Chapter 2

That same morning in late August, just a few hours after Carrolly Cooper became another statistic, Annabeth de Burgh awoke to an iron-grey sky, a torrent of rain, and a sense of impending doom. As she heaved herself out of her creaky old bed, she sighed inwardly—it was Monday. Most folks she knew would dread Mondays simply for it being the beginning of a long workweek, but not her. Mondays for Annabeth were sinister affairs, ushering in a new week's worth of heartbreak, fear, and misery. When she had first started her job, she had been energetic and hopeful at the beginning of the week...but it had not taken her long at all to learn to dread Mondays.

She had found little ways of coping—wearing her most professional and flattering work outfits, indulging in an overpriced, sugary coffee drink, meeting friends for dinner, delving into a good book after she returned home—but all of these were flimsy, shallow and trivial even, in the face of Annabeth's day at work. It was, to put it baldly, simply slapping lipstick on a pig—no matter what she did to dress it up, there was no disguising the truth of the matter: Monday was simply an ugly bitch.

As she went through the normal morning routines, she tried to pump herself up. It'll be a good day. Gulp down her first cup of coffee. Good things could happen today. Make the bed. Or at least maybe, somehow, just possibly horrible things won't happen today. Hop in the shower. Good people do exist. Lather, shampoo, rinse, condition, rinse again. Believe in the goodness of the world. Quickly dress in her Ralph Lauren suit, one of the thrift store finds of which she was rightly proud. Today we'll make a difference. Sit down at the table with her toast and fruit, unfold the paper, begin to read. Good things might happen—

Annabeth froze in mid-bite as she found herself staring at the headlines of the Gotham Gazette's latest and grimmest news, and learned that Carrolly Cooper was dead.

Fuck Mondays anyway.

Just then, her cell phone rang. Stunned, working on autopilot, Annabeth reached over and answered, not able to tear her eyes away from the awful headline and the even more awful photos.

"Annabeth." Donna, her boss, was on the other end of the phone, her perpetually unruffled voice pulling Annabeth back into the present moment. "You see the papers? The ladies are going crazy down here. You have to get here as soon as you can." Never in the years that they had worked together had Annabeth heard Donna sound anything other than unflustered, calm, reassuring, and now was no different—but Annabeth can hear the urgency lurking in the words.

"I'm on my way."

Five minutes later, Annabeth was out the door, locking the deadbolts, and racing down the stairs. She glanced at her watch—only an hour and fifteen minutes into her day, and it was already going to hell in a handbasket. So much for her peptalk—good things may happen, but not to the people Annabeth helped. Or, in the case of Carrolly Cooper, failed to help. Annabeth closed her eyes briefly, simultaneously recalling and trying to erase the image of Carrolly's broken, mangled body, plastered over the front page of the Gazette. Fucking tabloid—since when had freedom of the press ever benefited the good citizens of Gotham?

She emerged onto the streets, just as the deluge of rain strengthened, and a crack of thunder reverberated overhead. Taking a cab was the obvious choice, but even on the best of days, catching a cab in Bordertown was a rare event—the neighborhood, while relatively safe, was too close to the Narrows for most cab drivers to feel safe cruising. Which was probably just as well—Annabeth's meager salary could scarcely support her gadding about Gotham in a jalopy of a cab driven by a cabbie who probably overcharged by half.

A gust of wind drove a torrent of rain into her, and she paused for the briefest of moments, trying to figure out how August could feel so damned cold. Then the memory of Donna's voice, low and urgent, rose up, and she plunged ahead, racing down the street. If she hurried, she'd be able to catch the 7:18 Metro into the city.

Midtown, the weather was no better—perhaps even worse. And it was no summer storm, either—as Annabeth raced past the newsstand at the corner of 39th and Mason, she overheard the old newsagent's radio blaring about a tropical storm that had blown ashore a hundred miles south the night before. They were in for at least another twelve hours of it. Perfect.

