Chapter Four

Oswald stayed at the club that night to take care of business. He pulled a foldaway bed into his office and set it up beside the fireplace, the hinges creaking as he adjusted it. There was no fire in the hearth, but being near it seemed to comfort him. He was exhausted, not bothering to place sheets on the thin mattress, only plopping down—the metal springs screeching—and removing his socks and shoes—they were damp from his traipse in the snow—and wiggling his toes. His nails needed a trim.

I will do that tomorrow, he sighed, laying back on the pillowless cot. Way too tired right now.

It had taken him a few phone calls to locate the particular chef he needed to pick up a special delivery. Being Christmastime, the cook was out of the country on holiday vacation with his family, but Oswald had found someone who would retrieve the distasteful (or maybe tasty—he did not know) package on the man's behalf. This was not something Oswald normally did—and it was a foray that made him a little squeamish (the phrase "you are what you eat" came to mind), and he certainly did not want this kind of meal served in his establishments, but this was business after all, and where there was a demand . . .

He yawned and cursed his sore fingers.

The damn man must have brushed and flossed his teeth a few times a day. It had been harder than normal to pull out all of the assailant's teeth. No one leads an attack on my son and gets away with it. Must have a pretty good dentist though—healthy choppers, strong roots.

He had grabbed a different set of pliers and sang "you'll be a dentist . . ." as he continued to extract the man's molars, pushing through the task, telling the unsuccessful thief that if he wanted a necklace, he would have to make one himself—which, Oswald thought, looking back and chuckling (quite amused with himself), the man did. Oswald had used hot glue to adhere the man's teeth to his own chest and around his neck. For a laugh, he gave him matching earrings.

What a pretty picture!

Afterwards, Oswald slipped one tooth into his vest pocket as a souvenir.

When the chef's courier arrived to pick up the aforementioned package, Oswald offered him the other one too—at no charge—and apologized for the mess. It was just easier to dispose of the body that way and—as an added benefit!—he would not have to tidy up more than he already did, especially since Fara, who seemed to be born with a knack for these types of things, was not around to help him, and he never included Harold in the aftermath of such dealings. Frail soul.

Rubbing his chin, Oswald considered investing in a plant that manufactured shower curtains and wondered why he had not done so already.

He had watched the courier load both securely-wrapped men (fresh food is always best) in the back of the unmarked delivery truck (refrigerated) and nearly bawked at the "reuse, recycle" sticker on the bumper, complete with three crooked arrows combined to form a single green circle.

Never let it be said that The Penguin does not take sustainability issues seriously.

With the day's business concluded, Oswald had cast a final glance to the black sky and returned to the purple darkness of his club. He had grabbed some frozen shrimp from the freezer, a bottle of cocktail sauce, and a moscato from the kitchen—the sweet wine a perfect pairing with the seafood—and immediately popped it open and took a swig, enjoying its figgy taste. It was after the shrimp had been thawed and ingested that he rested on the cot, his fingers laced behind his head, staring up at the ceiling, the bottle—now less than half full—on the floor beside him.

He still, on occasion, came here to study the map. It gave him "the big picture" as opposed to having to "grab and drag" an online map with the mouse whenever he viewed it on a monitor. Over the years, he had added hidden tunnels that were discovered by him and Edward Nygma after Ed had figured out how to open that secret door hidden behind the dumpster.

The man loved a good riddle.

He also had been the only person that cared enough to convince Oswald to remain in Gotham. Raise hell. And since Oswald believed himself to be devilish . . . and utterly, utterly alone . . . he stayed.

Ed had proven himself to be a true friend, completely opposite of Ed's other namesake (Ogilvy) who had betrayed him and Cassandra and was one of the few dead that did not rise again.

Cassandra.

Fresh tears sprang to his eyes as he turned on his side to stare into the empty fireplace.

Oswald lost count of the times he had diligently followed the signal on his cellphone that indicated her movement, but it always ended up being a wild goose chase. The little red dot would stop and Oswald—certain that he was in the right place—would frantically scan his surroundings, but to no avail. It was all in vain. She had not been there.

Many times he stood frozen in a state of solid panic, his brain locked up, not knowing how or what to think. Below him was the sewers with its tunnels and rats, above him the sky with its airplanes and blimps. And still the unmoving dot stared back at him. He could be standing in the exact coordinates located on the phone, but she was nowhere to be seen.

It then dawned on him that the passages under the city may be the answer to his quagmire, and he choose to look there, using crowbars to remove man covers, even in the light of day. It anyone asked what he was doing—one rarely did because . . . who cares? He would simply answer with the crowbar upon the questioner's skull and continue with his quest. This was before Ed's genius discovery of how to get into the Wonderland Door—as the riddle-lover preferred to call it.

