Four-thirty in the morning. Trinity should have been sound asleep. She had been, actually; she had been encased in a deep and dreamless slumber despite the fact that the detestable lump of flesh that was Donzetti had opted to fall asleep at her place that night, after an evening filled with a very lengthy gourmet dinner and a very vigorous but mercifully brief sexual encounter. They had slept, but at four-thirty in the morning, both had been dragged into wakefulness by a loud and persistent ringing. As Trinity sat up, she quickly realized it was her doorbell; beside her, Donzetti was a little bit slower on the uptake and began groping about for his cell phone. Trinity spared him one exasperated look before she rose from the warm cocoon of her bed and threw on a dressing gown. It had long been her experience that anyone ringing the doorbell in the early morning did not bring happy tidings.
Swiftly she padded through the bedroom and living room, flicking on lights as she did. Back in the bedroom, she heard Donzetti finally stirring out of bed and following her, and by the time he had caught up with her, Trinity had gazed through the peephole and thrown open the door to reveal a very agitated Jones le Blanc.
"Donzetti's here, right?" he snapped at Trinity, not bothering with his customary smarmy charm. He peered over Trinity's shoulder and saw that Donzetti was, indeed, there, and without waiting for permission or invitation, he shouldered his way into the condo. Wisely and wordlessly, Trinity stepped back, allowing him to pass, wrapping her dressing gown tighter around herself as she closed the front door. Even as she did this, the two men were hustling away from her, closeting themselves into her guest bedroom and closing the door behind them.
Trinity suppressed a sigh of annoyance. She was fully awake now, and so returning to her bed was pointless. And yet, with the two mobsters in the next room, discussing god only knew what, she hardly felt comfortable in her own home. Both of them—Donzetti with his almost nightly visits, and Jones with his less frequent, yet more ominous appearances—brought a taint into her home, and left her feeling as though she did not wish to be in her own home when they were present. When this whole drama had played itself out and her elegant world was once more set to rights, she was seriously going to consider relocating, perhaps not just to a different home, but maybe even to a new city—some place far away, where Gotham was nothing more than at best a joke and at worst an example of really shocking crime statistics.
That time was still quite far off, and perhaps wouldn't come at all without an effort on her part. With great stealth, Trinity slipped back into her bedroom, and feeling a bit like a fool, she knelt down by the vents in the wall shared with the guest bedroom. The vents, she knew, were connected, and eavesdropping was an embarrassingly easy task.
"…Seems like our Boyo got himself discovered. So much for flying under the radar. He's completely unhinged, and the police are looking for him. It's going to be on the morning news…" that was Jones, sounding more irate than anything else.
"What'd he do?" Donzetti was still sounding as though he were half-asleep.
"Got a bit too enthusiastic with some hooker down near Wharfside and beat the bitch to death—not the first time this has happened, but somehow the police caught wind of it and made the connection; there must have been a witness."
"We need to neutralize him." Now there was a little more alertness in Donzetti's voice, a little more of his usual testosterone-charged belligerence. Trinity rolled her eyes; neutralize him? Please. Donzetti couldn't even neutralize Switzerland.
"He's gone to ground. Took off after leaving a note at the club. Christ knows where he's at, and god help us if the police get a hold of him. Skinny little fucker'll tell 'em everything they want to know."
Donzetti swore then, a long string of expletives joined together in a creative fashion the likes of which Trinity had not credited him to be capable of. She actually drew her head back from the vent for a moment, eager to distance herself from some of the more foul blasphemies, but forced herself to lean back in and listen.
"We've got other problems," Jones continued on after Donzetti had reached the end of his tirade. "Boy-o was supposed to be the one to make the trip next month. He was going to supervise the shipments and make sure the Chechens got the payment. Now you'll have to go."
