Chapter Thirteen

We must rearrange reality
Shuffle all the cards
Pair the joker with the queen
Just to make her scream
-Jenny and Johnny, Animal

I reported the next day for work. Wilson was acting as stand-in for Doctor Stratford until a more permanent replacement could be secured; he had taken control the day before and no one questioned it. Most of the staff was pretty shaken up and simply grateful that they didn't have to fill the vacated spot.

I was privately amused by the way everyone attempted to go about business as usual, to pretend that the whole Joker breakout fiasco had never happened. Never mind that we had just lost the crown jewel of Arkham patients. Never mind that several of our more dangerous criminals were still on the loose. We were going to soldier on, dammit. Stiff upper lip. Despite my amusement, I found it prudent to hide my smiles throughout the day. People were already looking at me like I was a time bomb waiting to explode; no need to exacerbate their fears by showing evidence of inappropriate emotional responses (I figured it was just using gallows humor to get past a tough situation, but this was a building full of shrinks—they'd be all over that symptom).

The work Wilson assigned to me, though, was laughable. A therapy group for patients almost finished with their rehabilitation. A new patient, checked in by her family because she had killed her cat—an incident, she assured me, that happened to be a total accident. Paperwork. I was bored to tears.

Throughout the day, though, I became aware that a sense of anxiety was incubating and growing inside my mind. I hadn't heard from Pam. She was due back on the eleven AM flight—surely she would have called me when she got home?

With this in mind, I signed out as quickly as I was allowed, at five on the dot. From Arkham, I made a beeline for Pam's place, imagining all sorts of scenarios that would have prevented her from calling, ranging from funny to fatal.

When I pulled up outside of her apartment complex and saw the police cars there, I persuaded myself that they must have been there for someone else. After all, it was a relatively rough neighborhood. I'd told Pam time and time again that she and I should get a place together in a nice area. Well, somewhere that could be considered "nice" for Gotham.

The knot in the pit of my stomach, though, wouldn't let me lie to myself.

I ran up to her apartment, taking the stairs two at a time, but I stopped, frozen, in the hallway. Her door was open. Policemen were going in and out.

Without any help from me, my feet took me forward. Pam, what on earth have you done? I thought desperately, feeling that knot twisting in my stomach, fear so acute that I could practically taste it.

A policeman intercepted me at the door—a young guy, nice-looking, but all I could think as I stared wide-eyed at him was that he was probably crooked. Weren't they all these days? "Excuse me, ma'am, you can't go in there," he said, perfectly polite, holding out an arm to block me.

I grasped him by the forearm. "Where's Pam?" I asked, looking him dead in the eyes. I saw recognition register there, and then he shook his head.

"Miss…"

"Doctor Pamela Isley. She lives here. She was meant to return home this morning. What happened? Where is she?"

He looked over his shoulder, into the apartment. I craned my head to see—it was hard to look past him; he was so much taller than I was. I caught a flash of several other men in blue before he shut the door and took my by the shoulders, steering me aside.

"What's your name?" he asked softly, in a tone that spelled bad news.

"Harley. Harley Quinzel," I said, stumbling over my words. "Pam's my best friend. She was on the eleven AM flight home today, home from Egypt. Where is she?"

"Miss Quinzel… I sincerely regret having to tell you this, but… Doctor Isley went missing in Egypt, and I have to warn you that there's a large likelihood that she's dead."

I sensed the words before they actually came and blocked my brain off to them before they could pull up any emotional response. "What? No—wait, what are you talking about?"

"Hotel staff called in to report the sounds of a struggle coming from her room, and when the police arrived, they found… considerable bloodstains on the carpet but no body. Testing later confirmed that the blood belonged to Dr. Isley. It was… a considerable amount."

This managed to penetrate the flimsy mental barriers I'd thrown up—honestly, it wasn't as if my mind was at its strongest—and I twisted away from him, feeling my face contort and my chest start to ache. "Oh, no, no…" Stop thinking about it, I told myself sharply. Stop thinking about it. Focus on your breathing; don't cry. You've got to get some more information. You have to find out how. I turned back to him. He had reached out a hand as if to touch my shoulder, but I batted it away. "You can't know she's dead. How do you know?"

He looked regretful. "No," he said gently, "no, we can't know… but it doesn't look good. There was a lot of blood, and she would have likely contacted police or sought help somewhere, considering her injuries. The only reason she wouldn't is because she can't."

"Well, what about abduction? What are the people in Egypt doing?"

"They're conducting an investigation there. We're doing the same here. We're looking—" He cut himself off, and my gaze sharpened.

"What aren't you telling me?" I asked immediately.

