A/N SUMMER IS HERE! And I have the best summer job EVER, where I actually have time to write and read at work! Therefore, I am committing to writing at least 100 pages on this story this summer. I'm not sure how far it will take us, but it will be a long ways from where we currently are.

In other exciting news, say goodbye to bewildering sentence constructions and hello to my fabulous new beta, JadedofMara. Her work on this chapter was excellent, and I look forward to continuing to work with her.

A small note on the plot: I rearranged some of the events in Chapter 8 of this story. You don't have to reread it, just know that Richard's interview with Fox happens on Thursday (rather than Friday) and the soccer game where he bangs up his face now happens on Friday (rather than Thursday).

Also, thank you to those reviewers who have mentioned to me that the scene changes were not indicated. I finally figured out that this site no longer recognizes the lines of dashes that I used to use for dividers, so I'm having to re-upload everything and use their edit function so I can put in their approved lines. It is a PAIN, but I have so far fixed The Nestling, Monkey See, and the previous chapters of this story. Toward a Dark Horizon with its many, many chapters and many, many, MANY scene changes still awaits me.

Disclaimer See Chapter 1.

Chapter 9

… It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

-Elizabeth Bishop

Richard ducked beneath Bruce's fist and delivered a kick to the back of his left knee, then danced away. Bruce stumbled but swung into the momentum to regain his balance. Soaked with sweat from their heavy sparring, the two separated, circling warily. "Ready to call it quits?" Bruce asked, his breathing slightly quicker than normal.

Richard grinned. "What's the matter, old man? Can't keep …" He broke off with a grunt as Bruce tackled him around the waist and carried them both to the floor.

"You talk too much," Bruce accused, holding his ward immobile. "Never underestimate the old men."

Rick struggled uselessly against the iron grip. "All right, all right, I'm sorry I called you old. I've learned my lesson." He again attempted to free himself, but only hit his face against the mats and groaned in real pain.

Bruce released him and stood up. "You really did a number on yourself."

"Yeah, well, you know, I got involved in the game and forgot to pay attention to the ice."

"Not paying attention can get you killed."

"I know, I know." Rick snatched a towel off the top of the stack and dabbed his face. "Aw man, it's bleeding. If Alfred sees this he's not going to let me go out tonight. Again." The butler had elaborated forcefully on the dangers inherent in playing sidekick while bleeding from the face, canceling Rick's Friday night activities.

"Are you sure you're keeping your extra-curricular image and your P.E. image consistent?"

"Geez, Bruce, I'm not an idiot. And this face isn't exactly going to impress anyone."

"You can say that again. Try to avoid the photographers with that, would you? I can just imagine the weird rumors they're dying to start."

"I'm trying! But it's not easy when they lie in wait outside the school every afternoon. They even have student accomplices."

"Let me guess. It's a girl."

"Amanda. She's driving me crazy."

"Is she pretty?"

"She thinks. Any advice?"

"Tell her she's a pain in the ass. It usually works for me."

"Yeah. After they bludgeon you with the closest blunt object."

"It's worth every bruise," Bruce promised. "Quick and effective … kind of like Alka-Seltzer."

Rick sighed. "I'll think about it."

"How's the homework coming?"

The boy rolled his eyes eloquently. "Done. I didn't exactly have anything else to do last night."

"You could have always called Amanda. Ouch!" He winced as Richard jabbed him beneath the ribs.

Later that night, Rick stood patiently as Alfred smeared dark grease paint over the thin bandage that now concealed his bruises. The butler was frowning as he worked, still uncertain that the boy was ready to go out, but, to Rick's relief, he remained silent. If anyone had a chance of talking Bruce out of something, it was Alfred.

His makeup job finished, Rick grabbed his cowl and slipped it on, trying not to jar his bandage. He felt guilty over misleading Bruce and Alfred about his injuries; technically he had told nothing but the truth, but he had let them think the infamous soccer game occurred at school. He wasn't even sure why he wanted to keep his new friendship a secret, except that there was a curious relief in being in a place where he wasn't Bruce Wayne's ward, or Robin, or a math genius. He was just Rick, who was pretty good at soccer, and he couldn't help feeling that if anyone else knew about it, it wouldn't be the same.

