Chapter 5:

Several days later:

No matter how many times or ways he asked, Bronte could never get Dick to agree to show the other kids what he was capable of doing. Dick had stayed in bed every night when he found out that his bunkmates had discovered him. It was hard to fall asleep – he wanted to fly again and he still couldn't figure out why he recognized the head chef. The man who, according to some of the kids, had either lied about his "fine cuisine" skills or was tired of making tasty meals.

Walter, after only three days at the camp, had given up on harassing Dick. Everyone else enjoyed having the boy around and Dick never really reacted to the things Walter did. So he, like all the other "snobby" rich kids, decided to be nice to the quiet, witty, talented and friendly ward of Bruce Wayne.

False Face was frustrated with both the formula and the other adults, who kept getting in the way of his experimental time. It seemed like someone was almost always in the kitchen – cutting vegetables, baking bread or doing some other type of meal preparation – so he couldn't work on the formula in there during the day. It was difficult to work on it in the counselors' cabin at night because that overly friendly man Donovan was a light sleeper. He had tried to go for several walks in the woods but had been called back every time by Mike, who needed him to do something or other for some stupid kid in this stupid camp. Nothing was going the way it was supposed to and he decided he would just have to sneak into the kitchen late at night, after everyone had gone to bed, in order to perfect the recipe.

He had been testing his liquid drug on different kids – stirring small amounts into soups, salad dressings and any other type of food where it would be inconspicuous – and nothing was affecting anyone. Some of the kids were quietly complaining about the taste of the food but that was the extent of it. Also, Dick Grayson was continually watching him and False Face had begun to feel uneasy whenever he was around the boy. He didn't like that feeling and was actually thinking about testing Dick even though the drug was obviously far from perfect.


"I haven't talked to him since he left!" Bruce was shouting in the general direction of Alfred, upset with the camp director for not allowing phone calls unless it was an emergency.

"That is a good thing, Master Bruce. It means that Master Dick is doing well and nothing evil is happening," Alfred replied and almost rolled his eyes. Bruce had been saying the same thing every day since Dick had left.

"Yet," Bruce growled and Alfred raised his eyebrows at the one word reply. "Nothing evil is happening yet," he clarified when he saw the look on his butler's face.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. They heard it at the same time and Bruce retreated to his study.

"Yes, Commissioner? False Face…when? And you just found out?!" Bruce yelled angrily when Commissioner Gordon told him that the villain had escaped from Arkham almost two months ago and the warden had waited until today to inform the police department. The commissioner was telling him the excuses supplied by the prison guards but Bruce just shook his head and hung up the phone without saying anything else. He flipped the switch, waited impatiently for the bookcase to slide out of the way then ran to his pole and slid down to the Batcave, landing on the cushion as Batman.

This was it, Batman knew it. This was why he had been feeling like something was wrong. False Face, the master of disguise, was out of prison and could be anywhere – like at a certain camp with a certain young teenager who was not allowed to become a certain crime-fighter. He picked up the Batphone in the Batcave, apologized to the commissioner for hanging up so abruptly and asked him to call Vista Peak Camp to find out if anything unusual had been, or was, happening.

"I don't want to unnecessarily alarm the director, Commissioner, so please do not tell him about False Face," Batman requested before he hung up.


"Unusual? Like what?" Mike asked when he received the call from Commissioner Gordon. He listened carefully as the commissioner explained that Batman was merely performing a security check on the camp because of its clientele. Mike assured the commissioner that he would keep an eye out for anything suspicious then hung up the phone and called the nearest counselor, who happened to be Donovan, into his office and closed the door. The director trusted the veteran staff member so he told him the situation and asked him to watch the other adults carefully. Donovan agreed to do so and Mike was satisfied that everything would be fine.

False Face was strolling through the front room of the main building on his way to the counselors' cabin when he heard murmured voices coming from Mike's office. He paused near the closed door and nearly stopped breathing as he tried to make out the words that were being passed back and forth between Mike and the recognizable voice of the tall, muscular and somewhat intimidating Donovan. Frowning as he caught some of the phrases, False Face realized that the commissioner of Gotham City knew that he had escaped from Arkham and had already told Batman. In all probability, though, the Caped Crusader wouldn't come up to a camp full of teenagers to look for him so he felt relatively secure.


Several days later:

Dick had to admit it: he was having fun at the camp. There were so many diverse activities, from sports to creative writing and everything in between. Most days the teens were given a set schedule of activities but once a week they had an entire afternoon to do whatever they wanted – as long as it was legal, safe and cleared by Mike.