It was easy enough to make someone disappear in the dank sewers. Many times Oswald entertained the thought that something down there was eating the bodies, and he did not mean the rodents, yet even this gnawing suspicion did not deter him from his search. Rage and crazed longing was enough to brave him up for the sewers and whatever lurked there.

Every day he searched and each night he prowled the catacombs and streets of Gotham. This, of course, had been before her things had been mailed back to him and before he had discovered what was really happening in the hidden parts of the underground—the unSeelie kingdom of Indian Hill—a demented Dr. Seuss machine that burst forth doppelgangers and changelings.

But Cassandra was not there—she had not been spirited away to the chambers of Indian Hill—the way one would imagine a fairy would kidnap its human victim. He wished that she had been, just to find her. She also was not in Arkham Asylum—a place he knew too well after a short stint there, one that changed him forever—but she was near.

Only once did Oswald notice that when the little red dot moved, so did the blimp overhead. Cassandra was in Gotham, even if it was only to be in the sky of the city.

I knew it! Everyone had gotten used to the presence of the drifting sky ship, the citizens normally looking down instead of up. Why would one look up anyway, knowing full well they would only be rewarded with an eyeful of dirty rain or pigeon droppings.

He had eyed the passing dirigible and followed it home. It rarely came out during the day, and never anchored when it did. It was the most active at night and he trailed it back to the Powers Hotel, passing along that information to Detective Gordon and even convincing him to procure a search warrant for the building. It had taken a lot of threatening on Oswald's part to get the judge to agree to issue one, but it was to no avail. Private apartments were not allowed to be searched. The police only had clearance to rifle through the uninhabited rooms and public areas. Their tied hands had come up empty.

The judge wound up dead.

A robbery, the cops had said and the news had parroted. Oswald suspected otherwise. He knew he was on the right track. Pissed them off—whoever they were exactly, but deep down he knew—a parliament of dangerous, predatory nocturnal birds.

A recurring thought kept nagging at him. Why did they not just kill me and get it over with? Surely, they have the resources. They had better do so, if they do not want me to find them. I will show no mercy.

The Court of Owls was not a fairytale. It was real and they had it out for him—personally. That was another discovery by Ed. Inside one of the three journals from Cassandra's parents were hieroglyphics and numbers and letters that were scrawled across a good portion of the pages. A code. One that, after time, Edward broke.

"Oh, dear," Oswald remembered Ed saying. They had been in his office at Oswald's. He had looked up from the pages of her father's engineering journal, feeling both annoyed and excited about Ed's exclamation and asked, "What is it, Ed?" careful not to let his impatience get the better of him.

Ed turned the book around and held it open flat towards Oswald, as if Oswald had not already seen the inside of the journal. Of course he had, he had scoured every page since he acquired the diary, making sure to skip nothing. He practically knew the book by heart.

"Yeah, I am staring at garbley-gook. I know that already. I have seen it a thousand times. So?"

Ed tapped his finger against the paper. "What would smell as sweet as a rose, even if it was not called a rose?" he asked, then ducked behind the journal, his eyes peering over.

Oswald shook his head and shrugged, raising his hands into the air, clearly irritated. "A name," he guessed and Ed nodded.

"Yes! Yours to be precise." He came around to stand at Oswald's shoulders and laid the book open in front of him pointing to the gibberish.

"What?" Oswald asked, looking at the parchment.

Ed tapped on the paper. "Right here. See this recurring order of lines and swirls?"

"Of course I see it, Ed. It is right in front of me. And, again I ask, so?"

With an impish grin on his face, Ed took a step back and clasped his hands under his chin. Oswald thought the man might burst, but instead he said, "That's your name. Your name is in this book."

Oswald stared at him a moment and then picked up the book, staring at it—not that it would do him any good—he did not know what he was looking at. Of all the places he wanted his name to be displayed or recorded for posterity, this journal was not it—he was certain. "Do you know what it says about me?"

"No . . . not yet . . . but it will be simple enough to deduct now that I have uncovered the key, aaaannd . . . there's more." Ed paused for effect and wiggled his eyebrows. Oswald gestured for him to continue. Ed tapped his fingers on either side of his nose and adjusted his glasses. "Guess who else's name is in there?"

Oswald sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I do not want to venture a guess, Ed."

"One guess. I bet you'll get it. Like the nose on your face, it's plain. Through the years, he's become your bane. Not only him, but Kane . . ."