He seemed to be having difficulty holding my stare. After a second, looking at his hands, he asked, "Miss Quinzel, did she ever mention a Doctor Jason Woodrue?"

I could feel my eyes growing wider. "Y-yes. He was her boss. Why?"

"Did she ever sound… intimidated by him? Afraid?"

I ground my teeth together so tightly that my jaw cracked and growled, "Why?"

He suddenly looked unsure, as though he shouldn't have brought this up, but he knew that I would have this information from him sooner or later. Hesitantly, he said, "Woodrue… a man fitting his description is on camera as buying a ticket back to Gotham City that same night—this was two days before they were meant to return. He's… the primary suspect. That's why we're here; we thought he may have come to her apartment in an attempt to… set it up to make her disappearance look like something it wasn't."

And just like that, all temptation to cry vanished completely. My breathing leveled out. I curled my hands into loose fists and put them in my pockets. "He killed her?" I asked calmly.

"I'm not allowed to say that," he said quickly. "But… he's the suspect we're pursuing, and considering the fact that he hasn't checked in with work and fled Egypt so abruptly… I don't know what to tell you, Miss Quinzel, other than that we're doing the best we can to find him and hope we can get some closure on this issue."

I stared at him in silence, long enough that he began to get a little twitchy. "Um," he said, "I, uh… I understand how difficult this must be for you to hear. The station keeps the contact information for a few grief counselors. If you need it—"

I laughed. It burst out of me, sudden and loud, and he actually took a step back, recoiling from the unexpected response. "I'm sorry," I said, trying hard to restrain the sudden giggling fit, failing, "I—it's just… I'm a shrink, myself."

"Oh," he said, struggling to sound polite, but I could read his expression as clear as day—lady, I feel sorry for your patients.

I laughed once more, and then suddenly found the self-control I had been looking for and pulled it all back, leaving my face clear and calm. The young officer had really been quite helpful, so I tried to catch his eye, but gave up when he seemed to be trying to look anywhere but at me. "Thank you very much for your assistance," I said politely.

He opened his mouth, glanced at my face, then closed his mouth again and just nodded tightly. I got the feeling that words defied him at the moment, and that was fine with me. I walked past him, hit the stairs, and went straight to my car.

On that ride home, I realized that as of now, I had lost everything that had been important to me three months ago. My work? Why bother? Should I really waste my energy counseling men like Woodrue, men who killed and maimed beautiful women like Pam?

I was convinced it had to be Woodrue, and not just because of his suspicious behavior. His motive was spotless, after all. Woodrue was jealous. Pam was in his exact field, and judging from what I'd heard her say, her brilliance surpassed his by a long shot. Where he was a brooding, boring incompetent, she was a beautiful, glowing, genius of a young woman. Surely he could see that she would soon outstrip him, posed a threat to his job. Surely he could see how he would benefit from eliminating the threat.

It was powerful evidence of his insecurity, his greed, and it disgusted me.

And as I drove, I found myself comparing him to the Joker.

The Joker killed to create a balance. He killed to achieve something. He had no personal stake in it, no real reason to live, no reason to die. He was neither greedy nor altruistic. He simply did because it was him.

The difference between the two grew starker and starker until I realized where my allegiance must lie. I couldn't keep coming to the defense and aid of these men like Woodrue, these selfish criminals who killed in an attempt to validate some weaselly need for power, to rid themselves of perceived threats, who after their "rehabilitation" would be released to kill again.

If I was honest with myself, what the Joker did had always made far more sense to me. He killed, true. He killed people like Pam. He also killed people like Woodrue. He did so with no purpose. He did so not out of spite or any vindictive personal reason.

He was fair. The perfect executioner.

Killers must exist. The world would never be perfect. If killers must exist, then I would far rather have the Joker than murderers like that bastard Woodrue, or like Ortega or Victor Zsaz.

I needed to find him.

Oh, I needed to find him. I needed to tell him he was right. I needed to tell him I understood, that he was a force of nature, that I would work to keep him away from prisons like Arkham. That I would help him.

The Joker would kill people like Pam, innocent people who had a big chance of being killed by the resident psycho in their lives anyway—but he would also kill people like Woodrue, who would otherwise fall into the hands of the far-too-lenient legal system and get a slap on the wrist before being released back into the midst of the innocents. Keeping him out there evened the odds for the innocents, who without him would have to fear the unchecked masses of greed-mongering murderers.

I saw now. I saw everything perfectly clearly.

My eyes were open.

I awoke suddenly.

I was disoriented at first—for the second night in a row, I didn't remember returning to my apartment, let alone getting in bed. I sat up, and as a headache struck, wound my hand into my hair and tried to remember.

