Authors Note: Hi guys! I just wanted to say thank you, thank you, and thank you to all of you who took the time to review! I really appreciate the fact that you guys take the time to do it and I hope you know how much it means to me. Anyways, this chapter didn't turn out quite as I expected it to... I had meant for Bruce Wayne to make an appearance... but I kind of got caught up in revealing a bit more of Remy's past. Hope you guys like the chapter! XO Noelle
Chapter Four: Old Friends and New Ones
The flight to Gotham had been tedious and had tried Remy's already thin patience. She had sat next to a very large man that had bought the other two plane seats in their row just so he could have enough room. Unfortunately, two seats weren't enough; he had encroached upon Remy's personal space for the entire flight as well.
If the wasn't enough of a struggle, the drive to the Holiday Inn just outside of the city had been long, the traffic had been terrible, and on top of it all, it had started pouring buckets of rain the minute Remy stepped out of the cab. The hotel looked seedy and Remy pictured cockroaches living beneath the pillows.
She contemplated sleeping on the floor for a brief moment in time as she slipped the key card into its slot near the door handle.
Remy, now feeling soaked to the bone and freezing, entered into her dinky hotel room and flopped onto the bed. The room smelled like feet and the blanket was scratchy, nothing like the soft polyester quilt waiting for her back at home.
Remy groaned, realizing how stuck up she sounded. Visiting Gotham always put a strain on Remy's mind.
There was too much history here. Her history to be exact.
Nevertheless, Remy felt the need to tie up a few loose ends since she was here for the weekend.
The doors to St. Augustine's Church were open and the chapel was filled with people, listening intently to the sermon being given by Father Lawrence. The elaborate candelabras lining the walls served as the only light and cast an eerie glow on all of the attendees. The painting of the Virgin Mary still hung next to the elaborate bronze cross set just behind the pulpit and the collection plate still sat next to the bread and wine.
It was almost as if Remy had never even left.
She unbuttoned her black pea coat as she slid into the pew farthest away from Father Lawrence. Remy had at first been hesitant to return to the church where she had spent most of her youth, however to get what she needed, she would have to speak with Father Lawrence. It was Friday night, but there was always a sermon being held at St. Augustine's Catholic Church. Remy was right in her belief that Father Lawrence would be there.
As Father Lawrence expounded upon the cardinal sin of wrath, Remy listened, but didn't truly hear him. Instead, she stared at the painting of the Virgin Mary, ignoring the curious gazes directed her way from others in the congregation.
She was sure that some of them recognized her; until last year she and her family had gone to church every Sunday. Unable to resist the urge to look around, Remy saw numerous familiar faces. The Thompsons sat—as they always had—in the very front pew, all of them listening intently, save for Jason, the middle son. He had always had a penchant for trouble making, and at ten, he hadn't seen the point in going to church. Luke Byron and his girlfriend Lara, still together, as far as Remy could tell, sat close to each other just a few rows ahead of her. The Gleason family—fair weather friends at best, Laura Inglewire—the crazy cat lady, Sam Reynolds—the resident Goth, all of them were just the way Remy remembered them.
Remy ignored the collection plate as it was passed around and she didn't take communion as the rest of them lined up to do so. This garnered Father Lawrence's attention, who—for the first time since she had been there—made eye contact. He looked surprised and Remy could understand that. She imagined it was much like seeing a ghost.
Remy waited until the sermon was over and walked to the pulpit, waving slightly to those who acknowledged her. Father Lawrence was speaking to Lydia Whitlock—the resident snob of the congregation—who looked at Remy as if she were the flesh embodiment of Satan himself.
"Well thank you for bringing your concerns to my attention Lydia," Father Lawrence patted her on the hand, looking at Remy, "I'll see if I can work any of your suggestions in for next week's sermon. I'll see you on Sunday."
With that, he gave her a light nudge and sent her on her way. Though not before she could shoot Remy another very unchristian glare.
"It was nice seeing you too, Lydia," Remy muttered, rolling her eyes. She blew out a sigh and turned her attention back to Father Lawrence. "Father Lawrence."
