A/N Well, I missed my beta deadline again this week. My summer activities are proving harder to juggle than I had anticipated. Plus, I made the mistake of starting to take myself too seriously, which generally dries up my creativity. If I may offer a bit of life-wisdom from my grandiose height of 21 years, it is that you should never, ever, EVER take yourself too seriously. You'll be a lot happier. I promise!

Disclaimer Blahblahblah blahblah blahblahblahblahblahblahblah.

Acknowledgment My thumbs, without which this story would never have been written.

Chapter 29

I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

The elevator stopped. Cecilia pulled up the grille and stepped forward. "Hello?" she tentatively called into the darkness. Her voice echoed back at her, indicating that she stood on the edge of a large, empty space. There was a dull roar off to one side, but other than that, absolute silence greeted her intrusion. In the faint light falling down the elevator shaft, she found a switch and pulled it. Brilliant light flooded around her, and she squinted in pain. When her eyes stopped tearing, she turned and was unable to suppress a gasp of surprise. Before her stretched an immense natural cavern, now lit as bright as day by floodlights suspended high on the rough walls. But even more intriguing than the immense stalactites that loomed menacingly over her head, was the evidence of occupation. A sort of island of civilization had been set up on the rock floor, including a desk with three humming computer monitors, a small refrigerator, and a tall metal cabinet that looked like it belonged in a locker room. The unnaturally smooth wall behind the desk was papered with a giant map. And not just any map, she realized as she walked closer, but the most detailed city map she had ever seen. Every back alley in Gotham had to be labeled on it.

Stopping in front of the desk, she ignored the computers for the moment and instead pulled open one of the deep file drawers. It was full of thick, color coded files, all of which seemed to be stuffed with news clippings. The first set was orange. She lifted out the front folder and found herself looking at story after story about the mysterious return of Gotham's wealthiest prodigal, Bruce Wayne. The smaller, middle section of the drawer was full of green folders that held clippings on the notorious Lieutenant Gordon. And the final set of black folders held all the media cared to say about Gotham's one and only Batman.

It was the cold that was making her hands shake, Cecilia decided, as she hastily shut the drawer and strode deeper into the cavern. A short ways beyond the first setup was a second that looked more like a workshop. She made a brief inspection of the naked wiring that ran up the cave wall and provided electricity for the power tools. Above her, there was a sudden whirring of wings, and she instinctively ducked as black shapes dropped from above the lights and passed over her head, flying toward a part of the cave she hadn't seen. After a moment's hesitation, she followed the bats and found a waterfall – the source of the constant background noise. Beyond the passage that led to the waterfall, there was a roundish cave that opened off the main cavern. Its walls were stacked high with identical wooden crates. Cecilia brushed aside the packing peanuts in the top of an open box and pulled out a black, dish-shaped object. There were four holes toward the bottom and a cone on one side. Turning it over, she realized that the bowl would fit neatly over a person's head to place two of the holes for eyes and the cone for a nose. The other two holes were correctly positioned to allow the addition of horns. Or ears.

She set the cowl back in the crate, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She couldn't blame it on the cold anymore. She was trembling from sheer terror.

Bruce shifted the Tumbler into a lower gear as he drove through the concealed gate onto his property. He had left Alfred to deal with the un-drivable smaller car and at the moment wanted nothing more than to snatch a few hours of sleep and forget the frustration of the Joker slipping through his fingers. There was no reason he should have such a difficult time bringing down one man, but the criminal was as elusive now as he had been during his first appearance in Gotham last summer. Bad luck, Bruce thought, knowing Ra'as would have laughed that excuse to scorn.

He cut through the waterfall and brought the Tumbler to its usual bone-jarring halt. He lifted the roof, but for the moment was too tired to climb out or even remove his helmet. He rested his gauntleted hands on the steering wheel, bracing himself to rise, and that was when he saw the woman sitting at the desk in front of the computers.

He froze, and for the first time in over two years he was gripped with an uncontrollable panic that froze any ability to think. In imagination he saw the Manor burning again, collapsing in thunder and ash. Then he came back to himself – this was simply a situation to be dealt with. It could be no more personal than any other job.

She must have heard the car pull in, but she remained at the desk, industriously pecking at a keyboard. In four seconds he covered the space between them, pulled her out of her chair and down to where they were sheltered between the rock wall and the heavy desk.

"Who else is here?" he asked quietly twisting her arm at an angle calculated to provide maximum pain with minimum damage.

"No one," she grunted.

"Who have you called?"

"No one," she repeated. "Besides, the police have my phone."

"How did you get here?"

"You're hurting me," she complained. He twisted harder, felt the bone on the verge of snapping. "Luck," she gasped hurriedly. "And Richard."

Dick?

He released her and she slumped against the desk, cradling her arm. "He didn't mean to. We found the panel in the study by accident, and then he looked so scared I knew something was up. I understand now why you've resisted taking him to a psychologist."

