arm, and started to leave.
"Richard," the social worker called. "I'm sorry I kicked your gerbil."
"She's ok. I guess you didn't mean to."
"No, I did not."
"Goodnight, Miss Somerville."
"Goodnight, Richard."
Alfred carried his tray into the room. "Would you prefer to take you tea in here, Miss Somerville?"
"Yes, that will be fine. Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth." She reached for the remote and flipped on the giant, flat screen TV.
"Do you know, Miss Somerville," Alfred began in a thoughtful tone. "I believe I rather like you."
She didn't take her eyes off the screen, but he read the startled consternation that flashed across her face.
"Do you know, Mr. Pennyworth, I really don't think it's your place to offer that kind of an opinion."
"No, madam," he murmured apologetically and bowed slightly before leaving. That's unsettled her, he thought cheerfully.
- - - - - -
"When I have I ever not been careful?" she demanded.
"Oh let me think…every time you ride the train by yourself late at night?"
"That's perfectly safe!"
"Yeah, that's why you almost got mugged last week."
"I didn't…how did you know about that?" she demanded, exasperated.
"Are you kidding? It was all over the street that the D.A. put tazer burns on one of the Rosa Negra gang. He didn't realize who you were until after."
"Maybe I should wear a nametag."
"Rachel…" He saw the stubborn look on her face and knew it was useless to argue further. "At least let me ride home with you. There's something I want to ask you about."
"How will you get home?"
He shrugged. "I'll catch a cab."
"All right, all right." Rachel led the way out to her car.
Bruce waited until they'd exited off the driveway and were speeding down the highway before he asked, "Do you know a Simon who does volunteer accounting work for Henry Judas?"
She threw him a quick look, but in the dark he couldn't read her expression. Her tone, when she spoke, was guarded. "Yes, I know him. Has Somerville been talking about him?"
"She hasn't said anything. His name came up in connection with another matter. Does she know him?"
"They did internships at Hearts and Homes at the same time. They seemed to get along quite well back then."
"Tell me about him."
"He's a nice guy. Aside from the business stuff he does for H&H, he volunteers a lot of hours to actually work with the kids – lots of informal sports stuff. He…he has a tendency to get too emotionally involved. When he was doing his internship, he lived on peanut butter and ramen noodles so that he could put his stipend toward athletic equipment. I heard Somerville chewing him out about it one day and calling him an idiot."
"Do you think he's an idiot?"
"No," she said quickly. "He just…gets a little too intense about things sometimes."
"He asked you out," Bruce guessed.
Her voice was rueful. "Was I that obvious?"
"It seemed like a slightly touchy subject."
Rachel sighed. "He only asked me out once, and after I turned him down he never mentioned it again. But he had this way of looking at me whenever he saw me like…like the best part of his day had just happened. It was unsettling."
"But you weren't interested?" he asked casually, just to clarify the matter.
"At that point, I was still waiting for you to come home."
Oh. He really wanted to ask when she had stopped waiting, but was pretty sure it was smarter to keep his mouth shut.
Rachel pulled the car over. "There's a taxi stand right there. No point in you going all the way to my building."
"I get the hint," Bruce said lightly and opened his door. "Have a good night, Rachel."
- - - - - -
Jim Gordon sat huddled over a mug of cocoa beneath the yellow light of the room's single dim bulb. He had been tossing and turning for the last two hours, and when Barbara had finally mumbled something unintelligible but definitely grumpy, he had deserted the bedroom for the kitchen. After his early-morning visit to Wayne Manor, he returned to the station to find that the DNA testing attempt to identify the burned corpse as Andrew Williams had been successful. Considering the affluence of the victim, he had expected the commissioner to break the news to family. Instead, he had found himself been elected to make the visit. It had been an extremely unpleasant experience, and was, in fact, the reason he was sitting here with a mug of scalded cocoa instead of lying fast asleep next to his wife.
A faint scratching sounded at the window. Gordon glanced and nearly jumped out of his skin. A hideous face, black and horned, was glaring at him through the glass. Muttering, Gordon grabbed a napkin to mop up his spilled cocoa before going to open the window. He'd gotten used (mostly) to the meetings on the shadowed roof of the police station – an eerie location that matched the costume. But having the Bat peer in through the kitchen window was another experience entirely.