As she listened to these words, a dozen thoughts and questions began to crowd into Trinity's keen mind—she would have to feign surprise and disappointment when Donzetti told her. She would have to find a way to contact Annabeth de Burgh and let her know about this development. And where was Donzetti going? But overpowering all these smaller details that would require her attention was an undeniable sense of relief. For a little while, however brief, Donzetti would be absent from her life, and it was a realization which brought her no small measure of joy. Whatever Donzetti was up to, wherever he was going, at least it would be without her. The idea of freedom was so dizzying, Trinity had to sit back on her heels for a moment and draw a deep breath. To tell the truth, so much of her life lately had been spent in the vigilant cultivation of an act—to most people, she was Donzetti's beautiful mistress, reasonably intelligent but reassuringly disinterested in his activities. To Donzetti, she was the alluring sexpot who doted upon him. And to herself, she barely knew anymore.
Now was not the time to get lost in existential philosophizing—no doubt Donzetti and Jones would soon halt their conversation, and she had better appear as though she has been completely oblivious to their insidious occupations. Silently she made her way back out of the bedroom and opted to take refuge in the kitchen; coffee was needed, not just for her, but for the two men, as well. If for a second she thought she could get away with adding to the pot a liberal dose of cyanide, she would have done it.
Another five minutes passed before Jones and Donzetti emerged; Jones looking considerably less perturbed, with his jowls hanging into a self-satisfied smile, Donzetti looking very much like the cat that ate the canary. No doubt he had once more convinced Jones that he was indispensable. And perhaps in his own way, he was—Donzetti may have been a little stupid, he may have been a lecher without a conscience, but no one could say that he had ever been disloyal.
Trinity stood at the kitchen counter, watching the two of them. Donzetti smiled, slowly, and sidled up to her. Slipping an arm around her waist, he kissed her head and said, more than a little boastfully, "I'm going to be gone for a few weeks, sweetheart."
Trinity pulled a disappointed face, and then brightened. "Where are you headed? Can I go with you?" Of course, she had no conceivable desire to follow him to whatever cesspool of misery Jones had charged him with visiting, but even now, her mind was at work, trying to find every possible way to extract information that she could pass along. But this backfired—to her dismay, Donzetti appeared to be considering the possibility of her company. He didn't answer right away, but his eyes began to twinkle at the thought.
Jones cleared his throat and shook his head, just the tiniest shake, and Donzetti sighed. "'Fraid not, baby. Looks like it's important business, and you'd be better off here."
"Don't worry, Trin," Jones assured her. "We'll keep an eye out for you, make sure you don't miss Donzetti too much."
Did she detect an underlying threat in his words, overtly intended to comfort her, or was it merely a product of her overwrought imagination, worn thin by too many anxieties? Trinity chose to take the reassurance at face value and managed to muster a small, sad smile. "I might need the company." She leaned into Donzetti. "Either of you want coffee?"
"None for me, thanks." Jones began to move for the door. "I don't want to wear out my welcome, and I got a lot of stuff to take care of. Donzetti—see you in a few hours?" He didn't wait for a reply, but promptly turned around and headed out the door. And as abruptly as he had entered, turning the world topsy-turvy, he was gone.
Donzetti yawned. "Shit, what time is it?" He glanced at his watch, a gaudy gold thing. "It's after five in the morning, already. Any chance of getting any more sleep?"
"Not if you drink any coffee." Trinity nudged him towards the bedroom. "Why don't you head back to bed? I'll be there in a few minutes." She slid her eyes towards him, an unmistakably seductive glint in them. "Maybe we can make up for the upcoming time apart." And I can pump you for more information while trying not to vomit in my mouth.
This tantalizing prospect seemed to render Donzetti even more pliable than normal, and with a hearty kiss on her mouth and a none-too-gentle slap on her ass, he ambled into Trinity's bedroom and left her standing in the kitchen, alone with her thoughts.
She peered out the kitchen window, and saw that the first streaks of color had crept into the cold night sky; faint traces of pink and orange in the otherwise grey expanse over Gotham promised a brilliant sunrise. Trinity was not a superstitious person—she was too hard, too polished, too sensible for that—but she had to take comfort in the dawn, and she chose to see it as a good omen. Perhaps a dawn was coming, perhaps this night was the turning point that could help her reclaim her own life, and help purge Gotham of some of its rotten people and the evil that men did.
With a sigh, she headed off to the bedroom. There would be no more sleep for her on this night.
There were a lot of people in Gotham who did not sleep that night. And in the Palisades, there was another.