"Let's go," Batman ordered, and Rick pushed the confusing thoughts away and focused only on tonight, where he was right now, slipping out of Richard's Grayson's mind and into Robin's as easily as he changed into his armor.

"Just surveillance tonight?" he asked, as they drove away from the caverns, not in the Tumbler but in something more discreet.

"Unless we get lucky. She might be there."

They were headed for the North Shore Casino, which was hosting another party, this one to apologize for the unpleasantness on New Year's. Bruce Wayne had turned down his invitation, despite a personal call from the owner, as had several other important guests, and it was clear that the casino must be getting worried. The New Year's fiasco on top of the imminent reopening of the competition meant it was likely Gotham would take its gaming across town, at least for a while. But when your income was in the millions every night, a "while" meant inconceivable profit loss.

Batman's guess was that the cat woman wouldn't be able to resist the lure of hitting the casino a second time. The very nature of the event as well as the increased security was practically a personal challenge to her ingenuity. However, even if he had guessed right, actually catching her coming out of the enormous edifice was unlikely, since they had no idea of how she'd entered or exited the last time. Still, she seemed to like rooftops, and planning an evening of quiet surveillance had pacified Alfred.

Batman had chosen two likely rooftop exit routes that had lines of sight on each other and good surveillance of the casino proper. The silent watchers settled on neighboring buildings, waiting and listening to the traffic of the nightlife below them. Just before midnight, Batman got up to investigate a ruckus in the alley below. Robin remained in position, scanning the rooftops.

Across the city, the bells of the cathedral began to toll midnight, and Robin absently counted the strokes, shrugging more deeply into his cloak. These long winter vigils got cold. The bells ceased, and he again swept his field of vision, watching for the wrongly shaped shadow—and there it was. An almost imperceptible figure glided toward him through the murky night. Raising his radio link, Robin breathed, "She's here," although he knew there would be no time for help to arrive. This one was his.

Tensed and ready to spring, he waited as she leapt lightly over the narrow divide that separated the two buildings and ran straight toward him. He remained motionless, hoping she would not see him, and then, as she swept by like a dark breeze, he sprang. His fingers closed on slick material and then slipped as she twisted gracefully away, hardly breaking her stride. He pelted after her, and she was fast, but he was fast too, faster than the Batman, even.

He closed the gap when she made the mistake of clambering into the structure of billboard, running beneath and all but flying up the other side to cut off her escape. They faced each other balanced on top of the thousand times magnified face of the actress Bruce Wayne had escorted to a party last week, a fifty story drop on one side.

"Well," she murmured, "the cat and the Robin are up in a tree. How will this end, do you think? Fly away little bird, before you get your tail feathers plucked."

Below them, he saw the dark form of Batman closing in. A moment of distraction and they would have her. "Are you going to do the plucking?" he asked suggestively, edging toward her. "I could be down with that."

She hissed in surprise or amusement, and danced back, apparently unaware of the dark pursuer below her. "Don't flirt with more than you can handle, fledgling."

Batman aimed his grapple gun up for a quick ascent, a shot exploded, and Robin felt a mighty blow hammer into his chest. But the gun is silent, he thought, as he fell over the edge.

Trevor and Barbara had a reputation as the couple who went to the late show, but they had never actually been to one. So although Barbara had told her father she was going to the eleven o'clock showing of a new horror flick, she didn't actually know what she would be doing, until Trevor picked her up on Saturday night.

"Where are we going?" she asked. "And why?"

"I got a tip that if we hang around the casino tonight, we might see something interesting."

"To do with our case?"

He shrugged. "Who knows?"

"Where'd you get the tip?"

"Wolfe," he answered promptly. A little too promptly.

Barbara's eyes narrowed as she examined his profile, periodically illuminated by the passing streetlights. Trevor was an excellent liar, but over the years she'd learned the signs that gave him away. He was lying now.

She transferred her gaze to the window and tried to figure out why. Trevor lied to her regularly, but usually it was about something in his personal life he didn't want her to know about, and thought he could get away with, as though she were blind as a bat. Not that the bats in this town had vision problems.

But he almost never lied to her about work, and when he did, it meant they were about to land in deep trouble. Barbara's stomach tensed, but she fought to keep her posture relaxed, not wanting Trevor to guess she was on to him. She would have to stay extra alert tonight, ready for whatever was coming at her. She trusted her partner, except when he lied to her.