Every day they played a variety of sports and sometimes Dick had to struggle to restrain his athletic abilities, specifically any that could connect him to Robin. It was especially difficult during track competitions – he was fast and hated to lose. His legs were strong from training every day and chasing villains almost every night. Robin could run down almost all of the teen criminals he had ever faced. The Boy Wonder could also catch many of the adult villains, if they didn't get too big of a head start. So Dick Grayson, the thirteen-year-old ward of a millionaire, couldn't allow himself to sprint full-out every time he competed. It nearly killed him whenever he lost a race, which he reluctantly tried to do at least twice a week.

It had been almost three weeks since his late-night tumbling session and Dick was becoming restless. He had to fly again. All the activities were fun but he couldn't train or tumble, two of his favorite things to do. Robin was in danger of being soft by the time he returned to crime-fighting and Batman might not let him go out right away. So, he had to fly again, and Dick crawled silently through the window then raced to the cafeteria and the mats that were calling his name every time he was in there.

Dick was surprised when he arrived at the kitchen and saw a sliver of light glowing under the door. He crept around the southeast corner and peered through the half-open square of glass next to the refrigerator. John the chef was there, over by the sink and stirring something in a small pot that was sending up a lot of steam. Dick stared at the man's familiar profile, trying to figure out the connection between himself and the head chef. John took a step away, moving out of Dick's line of sight, and the teenager saw a familiar-looking book with small pictures and curling, yellowing pages. However, he couldn't remember where he had seen it before. The short list of things that he recognized, but didn't know how or from where, grew from one to two – John and the recipe-like book.

The chef soon returned and Dick was surprised to see him holding a plate of food that resembled what the kids had eaten for dinner that night. The man placed the dish on the counter, picked up the still-steaming pot and poured some kind of dark, bubbling liquid all over the fried chicken and slightly dried out corn. The food instantly exploded with a quiet hiss and John slammed his fist on the countertop. An expression of fury lined his features as he poured the remainder of the liquid down the sink and then threw the food into a nearby trash can. He scrubbed the counter and cleaned the dishes he had used, quietly mumbling to himself the entire time. After putting everything away, John glanced around once then flipped off the kitchen light and strode out the door.

Just as he had before, Dick slipped in through the closing kitchen door. This time, however, he almost turned around and walked right back out. An indescribably horrible smell assaulted his senses, causing him to quietly gag as unanticipated moisture sprung from his suddenly-burning eyes. Before entering the kitchen he had known exactly what he was going to do. Now, though, he had to make a choice: continue his plan and hope that the stench didn't drift into the cafeteria or go back to bed. It only took him five seconds to decide – having a chance to fully activate his athletic muscles prevailed.

Pulling the top of his shirt up over his nose and breathing through just his mouth, Dick went to the sink where a streak of moonlight allowed him to detect a final droplet of the dark liquid that was beginning to blacken a small spot of the silver basin. The teen briefly debated whether or not to call Bruce but didn't want to break another rule; he was already breaking a big one for the second time. So, he filed all the information away and strode through the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the cafeteria. Pulling out the thick mats, he released his pent-up energy by soaring through several tumbling passes and completing his regular strengthening workout that he had neglected since his arrival at the camp.


Batman was concerned for several reasons: there was no trace of False Face anywhere, the camp director hadn't called to give any reports at all and there were still three more weeks before Dick would be safely back at Wayne Manor. Why had he sent Dick to summer camp?! He could have just ordered Robin to stay home for a couple of weeks and there would be one less thing to worry about. False Face wasn't particularly violent but he could be anyone, anywhere and that was worrisome by itself. Batman berated himself for sending Dick up into the mountains with no way to protect himself.

Remembering the anxious look on Dick's face the last time he had seen the boy, Batman suddenly wondered what Bruce had been thinking when he decided to send Dick to this particular camp. Wealthy kids could be snobby and clique-ish, just like any other group of kids, and Dick didn't look, sound or act like a "rich kid". That was something Batman hoped would never change but it was also something that could cause his ward to become the object of ridicule: an orphaned circus performer at a camp full of kids from affluent families. Bruce Wayne, the rich socialite, knew many of those families and most of the young teens had parents who were insufferably snobbish.

Also, many of the teenagers attended the same schools and already knew each other. Dick would have been the only one without an immediate connection to another kid. If anyone was keeping track, because Batman certainly wasn't, Dick already had two strikes against him – his background and his lack of friends – before he even boarded the bus. What was I thinking?! Batman shook his head and promised himself that he would never send Dick to another summer camp. EVER.


