Chapter Four

Raymond Wills barely noticed the arrival of Halloween. The rising and falling of the sun were distractions from his work, he knew. Three days. Three days he had spent exhaustively chasing down leads, trying to get information out of two of Gotham's largest and most secretive corporations. He'd barely seen his apartment, or had time to check in on Barbara. Even Harvey had started to get worried about how hard he had pushed himself.

"The department isn't going to foot the bill for all that overtime, Ray." Harv had said, in his characteristically blunt way. "Doesn't matter if you find Jack the Ripper. There's only so much overtime to go around."

"I'll work in my spare-time then." He had said gruffly, crumpling an empty coffee cup in his hands and throwing it behind himself into the trash can."You've really been slamming those Gold Blends back. Try not to give yourself a heart attack, Ray." Harv had warned one last time, before returning to his own work.

He ploughed on. He knew he was on to something here. He'd interviewed a dozen employees from Prospero, initially nervous because they thought he was still investigating the Oil Rig incident. He was, but he wasn't going to let them know that. They opened up a little when he made it clear he was officially there on an unrelated matter. The impression he got was of a company with a lot of ambition, a lot of enemies, and a lot of secrets to hide.

The Vibranium was used for industrial purposes, it turns out. An experimental material that was ideal for containing highly confidential and experimental chemicals and their waste products. As far as anyone he talked to knew, there was no way it could be used as a weapon, not by them. Prospero was thinking of entering the highly lucrative weapons market, and had bidden on DOD contracts. But this was all a matter of public record. Anything more than that, his interviewees had made clear, was strict NDA, and even a cop like him couldn't legally compel them to break those agreements without a special warrant.

Wayne Industries, if anything, was even more tight-lipped. Their loyalty to their ageing employer was commendable, he supposed. It was also frustrating. All he could find out was that Vibranium was definitely a material used, but in nothing that was commercially available. More than that, no one seemed to know, or be willing to share with him.

Frustrated, he'd even gone to the lengths of talking to industrial chemists, and had found out far more about the alloy than he had ever needed or wanted to know. It could be fashioned easily enough into a knife or weapon of that nature. It was light-weight, durable, extremely resistant to corrosion, and was wonderfully conducive to electricity. But using it as a knife would be like using a surgical laser to pick a scab. It was extreme overkill. If you wanted to kill someone, why not just use a regular knife?

Having thoroughly exhausted that lead, he returned to his desk, at first to check his notes, but gradually he realised he was thoroughly at a dead-end, and Harv hadn't passed on any more of his leads yet. He sighed with complete frustration, slamming the desk hard. Was he losing his edge? Two cases now in a week that he'd poured everything into, and gotten nothing out of. They weren't even obvious mysteries, just...random observations. Tantalising clues that screamed significance, but to what crime, for what purpose...

"Man you look like shit, Ray." Montoya dropped by, a wry grin on her face. She looked surprisingly peppy for the morning. He groaned. Was it still morning? Was it still October? He'd completely lost track of time.

She sniffed theatrically. "You smell like it too. When –was- the last time you had a shower? Or even went home?"

Despite himself, he felt a yawn coming on. Now that she pointed it out...

"I'm...fine...Just gimme a minute." He said wearily.

She looked at him with pity. "I've seen young bucks burn themselves out working their first cases plenty of times, but first time I've seen an old-hand like you try to drown yourself in the Midnight Oil. Did Harv give you the Corrigan case?" She said, sounding curious, but an odd note of anxiety in her voice.

"What? No. It's...god, now I try to put it into words, It all sounds so stupid."

"Try me." She swung round, plopping herself lightly into Bullock's empty chair, and scooting up beside Ray. "Have you even had a conversation with someone who wasn't a Person of Interest?"

"Yeah. I was just talking to Harv a few minutes- hours- yesterday morning." He frowned. Had it really been a whole day since Harv had talked to him? Where had that time gone?

"Whatever it is, it must be god-damn important, right?"

"Well..." he began, sighing, and slowly he began to unburden himself.

"It's not just these cases, Renee. It's...everything. It's knowing there's something wrong, having a heavy, dull ache behind the temples, sensing a storm but it never breaks. It's...its Barbara too. She's finally coming out of her shell, and seeing her, seeing her thirst for...something, for life...I feel like its all connected. Like if I fail to solve this damn mystery, how can I possibly hope to help Babs? Jim gave everything for her. Everyone calls him the Hero of Gotham, but that last sacrifice...it was all for her. If I can't figure out what this is, whether its a new damn Lunatic or what, it might..." he ran out of steam, flailing for words, fatigue drying his throat. "It might happen all over again."

Renee sat and listened politely, her eyes looking into his. Now that he was finished, he felt an enormous weight lifting from his shoulder, a sense of relief, or simply a sense that it would be okay to sleep soon, to rest now.

