Vacio
Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
AN: "Christ, Paltron, wouldn't it have been easier just to tell us?" Gordon asked in chapter five. Many readers have since agreed. Hopefully this chapter explains why Paltron would rather face prison than reveal Angel's secret.
9:55 EST
Arimathea Apartments and Leasing
Bright light. Flash. Snap another picture. Take analysis of soiled floor. Scrub the ambulance down for fingerprints. Remove, bag the trash and hypodermics of those druggie kids. CSI busies themselves with the gritty task of re-piecing the cargo bay and ambulance exactly how they were, 10 days ago.
And finally, finally I ask Lawless. Where is he?
But Nora hasn't said anything yet. Has given nothing away. I am suddenly shy. Afraid. He'll ask her, he says. He'll find out where-
He stops. Can't continue. Presses my hand. Presses my hand and leaves me, pulls Nora from the gathered throng of reporters to ask her.
"I don't know yet, Lawless." Nora tells him before he can even begin to inquire. "We were only called in about the EMT's…and I would've told you." She remonstrates.
Nora says the place belongs to a Jewish realtor, Aramathea. They've spent all morning trying to contact him. Hasn't picked up his phone. They want keys. Permission. Cooperation in exploring the premises…
It's 23 storeys tall. And somewhere among it's hundreds of thousands of square feet, my Angel is waiting.
Fuck it. I'm going it. Not waiting for some upper-class banker to check his morning messages. Bodies were found on the premises, and that makes the whole damn place a crime scene. Art's Beretta. Three round burst to the rusted padlock. Nora screams. Lawless whirls, gun drawn. Reporters cry out, throw themselves to the ground, trample over each other in haste to get as fucking far away from the yellow tape as possible.
…CSI can thank me later.
"Paltron, what the hell." Lawless says softly as I tear away the chains barring the doors.
"You wanna wait another seven hours, fine." I state. " I'm not stopping you. But I'm going in."
"You're going in." He repeats. "Alone. With no flashlight. Hell, you don't know what else is in there-"
"No, I don't. But the fucking Joker's gone. Druggies don't scare me." And Angel's in here, I don't have to add. Lawless knows. He has not forgotten.
"But you can't just go charging in there by yourself!" Nora protests. "You're a woman, for goodness sakes-!"
Lawless sighs. Turns to her. Runs fingers through his greying hair. "You're right, Nora." He says apologetically as she gives him a look of approval. "Call us when the owner gets in."
"Absolutely right. You-Lawless!" The coroner sputters, but he pays her no heed. He yanks a flashlight and a UV bulb from the nearest squint, and chambers a round in his sidearm. We're going in. Together. Our last mission will be finding Angel. With one strong lunge he kicks open the bay doors.
I can think of no better way to end our partnership.
10:00 EST
Aramathea Apartments and Leasing
There. There inside the empty, abandoned hall, amidst crumbled concrete from the doorframe and an inch of greyish dust, a narrow swath of flooring has been tilled in parallel: wheel marks.
The air is still. Our breath bated. In that emptiness of dripping, echoing pipes, the whisper of Fear Toxin laced dust and dank, a single, lonely pair of footprints trails off into the darkness. This is where they brought him. This is where he died, where the last echoes of screams and laughter still mingle in the sinister silence. But the Joker is long gone. Why this pounding in my heart? Sudden sense of urgency, dread? Something deep, deep down in my gut makes me sweat and shiver in the humid morning heat. I turn my head, and in one glance tell Lawless feels it too. The way he carries his gun, the tension on the trigger, the hair raised on the back of his hand-
Sudden movement. Three shots. A squeal-
"Just rats, Lawless." The obliterated body is splattered against the wall in a smear of blood and chunks of fur.
Lawless swears. Wipes the sweat from his eyes. For some moments we simply stand, his shallow panting echoing eerily. "You alright?" .
"Yeah." He replies. "don't know why I'm so damn nervous. It's not like the goddamned Joker's here."
But he was, I say with my silence. He was.
"He left the rest just to rot." Lawless whispers lowly. "This bastard is so unpredictable, and it scares the shit out of me. He's never done this before. Never. Why no clues, no messages? No booby-traps?"
"He dressed Hanson in his suit-had to disguise himself, Lawless. Bought some seconds of distraction by dressing her in Arkham attire. He didn't want to kill them. None of them. He likes killing to send a message." But my words are much more calm than I feel. It takes a killer to know a killer, and the Joker's confession spills from my lips. I feel defiled. Dirty. I share in his guilt. "He's not proud of this. Doesn't mean anything to him. He wasn't in control. He did it quick and quiet because it was necessary, and he left the bodies where they were."
