A/N sneaks into forum, ready to duck any unpleasant objects hurled in my general direction The good news is I'm not dead. And I happen to have two very good reasons for the delay!

1) Since posting the last chapter I have moved to a new state, driven close to 1500 miles, started graduate school, taught my first class of freshman composition (something I thought wasn't going to happen until the spring), had my first experience as a bridesmaid, moved two and a half carloads of stuff, filled out tax forms, and acquired the complete first season of Hogan's Heroes. (Ok, maybe that last bit isn't such a great excuse. BTW, if there are any fellow fans reading this, "Hogan and Klink: The Master Commander" by GSJessica is by far one of the best stories I've read on this site in any category.) Also, for the first time in four years, I have all of my books in the same geographic location. I feel like a dragon who's regained a stolen hoard!

2) As any author of a moderately long story will tell you, things aren't perfectly planned out from the beginning. There are certain events one wants to happen, but in between those events are blank spots. The last chapter ended on the edge of the last of the major blank spots in this story, and it took me awhile to figure out how to bridge the gap between points V and W.

Thank you to IcyWaters for her excellent suggestions and her polite but firm reminders that I was abominably behind in updating.

Disclaimer If you don't know what goes here, then I'm certainly not going to tell you.

Chapter 34

A little learning is a dangerous thing.
- Alexander Pope

Dick stared around the bare, empty room in disappointment. While the attic rooms of Wayne Manor were very large, they were also very boring. Television had led him to believe that attics were generally full of old but interesting things like pirate maps to buried treasure and enormous rocking horses, but these attics held nothing but some dust and a few dead bugs. Thinking hopefully that there might at least be a secret panel, he began crawling around the perimeter of the room, knocking on the wall.

No secret rooms revealed themselves, but in a far corner he found something almost as good – a dead bat. Every few weeks, one of the creatures would mysteriously appear inside the mansion. Alfred would look prayerfully toward the ceiling and plead, "Another blessed bat?" Then he would grab a broom and chase it out an open window. It was way better than TV.

This bat had managed to find a flight path all the way to the attic. Then it had probably died of starvation. Or, Dick thought, remembering a Discovery channel program he'd seen about deserts, maybe dehydration. At any rate, the cool attic had prevented the body from decomposing much. Dick poked it, turned it over, and carefully maneuvered the left wing so that it stuck out straight from the body like the right one. He wondered how many times longer the wings were than the furry body between them. Holding the corpse by its tiny feet, he ran downstairs to find his ruler.

- - - - - -

Bruce sat on the floor in his study, half his mind on the files spread out around him, the other half focused on the tiny receiver planted in his ear. He had heard Somerville knock on a door and call for Judas, but since then there had been silence for about two minutes. What is she doing? Bruce was jarred from his thoughts by the sound of loud rustling. It was as if something crinkly had been shoved right over the wire. A moment later, the sound of Judas's booming voice filled the radio waves.

"Cecilia! I've been worried about you. The police said you were the one to find Simon's body?"

"Yes," she admitted, not sounding particularly upset.

"It's just so hard to believe that Simon was using cocaine!"

"And you hadn't noticed anything?" she asked. "You saw him every week."

"No. I mean, he was always a bit high-strung. But…he was Simon. Drugs never crossed my mind. This is going to devastate the kids."

There was a sharp knock on the study door, and it flew open to reveal one of the daily maids. She was panting, and her face was pale. "Please, sir, Mr. Pennyworth says to come to the front hall. Master Dick's been hurt."

Bruce found himself racing into the front hall with no clear memory of how he had gotten there. Skidding to a halt, he dropped to his knees beside Alfred, who was bending over Dick's still body.

"His breathing's all right," the butler said without being asked. "But I can't tell if anything's broken. We've phoned for an ambulance."

There was no blood and no limbs were turned at conspicuously odd angles, but that didn't mean something wasn't fractured…like his neck. "What happened?" Bruce demanded.

"I think he jumped from up there." Alfred nodded toward the second floor where a railing ran along the edge of the hallway next to the main staircase.

"Jumped?" Bruce asked in disbelief. He looked back down at his ward, finally noticing a tangle of what appeared to be bamboo poles and plastic wrap. "What's this?"

"Wings."

"He was trying to fly?" Bruce stared at Alfred, the cold, sick feeling in his stomach intensifying.

"It was my fault, sir. When he asked for the plastic wrap, I should have suspected…"

Alfred broke off as sirens screamed outside the house. A minute later, uniformed paramedics ran into the room. Bruce could only stand back and watch helplessly as they examined Dick, then gently transferred him to a stretcher.

The ride to the hospital seemed an eternity, the wait outside the x-ray room even longer. Bruce paced back and forth in the room that was mercifully empty,fighting a wave of helplessness and terror that was more shattering than anything he'd felt in twenty years. Alfred was following in one of the cars, and Bruce wished that he would get here, that anyone would get here, wishing deeply, impossibly…

"Mr. Wayne?"