Twenty minutes after leaving her home, after having battled cranky crowds as she straggled through the rain for the last three blocks from the Metro station, Annabeth finally arrived at her work. She scurried up the stone steps of the stately six-story brownstone, hauled open the heavy glass doors bearing the title SAFE HAVEN CONSULTING, INC., and breathed a sigh of relief. Thomas, the day security guard, was on the desk as she arrived, and smiled slightly as she held her security badge aloft. The two of them had an easy working relationship, born from the years of both of them doggedly staying on despite all the awful Mondays. The look he gave her now was equal parts commiserating and relieved, and told her all she needed to know: upstairs, all was in chaos, no doubt, and he was happy to have what he considered to be the easiest job in the building.

Annabeth sailed past him through the doors to the waiting room (empty as usual) and to the locked elevator. She swiped her key card, and a few moments later, the elevator slid open. She stepped into the silent, cool, completely generic space, punched the button…

…and twenty seconds later, stepped into the expected chaos.

"Annabeth!"

"Can you believe this?"

"…are we safe? I'm talkin' to you!"

A phone was ringing, at least two children were screaming, one woman was crying, and Donna's assistant, Maya, was standing at her desk, trying to calm down the half-dozen women who were clustered around. "Annabeth!" Maya caught sight of her. "Thank god—Donna's in her office, on the phone with the Commissioner. Go on in!"

"Why does she get to see her?" demanded Johanna, one of the women—a leggy brunette with an tough attitude and a fearless tongue to match.

"Jesus, Johanna, because she works here." Maya was having a hard time keeping her patience. Donna had chosen her as an assistant because, when required, she could unleash an attitude to keep anyone—from a donor, to a client, to a colleague, to a delivery man—meek and quiet.

"Yeah, well we live here. We want to talk to Donna!"

Annabeth slipped past the desk and opened the door leading into Donna's office. It was a tiny room, cramped and crowded full of file cabinets and stacks of papers, but at least the desk was immaculate—probably the work of Maya as well.

"…want to be kept in the loop. This is serious business, Commissioner…" Donna was frowning, her normally friendly blue eyes now little more than flints of ice. She was gripping the phone with her right hand, making notes with her fountain pen in the other. Occasionally she would pause, tapping the pen against her desk, quickly, sharply. She was agitated—not angry, just vaguely annoyed. "We refer these women to you, Gordon, or else we work with agencies that do, and we expect you to do your job."

Annabeth sat down. Donna caught her eye, twisted her mouth into a grimace, and then, casually, while the Commissioner was still talking, she hung up on him. "Jackass."

"Donna, what happened?"

The older woman gestured to the stack of newspapers that Maya had placed at the corner of her desk, along with a tall mug of coffee. Annabeth gazed with woeful longing at the mug until Donna moved it out of her reach. "I'm sure you saw. Carrolly Cooper was killed this morning."

"Killed?"

"Okay, maybe killed isn't the right word. I think bludgeone or perhaps beaten to a pulp would be a little more accurate. Any rate, it happened this morning, in her apartment. Sounds like whoever it was, got in through the window leading out onto the fire escape."

Annabeth buried her head in her hands. "I spoke with her at the hospital six weeks ago…I was the one that told her to go to the police. To talk. To bring evidence against the Arrows."

Donna frowned absently. "Why does that gang call itself 'the Arrows' anyway? It's a kind of silly name."

Annabeth lifted her head. "Because whatever they do points straight to the Narrows. The members call themselves Archers. Almost…Robin Hood-esque when you think about it. Anyway, this is awful. Poor Carrolly."

"Poor Commissioner Gordon, more like. This sets him back god only knows how far. He's been investigating them for a while now…since Marone and Falconi and their gangs were brought down, the Arrows have been the next major contenders…but the way they've been hemorrhaging women, that might not last." Donna shook her head. "You'd think those thugs would learn—treat your women right, and maybe they won't go to the cops. Instead they beat them up, whore them out, and whoops! Now your woman's singing to anyone who will listen."

Sometimes, it caught Annabeth by surprise, how callous her boss could be. Listening to her, sometimes, you'd forget she was the founder of one of Gotham's many women's crisis centers. You'd forget that she spent her days—and many of her nights—struggling to save the women and children that Gotham had forgotten. Of course, Donna was a business woman, first and foremost—she had to be, to make sure that Safe Haven stayed afloat in a city as awful as this one. But still—she could be as insensitive as any CEO or businessman, and as hard-headed, and ballsy, too.