After a few seconds, my memory returned. Nothing had happened on the way home—I simply remembered getting to the apartment and feeling exhausted by all the emotional turmoil. The headache, I attributed to the irregularity of my sleeping schedule, if not all the pushing around my body had been subject to lately.

I looked over at the clock—eleven PM. I'd be exhausted by the middle of my shift, since it would be impossible for me to get back to sleep now, but that didn't matter. Now that I was somewhat refreshed, albeit groggy, my priorities sorted themselves out and one rose very clearly to the top of the list.

I had to find him.

I put on some coffee and went to my computer, pulling up a browser. The first place to start would be the website for The Gotham Times. If he had reintroduced himself to public life, they would have something on it. I pulled it up and entered a search for The Joker.

I found numerous articles about his escape, several full of bald-faced fabrications that had me laughing aloud as I scrolled through them. There were one or two about attacks the previous day that may or may not be related to him, but there was no tangible proof. Everyone was on hyper-alert, every car that went missing, every mystery homicide was being attributed to him, so I discarded them impatiently.

I searched other Gotham-based news websites, resorting even to a few gossip rags that were full of clearly made-up trash. I burst into giggles after happening upon an article about Batman and the Joker's "SECRET and NAUGHTY ROOFTOP RENDEZVOUS." It would be quite something if that angry tension between them was a result of pent-up sexual attraction, sure, but I just didn't see it. Anyway, I was forming several designs on the Joker, myself. It would have been unfortunate indeed if Batman was hot for him.

After scanning more websites, branching out to the surrounding counties of Gotham to hunt for news of break-ins in growing desperation, I finally sat back, disgruntled. There was nothing—but then again, I hadn't exactly expected him to jump right back into the swing of things. He'd probably need time to get oriented.

As I sat there, chewing a lip in frustration, thinking over past conversations that we'd have that might give some hint to his motives once he was out of Arkham, something came to me.

Banbury Cross.

It could mean nothing. It could mean only what I had interpreted it to mean in the beginning; just a reference to an old nursery rhyme meant to divert me temporarily. However, from my time with the Joker I deduced that he never said anything without purpose (whether that purpose was to lead his audience to wild and false assumptions, though, was one for the jury). Everything was intentional with him, measured out carefully.

So, following the hunch, I went to Google and typed in "Banbury Cross Gotham City".

There was no Banbury Cross.

There was, however, a Banbury Crossing, a train stop in Old Gotham. I found a map of the stations, and then a more detailed map of Old Gotham that detailed Banbury Crossing. It was mainly a commercial area, but there was an apartment building nearby.

It couldn't be a coincidence. It had to be my ticket to finding him.

I brushed my teeth and hair and changed from the now-wrinkled work skirt that I'd fallen asleep in into some tight jeans. I grabbed my purse and keys and headed for the door, but at the last minute I turned around and went into the kitchen.

My father had given me a really nice knife set when I had moved out to go to college. It was a thoughtful gift, and I had taken care to keep them razor-sharp. I took the chef's knife out now and wrapped it in a thin washcloth before pushing it into my purse. You never knew.

I went to my car and started driving. It took some time, but I was sharp from the hours of sleep I'd gotten and there wasn't much traffic. I made it to my destination without incident.

I realized as I pulled into the parking lot for the apartment building that the whole thing was condemned. Oh, boy. I fumbled in my glove compartment for a flashlight, started panicking when I couldn't find one, and then discovered a small light in my center console. It was insufficient, but it would have to do. There were rotting barriers blocking the building off, but I climbed over them easily.

The door had been long ago kicked in by junkies, and so it provided no trouble. I began to get a sinking feeling at the ease of the whole operation—surely he wouldn't be in a place so easily accessible.

The inside of the building had the stale scent that came from contained air being too still for too long. My heart sank. There was no way anyone lived here—I doubted that anyone had even stepped inside in a very long time. It was too still. However, I was determined. I hadn't come here for nothing. "Banbury Cross" was the only discernible hint that the Joker had given me. The building was only three stories high and the hallways weren't particularly long. I started trying doors.

Many of them were locked. Many of them had been kicked or broken down. There was evidence that squatters had hidden out in many of the rooms, but I wasn't unfortunate enough to happen upon any.

In the very last room I tried, I found something. The door was unlocked, as supposed to beaten down, and swung open easily. I stepped in dubiously, and found that this room smelled… different, somehow. Newer. It didn't make sense, but there it was.

In the very back corner I saw a spot of white, and I advanced carefully, making sure I didn't trip over any hidden gifts—I wouldn't put it past him to booby trap the place just for shits and giggles.