The older he became, the less sleep Alfred needed. If he didn't know better, didn't already know that many older people tended to sleep less, he would have perhaps thought that it was simply his body biologically attuning itself to the needs of his employer, as much out of sympathy as necessity. But he did know better, and simply accepted it as one of the few conveniences of advancing age. Therefore, it was no hardship for Alfred to burn the midnight oil that night and in fact refrain from sleep entirely.
He actually rather enjoyed the all-night vigils he maintained for Master Bruce. Over time, it had afforded him many, many opportunities to contemplate the quandaries and complexities of life. Living almost completely alone in Wayne Manor, filled with the memories and ghosts of many generations, certainly provided the motive, and even the need, to ponder. Even before young Master Wayne had disappeared, Alfred had often wandered the rooms and corridors, reflecting upon the family he had chosen to serve. And after Master Wayne had returned—finally a man, if a somewhat enigmatic and distant man—Alfred had only been given more cause to ruminate.
It was the setting, that was what it boiled down to. Even though the original manor had been destroyed, its replacement was so accurate, so true to the original structure, it was of no use to try to convince himself that it was not the same. For all intents and purposes, it was the same, and both Alfred and Master Wayne perceived it as such. It was the same house that Alfred had lovingly and vigilantly maintained for years, it was the same house that had sheltered generations of Waynes, it was simply the same house, from cellar to garret.
Not only did Wayne Manor appear the same, it felt the same. For all its splendor and priceless treasures, it still felt empty, lonely, emotionally hollow—an uncanny reflection of its broken owner. And yet. Alfred suspected that perhaps the Manor had always felt that way. The manor had been built to shelter and nurture the Wayne dynasty, but somehow, that dynasty had never really flourished. The Wayne Family Tree was really more of a shrub, its growth blighted and stunted in ironically inverse proportion to the Wayne family fortune. Case in point—Master Bruce was the sole surviving Wayne, and had been since his parents had died. As far as Alfred could tell, it had always been like that; the Wayne family carried on its bloodline by a fragile thread indeed. Why this was, Alfred couldn't say, really—whether the Waynes were simply not highly sexed, or did not have strong reproductive genes (neither of which Alfred particular relished pondering, but he supposed either, or perhaps both, were likely), the end result was still the same: Wayne Manor was, and always had been, a vast and lonely place that had never been given the chance to achieve its full potential.
If Alfred were given to a more melancholy disposition, this all would have grieved him more. And it did bother him, just a little—sometimes he did wish rather fervently that some of those beautiful rooms could be filled with warmth and life and laughter and love, that Master Bruce could make more of a family for himself and makes peace with the hand he had been dealt, that Thomas and Martha Wayne could reach out from beyond the grave and guide their son, the Wayne dynasty's sole heir, back towards hope and life. But Alfred had always been a pragmatic man, and the passing of years had only solidified this pragmatism. And so it was that as he watched the shadows deepen under Master Bruce's eyes and within his soul, he knew it became less and less likely that the Wayne family line would ever thrive again.
This realization did not make Alfred's solitary, all-night vigils any easier, but nor did it make them any harder. With the strange return of Master Bruce had come not only welcome company, but also a whole new set of burdens and worried. Be careful what you wish for.
That night, as the Batman was gadding about and interrupting Annabeth's attempt at nocturnal satisfaction, Alfred had decided to carry on his vigil in the study—close enough to reach the cave with great speed, and well-stocked with plenty of reading material to help pass the hours. In fact, Alfred had ensconced himself into an armchair and commenced reading a fine 19th-century edition of The Prince, bound in elegant red morocco. He had personally procured it from an antiquarian book dealer based in Cambridge, England, an old and trusted business associate who had, in fact, acquired all the books in the study, as well as throughout Wayne Manor. It had been one of the more expensive ventures in the re-building of the manor; Alfred had spent several hundred thousand, but while Master Wayne hadn't batted an eyelash at the final bill, Alfred strongly suspected the young man had not actually perused any of the books, either. Bruce loved books, Alfred knew, loved the knowledge, the power, the information, but there was simply not enough time.