"That's the third woman, right?" Annabeth asked, even though she already knew.

"Yup. The first two—well, you know them. You referred them to Gordon. Now Gordon's telling me you referred this Carrolly to him, too?"

"What was I supposed to do?" Annabeth cried in frustration. "We were full here when I encountered Carrolly…And we need to bring down the gangs. Jesus, they're usually the ones that create the lives that our women are trying to get away from." She shook her head, remembering Carrolly, and before her, Lizzie Salvadore and Jeana Wilson. Jeana and Lizzie had come to Safe Haven, wanting help; Carrolly had just been one of the victims she encountered at the hospital. She had encouraged all three of them to talk to Gordon., even though they hadn't wanted to. But they had done so, finally, and Gordon put them into protective custody. And now they were dead. Each of them, killed in the same way.

"No one's blaming you, Annabeth. This is what you're supposed to do. It's the right thing to do—someone else out there is doing the wrong thing. Someone else is betraying these women. Someone they trust."

Both of them fell silent, listening to the wind and the rain pelting the windows, and the babble of the women clustered beyond the door. When Donna spoke again, her voice was quieter, gentle. "Annabeth. You counseled all three of those women. At least, I'm assuming you counseled Carrolly. You referred them to Gordon. You did the right thing…but you know they're going to want to question you. Is there anything you want to tell me?"

The look that Annabeth gave her boss was one of righteous outrage."Excuse me?"

"Don't get huffy, Annabeth. You know I am not asking you if you sold those girls out. I know you better than that. But it's always possible, however remotely, that somehow, you may have mentioned something, some small detail, to someone, however inadvertently. If you can think of anything you may have mentioned to anyone by accident, tell me. Not just about these women, but about any that you help. Tell me. We can figure it out. Hell, we can get you a lawyer, if you need one."

"No." Annabeth shook her head fiercely, never taking her eyes off of Donna. "I don't discuss my clients with people. The only reason you know about Jeana and Lizzie is because they spent time here. I don't compromise confidentiality, or morals, or ethics."

"Okay, okay, calm down. I believe you. I know what these women mean to you, Annabeth. Calm down."

There was a discreet knock on the door, and a moment later, Maya poked her head in. "Are you ready to come out? I think about the entire house is out here."

Donna sighed. "We'd better get out there. Those women are spooked, and maybe they've got a reason. Maybe more than a few of them have had brushes with the Arrows over the years…Maya, why don't you call security and have them send out a few more people? Come on, Annabeth." She rose, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her suit. "Let's go soothe the natives." She crossed the office, and smiled at Annabeth. "It's going to be fine."

A bolt of lighting flashed outside the window, and thunder rumbled ominously. Overhead, the lights flickered and dimmed for a moment—and Annabeth wondered how many more omens were coming their way. Because something was telling her that nothing about this mess would be fine for a very, very long time.

While Annabeth was dealing with the worst Monday of her career, and wishing she had never heard of Gotham City—let alone been born there—a very different day was unfolding twenty miles away, in the Palisades. Bruce Wayne slumbered, completely unaware of the drama unfolding within the city. His was a deep sleep, uninterrupted by dreams, brought on by the exhaustion of a hard night's work, and long after the stormy morning had marched into an equally stormy afternoon, he still slept. The only sign of life in Wayne Manor was the faithful butler Alfred, who puttered about, intent on various minor chores. But by three PM, Alfred had quite simply grown bored, and decided it was time to wake the master of the house.

"Master Wayne."

"Mrrrrph."

"Master Wayne." Alfred's voice became a little more insistent as an edge of annoyance crept into it. "It's time to rise, Master Wayne."

Slowly, Bruce opened one bleary eye. "You enjoy this, don't you?"

"Seeing as how you keep me up until six, most mornings? Enjoy is putting it mildly." Alfred set down the tray he had been carrying and picked up the newspaper that he had wedged between the tea pot and the marmalade. Tossing the papers onto Bruce's blanketed form, he added, "You should wake up…there's an entertaining piece about you in the Society section." He meandered over to the windows, pulling the heavy velvet drapes back, and gazed out at the stormy day. "You may as well read it, as it appears as though there's little else to do."