Trevor drove confidently and swung them into a church parking lot, two blocks from the casino. He picked up a backpack and silently led the way to a nearby office complex, where he picked the lock to a side entrance. She assumed he had already bribed a watchman to disable the alarm.

"I thought we were staking out the casino," she hissed as they slipped inside.

"We are. But not from the ground."

Half an hour and forty flights of stairs later, even Trevor couldn't talk without gasping. They entered a deserted office and settled in front of the window, which offered a sweeping view of the casino's roof, two stories below. Barbara fought to calm her breathing, which sounded thunderous in the darkness, and accepted the high powered night-vision binoculars Trevor handed her.

They sat silent and motionless for an hour, watching the rooftops through their lenses. As the bells across the city began to strike midnight, Barbara dropped her glasses and rubbed her eyes wearily. The only thing moving was snow in the wind, and her vision was beginning to play tricks on her.

"I have to be home in an hour," she reminded, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the window sill.

"I know," Trevor muttered, leaning across her to grab his backpack. He let his arm linger over her shoulders.

"Trevor," she muttered warningly, and suddenly jerked upright. "Look!"

"Where?" he snapped, ramming his own glasses to his eyes.

"To the west. It's …"

"Robin and Batman," he breathed, as he focused in on the chase. "But who is she?"

"I bet she's the burglar who robbed the casino before," Barbara answered, tension making her voice high and taut.

Batman was considerably behind, and she focused on the lead figures as they sped across the rooftops, moving so lightly and gracefully they barely seemed to touch the roofs at all. Half a minute and they disappeared behind a large billboard, then reappeared on top of it. Barbara's grip was white knuckled on the glasses as she twisted them up to the highest resolution, straining to see the details of the stand off. Robin's face was toward her, and she saw his mouth move as he spoke, saw him dance forward along the narrow edge of the board. And then he jerked, his mouth open in surprise, and fell slowly, gracefully, over the edge.

Barbara's heart stopped, and she clenched the glasses so hard she thought they might shatter, as she waited for him to reappear. But he didn't. Where's Batman? she thought frantically, but he was gone, as was, she suddenly realized, the cat burglar. The rooftops were again deserted. Slowly, she lowered her binoculars and looked over at Trevor. His face was white in the dim light, and he looked as shocked as she felt.

"Someone shot him," Barbara said blankly. Then she sprang from her chair and ran to the door. "We have to help!"

"Barbara, wait!" Trevor called behind her, but she was already pounding down the hall to the stairs. He caught up with her ten flights down, and they exited the building together. Barbara started to run toward the casino, but Trevor caught her shoulder. "Barbara, I don't think there's anything we can do."

"We have to try," she said tightly. "Stop wasting time."

He started to shake his head, then grabbed her hand. "Come on."

They raced down the apparently deserted street together, past the glimmering front of hotels, past the blazing neon lights of the casino, until they stood beneath the billboard, so high they could only glimpse it when they looked straight up. "This way." Barbara darted into a dark gap between the buildings and stopped short. There was a dumpster and a stack of crates, but it was obvious the alley was deserted. Barbara stared around, feeling dazed, trying to understand. "He should have fallen here."

Trevor pulled out a light and went to check behind the dumpster, while Barbara continued to stare helplessly into the shadows. Feeling a sudden creeping feeling on the back of her neck, she jerked around and looked up wildly, but all she saw were shadows.

"There's nothing here," Trevor said, coming back.

"He has to be here," she insisted.

"He's not. Maybe he caught himself on the way down."

"But somebody shot him!"

"I know. Barbara, we have to go." He picked up her hand again, and she reluctantly let him lead her, but she couldn't help looking back one more time as they left.

Halfway home, she started shaking so hard her teeth chattered. Trevor swung the car into an empty lot and parked, then pulled her into his arms. Gratefully, she buried her face against his chest and wept.

He saw the shot explode against Richard's chest, saw him arc backwards and fall. In that moment he was frozen, filled with a dark sense of inevitable doom, and then instinct took over and he hurtled forward, knowing all the time that he would be too late. He crouched at the edge of the roof, poised to dive downward, and checked. Catwoman dangled a few feet below the edge, one hand impossibly gripping the wall, the other latched around Richard's arm. Robin, he corrected himself at last, as he swung down beside them. Robin's arm.