"You've always been the quiet one, Ray." Renee said after a moment. "Always just keeping busy. Even when Jim was around, you just did the work that needed doing, whilst everyone else went for the glory, or pranced about in the shadows. "He started to object, but she overruled him. "It's my turn. You're one of the best detectives I know, Ray. Not because you have the best informants, or know how to bend the rules, or always get your man come hell or high water, or any of that macho bullshit. You're a good detective because you care about the work. There isn't a nugget of information, no matter how small, that ever slips by you. There have been many a time over the years when I wished I had your focus, your dedication. " She leaned in close, her eyes locked with his.

"You're also going to kill yourself if you keep on like this. You need a break. You've been so wrapped up in the work, in caring for Babs, in anything but yourself. When was the last time you just sat down and enjoyed yourself?"

He couldn't answer her.

"You're not a machine, Ray. And you don't have any demons in your past. It's honestly kind of refreshing that your problem is that you're too much of a boy scout." She smiled, and there was tenderness there.

"Now I'm giving you a week off. A full week where you are to do nothing but enjoy some good food, watch TV, and play some video games or whatever. If I catch you anywhere near a Police station or doing any sort of field-work, I'll have Harv sit on you."

He started to chuckle, but the look on her face was dead serious.

"You can't actually do that-"

"I can. Hey, Harv!" she began to call, but he put his hand out.

"Ok, Ok. You've made your point, Renee. I'll turn in. Just make sure Harv gets my notes..."

"Don't worry about the case. I'll take care of it from here." She replied soothingly.

He looked at her with concern. "But you're not in the MCU anymore-"

"Oh? I didn't tell you." She grinned, and showed him her new badge. "I've been promoted. I'm your boss now. MCU is mine."

He smiled. "Couldn't have happened to a nicer gal."

"Now get out of here. You need a full night's rest, and lay off the expensive coffee will ya?"

He bowed low. "Your wish is my command, Captain."

She quirked an eyebrow at that, but he hurried off before she followed up on her threat and called Harvey over to sit on him.

"One week, Detective! I'll have people check on you to make sure!"

He chuckled, and headed for home. If nothing else, maybe a good night's sleep could give him some new insights into the case.

Unread on his desk was a report from the Coast Guard, concerning a strange find they'd made in the waters around the Prospero Oil Eig...

Halloween had been a favourite holiday for Barbara as a child. For someone who had loved showing off and getting attention, dressing up in various costumes and winning candy by being charming had been almost too much fun. But, perhaps understandably, she now had a deep aversion to the mock "scary" aesthetic of Halloween, and Patricia was reluctant to let her leave the house alone on this night, especially so soon after the exhausting Anniversary Ball. It was almost kind of pathetic, but Patricia had a point. Even a six-year old wearing an evil clown mask could potentially give her a panic attack. It was something she'd have to work on, she knew, but right now she really didn't want to waste time with therapists or counselling sessions.

She had a mystery on the brain. She'd tried e-mailing Spoiler again but it seemed her friend was offline for the time being. She hoped the fellow hacker wasn't avoiding her. What was so significant about the Dark Knight? She'd never paid much attention when she'd been younger, more interested in hearing about her father's exploits, for all that he sometimes mentioned having help from the vigilante. It was funny, she thought. For someone who had been so significant and so closely linked to her father and his work, her antipathy on the subject didn't really make a lot of sense.

She'd dug around more, and read up on everything she could about the vigilante, stretching back almost thirteen years. She found it strange that she'd heard almost nothing about him until three years ago, when the Joker had made his first appearance. Some people didn't even think it was the same Dark Knight, pointing out subtle differences in build and weight and height. Whoever he or they had been, everyone agreed that the Dark Knight had died that Night.

She could sense on the edge of her consciousness a dark shape, a memory that would intrude if she let it. She didn't feel ready to remember it, whatever it was. However the Dark Knight had died, whether she had witnessed it or not, what she could remember of the Joker's cruelty was more than enough for her surface thoughts to cope with now. She ignored that thread for now, and focused on the more distant past.

There'd been little else, beyond some conspiracy theories about where he had gotten his equipment, gadgets and vehicles. She noted that one of his trade-marks had been the use of non-lethal weapons, stun-grenades, knockout-gas and bolas to incapacitate and restrain criminals. Apparently in the weeks leading up to that...Night, the Dark Knight had abandoned such trademarks, and had simply overwhelmed the Joker's henchmen with sheer, bone-cracking force, crippling more than a few for life.

She wondered at that. She wasn't angry about it. In fact she kind of wished he'd taken more opportunities to kill the Joker. But the shift in tactics suggested that something about the Joker's many evil acts were taken personally by the costumed vigilante.