He turned back around to watch the younger man sit up and reach for the newspaper. From the look that Bruce gave Alfred, it was clear that he secretly suspected that Alfred took a perverse pleasure in calling his attention to the more lurid tabloid stories about him. They both knew, however, that as difficult as the tabloids were, well…in this case, the truth certainly was more stranger than fiction. Or, judging by the mass of bruises and maze of scars on Bruce's body, at least much more painful.

Billion-dollar Boredom: Too Much Money, Too Little Sense

By Vicki Vale

"It's often speculated that a fool and his money are soon parted, but what about a billionaire and his good reputation? Granted, since his remarkable return to Gotham, playboy Bruce Wayne has seemed singularly unconcerned with establishing a good reputation, let alone protecting it, but the events over this past weekend certainly do not do much to flatter young Bruce Wayne. Ingrid Sorenson, a young Danish model recently seen about town in the company of Bruce Wayne, was apprehended and detained at London's Heathrow Airport on Friday evening, and later arrested for possession of cocaine. While authorities are still investigating the circumstances, it would appear that Ms. Sorenson was acting alone, and so Mr. Wayne is guilty only by association—but perhaps that is enough. Following on the heels of the tragic fire that laid waste to Wayne Manor eighteen months ago—and allegedly ignited by a drunken Wayne—and the more recent scandal surrounding his personal acquisition of an illegal emu farm in Westchester County, this will do nothing to enhance Wayne's reputation as an upstanding Gotham citizen. And if he carries on much longer, it might not enhance his empire's financial standing, either."

Bruce looked up, his face a mask of dismay. "I thought that we took care of the emu farm!"

"That's the part of the story that bothers you? The emus?"

Shrugging helplessly, Bruce explained. "Well, I actually do feel bad about that. I thought that the farm was completely legitimate. I had no idea that they were being bred for their hides…I thought it would make a good emu zoo."

Alfred began to wonder if one could actually feel their blood pressure rise. "Sometimes I think that your Bruce-the-fool act is starting to seep into your brain. That's why you leave the philanthropy to your attorneys, Master Bruce. No, I'm talking about the Danish floozy, that Ingrid girl. She was here, at the Manor…what if she had those drugs here? Think of the disaster that could have been! You need to be seen out and about, yes, but why not with a more respectable lady? Someone like Miss Ra-"

The dark look that Bruce threw at him silenced Alfred for a moment. "You're the one that told me I needed to date movie stars and models."

"Forget what I say, sir. Merely the ramblings of a doddering sexagenarian."

Bruce had already set aside the paper and was consuming his energy drink. After finishing it off with a satisfied grunt, he set the drained glass by the mahogany bedstand and began to rise. "I won't associate with her any more, Alfred. Don't worry. But there's more important things to worry about—you know what happened last night?"

Alfred nodded. "I saw the newspaper, too. That poor girl."

"I know. She's the third, and I am willing to bet that she won't be the last. Someone is leaking somewhere." Bruce frowned, remembering the bloodied remains of Carrolly. "What an awful way to go…she must have been terrified."

"What do you propose, sir?"

Bruce headed into the bathroom, and a moment later, Alfred heard the shower running. A pair of boxers, followed by a shirt, sailed out the door and landed in a heap on the floor—on the priceless Persian rugs Alfred had ordered less than two months ago. Bruce's voice floated out, above the sound of the running water. "Gordon gave me copies of all the files on her, and the other women. We'll go down to the caves in a bit, see what we can turn up."

Deep within the Batcave, all was silent. The two men sat at a long work table, looking over the files, papers, and photographs spread out before them. Alfred's countenance was unchanged: serene and unruffled, his world-weary eyes giving away nothing as he read through the papers detailing three tragically wasted, cut-short lives. For all that his face gave away, he could have been preparing tea, or arranging flowers instead of delving into this world of horrors.

Unlike his old friend Alfred, Bruce Wayne did change. As soon as he entered this space, an entire identity slipped away, left behind upstairs in the grandeur and luxury of his family home. When he entered this space, Bruce left Bruce behind, and became only the Batman. It was not merely a character switch, but a shifting of consciousness—all the things that Bruce Wayne thought about were left behind, and so not only his personality shifted, but his awareness and perception. Rachel had once said that Bruce Wayne was the mask, and Batman was his true personality, but Bruce didn't want to believe that. But he did believe that he had to leave Bruce behind when he became the Batman. It was perhaps nothing more than a way to preserve his sanity—if there was in fact any left, as Alfred so often gleefully pondered.