The moment Batman grabbed onto his sidekick, she jerked her hand out of the wall with a piercing rasp of metal on concrete and dropped. He distantly registered the metallic boom as a fire escape broke her fall partway down, but his attention was on Robin, who suddenly gasped and grabbed the cable. "I'm ok," he wheezed, shifting to take his own weight, then unhooking his own grapple gun so that they hung on separate cables.

Batman reached over and ran his gloved fingers over a set of fresh grooves, where something had cut through the concrete like butter. Claw marks. The weight of two falling bodies must have put incredible pressure on whatever device she used to stop and hold them, and he carefully probed the crevice at the bottom of the grooves. There. The shard of metal was embedded too firmly to be removed with his fingers, so he unhooked a tiny pair of pliers from his belt and twisted it free, removing another chunk of concrete in the process. Securing both pliers and evidence, he turned to his partner. "Let's go."

-break-

Sub-Saharan Africa, 11 years previously

Bruce lifted the body, laying his fingers on its neck to double check that the pulse had, indeed, stopped. Then he began methodically to strip the few pitiful garments it wore before dropping it back to the ground. You had to think of them as it, or else the enormity of the desecration made your eyes blur and your fingers stiffen so that you could not be efficient. And if you weren't efficient, then somebody else would beat you to the prize.

Later that night, he added his bundle of rags—you couldn't really call it clothing—to the growing pile and settled into his usual corner of the hut. His companions sidled away, casting him dark, suspicious glances. They could not trust him because he was white. They tolerated him because he was big and had a long knife tucked beneath his belt, and he could scare other scavengers away from their territory.

He had been here almost a week, and he was more than ready to move on. This, he felt, was finally the utter bottom of the criminal underworld—those who preyed on the dead to continue their own living death, in a place where rags assumed monumental importance because there was literally nothing else. Unless, of course, you joined one of the militias where they would give you bullets, but not food. Even the despair had a starved quality here. But there was no mystery, nothing more to be learned. He had to escape before he gave in and became one of the living dead himself. He would stay one more day.

The next day was Monday, and instead of going out, the three of them gathered around a chipped plastic tub with a few inches of water in the bottom. They had to wash the clothes, the other two men explained, to rid them of disease and the evil spirits that might cling after violent death. Bruce watched them frantically scrubbing the cloth in the filthy water and wondered what they were really trying to wash away ...

Alfred gently pushed open the doorway of the master bedroom and sighed when he saw the stripped bed. Water sloshed in the bathroom, and through the open door he could see Bruce bent over the tub, intently washing his sheets. Sighing again, the butler went in search of fresh linen and remade the bed before attempting to persuade his unconscious employer back into it.

These sleep walking episodes, which had begun shortly after Richard's initiation into the world of Batman, had become a regular event at the Manor, recurring whenever something happened to severely upset Bruce, usually involving his ward. And although a few wet sheets were harmless enough, they worried Alfred deeply, perhaps because Bruce himself would remember nothing about the incident in the morning. If his inward distress could produce these physical manifestations so completely beyond his control, then Alfred was worried about what might be next.

With his employer and one time ward safely back in bed, Alfred went down to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He supposed that he should be grateful Bruce was sleeping at all, instead of down in the caves, where he had spent the night before and most of the day.

The kettle whistled and Alfred steeped his leaves, then, cup in hand, allowed his wandering footsteps to take him to the study and down the lift. In the caves, he flipped the switch that flooded them with light, causing an unwary bat to shriek in surprise and flutter uneasily before retreating into the deep shadows above the lights.

"Robin's been shot," Bruce had said matter-of-factly, pulling off his cowl, and Alfred could still feel the icy horror that had filled his chest at the words. Bruce never called Richard 'Robin,' but Alfred didn't realize the significance of that until later.

Then the boy climbed out under his own power and said calmly, "The suit stopped it."

It had, barely. The large caliber shot had punched through all but a hair thin layer of Kevlar. They had recovered the bullet, and Bruce had begun to process it while Alfred examined the black bruise that covered half of Richard's chest and made sure no ribs had been cracked. While Alfred worked, the other two carried on a conversation about whether the shooter had been waiting in ambush, or whether some nut with a rifle had gotten lucky.

"Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it was meant for her," Richard had suggested. "How would anyone know we were going to be there?"

"Maybe someone knew we would go after her."

"Why do you think she dove after me?"

"Even a jewel thief can have a good heart," Bruce had responded jokingly, and Alfred thought he would scream with frustration that neither of them acknowledged what made his own hands tremble even though Richard was safe. But he knew how hard Bruce worked to conceal his emotional turmoil from his ward, and so he had held his own frustration in check, ordering Richard to bed in only slightly firmer tones than usual and tucking him in with ice packs and aspirin.

Alfred had returned downstairs, expecting to find Bruce's cool demeanor replaced with the frantic worry he must be feeling. Maybe he would even be physically sick as sometimes happened when Richard's safety slipped from his control. But Bruce had been still sitting in front of the microscope, peering into it intently while the computer ran digital images of the bullet through the police databases to see if they contained a match.

"The cat lost a claw tonight," he said calmly, when Alfred appeared. "I think it's a titanium alloy, something I've never seen before. We may have to turn it over to Fox." He had pushed the microscope toward Alfred, who refused to bend over it but pinned his eyes on the other man.

"Master Wayne …"

The look Bruce turned on him had been detached, perhaps a little impatient, and Alfred suddenly realized that although Richard had been the one shot, it was Bruce Wayne who had failed to return home.

So neither of them had gone to bed, because Batman never went to bed, and Alfred could not bear to let him sit alone. They worked to figure the position of the shooter and to identify the titanium claw. Richard came down the next day and jimmied with their math, apparently not recognizing anything out of the ordinary as he cheerfully worked to place the gun that had almost killed him. He had disappeared upstairs after a while, claiming a school project, leaving the two downstairs wrapped in silence, until his voice unexpectedly sounded over the intercom. "Hey Bruce, there's a chick on the phone. I told her you weren't available, but she thinks you'll talk to her anyway. Her name's Selina."

It was with both relief and uneasiness that Alfred saw Bruce's expression relax into something human for the first time since he had come home. "I'll take it in the study."

Lex Luthor was idly running over the keys of the grand piano in one of the lounges in his newly refinished casino, enjoying a peaceful Sunday afternoon, when a rich whiff of perfume warned him he was no longer alone. "Hello, Selina."

"Hello, Lex." She slipped onto the bench beside him and lightly covered one of his hands with her own, forcing him to stop playing.

"Shall we do a duet for the opening night? It'll be a hit," he promised.

"I don't play."

Her undertone of seriousness caused him to look at her curiously. "Why do I get the feeling we aren't talking about the piano anymore?"

She gently stroked the length of his long, pale fingers. "Lex, when you decided to acquire this place, you told me that there were … special problems that came along with it. You asked me to take care of those problems, and I said that I would. But only if you let me do it my way." Her sharp nails suddenly dug into the soft web of skin between his fingers. "You interfered last night, and you did it very crudely and unimaginatively. In fact, you nearly lost me the game."

He didn't flinch but regarded her calmly. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

She leaned over so that her shoulder pressed against his as she looked into his eyes. "You don't own the world yet, Mr. Luthor, so let me do what you pay me to do. It's safer that way."

"I'll try to remember that." She smiled and lifted her hand. He resumed playing, and she stood to go. "Selina."

"Yes?"

"Call your tame billionaire and make sure he's coming to the party. That defense contract isn't the only thing he's got that I want."

"Yes, Lex," she said sweetly.

He glanced at her sharply, but she only smiled and left. In the suite that had been assigned to her, she dropped gracefully into a chair and picked up the phone, dialed a number from memory.

"Hey," a boyish voice on the other end of the line answered.

"I'd like to speak to Bruce Wayne, please."

There was a momentary pause, and then the boy said in a bored tone, "He's not available."

"Tell him Selina Kyle is calling, and see if he's still unavailable."

There was a disgusted sigh on the other end of the line, and then she heard a clunk as he set the phone down. It was a full three minutes before there was the click of an extension transfer and Bruce's voice came over the line. "Selina?"

"So the elusive Mr. Wayne is available after all."

"Well, you know how it is."

"I hope I didn't interrupt anything important."

"My Sunday afternoon nap is on top of the priority list." He yawned for effect.

