Chapter Twelve

No, I don't need your supervision
I'll sink this ship if I want.
-Jenny and Johnny, My Pet Snakes

I opened my eyes and realized that I was in my bed.

At first, I couldn't remember why I wasn't under the covers, why I was damp and cold and wearing the clothes from last night. I blinked in confusion and wondered exactly how much I had to drink the night before.

Then, I remembered—the breakout attempt. The fall. Batman, and the walk home afterward.

I blinked slowly. I had faced some would-be rapists and scolded them. I actually screamed them away from me. I think the Joker's crazy had rubbed off on me. The thought didn't seem as unappealing as it might once have been.

I slowly retreated to my shower, which I made as hot as I could stand. I blanked my mind out and just stood under the hot stream until the water turned tepid, and then I climbed out, wrapped myself in a towel, took a deep breath, and checked my cell phone.

I winced at the number of missed calls. Wilson, Arkham's Office, Wilson, Wilson, Arkham's Office, and a whole host of unfamiliar numbers. Apparently someone had been trying to get a hold of me for a while.

A knock on the door startled me. I cautiously went to check who it was through the peephole. Dr. Wilson stood there. I rolled my eyes and opened the door.

"Harley, what the hell—" he started, and then cut himself off and turned red as he realized that I was only wearing a towel.

"Hi, David."

He stared for a few seconds before finally pulling his eyes back up to mine. It still took him a second or two before he remembered what he was going to say. "Where have you been? Do you know what happened last night?"

"The Joker escaped after killing Stratford," I said dully. I wasn't naïve enough to think that I'd be able to conceal my involvement in the whole escapade. People were bound to find out, and if I lied about it initially, I would be making myself a suspect. I didn't want to answer a million questions from all sides, but if I didn't cooperate, I probably faced arrest.

Wilson stared at me for even loner this time, and then said, "Dr. Stratford's phone showed that he texted you around nine telling you to come to Arkham. I take it that you obeyed."

I nodded.

Wilson looked at me speculatively, warily, as though worried about what he might unearth. Very carefully, he said, "Harley, I know this may come out badly, and… please don't take this the wrong way, but… did you… help him escape?"'

"I suppose you can argue that that's the case," I said casually. "I need to get dressed." I turned around and went back to my bedroom, shutting the door.

Seconds later, Wilson's voice issued from the other side: "Harley? What are you talking about?"

"Terrycloth is nice and all, but I don't think it's appropriate for outside of the house," I clarified. He ignored the sass.

"You helped him escape? Are you crazy?"

"Hey, I never said I was a willing participant. He took it into his mind to use me as a human shield." Having thrown on some underclothes, I opened my closet and looked into it pensively. As I debated my choices, I called, "Hey, David, do they know how he initially got out of his cell?"

"Umm… yeah. Apparently one of our orderlies was on his payroll. Howard. You know him?"

"He pulled Dr. Crane off me once during a psychotic episode. He was good at his job." I decided on a knee-length black skirt combined with a white tie-back top. The black said business, the white said innocence. If I was going to be interrogated, I would like to have as many weapons at my disposal as possible.

"He may have been, but he vanished after last night and was on shift when the Joker escaped. We think he was the one to let the other prisoners out, as well. Everyone on the Joker's floor—the really dangerous ones. A lot of them got away. It's a madhouse, Harley." I paused and waited patiently. Two seconds later, I heard the requisite curse. "That pun was completely unintentional and I apologize for it."

I smiled, pulling the blouse over my head. I always had appreciated Wilson's sense of humor. It popped up at the most inappropriate times, which I loved. Sometimes the serious shit just needed to be lightened up.

"You were his hostage?" he demanded, the level of my involvement in the previous night finally sinking through.

Appropriately attired now, I threw open the door. "Yeah. It kind of sucked. Look." I pointed at my neck, which sported a pale little scratch from the Joker's overeager knife, then, remembering, I glanced down at my wrist. The cut there wasn't quite as bad as I'd thought—it had scabbed over sometime during the night. I imagine the burning made it seem worse than it was.

"Shit," said Wilson politely, though I could tell he thought I was lucky to have gotten away with just that. A wry smile twisted my face.

"Oh, these were just the beginning. He threw me off the roof. Have you seen my heels? I could have sworn I left them out here."