And so it was Batman, and not Bruce, who read through the information Gordon had given him.

In life, Jeana Wilson had been little more than a typically misguided and rebellious teenager. She had fallen into the street life like so many of her peers, and somehow had been seduced into joining the Arrows when she was seventeen. According to the files that the Batman now held in his hands, she had been in the Arrows for only six months before catching the eye of Michael Donzetti, one of the high-level cronies. Donzetti was a lout of the highest order—44 years old, overweight, and had a taste for women, fine wine, and violence. He had been in the Arrows since the beginning, when his friend Jones le Blanc had first started consolidating power and earning the respect of the right people. When the other mobs had fallen, the Arrows finally began to rise, having been considered too insignificant to be involved with the big players, and so escaping the notice of the Joker. Now Jones was on the top of the heap, and Donzetti had benefited from the loyalty—and muscle—he had given over the years.

Jeana, however, had not benefited from his muscle. According to the medical records, she had started coming to Gotham General months ago. The first visit was for stitches above the right eye. The second visit was to treat two cracked ribs. Third visit was a broken wrist. The fourth, and final, visit came just over four weeks ago—she had been badly beaten, with a concussion and two more cracked ribs. And, as it turned out, a miscarriage.

The Batman studied the picture in her file—she had been heart-rendingly young, both in appearance and age. The streets hadn't yet aged her, and so her strawberry blonde hair, her wide-set eyes, her upturned nose, and her dimples still retained their air of sweet innocence. She had been eighteen when she died, killed just like Carrolly Erickson had been—beaten to death.

Alfred was looking over her medical records, and her police statements, too. "It says here that after the miscarriage a trauma counselor at Gotham General met with her. Shortly thereafter, she entered a shelter, where they had encouraged her to contact Gordon, see about going into witness protection in exchange for testimony."

The Batman didn't answer; had moved on to Lizzie Salvadore's file, which contained an equally sad story and abrupt end. Lizzie had been twenty-five when she was killed; she, too, had gone to a shelter and then into protective custody after she arrived at the hospital, badly hurt after a particularly violent sexual encounter. Judging by the medical records, Lizzie had not enjoyed the same level of comfort Jeana had; like Carrolly, she had been one of the generic women in the gang, no one man's girl in particular. As sad and pitiful as it was, Jeana's had been the enviable position—if a girl caught the eye of one of the men, and became "his girl", no other man would try to mess with her. Lizzie hadn't had the luck of Jeana, and she had been available for any man in the Arrows. And so it was in that fashion that Lizzie had learned more than was safe for her-she had been too observant for her own good, and had seen and overheard too much, enough to provide damaging testimony against le Blanc if the time ever came.

"Alfred…" the Batman frowned for a moment, running his hand through his hair. He then scratched his chin in thought, and went back to the records. "Who were the trauma counselors? The ones that referred them to Gordon?"

"Let me see…oh yes, here it is. Hmmm. It was the same counselor both times. Her name's Annabeth de Burgh." Alfred passed the file along to the Batman, knowing that he had found something. "What is it?"

"It's the same trauma counselor…the same one who referred Jeana also referred Lizzie." The Batman stood up abruptly and strode over to Carrolly's files. He was on to something. After a moment's rifling through the various folders and papers, he found the hospital records and confirmed his suspicions. "Carrolly was referred to Gordon by a trauma counselor, too. The same one…Annabeth de Burgh."

Alfred and the Batman regarded each other for a moment, and then Alfred spoke. "It's very likely Gordon has noticed this already. It's too obvious to ignore."

The Batman nodded. "I'm sure he has. He'll probably question her. But it's better for us to privately investigate her anyway." He began to pace. "We need to find out about this de Burgh woman. Alfred, see what you can get on her—name, family, income. Employers. Criminal records."

"What are you thinking, Master Bruce?"

"I'm thinking the Batman would like to find out more about this woman. And so would Bruce Wayne."