"Bruce, you interrupted your beauty sleep for me? How flattering."

She could almost hear his smile in his voice. "I hope you're going to make it worth my while."

"I was just calling to ask if you would prefer a Jacuzzi or a full range of gaming systems in your hotel room."

"Hotel room?"

"Bruce. You promised you'd come to Lex's party next weekend. He'll be so disappointed if you don't."

"Yes, but will you be disappointed?"

"Jacuzzi or gaming systems, Mr. Wayne?"

"Which one is closer to your room?"

She laughed. "That shouldn't make any difference to you."

"I just want to make sure I have a friend in shouting distance. I hate being at a party where I don't know anyone."

"Let's say they're equally distant."

He sighed. "I also hate sitting in a Jacuzzi alone. Would you come sit in it with me?"

"I'll put you down for the gaming systems."

"That's cold, Selina, very cold."

"You won't have time to sit in a hot tub anyway. You'll be too busy losing millions to the house."

"How can I resist an invitation like that?" he asked sulkily, and then in an oddly plaintive tone he added, "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

"You sound tired. Sweet dreams, Bruce. I'll see you on Thursday."

"I'll dream about Thursday then," he said, and hung up.

Selina gently laid down the phone, an unconscious little smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

After Bruce had gone to answer the phone, Alfred waited a few minutes and went upstairs himself. Bruce was stretched full length on the leather sofa in the study, asleep, his hand resting on the cordless phone.

Richard checked his Bailey email account approximately sixty times before he finally found a message waiting from Barbara. It read simply, Monday 3:30-5. Thursday, same, if necessary. She hadn't even signed her name, but Rick read it repeatedly anyway, before he caught himself thinking it was a good sign she'd just put "if necessary" and not "only if necessary." He forced himself to log off and start reading ahead for English.

Monday morning had never looked so good, despite the fact that one side of his face was covered in scabs and turning yellow, and he couldn't draw a deep breath without twinges of pain. Amanda screeched with horror when she climbed on the bus, stopping in the aisle to coo with concern since Rick had adopted a new seatmate (one of the most devoted of Bailey's many serious students, who actually walked down the aisle and got off the bus without taking his eyes off his page). In fact, Rick managed to avoid Amanda all day, inviting himself into a new group at lunch. They received him readily and eagerly asked about his battered face. He amused the table by continually switching his story from a mugging to a riot to a mass prairie dog escape at the zoo, and by the end of the period felt that he'd taken an important step toward widening his circle of acquaintances. Despite a careful survey, he failed to spot David Stern anywhere in the cafeteria.

Rick's math strategy—keeping his head down and his mouth shut—was by now a well established pattern. He had also been getting perfect scores on his homework, so he wasn't certain why Ms. Simpkins still shot him the occasional sharp glance. After finishing his in class work for the day, he started creating his usual puzzle of the day for Alex and wiggled his eyebrows at Carmen Leo whenever she glanced in his direction. She still refused to look him in the eye when he said hi at the beginning of class, but apparently even ultra-shy Carmen couldn't resist the lure of massive bruising and abrasions. Rick actually thought he heard her giggle by the end of class and made one more face at her as he shoved his paper onto the stack and sent it down the row.

And, for the first time ever, Barbara voluntarily spoke to him. "What happened to you?" she asked, quirking her eyebrows as though she disbelieved what she saw.

Every one of Rick's funny lines evacuated his head. "I slipped," he said briefly, pulling out his Life Skills textbook and flipping open to the "Real Life Budgeting" chapter. Better anyway, he consoled himself as Barbara nodded disinterestedly and turned to fish in her bag for a pen. Keep it cool and don't look like you're trying too hard. Then he mentally slapped himself on the head, remembering that he was not supposed to be worrying about this.

As he had promised, Mr. Davis assigned their first partners project—creating a real life budget ("Good to know you're working with the text, Mr. D.!" Zorello called from the back when he got the assignment sheet). Barbara's lip curled in distaste as she scanned the details of the project, and Rick had to agree that it sounded a little cheesy. But anything that gave him an hour and a half of one-on-one time with Barbara automatically made it onto his list of top ten favorite activities.

Keep it cool, he reminded himself again at the end of class. "See you at three-thirty, then?" he asked Barbara as she stood and swung her bag over her shoulder.

She nodded. "In the library."