He spun eagerly. "Yes?"

A stern looking nurse stood in the doorway. "There's a woman here who claims she's your fiancée."

"My…"

Suddenly, Rachel pushed past the nurse into the room. "Bruce!" She threw herself into his arms.

He held her tightly. "Rachel?"

"Alfred called me," she said, her face muffled against his coat. "How is he?"

"Still in x-rays." He glanced up. The nurse was gone, apparently satisfied. "My fiancée?" he whispered.

"I'm sorry. They wouldn't let me in, and all I could think of was that stupid movie."

"It doesn't matter." He pulled her closer and rested his cheek on the top of her head. "Thank you for coming." He was incredibly grateful for the comfort she offered and for the love she so obviously had for Dick.

They stood silently for a long minute, until a gruff voice in the doorway said, "Mr. Wayne?" Rachel pulled away, and a white-coated doctor entered the room. "We've completed the tests. Everything seems to be fine."

Bruce closed his eyes in relief. "No fractures?"

"No. He is one very fortunate little boy. We're still concerned about the bump on his head, but there's no apparent reason why he shouldn't wake up within the next few hours," the doctor said cautiously.

"What does that mean?" Rachel demanded.

"Head injuries are tricky things. There may be things going on that the CAT scan couldn't pick up. But at the moment there is no reason for undue concern."

"Great," Rachel muttered and crossed her arms.

"You can see him now, if you'd like," the doctor offered. As they both stepped forward he amended, "Just Mr. Wayne."

Rachel's glare turned poisonous, but the physician ignored her. Bruce cast her a quick, apologetic glance before following the other man out of the room.

Dick lay on his back, hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor. His face was as white as the sheet could cover him, and Bruce could see an unnerving crisscross of blue veins behind the translucent skin. He sat down next to the bed and willed the kid to wake up, to open his eyes, even to twitch. But Dick's deathly stillness remained unbroken for the allowed length of his visit.

As Bruce returned to the waiting room, he met Alfred coming up the hall "How is he, sir?" the butler asked anxiously.

Bruce scowled. "The same." Something was poking through his haze of anxiety. Alfred looked worried of course, but it was more than that. His always impeccable suit looked almost…disheveled. "Alfred, did something happen on the way to the hospital?"

"I'm afraid the local police and I had a small difference of opinion over my method of conducting a motor vehicle."

"You got a speeding ticket?"

"Actually, they tried to arrest me for exceptionally reckless driving." Alfred paused, then added, "I may have run a red light. However, once they were apprised of the situation they were quite understanding."

"You resisted arrest?" Bruce demanded, in a rather louder and more accusatory tone than he'd intended. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking, sir, about a little boy who had been very badly hurt because he lacked proper supervision."

Bruce stiffened. Alfred drew away, his eyes cast down. "If you'll excuse me. Sir."

- - - - - -

Gordon was hunched over his desk, speed reading through a two inch stack of reports when there was a knock on the door and an officer poked his head into the room. "Lieutenant? There's a Miss Somerville here to see you."

Gordon scribbled his signature into the box marked with a red sticky tab. "Send her in." He heard footsteps and the sound of the door closing, but he deliberately flipped through the next report before looking up to where she stood, not at all impatient at being made to wait. "Miss Somerville, what can I do for you?"

Meeting his eyes squarely she asked, "Can we talk…?" The unspoken "here" echoed through the office.

Gordon examined her serious face, then nodded. "Do you have a car?"

"I'd rather take yours."

"Fair enough, I could use some lunch anyway." He opened the door and allowed her to precede him through the station and out into the parking lot.

As they pulled up to a stoplight a block away he said quietly, "Start talking, Miss Somerville."

"Lieutenant, what do you do if you think a witness is being coerced?"

"That depends," Gordon said slowly, shifting gears as the light turned green. "Six months ago, I'd have said, 'Order flowers for his funeral.'"

"And now?"

"It depends. Does this have anything to do with Golding's murder?"

"No. I think you are aware that I'm in charge of Richard Grayson's custody case?"

"Yes." Gordon turned into a McDonald's parking lot and pulled into the drive-thru line.

"I don't think anyone would argue that Bruce Wayne is a saint, but I have reason to believe that someone is deliberately trying to discredit him."

"Reason as in evidence?" Gordon asked, pulling the car forward another few inches.

"Not yet. But I'd like to have something to offer the witness when I talk to him."

It was their turn to order. "You want anything?" Gordon asked. She shook her head, so he cranked down his window and shouted his own order at the crackling black box.

They remained silent until he'd picked up his food, and they pulled out of the parking lot. "There's a number I can call," Gordon said finally. "But only if it's absolutely necessary." It was a number the Bat had given him, and he'd already used it twice, much to the frustration of his superiors in the department. Too many more witnesses in the hands of the feds and they were going to have his head.

"Only if necessary," she agreed. "Can you arrange for me to talk to the man?"