Alfred had the time, however, and on the nights when Master Wayne was out exceptionally late, busting heads or rescuing kittens or preventing Armageddon, Alfred quite often found his way to the study. It was comforting there, and never as lonely as the rest of the Manor—after all, in the study he was surrounded by the immortal voices of hundreds of men and women who had looked at the world through courageous, questing eyes and spoke words of truth and beauty that lived on and on, keeping an old man company and turning his attention away from morose and disturbing contemplations of the sexual and reproductive failures of the Waynes.
"Just not what I want to think about," he spoke aloud, in explanation to the indifferent portraits of Thomas and Martha Wayne. And yet, he did think about it. He thought about Master Bruce and his strange, lonely existence, and he thought about the ever-more-remote possibility of him finding a partner, a lover, a spouse to love him and help make him whole. Even then, though, would it be enough? Sometimes Alfred doubted there was any woman tough enough to maintain a healthy composure in the face of the stress and demands that would accompany the role of Bruce Wayne's wife. And yet—there was Annabeth de Burgh, one of the strangest and strongest women Alfred had ever encountered. Master Wayne certainly had been pursuing her with more attentiveness than his usual lackadaisical, haphazard interest. Alfred knew Master Bruce's interest in Annabeth was not feigned—but what the end results would be was anyone's guess. He tried for a moment to imagine Annabeth as the matriarch of the Wayne family, charged not only with loving and supporting Master Bruce, but running the vast house and grounds, entertaining guests, overseeing the numerous charities, supervising staff, and perhaps even filling the nurseries. It was a difficult thing to imagine…but at almost five-thirty in the morning, what else was there left to do?
Blast it, he had been at it again, contemplating Bruce Wayne's potential romantic and procreative future. The house really needed a dog—no, Alfred really needed a dog, something big and goofy and distracting and undignified, something friendly and warm and lovable. A golden retriever, perhaps. Master Bruce wouldn't like it, of course, for it was a personal luxury after all, something the man was keen on denying himself. But then, he probably wouldn't notice a dog in the house for at least a month, which would be how long it would take for the long, golden fur to start clinging to the batsuits and armor.
Alfred had built up a fire in the fireplace earlier, and now a log popped, sending a shower of sparks upward into the chimney and drawing his eyes towards the beautiful image. He found enormous beauty and comfort in almost everything these days, most likely another product of his advancing years.
Any more thoughts that threatened to take him down this disturbing path were interrupted by a shrill beeping emitted by the device Alfred wore in his suit jacket—it was a device that had the appearance of those silly pagers that had been all the rage back in the 90s, but this device was connected to a series of motion and sound sensors he and Master Bruce had installed in the cave and throughout the grounds. The sensors had been programmed to identify a variety of motions, vibrations, and sounds—the reverberations of a powerful engine, for example, or the labored breathing of an injured person—and to beep at different pitches accordingly. It was a set-up that had been intended to alert Alfred, no matter where he was in the Manor, and had the added bonus of being loud enough to wake the dead.
And now, Master Bruce had arrived back home, and Alfred's real work was about to begin. He rose and activated the secret entrance to the cave, and within moments, he was descending into the darkness that the master had brought home with him all those many months ago.
Behind him, above him, the manor slumbered on, even more empty and abandoned than before, forever enshrined in a cursed sleep from which it seemed nothing would ever kiss it awake.
When Alfred entered the cave—dark, dank, and incredibly primitive, especially when compared to the civilized beauty of the manor house above—he was struck by the sense that this was the only place within the Manor that was alive, that thrived. Here was the only place where there was any heart, any activity, any interest. Everything else was just a sham.
The Batman was just climbing out of the Tumbler as Alfred approached, and much to the older man's relief, he appeared to be unhurt. It was one of Alfred's few and deeply private anxieties that one day, the young master would return home with a mortal wound, the treatment of which even Alfred, with his considerable field medic skills, would be unequal to. And while he thanked whatever god was on duty every night that this did not come to pass, Alfred feared that it was also another night of borrowed time.
"Morning, Alfred," the Batman said, but it was with Bruce's voice, carefully casual, revealing nothing of what had unfolded in the night. "Get any sleep at all?"
"I sleep when you sleep," Alfred responded with a wry smile. "Are you alright, sir?"