Wilson did a very credible imitation of a goldfish. When he could finally speak again, he demanded, "He… he threw you… off the roof? Of Arkham?"

"Uh… yeah… but it's okay," I said, stooping to look underneath the TV cabinet. "Batman was there. He saved me… obviously. Dammit, where are they?"

"Harley!" roared Wilson suddenly. Startled, I looked up at him. He stood there, furiously rubbing the area between his eyebrows. He tossed his head up and demanded, "What the hell happened last night?!"

I sighed, looked around, and spotted my shoes beside my recliner. I went over, strapped them on, sat down, and proceeded to summarize the night for him. I left out some dialogue, my semi-participation in the Joker's hostage act, and the walk home. Even so, when I was done, he was gaping at me.

"And now," I sighed, burying my damp head in my hands, "I'm guessing I'm going to have to deal with interrogation." I looked up at him, pasting a very pleading expression on my face. "David… I don't suppose you could speak up for me? I don't know… say that too much questioning could make me relive the trauma?"

He stared at me before answering, slowly. "If I thought… if I thought you were just asking me that to get out of the hassle, I would say no. But Harley… this man did a number on you. I don't know if you're even aware of it, but it's apparent to anyone paying attention that he's had an effect. I mean, the fact that you can accept this as routine, talk about it as matter-of-factly as you have… it's indicative of shock and some mental confusion, which I think is a result of extended contact with the Joker."

I peered up at him. "Is that a yes?"

He sighed. "You're going to have to face some interrogation," he said broodingly, "but I might be able to shield you from the worst of it." He cast me a worried look, but I was too pleased with the news to think much about it.

"Great," I said, popping up from the chair. "Just what I wanted to hear."

"I have a condition," he warned.

I sighed and looked at him, resigned. "What?"

"You have to consent to therapy. With me."

I gave him a sly look, attempting to throw him off. "David, are you coming on to me?"

"I'm serious, Harley," he said, obviously using a lot of self-control to keep from snapping. "I think that being exposed to the Joker and his ideas for as long as you were had some seriously adverse effects. I'd like to help you pinpoint these and get over them."

I sighed, and finally nodded. "I'm not crazy, David," I said firmly. Despite my tone, that giggly part of my brain that had emerged last night sang out buuullshit! I ignored it. "But if it makes you feel any better, then fine. I'm perfectly willing to go through therapy with you."

He stared at me for a long time. I was tempted to tell him to take a picture, but dismissed the impulse on the grounds that it was cliché. Finally, he gave one tight nod. "Okay. Then you'd better come with me now. The police are swarming the place. It's only a matter of time before they come knocking on your door, and I'd rather you face them with me around than otherwise."

"Fantastic," I said sardonically. "Let's get out of here, then. I can't wait to hear what they have to say."

Not much later, I realized that the examination rooms in Arkham were a lot less comfortable when you were the one being interrogated. I'd been hoping for the room where I'd spent most of my time with the Joker, if only for the irony, but I had been shoved into a little room down the hall.

I also realized that the assistant to the head police inspector, a one Detective Larkin, was a creep.

I'd been sitting in the room for a good ten minutes before he saw fit to show his face. The second he entered, his eyes traveled over me and he got a tiny smirk on his face that was the next-door-neighbor to a leer. I knew right off that we weren't going to get along very well.

He took the seat opposite me, setting down a clipboard and a recorder and pulling a pen out of his pocket. "Doctor Quinzel? I'm Detective Larkin. This session will be recorded. Do you have a problem with that?"

I shook my head. "I have nothing to hide."

He gave me a look that said we'll see about that, and then pressed the record button and began.

"I understand from Doctor Wilson that you were present during the breakout last night—in fact, that you were with the suspect for almost the entire course of the getaway." He raised his eyebrows at me, asking for confirmation. Coolly, I mirrored the gesture.

I understood immediately that I had several options here, the first of which—being a smartass in order to make it clear exactly how much of an inconvenience this all ways—was the most tempting. However, I steadily resisted. Not getting arrested was still very much my goal for this little session, and though being a sarcastic little bitch might soothe the tempest of feelings I'd been dealing with since last night, it might result in serious problems in the long run.