This still left the mystery of why Thomas Wayne had given her a napkin that seemed to cryptically point to the hero. She could be mistaken, of course. Maybe Wayne was senile, and simply wanted to talk about old TV shows with her. It didn't seem likely, however. Did Wayne know something about the Dark Knight?

Her intuition said yes. And if it had anything to do with her father...her breath caught. She wondered if it was wise to go poking around in this past, when she was still struggling to avoid her memories overwhelming her. But perhaps that was point. She only had the ending of the story. Perhaps the beginning and middle would...help her, somehow.

She was determined to at least try.

Getting permission to visit Wayne Manor had been exceptionally difficult. Patricia was still annoyed that she'd spent the night at Ray's. She seemed convinced that a girl like Barbara had no business being alone after dark with creepy old men. Her concern for Barbara's virtue was almost amusing. She couldn't imagine gentle Ray or elderly Thomas Wayne being able to threaten her in that way.

Finally, she'd managed to get a reluctant agreement, provided Patricia came with her, and that they both returned home before midnight. Barbara wasn't sure how long whatever Wayne wanted to discuss would take, but that had seemed reasonable enough.

She had barely been able to sleep that night, partly for excitement. It was hard not to smile, at least a little. After a year of being virtually housebound and insensate, getting to visit a place as...interesting as Wayne Manor made her almost giddy with anticipation. Even if she didn't find out anything about the Dark Knight, she was sure she'd get to see some interesting history. And, she was starting to get a little sick of Oatmeal. A rich man like Thomas Wayne was sure to serve refined cuisine. Maybe she could try a little, without getting sick or over stimulated?

Oatmeal really could get dull after a while.

Wayne Manor loomed ahead, a colonial castle that glowered over the hills above Gotham. The fading autumnal light gave it a suitably spooky air, and she wondered what the place would look like during a thunder-storm. It looked like somewhere a Vampire would live.

Patricia had looked nervous as they had driven up the driveway, buzzed in without comment after they'd spoken with the guard at the gate. Barbara admired the moodiness of the place, like someone had tried to bring an Edgar Allen Poe story to life, all faded clap-board and ivory-laced European marble fountains.

For Patricia it was a scary old house inhabited by a crazy old man. For Barbara it reminded her of another reason she had enjoyed Halloween so much as a child. She appreciated the power of stories, of creepy things that could be fun at the same time.

"Welcome to Wayne Manor, Miss Gordon." A crisply attired English butler greeted them as they pulled up by the front-steps. "My name is Alfred Pennyworth. Please call me Alfred. Allow our valet to park your car. I assure you it will be safe in Master Bruce's garage."

"Master Bruce?" Barbara had asked, surprised, as the butler and the other staff had expertly helped them out of the car and guided them up the steps. Patricia seemed awed by the fancy treatment, but Barbara's curiosity was fully piqued.

"Indeed. Master Wayne's son is also resident here with us." The butler seemed uncomfortable on the subject. "I do not believe Master Bruce will be dining with us tonight. It is unlikely you will meet him. Please do not worry about it."

The inside of the Manor was everything she had fantasized about, and more. Suits of armour, faded portraits, tapestries, busts of famous thinkers and great men, sweeping staircases...she was awed by the taste and refinement of the place. The Waynes must indeed be fabulously rich to afford and support a place like this. But she noted that there were few staff, and the place had a solemn, lonely air. Somehow, that only seemed to make the place more interesting to her. It was hard not to imagine all manner of gothic stories, of hunchbacks and secret laboratories and ghostly women... she stopped herself, remembering what she'd heard about Thomas's wife.

Alfred gave them a brief tour of the halls and various curios and artefacts within the Manor, and then given some time in the guest quarters to freshen themselves for supper. Patricia had made it clear they were not to stay the night, but seeing how plump and inviting the beds were, and how plush the furniture, it had been hard for even the stern nurse to say no.

As Barbara donned her evening dress, and applied her makeup and adjusted her wig in the bathroom, she noticed how...clean the bathtub was. Not just clean in a regularly polished sort of way, but a clean in a "never used" sort of way. She wondered how long it had been since anyone had regularly called on the Waynes.

Looking at herself in the full-length mirror, she could see that she really was starting to look more and more like she had used to. She was still painfully thin and scrawny, and her eyes were still sunken and her cheeks hollow. But liberal use of flesh-tones and thick foundation made her look...well, normal, almost. She adjusted her dress further. She was gaining a little weight, but not much. It would be a long time before she had the full, athletic figure she'd enjoyed a year ago.

Patricia had looked surprisingly fine in her own formal wear, her hair done up in a tight bun. It was the first time she had seen her carer look truly radiant.