"I'm fine. Tired." And as he pulled off the cowl, reverting to his Bruce Wayne identity, his appearance confirmed his words. He did look tired, and too, older than his years. "It was a very long night."
"And not at all how you expected it to turn out," Alfred added as he took the cowl and began to assist with the removal of the armor. "Miss de Burgh was quite bemused at being so readily abandoned."
"Was she angry?"
"No." Alfred recalled Annabeth's surprise and open admiration of Bruce Wayne's dedication to his work. "At least, she wasn't until I hinted to her that you had been called away to judge at a beauty pageant in one of the new nightclubs."
The baleful glare that Bruce gave the butler would have been far more intimidating had he still been in full battle attire. Alfred paid no mind to it, and began to carry the armor back to its storage area. "She was actually quite pleased to see you so dedicated to your work," he said over his shoulder. "I think it made quite a good impression on her. A very unique lady, that one."
When he returned, Bruce had already seated himself at the work bench, and was deep in thought. Alfred silently stood by, unwilling to interrupt him, and after a moment, Bruce began to speak.
"I still think about what she told me." Bruce looked at Alfred then, and his eyes were haunted. "She didn't go into much detail, but…" he foundered for a moment. "It was enough." It had been enough, to be sure, to plague him in his sleep, to dog his awareness as he contemplated the black and rotting nature of Gotham, and compel him to look upon Annabeth with more understanding, more admiration, and the beginnings of something else, some deeper, more powerful emotion, one that it was becoming impossible to ignore. "Alfred," Bruce said, and there was a pleading note in his voice, "You knew about all of it already. I need for you to show me all the information you found on Annabeth."
Alfred frowned, not liking the direction this conversation was heading. "Is that really necessary, sir?" He struggled to remember what he had read in the police reports, the medical records, and the social services files on Annabeth, which he had hacked into. He had no doubt there were more details in all of that than what Annabeth had told Bruce—no doubt she had wanted to protect him.
"It's necessary, alright." The fanatical gleam in Bruce's eye was back, but there was something else, too. His perfectly-sculpted mouth had tightened into a grimace. "There's something we're missing, here, Alfred. I've been thinking about it all night, and there's just something…off. Somehow this all ties back in to Annabeth…" he saw Alfred's look of disbelief. "No, she's not involved. Not in any way that she knows about. But there's just something that's bothering me. I want to start at the beginning; I want to see what we might have missed."
Alfred sighed. "The main computer's up and running. It should only take a minute to hack into the city's server. Try not to break the Internet, Master Bruce." He began to head towards the lift. "I'm going to make you some breakfast."
He doubted whether Bruce even heard him, for as he threw one glance back at him, the younger man was already hunched over the powerful computer they had built the previous year, typing away and intent on hacking into the files that he somehow suspected would hold all the answers.
Alfred suspected that there would only be more questions.
Half an hour later, Alfred's unspoken suspicions were proven correct. Bruce sat back and exhaled as he gazed at the computer monitor. Displayed on the monitor was a PDF file of Annabeth's case id, GCPD-VCU-1995-2987(1266). Gotham City Police Department, Violent Crimes Unit, with the year and a unique case number, as well as a parenthesized number to indicate its unsolved status. The first document was Annabeth's statement, penned in the spring of 1995, and scanned into the computer files of the Gotham City PD when they went online in 1999. He read through the statement quickly, yet taking in every word and detail. There had been a lot about that night that Annabeth hadn't told him, and in hindsight, after reading her statement, Bruce began to feel as though perhaps he would have been better off still not knowing. But it was knowledge that was his now, a burden that he would always carry, even if Annabeth never knew it.
The evil that men do…
Directing his thoughts away from the details, away from the Annabeth that he knew personally, Bruce tried to approach it as though she were simply another victim he was helping. That was the only way that he could keep sane. He began sorting through the other files, records, and statements linked to her case, and it was then that, thankfully, the personal fell away and became professional. Annabeth de Burgh, Bruce's love interest, ceased to exist, and became Annabeth de Burgh, victim of Gotham. Detachment set in as his nimble mind began processing the information, committing as much of it to memory as possible, and synthesizing it with all the other information he had acquired. It was heartbreaking to Bruce, horrifying to the Batman, and yet—he didn't see how it explained how Annabeth could be connected.