Alfred had forged a doctor's note, excusing Rick from gym for a week because of his "soccer" accident, to keep his bullet-inflicted bruise hidden from the locker room eyes until it had a chance to heal a little. He had to sit on the edge of the court and take notes as his fellow students ran through basketball drills. After class, he handed his notes to the coach and took off for the door as fast as he could without looking like someone who should not be excused from gym, but Hal caught him before he could escape.

"Where's the fire?"

Rick glanced around to make certain the Tren was nowhere in sight and whispered, "Life Skills study session."

Hal assumed a knowing look. "Don't worry, I saw him leave already. Don't let her make you do all the work, ok?"

Rick opened his mouth to indignantly defend Barbara's work ethic, and suddenly realized he actually knew nothing about it. Maybe she was the type to let her partner do all the work, although he thought it was more likely she wouldn't let him do anything at all for fear of wrecking their grade. He shut his mouth without saying anything, but continued to think as he left the gym and headed for the library. It amazed him to realize how very little he knew about Barbara Gordon. Some people, Amanda for instance, wore everything that was inside on the outside. But Barbara, and David, he thought as he caught a glimpse of the guy swinging down the maintenance hallway, were more like safes—you had to know the combination before you could get in. He hesitated as he passed the hall entrance, betting that David was on his way to his secret lair in the basement, but there was no way he could both check on that and be on time to meet Barbara. Bruce says keep school work first, he thought righteously, and kept going.

Barbara was already settled at a table near the computers, her textbook and class notes out, along with the assignment sheet. "I've divided up the work," she said shortly, pushing a piece of notebook paper toward him before he had even pulled out a chair. "I've also divided our income into the percentages suggested by the book, so start looking for apartments between these figures."

He had hoped they would spend a few minutes talking over the assignment, maybe complaining about its stupidity, but Barbara seemed tense. She was paler than usual and had shadows beneath her eyes, which, of course, only emphasized their brilliant green. Maybe she and the Tren had a fight, he thought hopefully, and then mentally slapped himself. In your dreams. Get to work, Grayson.

Logging in to his student account on one of the computers, he began looking up the Web sites listed on the assignment sheet. The sound of rattling paper caught his attention, and he glanced over at the printer with new interest. There were two identical ones by the student computers and another by the circulation desk. The same machines adorned every classroom and the administrative offices. The one with the defective 'e', however, was one of these two—accessible to every student, faculty, and staff. It didn't serve to narrow down the police's field of suspects, but it did help, Rick found, to have a physical point of reference for the elusive killer. He was here. He comes here regularly. He picks paper up from that machine.

"Richard Grayson."

Rick cringed as his math teacher's sharp voice sounded behind him. "Hey, Miss Simpkins," he said uncertainly, craning his neck to look up at her.

"May I have a word with you?" she asked in a tone that made it clear the question was not a request.

"Uh, sure." Rick shoved back from the computer and stood to follow her over to a deserted corner. He caught sight of Barbara scowling at him and writhed with embarrassment.

"Richard, would you kindly tell me what this is?" Ms. Simpkins pulled a piece of paper from the folder she held and handed it to him.

In dismay, Rick recognized the puzzle he had written during class that day. "Ms. Simpkins, I'm so sorry! I must have turned this in instead of my answers. They're probably in my bag …"

"I didn't ask you to explain how I got it," she interrupted. "I asked what it was."

"It's a game," he muttered, wondering if she could kick him out of the class for not turning in the work.

"A game?" she repeated dubiously.

"Yeah, you have to guess what picture these equations will make on a graph before plotting them out."

"Pictures. On a graph," she repeated.

"Well, you know. They're not exact pictures. Alex is pretty good a guessing though. It usually takes him about thirty seconds."

"And who is Alex?"

"My tutor. Alex Peaceable. He's in Colombia doing research, so I'm checking out the school to see if I like …" He trailed off as he realized her stare had changed from sharp to simply odd.

"You wouldn't, by any chance, mean the same Dr. Peaceable who just published on convex quadratic optimization in AOR, would you?"

Rick shrugged. "I think so. He hasn't worked on that stuff for a while, but it takes a long time for the journal to print the article. Did you read it?"