"Remy Vanderbilt." He reached a wrinkled hand out and grasped Remy's smoother and much slighter one. "It's good to see you. How is California?"
"Sunny," she commented, releasing his hand. "Father, I actually was hoping that you could take me to my dad's casket. I wanted to, um, pay my respects."
"Certainly Remy," he nodded approvingly. "If you'll follow me…"
As Father Lawrence opened her father's casket, Remy braced herself for the horrible smell that was sure to come. He slid the lid open and even though Remy had a hand over her mouth, it didn't stop the smell from getting through to her nostrils. The decaying body of her father lay just the way it had when he had been buried. His arms were crossed over his chest and his legs were stretched out; it looked like he was sleeping.
Remy hadn't attended the funeral as she had never been good with goodbyes. She hadn't wanted to say goodbye to the one person she had looked up to for her entire life. That would mean actually accepting that he was gone.
Now, seeing the dead body of her father, Lane Vanderbilt, didn't affect Remy the way she thought it would. There was no fanfare, like in the movies, and she didn't leave a flower or shed any tears. She simply opened up her father's hand and took out the small gold chain wrapped in his fingers.
"You can close it," Remy told him.
Father Lawrence looked somewhat alarmed, his bushy grey eyebrows furrowing, but did as Remy said.
"Would you mind staying for a moment Remy?" Father Lawrence asked. "I'd like to speak with you."
"Sure," she shrugged. All she really had to do was visit the Gotham Ritz to scout out the security to make sure she had the plans memorized. It was a task better suited for a late night jaunt anyhow.
The two made their way up the stairs and out of the basement of St. Augustine's, Father Lawrence locking the door behind them. Remy followed Father Lawrence into his office, the door of which was not too far from the basement door.
Upon entering his office, Father Lawrence gestured for Remy to sit in the chair across from his desk. She slid in and set her purse on the floor next to her feet. "What is it that you'd like to speak to me about, Father?"
Father Lawrence interlaced his fingers and sat forward, leaning his elbows on his desk. "How long are you here for?"
"Just this weekend. Why?"
Father Lawrence sighed as he studied Remy with his dark brown eyes. She remained cool and collected under his scrutiny, but she wondered why he felt the need to study her so closely. As far as he knew, Remy was just an average sixteen year old girl.
"Remy, I've known you since you were a small girl. I watched you grow into a young woman. I—"
Remy groaned internally. They were so not going to have this conversation right now. "Sorry, Father Lawrence, but I'm kind of in a hurry—" Remy gripped the handles on her purse and started to stand up.
"Please, this will only take a moment," he pleaded. Remy slowly slid her butt back down into the chair, but didn't release her grip on the purse. "Your sudden reappearance in my congregation gives me hope, Remington."
"Father—" she bristled at the use of her full name.
"Don't interrupt me please," he said seriously. "Have you found a suitable church where you spend your time on Sundays?"
"Father Lawrence, with all due respect, I've kind of given up on the whole religion thing," Remy sighed. "I spend Sundays at a spiritual wellness center."
"Spiritual wellness?" He seemed confused and, well, quite appalled.
"A yoga studio," Remy told him, folding her hands into her lap. "Church was always more of my parent's thing and God hasn't exactly given me a helping hand lately."
"That doesn't mean that you should give up, Remington," Father Lawrence said. "God has a plan for you and in time it will come to fruition."
Remy repressed the groan that was bubbling up in her throat. "I don't have time to wait around for God's plan, Father Lawrence." Remy stood up, shouldered her bag and started to make her exit. She heard Father Lawrence heave a heavy sigh and she felt a slight twinge of guilt. After all, this man had been good to her throughout her entire childhood.
"Remy before you go," he called and she stopped and turned to listen to him, "I hope you realize that I say this because I am concerned for your well-being. There is something different in your eyes, that was not there before." He paused to insert a meaningful glance which Remy chose to ignore. "Just know that there is always a place for you in my congregation. Should you feel the need to talk to anyone-"
"You mean confess," Remy scoffed.