I cleared my throat, made as if I was going to speak, then pretended to change my mind and just nodded mutely. Larkin smelled blood. He leaned forward and laced his hands together, watching me greedily. "Would you care to tell the story? In your own words, please."

I successfully held back a smirk. Seriously. Whose words would I otherwise use? His? I refrained from smarting off, though, and proceeded to summarize the previous night for him in timid stammers. I eliminated any emotional undertones from the story, and once again, left out the walk home.

I left off with Batman dropping me off on the roof. Larkin stared at me as if expecting me to continue, and when I didn't, he leaned back in his chair again.

"What happened afterwards?" he prodded.

Inwardly, I sighed. The understanding that he was genuinely trying to do his job thoroughly didn't help me feel less put-upon. "I walked home."

"Through the Narrows?" he asked skeptically.

I gave him a smile that I hoped look wry and self-deprecating. "I'd just fallen off of a roof. I wasn't thinking clearly. It turned out okay. It was kind of a slow night in the Narrows—breakouts notwithstanding."

"Huh." He worked his jaw slowly, turning this over in his head, and then said, "Doctor Quinzel, it is correct that you'd been counseling the Joker for the previous two months?"

"Approximately, yes."

"Do you think that had some part in his choice of you as a hostage?"

Yes. Yes. Of course it did.

"I sincerely doubt it," I said shakily. "The Joker had no way of knowing that I was at the Asylum last night. I was supposed to be safely at home. He obviously had a grudge against Stratford, and I was there. I was… convenient."

A momentary pang of doubt struck me as I remembered his comment about pawns, and I let the pain show on my face, hoping he would misinterpret it. What if what I'd just said was true? I mean, he really didn't know I would be there—did he really single me out, or was I truly just convenient? Did I mean anything to him?

The thought that I might not… it hurt.

Larkin was saying something. "—against Stratford in particular?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

Larkin gave me a patronizing look that I was tempted to return with a glare. Instead, I managed a wan, apologetic smile, and he repeated, "Is there any reason that the Joker had a grudge against Stratford in particular?"

I paused, and then said, "I don't think I'm in a position to speculate."

Larkin raised his eyebrows. "I think out of anyone in this asylum, you would be in the best position to speculate. You counseled him, he talked to you. Did he indicate anything?"

I stared at him for a second, and then unconsciously licked my lips. After a moment, I said, "This is pure conjecture, but I believe he held Stratford responsible for his incarceration at Arkham to begin with. I believe he also resented Stratford for trying to play games with him, switching therapists, switching tactics constantly. He's not a man who takes it lightly when you screw around with him."

"Did he say anything to Stratford that would indicate motive?"

…this fine asylum needs a director worthy of it…

I shook my head. "He just threatened him, and then, when he was done toying around…" I thought back to the murder, and to my surprise it didn't affect me nearly as badly as it had the night before. No bile, no shock, no horror. I felt… dispassionate.

The feeling surprised me. Surprisingly, I felt my lips start to tremble, as though I was about to cry, but emotionally, I was numb. The physical reactions weren't lining up with my mental process. It was… strange.

Larkin saw, though, and hurriedly said, "I understand." I saw the brief glimpse of abject horror in his eye. Score. He doesn't want to deal with my crying anymore than I want to deal with his interrogation. He hid it well, though, moving on to the next question as I pulled my face under control, stopping the trembling through sheer force of will. "Are you certain that the Joker retreated to the helicopter?"

I shook my head. "How could I be? For all I know, it could have been a police helicopter. He could have just pulled a disappearing act off of the roof. Even if the helicopter was his, there's a chance that he sent it away just to distract Batman while he ran in the opposite direction."

Larkin quirked an eyebrow. "Seems like you've put a lot of thought into this."

"I spent the last two months trying to get into his head, trying to pull motive out of it. When it comes to parlor tricks, things get comparatively simpler."

"I see." He studied me for a moment, and then leaned forward again. "Doctor Quinzel, I understand there was some concern over your position as the Joker's counselor. Apparently, as time wore on, certain people began to sense a, uh… conflict of interests."

"Oh?" I wrought a credible expression of confusion. "How so?"

"It was implied that you were getting emotionally involved with the Joker."

I stared evenly at him for a moment, rapidly picking and arranging my words in my mind. Then I opened my mouth.