He glared down, not certain he believed finding the panel was an accident, certain she had manipulated the child for her own ends. He thought she was probably telling the truth about being alone, but he was going to double check, and it would give him time to think. He pulled out the slender wire he found so useful and bound her wrists and ankles.

"Can we say dejá vu?" she asked dryly, but didn't resist.

When he had satisfied himself that the caves were secure, he returned to where she sat braced against a limestone outcrop. "What do you want?" he hissed.

She looked past him, rather than at him. "I don't understand what sort of insane game you're playing in this town, but I think we can help each other."

"I doubt that."

"You would be wise to hear me out."

"Don't threaten me, Miss Somerville."

"I wasn't. But you should think about who has the most to lose here…Mr. Wayne."

It was vain hope that made him laugh contemptuously. "That idiot."

"If I were you, I would despise him too, but don't waste time trying to confuse me. Too many things started making sense when I walked into this cave. I will admit that the visual illusion is remarkable. A little theatricality goes a long way. But you are Bruce Wayne. Or," she added thoughtfully, "Bruce Wayne is you."

"If that's true, do you think you'll ever walk out of this cave?"

"You can't afford to have me disappear," she said confidently. "You have a good cover, but it won't withstand concentrated scrutiny. And there is Richard to consider. Will you hear me out or not?"

"I've been listening," he snapped.

"Then kindly untie me. It's a little hard to put my cards on the table when my hands are falling asleep." She held up her wrists and he grudgingly undid the wire. She untied her own ankles and stood up, bracing herself against the rock. "Look, if you don't mind I'm going to sit down. It's been a long night, and this is going to take a while." Without waiting for a reply, she inched around to the desk chair and sat down.

"Explain," he ordered coldly. "And let's start with who you really are."

She didn't look at him as she started talking. "Technically I am employed by the Colombian government, but in reality I work for the American DEA."

"And why does the Drug Enforcement Agency need a social worker?"

"Let's just say that in college I got overambitious about the things I could do with my computer. You have a good security system down here, by the way, I couldn't get in. It's much better than the one upstairs."

He gritted his teeth against a fresh surge of anger and asked, "You were arrested for hacking?"

"I was lucky the DEA was looking for someone with my profile. The social work license is a convenient cover, and my mother was Colombian, so I had dual citizenship and could help them bypass some of the international interference policies. The Americans," she said straight-faced, "are strictly there to offer advice."

"Why did you come to Gotham?"

"Henry Judas asked to borrow me. He was aware of the, ah, career path I took after completing my internship here, and he needed someone to investigate Bruce Wayne and his young ward. I was temporarily out of field work anyway, so I said that I would. Actually, I'd been looking for an excuse to come back to Gotham."

"Why?"

"Because five years ago I figured out that Henry Judas was embezzling funds from his own charitable foundation. I couldn't do anything about it at the time, or I thought I couldn't."

"You hacked into his computer system," he guessed, "and got caught."

She laughed, but it sounded forced. "Guilty as charged. I didn't have Uncle Sam's permission back then."

"Did he realize what you had found?"

"I don't think so. But he made it very clear that it was only by his benevolent mercy that I wasn't prosecuted. I didn't think anyone would believe me if I told the truth."

"So you returned to fight for justice?" He couldn't keep the sarcastic edge off his tone.

"Something like that. But I had no idea how interesting things were going to get. Since coming to Gotham, I have been kidnapped twice by the man called the Joker. Last night, the Joker was involved in the murder of Simon Golding, a man who, like me, worked for Henry Judas. And there's another thing. During my second kidnapping, the Joker said something which led me to believe he is connected with Carlos Morales."

"Who?"

"You don't know the name?" she asked, turning to look at him for the first time since she'd begun her explanation.

"No."

"He was a Colombian drug lord. My last official operation with the DEA was an attempt to bring down his cartel. We learned enough to shut down his operations inside the country, but we waited because we were trying to trace his principle buyer in his country. But…things went bad, and Morales escaped."

"You think he's here in Gotham?"

"Yes. I don't have the resources for the kind of investigation required, but you seem to be involved already."

"What assurance do I have that you're telling me the truth?"

"You must have contacts that can confirm my involvement with the agency. Otherwise…" She shrugged delicately. "Let me put it this way: You can help me, and I can consider you an anonymous source, or you can refuse and become a part of my problem."

If she was telling the truth…

He couldn't read past her carefully brisk, detached manner. It was a shock to realize that the conversation they were having might not be half as earth-shaking to her as it was to him, and he hated her for it.

Somerville fixed her gaze on him determinedly. "If it's any consolation, I don't particularly care about you…either of you. I simply want to do what I came for and leave this God-forsaken city." Her voice dropped as she finished, and her eyes slid away from him. He stepped forward and saw her involuntarily, almost invisibly, flinch. He knew then, that she was lying. Her indifference masked fear. Of him.

The thought put some solidity back into the world.

To Be Continued…

A/N Happy Fourth of July to all my fellow Americans! Responses to reviews will be up by Friday.