Gordon threw up the sash and shuddered as the icy night air bit through his pajamas. "Won't you come in?" he invited with dry irony, certain he would be turned down. It was with a sense of complete unreality that he heard Batman growl, "Thanks," and watched him climb over the sill.
Gordon carefully shut the window and tried to figure out what to do next. When he turned back around, Batman was standing in the shadows on the far side of the ill-lit room. (With his promotion, they were really able to afford a better apartment, but Barbara said she wanted to save up for a down payment on a house, and that was that. Besides, the neighborhood wasn't that bad.) He took up more space than he had any right to do, absorbing what little light there was until the room was smothered in his shadowy presence. Gordon almost stepped back, then shook his head in sharp irritation. After all, it was his kitchen. His glance fell on his cooling mug on the table. "Would you like some…no, you wouldn't."
Batman ignored the comment. "You've ID'd the body?"
"It was Williams, like we thought."
"How did the family respond?"
"The wife went into hysterics. Actually fell down on the couch and had a fit. The daughter went real white and quiet. I thought she was going to pass out, but she hung in there."
"You're searching the house?"
"Yeah, we got permission. But the guy's been dead for days. Whoever ordered his murder has probably eliminated anything we'd want to see."
"You don't think the Joker planned this one."
"It doesn't fit the profile. The other killings we can link him to are all connected to robbery. He didn't get anything out of this one. No, I think he was the hit man."
"You think…" Batman broke off, his gaze directed over Gordon's shoulder.
The lieutenant turned and saw his eleven-year-old daughter standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, her curls in a frizzy halo around her head. "You're the Batman," she whispered, awed.
Gordon stood, not certain how he felt about having the Bat and his baby girl in the same room. "Sweetheart, you need to go back to bed." He placed a hand on her shoulder and gently steered her down the hall. She craned her neck, trying to get a final glimpse of the dark figure.
"Why is he here, Daddy?"
"We had some business to talk about." In her room, he straightened the sheets and pulled them up to her chin. "Listen, Babsie, let's not tell Mommy about this, ok?"
The younger Barbara nodded knowingly. "She'd be mad. She says you should stop bringing your work home all the time."
"And no need to upset her, right?"
"Ok, Daddy. It's our secret." She winked at him, and Gordon bent and kissed her cheek.
"Go back to sleep."
He had expected Batman to be gone when he returned to the kitchen, but the cloaked figure was still there, casually leaning against the wall as if unaware he looked as out of place as an elephant on Main Street. "What did the social worker tell you?"
"That the Joker was asking questions about the Grayson kid. He worked her over pretty good," Gordon added, almost as an afterthought.
"Yes. I saw part of it."
"It was for real then. Guess that kind of squashes our theory about her working for him." Gordon picked up his cold cocoa and walked over to the sink to dump it out. "Still, it's strange about that kid. I would have sworn the Joker grabbed him without knowing who he was, but maybe that somehow sparked an interest. Could he be considering a kidnap/ransom?"
"Jim?"
Barbara stood in the doorway between the hall and the kitchen, staring at him.
"Ah…"
"Who are you talking to?"
Gordon glanced cautiously over his shoulder. The Bat was gone. I thought I might actually get to see him leave this time. He gestured to the empty kitchen. "Myself. Obviously."
Barbara looked worried. "Come back to bed, Jim, it's cold without you."
"All right, babe, I'll be there in a minute. I'll clean this up first." He gestured with his mug. She sent him another covert, anxious glance before turning and leaving.
Gordon ran water into his mug, then crossed to the fire escape door and quietly slipped the deadbolt back into place.
- - - - - -
"What's on the schedule for tomorrow, Alfred?" Bruce asked as he stripped out of the suit.
"You will be visiting the Gotham Snowy Spectacular Winter Fair, accompanied by Master Dick and Miss Somerville."
"I have to be seen in public with her?"
"You also volunteered to help give away the lottery prizes for the children's hospital benefit."
"You volunteered me," Bruce corrected.
"It is a worthy cause, sir. Will there be anything else for tonight?"
"Speaking of our uninvited guest, what did you think of her little display tonight?"
"I didn't perceive anything more than that she is afflicted with more than her share of the typical female fear of rodents. To be honest, I was more curious about Miss Dawes' reaction. If I had to make a wager, I would have guessed that she knew of Miss Somerville's fear before she ever brought the creature into this house."