"I cleared this with Stratford, but since he's… gone… I suppose I'll have to go through it again with you. The only way into the Joker's head is to let him believe he has some form of power over you. If he believed that he was bending my way of thinking, if he thought that he was earning some place in my mind, or," I scoffed a bit, "heart, then he would be a little more careless. He would believe he had my loyalty, and as a result he would spill more guts. Stratford knew of this strategy, and eventually approved it. Any conflict of interest?" I paused and raised my eyebrows before giving a disgusted little laugh. "Pure speculation on the part of bored doctors and nurses."

Larkin cleared his throat. "So, just for the record, you deny having any emotional attachment to the Joker that may have influenced you last night?"

I rolled my eyes. "Please. The man is a murderous sociopath. A woman would have to be crazy to be 'attached' to him."

Larkin stared at me for a second, and then nodded abruptly. "Very well. I think I have all I need from you now." He stood up, gathering his things. "You may be contacted later by someone involved with the investigation. I don't think you have to worry about testifying if we catch Howard, since you didn't see him all night."

I didn't say anything, just watched him clear everything up. It was clear that the session had unsettled him for some reason, but I couldn't figure out quite why.

He looked around uncomfortably for a second, and then nodded at me as I stood up. "Goodbye, Dr. Quinzel."

"It was a pleasure meeting you," I said blandly. I walked past him to the door, and as I moved across the room, an orderly pushed it open for us. Larkin looked as though he would be quite happy to let me go out and leave him alone in the room, if just to rid himself of my presence, but I held the door open and raised my eyebrows.

"These doors lock from the inside, Detective," I said. "If you don't get out now, you may just be forgotten."

He gave me a rather unpleasant look, hustled across the room, and took the door from me. I walked out and headed down the hall.

Most of the day's work involved cleaning up after the mess. They'd rounded up several of the released inmates; those men were destined for solitary confinement and sedatives. I avoided Ortega at all costs.

Later that afternoon, as I was preparing to leave, actually, my stress was compounded by a call on my cell phone. I checked the screen to see that it was my father.

"Oh, great," I muttered, and hit the call button. In the time it took for my phone to travel from my desk to my ear, I realized that I hadn't heard from Pam since she had left, and I wondered why that was. She was due back tomorrow, and I'd fully expected to hear from her almost every day since she left.

"Hey, Daddy," I greeted him, summoning a smile, since he could always hear frowns in my voice.

"Harl," he said by way of greeting, "what's this I see on the news about the Joker escaping from Arkham? That's your institution, isn't it?"

I grimaced at the door. "Yeah, Dad. It happened last night."

I could hear him cough in disbelief on the other end. "Well, how? I mean, didn't they expect something like this? Didn't they pile up security?"

"They tried," I sighed, flopping into my chair and feeling my feet splay to the side. "It's hard to make sure everything's airtight in a city like Gotham, Daddy. There are a lot of corrupt people—"

I heard him sigh. "Same excuses as always, Harl. People in Gotham are always giving the same excuses, and I gotta tell you, I'm tired of them. It's an excuse to let things keep going to hell."

Oh, Dad, they're already in hell.

I was silent, and he sighed heavily again. Then, he asked, almost sulkily, "Are you all right?"

"Yes, sir," I said. It would have been easier to be happier if it hadn't been clear that he was asking simply out of a sense of obligation.

"Good, then. How are you planning to get the man back?"

"Any number of ways, Daddy. They haven't told me much; I've been trying to deal with the aftermath. He let a lot of the other inmates go on his way out."

"Uh-huh," he growled. "I guess we can just hope."

"I guess so."

He sighed again, and then said, "I need to go. I just wanted to check in on you. Take care of yourself, all right?"

I smiled half-heartedly. "You too, Daddy."

"Don't let so much time go by between phone calls next time," he scolded.

"I've been kind of busy," I admitted.

"Too busy for your dad?"

"No. Never."

There was a pause, and then, "I love you. You know that, don't you, Harley?"

Despite myself, I felt my shoulders relax. Even though I doubted the sincerity of the statement from time to time, it was good to hear it. "Yeah, Dad. I love you, too."

He harrumphed, and then hung up. I took the phone from my ear, shook my head at it, and dropped it on the desk before burying my head in my hands.