Two days later:

False Face was irritated with little Dick Grayson – the kid never gave him a private minute. That, combined with the fact that he could only work on his formula for a few hours each night, contributed greatly to his continuously rising level of frustration. Dick was going to be tested now, the villain had decided. If something bad happened to the boy, False Face would just have to find another way to get to Bruce Wayne and his connections. So, it was with excitement and a little trepidation that he poured the entire six-ounce bottle of dark liquid onto Dick's mashed potatoes and mixed it around with the brown gravy. He quickly and discreetly shoved the container into his pocket when he heard someone talking behind him.

"John, you've done this part almost every day at lunch," one of the other counselors stated, walking in front of False Face and pointing to the rolling cart that was ready to be pushed into the cafeteria. "Do you want me to take a shift?" The villain mentally snarled at the man; of course somebody would offer on the one day that he actually wanted to do it.

False Face tried to grin but knew it probably looked very artificial. "No, I'll do it. It's not a problem." He gritted his teeth then forced himself to say, "Thanks, anyway." Talking to any of the adults was annoying now and he had begun to hate trying to be polite to them. Giving the cart a gentle shove, False Face made it through the swinging door into the cafeteria and headed for the center of the room.

Half an hour before every meal, the counselors would set up the six tables in neat rows. Five minutes before every meal, ever since lunch on the first day, the twenty kids would rearrange four of the tables into one giant square table. Everybody could see everybody else and everyone could hear everyone else. After about a week of this three-times-a-day ritual, Mike gave up on the neat rows and the counselors began setting up the giant square instead.

Walter was sitting at the center of the table that was farthest away from the kitchen and Dick was sitting beside him. The older boy was telling a story about one of his famous pranks and causing all of the kids to laugh. "So then," the dark-haired teen continued as the laughter quieted down, "she asked if she could have a bite and I gave her the side that the dog had been licking!" Looks of disgust were passed around the table until Bronte started snickering. The sound was contagious and soon all twenty kids had dissolved into hysterical chuckles and giggles.

False Face mentally rolled his eyes as he pushed the serving cart toward the noisy square in the middle of the room. Thirteen- and fourteen-year-old kids were all stupid brats and he was tired of being here and dealing with them. He rolled his way around the four tables, placing plates in front of each kid, then stopped at the end of Walter's table and "accidentally" knocked some things off his cart and onto the floor. None of the teens paid any attention to him and False Face began cleaning his mess while he waited for Dick Grayson to begin eating.

"Dick, what is that stuff?" Bronte, who was sitting on the boy's left side, asked when he saw several black dots floating in the gravy on Dick's mashed potatoes.

Dick looked closely at it and shrugged while he watched John out of the corner of his eye. The man had been cleaning something on the floor but had suddenly stopped and was staring in Dick's direction. The young teen glanced around at the plates in front of some of the other kids and realized that the tiny black bubbles were only on his dish. He remembered the leftover liquid in the sink and decided not to eat the potatoes. Walter, however, had other ideas. He grabbed his own spoon, scooped a portion of the gravy off of Dick's mashed potatoes and shoved it in his mouth.

"Walter, stop!" Dick yelled as soon as he saw the spoon going toward the boy's mouth. But Walter grinned, allowing a little dribble of gravy to slide down his chin, and swallowed the entire spoonful.

"It's good; must be the protein from those tiny black ants," he smirked and some of the other kids rolled their eyes and started to eat. Walter was sitting on Dick's right side and the younger teen watched the older teen's face carefully. He seemed fine so Dick turned his attention back to his own plate.

Suddenly Walter was grabbing Dick's right arm, gasping for breath and holding onto his throat. Instinctively, Dick swung his right leg over to the other side of the bench and grabbed Walter under the armpits. Pushing himself away from the table with his left leg, he rolled them to the right, the momentum turning them around in the air and causing Dick to land hard on his left side. He somehow kept a secure hold on Walter's torso as they were pushed onto their backs, his left shoulder on fire and both of them gasping for air. The older teen's breathing steadied as his chest opened up. Dick was the one having trouble breathing now – all of Walter's weight was pressed onto his small body – but he really didn't care at the moment. His friend was calming down and beginning to breathe evenly.

The respite didn't last long, though. Thirty seconds after they landed on the floor, Walter was gasping again, his eyes wide with fear and his fingers scratching at his throat. Using both hands, Dick pushed Walter's almost-limp body up to sitting. Turning his right arm horizontally across Walter's back to support him, the younger teen used his throbbing left arm to push himself up then crossed his legs and laid Walter's torso on his lap. Panic was setting in and Dick couldn't remember anything else that Batman had taught him about how to help someone who was having trouble breathing. He was Robin and he didn't know what to do!