"Welcome again to Wayne Manor. I'm Thomas Wayne. I assume Alfred has made your visit enjoyable so far?" A gruff voice greeted them as they entered the Dining Hall. It was grand, and clearly intended to host lavish banquets and dinner parties for thirty or more people. With just the three of them and the servants, the echoing silence and the glimmer of candles almost made them feel they were in a cathedral.

"It's been wonderful so far, Mr Wayne. Thank you for inviting us." Barbara seated herself awkwardly at the long table, a servant holding her chair back for her, laying out silverware. The gala had been fancy, but she was almost bewildered by the lavishness of it all. Patricia seemed equally lost, and couldn't help but feel somewhat out-of-place in such a setting.

Thomas Wayne had grinned, sitting silently and solemnly, all conversation muted and hesitant. He waited until they had awkwardly finished eating their soup and bread-rolls before finally bursting into laughter, making them both glance at him in concern.

"Ha-ha! Oh, I'm sorry ladies; you have to forgive an old, lonely man for indulging in some fun. Of course we're not going to eat alone in a Banquet Hall like this! Far too formal. Let's go up to the lounge, much cosier."

Patricia glowered at the old man, clearly embarrassed. Barbara simply allowed herself a thin smile. She was getting more confident in allowing herself such displays, no longer terrified that any smile would break her face.

The lounge was a lot smaller, and more intimate, as Wayne had promised. The food served was also less bewildering, a simple, but well cooked 3-course meal. The conversation had been friendlier, but still polite and a little distant. Wayne had made some story about being a long-time friend of Jim's, and interested in perhaps offering Barbara an intern-ship at Wayne Enterprises, or even funding a scholarship at a University of her choice.

"Miss Gordon was an exceptional student based on what she was accomplishing before the tragedy. I feel confident that, now that she has begun to recover more fully under your excellent care, it would be remiss of me not to offer her opportunities that she most fully deserves."

Patricia seemed impressed. "I have to admit, , I had not heard you had a personal friendship with the late detective."

"It was an old friendship, going back many years. Detective Gordon had helped me with...a very personal matter. Although I feel a debt of friendship to him, I am sincere in my appraisal, though how exactly we would proceed may take some further discussion." Wayne had paused then, eating for a while.

Barbara had eaten slowly, keeping silent, waiting to see where this would all lead. She was uncertain if this was all a ruse, or sincere, or whether he simply wished to speak with her privately about old friendships the billionaire had enjoyed with her father. But her senses were still tingling, certain that a more profound mystery was soon to be revealed.

"Enough about such matters. You're a carer for the city, Miss Corman?" Thomas addressed the nurse, apparently as comfortable talking with her as he would anyone at his table. His wealth and prestige seemed to be no real barriers to him, and Patricia was soon drawn into an affable enough exchange of small-talk, though she seemed reticient to talk about any personal details.

"It has been a wonderful evening, ." Patricia conceded, when the meal was over. "But we have to be heading back soon."

"Of course, I fully understand. Ah, but first, allow me to present you a small gift. Alfred, would you direct Miss Corman to our wine cellars? I'm sure she'd appreciate a fine Sauvignon, or perhaps one of our Pinot Grigios..."

Alfred skilfully interceded, directing the nurse away, leading her out of the lounge, leaving Barbara and Wayne alone to discuss matters at last. She gave the butler a nod, indicating that she understood and was grateful. The English butler's eyes had simply twinkled back at her.

"Now we're alone, Miss Gordon, perhaps we should get to the heart of the matter. Do you understand why I have called you here?" Wayne asked, leaning back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he regarded her appraisingly.

"Of course. You want to talk about the Dark Knight. Something to do with my father." She leaned forward conspiratorially.

"Are you the Dark Knight, Mr Wayne?"

He looked at her, surprised for a moment. Seeing the look in her eye, he grinned. "Revenge for my little joke earlier, eh? No, you are only half right."

He got up, and turned the lock on the lounge door handle, making sure they were alone.

"Perhaps I've gotten careless in my old age. What makes you think I'm the Dark Knight?"

"Grey Ghost? I doubt my father was much of a fan of those old serials, even if he remembered them or their re-runs. I also don't see what a television show neither of us has watched would have to do with me, or a...legacy." Her heart quickened, wondering if her blind-firing really was hitting targets.

He looked at her quietly for a moment.

"No, you're just guessing. You don't really know anything do you, miss Gordon?"

She blushed, feeling awkward. Well, now she did feel a damn fool.

Somewhere, an old-fashioned grandfather clock began to chime.

Thomas Wayne looked at her with an emotionless face. In a quiet, serious tone, he spoke to her.

"I'm not the Dark Knight. Jim Gordon was. And I'd like you to take his place."