"You think she brought the gerbil just to scare Somerville? Petty games aren't exactly Rachel's style, Alfred."
"No, sir, I wouldn't have thought so, either. Perhaps there is some other explanation."
"I'm sure there is." Bruce put away the last of Batman's gear and headed for the study entrance. "Goodnight, Alfred."
He was still pondering the butler's suggestion when he entered his bedroom and saw Dick curled up in the middle of the enormous bed. Now what? Bruce wondered uneasily, but whatever had been bothering the kid had apparently not been enough to keep him awake. I'll shower, and then I'll cart him back to his own bed, Bruce decided. However, when he emerged from the bathroom (steaming and pajama-clad) Dick was awake and sitting up, his knees pulled against his chest.
Bruce sat across from him, imitating his posture with his knees held loosely in the circle of his arms. "What's up?"
"Bruce, have you ever been really, really scared of something?"
Bruce got the feeling they weren't talking about the usual bedtime fears. "Why do you ask?"
"Miss Somerville said that everyone's afraid of something."
Did this have to come from her? Bruce wondered grumpily. "Bats," he said out loud. "I'm afraid of bats."
Dick's mouth dropped open. "No way."
"It's true. When I was a little younger than you, I fell into an old well. Turned out it was a roosting place for bats, and they scared the…snot out of me."
"And just from that you were scared? I mean…really?"
Only to this kid is falling into a well no big deal. He closed his eyes, knowing what he would see. Pearls. He didn't want to talk about this, but apparently, it was required. "A few months after I fell, I was still having nightmares about bats. My parents and I went to the theater to see an opera, and during the show there were bats. They frightened me, and I asked if we could leave." Bruce sighed and opened his eyes. Dick was watching him intently. "When we got outside, a man tried to rob us. But the whole time he was holding that gun, he was afraid, and finally, he got so afraid that he shot my dad. And my mom."
"But he didn't want to?" Dick whispered.
"No." Bruce marveled at how easily the word slipped out. "He let his fear control him." That had been a hard thing to accept – that he and his parents' killer had something in common. "I've been terrified of bats ever since."
"But why do you…" Dick trailed off, reluctant, even in their current solitude, to give voice to the secret.
"Why did I choose a bat?" Bruce finished for him. "A lot of reasons, but one of the big ones was that if I was ever going to keep my fear from controlling me, I had to embrace it."
Dick looked completely confused.
Bruce frowned, struggling to find words this eight-year-old would understand. "I have to admit that I'm afraid. And then I have to choose that I'm not going to let my fear control what I do."
"How do you just…choose that?"
"It's not easy. And it takes practice. So that's why…there's the Bat. Every day I feel afraid, and every day I have to decide that the things I do won't be affected by that fear. It's like falling down the same flight of stairs over and over again. But every time you fall, you get up a little bit faster. And every time you get up, you're a little bit stronger. And by now, I've practiced so many times that I hardly even notice my fear anymore." Bruce fell silent and examined his ward. Dick was sitting very still, his hands curled into tight fists around the loose fabric of his pajama pants. "So what you are afraid of?"
Dick took a shaky breath. "Clowns. But I don't why! I just am." There was a hint of hysteria in his voice.
Bruce reached out and grabbed his kid's shoulder. "Hey, it's ok. Sometimes the things that give us fear happen to us when we're really young, before we can even remember."
Dick buried his face in his knees. "It's so dumb. I tried not to be afraid. I tried so hard, but I can't."
"It's not dumb," Bruce said firmly. "We can work on it together."
The boy looked up. "You'll help me?"
"Of course. I had someone to help me. I didn't figure out all that stuff on my own."
"Who?"
Teacher? Enemy? Father? "He was my friend."
To Be Continued…
A/N Whew! I can't believe I wrote that whole thing! I'm tired…
Forecast for updates: I've made a list of summer resolutions, including (but not limited to) taking my daily vitamin and finishing this story by August 1! So updates should be coming at least once a week – more often, when I can manage it.
By the way, I've been accepted into a graduate English Lit. masters program and offered an assistantship!
A special prize will be awarded to anyone who can tell me where Dick's magic words come from.
Again, thank you, thank you, thank you to all reviewers! I can't say enough how much I appreciate your encouragements and criticisms.
Responses to reviews can be found by clicking on my bio and going to my homepage.