"—then you should also know that my door is always open," he finished, gesturing at the office around him. She turned to go, deciding that she had had enough of her past for one day. She had gotten the necklace and now she could go. "Be safe, Remy."
She started, turning her head slightly to study Father Lawrence. Did he know what she was planning to do? Remy shook her head and closed his office door behind her. She was being ridiculous, paranoid.
But had he really read her that easily? There's something different in your eyes, she repeated it to herself, that was not there before.
The Gotham Ritz Carlton was a sight to behold on the eve of the Hodgkin's Fund Charity Ball. The main ballroom was lit up by numerous glistening chandeliers, each of them shining like a single star of light. Together, they made up a galaxy and shone brilliantly down onto the faces of Gotham's wealthy and elite. Tables with elaborate ice sculptures and golden table cloths ringed the exterior of the ballroom, leaving the middle of the room available for dancing. A small string quartet played to the right of the head honcho's table.
Remy was, frankly, bored and slightly put off by the elegance of it all. The Hodgkin's fund was supposedly created to help educate and find jobs for homeless people. This was a charity ball, and here they had probably spent thousands on the room set up alone. It was ironic that most of the attendees probably didn't even realize the hypocrisy of it.
Nevertheless, Remy tried to focus on her job and not the party. She could feel the barrel of her gun strapped to her leg by the lace garter underneath her silky black dress. It felt hot against her leg and she felt as if every person around her that gave her a second look knew about it. She had never been this anxious on a job before.
She was of course, being completely ridiculous, and Remy knew that she had no tangible reason to be nervous. She had on her blonde wig, a pair of obnoxious glasses and her driver's license packed away in her clutch. She would shoot Hodgkins, leave the bag and get out in no time at all. This would be a piece of cake compared to some of the other hit jobs she'd pulled off.
Well, it would be a piece of cake once she could actually get to Anthony Hodgkins. He was currently holed up behind a huge wall of security as he stuffed his face with the lobster thermidor. Remy assumed that once he finished eating and traipsed onto the dance floor, she would have a clear shot at him.
"May I have this dance?" Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a young man in his early twenties. His New York accent bordered on annoying and his manner appeared arrogant. He was handsome and maybe if Remy had actually been a guest at this party, she would've given him the time of day.
"Sorry," she said shortly, dismissing him with a wave of her hand, "my dance card is full tonight."
He smiled slyly. "Let me ask again, Roulette," he ground out the name between his teeth, "may I have this dance?"
Remy stared up at him, studying him curiously. "Are you my new contact?"
He shushed her and pulled Remy to her feet, guiding her out onto the dance floor. "You should be more careful when you're in public, Marilyn. Phase wasn't and now he's paid for his mistakes." The man ran grasped her hand in his and slid his hand around her waist and dangerously close to her backside.
"Red Arrow killed Phase," Remy hissed, her hand tightening like a vise around his. "I had nothing to do with it. And watch where you're putting your hands!"
"I never said you did," he said, chuckling, spinning her out and pulling her back into his arms. Remy let out a frustrated sigh. She hated all of this cryptic bullshit. "Try to put on a smile, Marilyn, we'll look like we're having a lovers quarrel."
"A lovers quarrel? Who the hell are you anyway?" She demanded.
"My name is Ares and that's all you need to know," he assured her. "Now if you'll look past my shoulder, you'll realize that Mr. Hodgkins is now greeting his guests. Perhaps you should go and discuss politics with him. I'm sure he'd be glad to meet a fellow activist."
Remy moved her lips closer to Ares' ear and she glanced up at Hodgkins. Sure enough, his security team had instead fanned out around the ball room. Hodgkins was currently talkingto the mayor and his wife, gesturing animatedly with his hands. "I'll go now."
"One last thing," Ares said, as he made Remy dip, "the security cameras have already been taken care of. You have approximately seven minutes before our program is discovered in their system. I'll have a car waiting for you at seventh and Lexington. Make it quick."
Ares released her, leaving Remy alone on the dance floor with nothing to do but her job.