All of the other kids were standing and screaming, most of them calling for help, but all Dick heard was the loud hiss of air that was released from the throat of the fourteen-year-old boy. Shaking his head in distress, Dick slapped Walter hard on the face when the latter closed his eyes.

"Wake up, Walter!" he shouted and slapped him again. But Walter wasn't moving now and, when Dick put his forefinger on the neck of his friend, he felt…nothing. One of his friends had just died – no, had just been killed – and the substance that had taken his life had been meant for Dick. He looked up to where John had been standing – his eyes wide with horror – but Mike was there now, shooing the others away and prying Dick's shaking arms, which were now tightly crossed diagonally against Walter's torso, off the dead body. The camp director hauled Dick to his feet, cringing at the slight whimper of pain that came from the young boy's lips, and passed him off to another counselor.

Bronte saw the dazed look on Dick's face so he grabbed his friend's trembling body out of the counselor's arms and pulled him into a hug, hoping the action would calm the erratic breathing coming from the chest of the younger boy. There was a quiet grunt and Bronte felt Dick bring his right arm up to support his left shoulder, which was growing from slim to bumpy. Donovan was the closest counselor and Bronte glanced over at the man and asked for an ice pack. The boys sat down on the nearest bench and Bronte rolled up the sleeve on Dick's left arm. It wouldn't go over his rapidly swelling shoulder, though, and Bronte didn't know what to do next.

John was suddenly there with the ice and he roughly yanked Dick's shirt off his body, listening with angry pleasure to the short yelp of discomfort that his action produced from the boy who was supposed to be the one on the floor. False Face could tell that the shoulder was nearly dislocated so he grinned, in his mind, as he slapped the ice on and left.

Bronte stared at the scene in shock – it was as if John didn't care whether or not he was hurting Dick! Why did the man look so angry? Why didn't he secure the ice to Dick's shoulder instead of just shoving the pack on the swollen circle of purple?

Dick was surprised when it was John who showed up with an ice pack. But the pain in his left shoulder was intense and he couldn't really concentrate on anything else, especially when his arms were suddenly thrown in the air as his shirt was jerked off. He cut off a cry of agony, effectively turning it into a brief noise of what he hoped sounded like mild discomfort. The feeling was anything but that – his shoulder was falling out of its socket and Dick couldn't do anything about it because the ward of Bruce Wayne wouldn't know how to reset his own shoulder. Flinching as the hard pack of ice hit the most sensitive part of the injury, he slowly brought his shaking right hand up to hold it in place. Dick's hand didn't make it there, though, because Bronte already had his left hand on the ice pack.

Bronte pushed his friend's right arm down and grabbed the pack of ice that had already begun to slide off the boy's injured shoulder. As carefully as he could, Bronte placed it on the front of the joint, where the swelling was most noticeable. He didn't want to push too hard – it was obvious that Dick was in a great deal of pain – but he had to keep it secure so he apologized as he put his right hand on Dick's shoulder blade and held the ice tightly in place. He grimaced at the muffled groan that came out of his friend's mouth and apologized again.

The shoulder was throbbing and burning and Dick was starting to see colorful dots swirling around in his mind. Bronte was pushing hard on his back, not knowing that the ice wouldn't help until the shoulder had been reset. Silently apologizing to Bruce, Dick dropped his head, shut his eyes, grabbed his left arm with his right hand and shifted it up and around until he heard the 'pop' of the joint sliding back into the socket. He frowned when he saw a mental picture of the disappointment that would be on Bruce's face. Now, however, he was able to relax a little and almost allowed the colors to lead him away as they faded into darkness. Mike was speaking to them, however, so Dick lifted his head and opened his slightly hazy eyes, attempting to focus on the camp director instead of the pulsing ache that was causing his left arm to tremble.

"…get checked…med…main cabin." Dick hadn't caught the entire sentence but Bronte was standing up now and Dick assumed that he was supposed to do the same. The dizziness was unexpected and Bronte quickly wrapped his right arm around the swaying body of the younger teen. Realizing that Dick wouldn't be completely supported with just an arm around his waist, Bronte quickly moved to the other side, wrapping his left arm around the small midsection while draping the slumping boy's uninjured right arm across his own broad shoulders. Dick shook his head, trying to stay awake, and let Bronte guide him out the door toward the main building.