"I try to keep up with current research, although I admit much of it is beyond my reach. Richard, if you're studying under Dr. Peaceable, would you mind telling me why on earth you're in my class?" She sounded half dazed and half indignant.

"Bruce told them I had a tutor, but the school said I had to take a math class. So I guess that's why."

"Bruce told them you had a tutor," she echoed, shaking her head. "No wonder you were so confused that first day."

Ms. Simpkins seemed to think she had found an answer, but Rick felt like his confusion was only getting worse. He glanced back over to where Barbara was scribbling furiously in her notebook. "Uh, Ms. Simpkins, do you need to ask me any more questions? I kind of have a lot of studying to do."

She shook her head, still staring at him bemusedly. "No, except … May I keep this?" She reached for the puzzle and he relinquished the sheet.

"It's not a very good one," he said anxiously. "I mean, I could write a better one for you if you want …"

"Oh, no, this will be fine. Thank you, Richard."

Returning to his seat, Rick started speed typing to make up for lost time, pushing the incident out of his mind, since Ms. Simpkins didn't seem upset. By the time he'd compiled a list of possible apartments, Barbara had plotted out living expenses and insurance premiums. The librarian flicked the lights to let them know it was almost closing time, and Barbara abruptly shut her book and gathered her papers.

"Are we meeting Thursday?" Rick asked, without much hope.

"No, we got a lot done. I think we can work independently and finish up next Monday."

"See you later," Rick sighed at her departing back.

Gordon flipped onto his back and stared up at the dark ceiling of his room. If he turned on his light or got up to wander the house, Jane would catch him and scold him for not taking care of himself, then insist on fixing him hot milk. Gordon's mustache grimaced in revulsion, and he rolled back over onto his side. He was too worried to sleep.

In the first place, he was increasingly concerned about his daughter. When Barbara had come home from her Saturday night with Trevor, it was obvious she had been crying. Gordon had asked what was wrong and gotten a muffled "Nothing," as she brushed past him and hurried upstairs. His brief hope that she had broken up with Trevor was quashed Monday morning when he picked her up for school and hugged her tightly before she got in the car. But from the way she was dragging around the house, she was obviously upset about something, even if she wouldn't talk about it with her old dad. And then there was the shopping trip coming up on Friday. The Valentines' dance at Bailey was just under three weeks away, and Barbara wanted a new dress. Jane had promised to take her to the Gladelands Super Sale happening that Friday, but a emergency appendectomy in her bridge club had thrust her into hostess duties, leaving Gordon with the task of escorting his daughter, a task he was eager to deny Trevor but reluctant to take up himself because he hated sales at Gladelands. And so he had complained about it to Sarah, who promptly offered to take Barbara herself. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. His daughter had been less than thrilled when he broke the news to her, but he had offered to double whatever she was planning to spend on the dress, convinced that a little shopping time was what was needed to break the ice between Sarah and Barbara, but at one a.m., he wasn't so sure.

And then, of course, there were those problems at work. Between the cat burglar and the riddle murderer, the police department's image was taking a beating, and Loeb was breathing heavily down his neck. The commissioner wanted him to focus all forces on finding his granddaughter's killer, but the second casino robbery Saturday night had forced him to divide his strength. He knew the killer was out there, waiting to strike again. The only question was when. It had already been more than twice as long than time between the first two murders, and Gordon had begun to wonder if the psycho was waiting for another major holiday. I doubt he'll be able to pass up Valentine's Day. Barbara's going to the Valentine's dance at Bailey. The killer's connected to Bailey. Maybe he'll go to the dance. Maybe he'll kill Trevor. Maybe he'll kill Barbara. Maybe … Maybe … Maybe …

His cell phone rang, the old fashioned jangle cutting into his exhausted whirl of thought. Picking it up, he glanced at the caller ID. O'Hara. "Hello?"

"Hello, chief. Sorry for waking you up."

He paused and Gordon's stomach clenched. This isn't going to be good. "What's going on?"

"It's Commissioner Loeb, sir. He's been murdered. And there's another riddle."

To Be Continued

A/N Thank you for reading! Thank you for not hating me for being a graduate student and not writing much during the past year! (By the way, I am moving to Texas at the end of the summer to attend a really fabulous PhD program!) And now, since I'm sure you are all dying to get on with your review writing, I shall cease and desist with the promise to see you at a not very distant update!