The rattling of the elevator shaft indicated Alfred's descent into the cave, and Bruce emerged from his investigations, his mind clearing and his eyes focusing. He looked gratefully at the tray that Alfred bore in his hands; the scents of coffee and hot food filled the dank, clammy air, and the linen napkins and the rose in its bud vase that Alfred had added to the tray looked absurdly incongruous—and yet comfortingly beautiful. As Alfred set the tray down, Bruce pulled away from the computer and fell onto the food, devouring the multigrain toast, egg-white omelet, and fruit salad with great hunger. While he ate, Alfred seated himself at the computer and continued the research.
A moment later, Bruce's eyes narrowed as he caught sight of something on the monitor. "What's that?"
Alfred read the document. "It's one of the last things in the file, the record of when they brought in the suspects."
"Who are they?" Bruce's voice was low and cold and had taken on a particularly deadly sound. Alfred gave him a sharp look, studying him for any signs of personal vendetta, but after a moment, began to read off the names. "Jason Smith, Donald Lee, Zachary Isaacson, and Clay Alder."
"Cross-check them in whatever databases we have access to." Bruce had stopped eating, and all of his attention was on the monitor. "Project whatever you find on the monitor."
Whatever misgivings Alfred may have had, he kept them to himself as he began accessing records—public and private—for the city, county, and state, as well as some of the neighboring states. He wasn't sure what they were expecting to find, but he wasn't ready for the first hit that came up on their search.
Staring in unconcealed surprise at the monitor, Alfred nonetheless projected it onto the monitor and read the results, however unnecessarily. Bruce was staring at the monitor too, in equal surprise.
"Death certificate for Zachary Isaacson, issued August 29, 1995." Alfred clicked on the link, and a blown-up version of the certificate was displayed. "Cause of death, unintentional self-harm." He continued reading, pursing his lips. "Looks like it was an accidental overdose of something, just as the fall semester started."
Bruce shook his head. "Stupid college students. God only knows where he got his drugs from. Still…" he paused. "Is it just coincidence?"
Alfred didn't answer, but continued to run the search. After a moment, his face became a mask of grimness. "Here's another hit—death certificate for Jason Smith. Cause of death, assault with a deadly weapon. Here's a news article result, too—apparently he was in a bar fight in the spring of 1996 that went wrong." Alfred turned back to Bruce. "Apparently, Clay Alder was also killed in that same fight."
Three of Annabeth's four attackers dead within a year of the attack? It was no longer coincidence, but something far more sinister and deliberate. "What about the last guy? Donald Lee?"
Alfred began typing again; unlike Bruce, who would hunker down like a hunchback over the keyboard, Alfred retained a proud, upright, and thoroughly British posture even when engaged in the entirely modern and slightly vulgar act of web-surfing. A few tense minutes passed as Alfred began digging deeper than had been required of him for the other records, and then, finally, he spoke. "There's a variety of hits coming up…all of them newspaper articles, as well as a missing persons report. Looks as though Donald Lee went missing in early 1997; went out to party one night and never returned to his frat house. The last article is from June of 1997, saying that the search was called off and the family held a memorial service for him."
The two men stared at each other. Finally, Alfred ventured, "I seriously doubt Miss de Burgh knows about this."
Bruce didn't like to think of the alternative. "I don't want to think so." He thought of Annabeth, her fierce integrity, her courage, and above all, her pain. "It's very unlikely…but still, it's too coincidental. All of them, dead within two years? What the hell happened?"
There was no answer that Alfred could provide; just as he had expected, there were only more questions. But as he saw Bruce's eyes begin to droop, and watched as sleep, too-long delayed, began to creep into the young man's body, one thing became clear: no answers would come until both of them had gotten some rest. Alfred placed a hand on his shoulder, and no more words were needed. Together, both of them headed towards the lift, their heads filled with half-articulated thoughts, but above all, the need for rest. Such was the fate of the crusaders of Gotham; all the information they got seemed only to lead to too many questions, and not enough time to answer them.