Should have waited for the doctor. Bruce is going to be so mad. That considered showing off? Dick's thoughts were scattered but the agony of his injury was lessening and, even though Bruce would be disappointed, Dick was grateful that he knew how to fix the problem. He didn't have to fight to stay awake anymore and he was able to walk on his own. Almost able to walk, he realized, as he tripped himself by stepping on his own foot.

"So, uh, did they teach you how to fix your shoulder like that in the circus?" Bronte had heard the earlier 'pop' and felt Dick begin to straighten up as they followed the path. He was glad that he hadn't released his hold on his friend, though, when the boy stumbled.

Attempting to avoid the direct truth, Dick replied, "I was a trapeze artist; we were naturally plagued with shoulder injuries." That was true but a flash of guilt flew through his pain-filled eyes: it was Batman who had taught him how to fix it. The two boys walked through the open door of the main building and turned left toward the medical room. Bronte glanced at Dick and shook his head, wondering what kind of circus would teach a child how to push his own shoulder back into its socket.


One hour later:

Mike sat in the worn-down chair in his office, elbows on his desk and fingers rubbing his aching forehead. The calm expression on his face belied the torrent of thoughts that were splashing through his mind. How does one call the parents of a teenager to tell them that their son is dead? Should he call Commissioner Gordon and, by extension, Batman? The slight discoloration around Walter's mouth suggested food poisoning but Mike had no idea how that could have happened. He had been told that the only bite Walter had eaten was a spoonful of gravy off of the plate of Dick Grayson so he had examined that dish carefully. Both he and the doctor, an emergency room physician who came up to camp every year, found nothing out of the ordinary. Why had Walter decided to taste Dick's food instead of just eating his own? The boys had the exact same things on their plates: a thick, juicy slice of meatloaf, fluffy mashed potatoes with gravy the color of milk chocolate and carrots smothered in a gooey honey glaze.

A thought made him pause in his musings: could Walter have been allergic to something? Opening the top drawer on his right side, Mike sifted through the confidential files of the kids and quickly found the one that belonged to Walter Jackson. He opened the manila folder and scanned the personal information, the allergy information and the "other comments" section at the end. There were no allergies listed but there was a large arrow at the very bottom of the page, pointing to the right. Mike flipped the page over and groaned: a long list of every single little thing that the boy could possibly be allergic to. Walter had an over-protective mother and the director's dread of informing her of the teen's death suddenly increased exponentially. He ran his finger across the list:

Grass, seaweed, peanuts, dog hair, sausage, human hair, sheep, milk (mild), dust, paint, potatoes, mold, the ocean, bats, mothballs, generic laundry detergent, cat saliva and silk

Frowning in concentration, Mike ticked off every relevant "allergy" on his fingers and realized that Walter had not displayed any normal allergic symptoms to anything until he had eaten some gravy off of the mashed potatoes. The reaction to that particular listed allergy had been severe so, since his parents must have known about it, why hadn't they given the camp director an EpiPen? The medicine contained in that injection device could have saved the boy's life! Mike stood up and turned to the small cabinet behind him, opening it and staring at the display – Benadryl, acetaminophen, ibuprofen and other regular medications but nothing out of the ordinary for any of the kids. Prescription drugs were always bagged and labeled with the name of the teenager before the kids left the bus depot. There were no bags…at all.

Mike sat in his chair again, circled "potatoes" on the list of Walter's possible allergies and picked up the phone to call the kid's parents. It rang once, twice, three times and then he listened to the outgoing message. Mike rolled his eyes and shook his head – of course Walter's entire family was out of the country and had left no emergency numbers. There was no way to contact anyone. Even the staff must have been given at least a month off! Leaving an unfortunate message on the machine and hoping that Walter's parents could somehow check their voicemail remotely, Mike replaced the phone and looked up the number for the morgue in the hospital where his trusted physician worked. At least Walter's body would have a "nice" place to stay, as opposed to a grave at a camp in the mountains.

After making arrangements for the body to be picked up, the director decided that a call to Commissioner Gordon was unnecessary. Allergic reactions were probably not what the police department would consider "unusual events", even though this one had resulted in a death. The parents were partially at fault for not providing the correct medication, although he wasn't going to bring that up when he talked to them. Now that he had more information, there was no reason to suspect foul play. The knowledge that the potatoes had been on Dick's plate slipped from Mike's mind as he sighed, closed his tired eyes, leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a moment to try to relax. Little did he know that his failure to remember that small yet significant detail, along with deciding not to notify the commissioner, was going to lead to one of his biggest regrets in the forty-two years of his existence.