"Ed, you are driving me insane . . ."

". . . the heart of the city, pumping blood through her veins." The heart of the city, Oswald repeated in his mind. The center.

"Wayne? Are you telling me the other name in that journal . . . the other name listed with my name is Wayne? Bruce Wayne?"

Ed leaned in close and whispered, "Bravo, melancholy Dane." Oswald leaned back in his leather chair and stared at the opposite wall. It was a few seconds later before he said anything. Ed was rocking back and forth on his feet, looking quite pleased with himself. Oswald strummed his fingers against the cushion arm of the chair, and then looked back to Ed.

"Well, this is indeed an . . ."

". . . enigma?" Ed finished his sentence.

"Well said," grinned Oswald, sitting up. "Can you decipher the rest of it?" Ed cocked his brow at him and let out a snort.

"Do separate atoms or subatomic particles cooled to near absolute zero coalesce into a single quantum mechanical entity on a near-macroscopic scale?"

Oswald blinked at him. "I-I do not know . . ."

"Well, of course they do, silly! I can have this whipped out by the end of the day."

Ed had been true to his word and together they discovered that The Court of Owls was a covert organization, incredibly violent, whose influence had spanned several years—to the founding of Gotham and further back—and had branches across Europe. According to the diary, the group was looking to expand their grasp back into Asia, where it had once been powerful, but the base of the operation was firmly rooted in Gotham.

These were not nice people, if they were even people. Christina, Cassandra's mother, had scribbled that personal opinion down upon the pages. Her words indicated that the secret society had particular targets they wanted eliminated, and Oswald was troubled to find his name as well as the Anders name—Cassandra's line—and Bruce's bulleted in a list. Written sideways on the next page were the words: "Because of Kane", but nothing else to give clue as to why.

Powers and Orchard were also mentioned in the book, underlined several times, as well as the words "Erastus" and "electrum"—but neither Oswald nor Ed had a clue to what that meant. Both the Powers and Orchard Hotels were well known. A search of real estate and newspaper archives could answer more questions—only Oswald was not sure what they were yet.

He thought of Tawny Chouette's attack on Cassandra and himself and how the records from her cellphone had come to a dead end. The bitch had used a device where minutes had to be added, and he had called all the nameless numbers in the contact list over and over, purchasing calling time in order to keep the minutes from running out. Soon Tawny's number was blocked from reaching anyone on the list, so Oswald had to use one of his universal phones instead. Still, no one picked up. Probably because they did not recognize his number.

Or maybe it was because they did.

He recorded their numbers in the journal in order to keep everything in one place and in case one of the assassins came after him. At least the information would be compiled and stored in his safe to be discovered by the GCPD should he "disappear" or wind up dead. Oswald had requested Gabe and Fara make sure Jim Gordon got the journals and all pertinent findings should anything happen to him.

Through the years, information had been thrown at Oswald like lose dollar bills and he frenetically tried to collect the data and place it in some kind of sensible order. But dreams at night and thoughts during the day of Cassandra kept Oswald from being able to coolly disconnect and gather his wits, always haunted by tortuous images of his soulmate being brutally harmed and left to die.

It was too much to consider, along with everything else. He hated disarray. He hated riddles. But, motivation—what drove people, made them tick—that he liked, and if he could figure out the real incentive behind the cabal's movement, he could find them and destroy them all.

But right now, he was pulling his hair out, figuratively speaking. The white strip down the middle of his bangs kept getting bigger.

It was all a conspiracy and he felt like a schizophrenic going mad—would that not make him sane?—because it was all too impossible to believe.

He was also having a hard—but exultant—time believing he had Iggy back in his life—that he could actually talk to him now, not watch him from afar. He wondered if the boy would show up next week. He hoped so. Having him back transported Oswald to a time when he was truly content. He had possessed it all for a moment, only to have it savagely and cruelly taken from him. He clenched his teeth and shivered, but it was from suppressed anger and painful yearning, not because he was chilly. Oswald did not need any blankets. He liked the cold and the ice.

It was snowing again, coming down in sideways sheets. He could hear giant snowflakes hitting the window. Thud, thud, thud. The wind howled.

Fries must be angry again, he chuckled, although he could relate to man's pain. Losing a beloved mate was as bad as losing one's own life. Oswald turned away from the fireplace, rolling onto his other side and lifted the rest of the wine to his mouth.

Cassandra. Oswald could feel the bile burning in his stomach and knew the shrimp was about to make an appearance.

When he found the parties responsible for the disappearance of his wife, he was going to make diamonds out of them.