"Yes," Gordon ate a French fry, wondering how she was going to like this next part. "And I want you to wear a wire."

Her lips twitched as if at some private joke. "Of course."

- - - - - -

Michael George Banks, Jr. was definitely nervous. Beneath Cecilia's cool gaze he shifted from one foot to the other, rubbed his palms along his pant legs, adjusted his glasses, ran his hand through his hair, and refused to meet her eyes.

"Mr. Banks, I'm Cecilia Somerville. I work with Henry Judas down at Social Services." She stepped forward and extended her hand.

He barely touched her fingers with a hand that was cold and damp. "Pleased to meet you."

"The police have explained why I'm here?"

He nodded in short, nervous jerks.

"Good." She glanced around the room with its gray, peeling paint and battered conference table and chairs. "This is hardly the most congenial atmosphere. Why don't we go and get some coffee? There's a Starbucks just around the corner."

He shrugged, so she took that as a yes and escorted him out of the station. Inside the coffee shop, she settled them at a table away from the windows and away from the back corner where Gordon sat with his head buried in a newspaper. There were a couple of other cops as well, but no one took particular interest in the new arrivals.

Cecilia curled her hands around her latte. "Tell me, Mr. Banks…may I call you Michael?" He jerked his head in assent. "Michael, do you have any children?"

His hands tightened convulsively around his own coffee cup. "Two," he muttered.

"Sons?"

"Boy and a girl."

She smiled kindly. "As a man with children of your own, you understand why I have to be so careful in this case. We can't afford to make mistakes when there is a child involved."

"Yes, I understand." He straightened, tried to look her in the eye, and failed.

"Do you ever worry about your children, Michael?"

His whole body went rigid, tension radiating out of him in shock waves. "Sure," he muttered, "sure."

She picked at a chip on the rim of her mug. "Do you think that sometimes when we worry intensely about something, our perception of reality might shift? So much so that we actually begin to remember things that never happened?"

He jerked and coffee splashed onto the table. "I don't know what you mean."

She pushed him her napkin and opened the file she'd been carrying. "This report says that you were in the store when the robbery took place, is that correct?"

He answered with a cautious nod.

"And two years ago, you claimed that you were in the back – that you didn't know the store was being robbed until you heard the shot that killed the clerk."

"That's right." He looked a little relieved now, as if they were on familiar ground.

"You told the police you never saw the gunman. That when you arrived at the front of the store he was gone."

"I didn't remember. I'd blocked out the memory."

"And why would you do such a thing?"

"Because I saw him shoot the clerk. He shot the clerk, then pulled up his mask to lean over and look at the body. That's when I saw his face. I still don't remember what happened right after that. He must have put the mask back on and run away. I called the police after that."

"Tell me, Michael, what provoked this miraculous return of memory?" Cecilia allowed the slightest hint of incredulity to slip into her voice.

"The police came to me, wanted me to talk to a special psychologist. They said they thought he could help me remember more clearly what had happened."

"Before then, did you feel like your memory was incomplete?"

He shrugged. "Everything was fuzzy."

"But you are now certain that the man you saw was Bruce Wayne?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Wayne is a billionaire. What possible reason could he have for robbing a gas station?"

He shrugged. "Guys like him don't need a reason. They do things for the hell of it."

"Michael, are you aware that you will be required to testify about this in a court of law? Mr. Wayne's lawyers will insist you be examined by other psychologists; they may have differing opinions on the state of your memory. You could be convicted of perjury."

He finally looked her straight in the eye, desperate. "I'm telling the truth! You've got to believe that!"

Cecilia let her gaze slip just over the witness's shoulder. In the back corner, Gordon slowly lowered his newspaper and laid it on his table. Cecilia reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a phone.

"Call your wife, Michael. Tell her to take the kids and drive south on Interstate 101. Tell her to pull off at the rest station between exits 49 and 50. She'll be met by someone who can keep them safe."

He stared at the phone as if it were a cobra. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Do you really think that if you lie for them they'll leave you alone? What if you fail? What if the psychologists decide that you're lying? Do you really think they'll leave your family unpunished?"

His fear was so thick it was almost a visible cloud. "I don't…I can't…"

"Trust me, Michael."

"Why should I?"

"Because I haven't threatened to kill you."

To Be Continued…

A/N I admit it! I was seduced by a Mary Stewart romance novel! Which is why review responses won't be up until tomorrow. By I hereby solemnly swear not to watch another episode of Hogan's Heroes until they are posted.

Super kudos (and soft and chewy macadamia nut cookies) to those of you (I think there were three) who recognized the Philistine reference in the last chapter. It does come from the Old Testament book of First Samuel, when David is trying to win the hand of the princess Michel in marriage. Her father, King Saul, demands a hundred Philistine foreskins for a bride price. It was, of course, a ploy to get David killed, since Saul detested him. I find the whole idea completely revolting, but I guess I've got to chalk it up to a difference in cultural values…