It was a playing card. More than that, there was a queen of hearts clearly displayed on the front. I flipped it over, looking for something written on it, but there was nothing.

I sighed, frustrated, and tucked it into my pocket. Maybe he'd left something on it that I wasn't seeing. I wasn't willing to believe that it was a coincidence, not in this circumstance. There was a reason he'd led me here, and there was a reason I had picked up the card.

It irritated me a little, though, that he'd hid it on the third floor, in the very last room on the right. He must have found the idea amusing. I should known better than to look at the beginning—I should have started with this room and worked my way backwards.

No use crying over lost time. I went back to my car and drove home, my mind burning the entire way.

The instant I got to work that morning, I was confronted by Dr. Laurence. His forehead was knit in confusion as he came down the hall at me. "Quinzel! Are you all right?" I frowned as I realized how strange my name sounded coming from his mouth. Most people just called me Harley nowadays.

"Of course," I said, shooting him a wary, don't-spook-the-crazy smile. "Why shouldn't I be?"

He mimicked my look almost perfectly, sans smile. "I… um, I heard about your friend. Dr. Isley. I'm really sorry."

My smile stayed frozen on my face as pain lanced through my heart. I hadn't been thinking about Pam—I'd been focusing my efforts on finding my escaped patient. I didn't want to think about Pam, about the fact that she was gone. "So am I. But people die. You have to build up a callus to it or you'll spend most of your time crumpled up and crying, right?"

"Um… I know it's been hectic, but even so, you know you don't have to be here today, right?"

I raised my eyebrows. "I've missed enough work lately as it is. Thanks, Laurence, but I'll be fine." I turned and walked away, heading to a session with the cat-killer.

Predictably, as soon as I got out, Wilson was there waiting for me. Abruptly, he said, "Follow me," and turned around, heading for his office.

Laurence is such a tattletale, I thought, unable to summon up any worry. After yesterday, work just wasn't a priority anymore. I followed Wilson to his office and sat when told, crossing my arms and waiting patiently for him to tell me what I already knew.

Wilson stared down at me for a moment and then asked, "Harley, why are you here?" Oh, great. Now I was having flashbacks to high school.

"Well, David, I work here," I said softly. I fought the urge to lay on even more sarcasm because he looked pretty angry. Best not to push him too far.

"Obviously, but your best friend just went missing," he said bluntly. "In addition to what happened with the Joker the other night, I'd say that you deserve a few days to yourself. Frankly, I'm stunned that you're here."

"Work keeps me busy," I said simply.

"Yes, busy avoiding dealing with the emotional trauma you've experienced," he said flatly. "Avoiding the issue is easy but unhealthy, and Harley, you've been taking that unhealthy road more and more lately. I'm worried."

"I know you're worried," I said in a dull monotone, already extremely bored with this discussion. "You don't need to be—I've already agreed to undergo your therapy; what else do you want?"

"I'd like if you started exhibiting some more normal behavior," he said, leaning back against his desk.

"Define normal."

"Taking a day off, for one," he said, stretching his hand out towards the door in frustration. "Crying when you've dealt with serious issues—being thrown off the roof, for instance, or losing your best friend. Talking to people you care about. Dropping this new sarcastic attitude—it's not you, Harley, and it's just more evidence that you're not well"

I looked up at him then, keeping my face blank, totally unassuming. "Okay. You're the doctor. Fix me."

He stared at me for a long time after I said that. Finally, he said, "You sound like him."

I arched an eyebrow at him. "I don't remember him ever saying that."

"Not the words. The tone. You just… you sounded like him." When I didn't reply, he sighed heavily, as though the weight of the world was suddenly settling onto his shoulders. "I want nothing more than to help you here, Harley. But I can't… fix you. That's something you have to start yourself, and I can help you along the way if you decide to help me."

I said nothing. I figured playing the role of the petulant child was a perfectly appropriate response. "Go home," Wilson said abruptly, straightening up and heading for the door. "I'll call you soon. Maybe we can sort some things out—but not here. I don't want you around patients right now."

I got up and slipped wordlessly past him out into the hallway. I was walking away when he called after me. "You're changing, Harley."

You have no idea.

"Maybe you can stop yourself before it's too late," he finished.

I didn't turn around. I kept walking. How could I tell him that I didn't want to stop? How could I tell him that I was grasping at this change with both hands, hunting after the Joker like a junkie after a fix? No, that's not right—like an agnostic seeking a savior.

I couldn't. There was no way to explain to him the truth—that the Joker had become my one chance for survival in this city.