Lawless is silent for several seconds. Noisome water pours from the blown open pipe, sludgy with grit and rot. "It would tell us he was weak. Vulnerable. Not in control." He sighs. "He wouldn't want to publicize that. Not like-"
He stops. Raises the flashlight, and the thin, sickly beam traces out diffusely, lost in the ghostly darkness and fog of dust. Those tracks lead on, ever straight, unwavering. "Look at the footprints." Lawless whispers.
Uneven. Lilting. Whirring in complex circles and arcs…
This time he was in control. Planned and purposeful. He couldn't kill Conolly near the others, couldn't allow that weakness and mortality to taint the scene of the real crime…
When he led our son away like a lamb to the slaughter, the Joker was goddamned dancing.
Aramathea Apartments and Leasing
10:45 EST
Panted, shallow breathing. Muffled, heavy footfalls. Pipes drip. Metal groans. Tiny, pattering feet skitter off into the darkness. The world is a monotony of colorless shapes and meaningless forms, muting minds and emotion until nothing is left but grey, grey numbness in the dust-laden air. I have walked for forever, and the path seems no shorter, like Tantalus it stretches ever before us, ever back, and the further we reach the further the Joker's secrets elude us…
What does he plan? Was the video all? Or will there be more? Traps. Clues. Corpse mutilated even before the rats and flies…
This was his plan. Why so long. A walk. A wait. Minds numbed, senses screaming, screaming for light for sound for something-! only to stumble upon his handiwork. Yes, Joker, you are a god. You construct a world and inhabit it with horrors which define its only meanings. But the world is not so small. Outside these walls, beyond these bricked-over windows Gotham yet lives. Breathes. This is no universe. No Hell. It's an empty, abandoned building that you've riddled with death.
…Nothing more. Nothing less.
I am reason. I am logic. Behind them I will hide. Shut out the grief and emptiness, this hollow, ghastly shriek of loss. But as the sweeping swath of Lawless' flashlight glimmers off the far wall I see it.
Twin, whitish doors. Splattered in dark, bloody handprints. A camera moves drunkenly forward, purple hand outstretched, doors fling back-Angel-!
Running, running I am running trip over debris in the dark Lawless calls my name shouts for me to stop shouts Damnit it Paltron, it's a trap-! he's right he's right but I cannot stop cannot turn back there is a door, a horrible door my Angel lies on the other side I have to know have to see to be sure a terrible, burning longing curiosity dread my hands outstretched reaching for those doors I am powerless to stop them-
DVD's. Unlabeled disks scatter as I crawl backwards out of that tiny cell, arms around Angel I will never let him go. "I've got you." I whisper, hauling him up over my hip. "I've got you, Angel-"
He is whimpering. Weeping. Rubs his tear-streaming eyes and nose against my shoulder over and over and over again. I do not shush him. Don't dare lie to him. His safety and innocence are utterly defiled. I kiss him, kiss him and pull his pants back up to cover him as he clings to me desperately. I hold him, simply hold him, press him close to console him until he can cry no more.
Dark curls between my fingers. Smooth, salty skin beneath my lips. Warm weight of every breath against my body and all the heights, all the pleasures, all the ecstasies of ever making love are nothing, nothing, nothing compared to the beautiful boy held in my arms… I look in his dark eyes and promise never to leave him, promise no one will ever take him away. You're mine, Angel. You're mine. You always have been, always will be.
But an urgency is growing, ominous and pressing around us even as waves of content and wholeness wash away all the loneliness that there ever was. I am here. Angel is in my arms…yet beyond the closet door four men lay dead. Four heartless, child-molesting men. Garbage. Human cockroaches and pigs…We have to get out. Get away. No one can know, no one can ever know or they'll take him away-
Angel is sickly and pale. Hiccoughing and shaky. Salt runs in smears down his porcelain face. He cuddles closer as though understanding we have to go…
Sudden squelch.
Blood. Soaked in the carpet. Splashed on the ceiling. Walls. Oozing beneath my feet. I have forgotten to cover Angel' eyes, and he sees it all. Everything I have ever done for the sake of loving him lies in hideous heaps of flesh on the floor.
The boy stares, stricken. And for all the expression in those fathomless dark eyes I see nothing but those rendered reflections. "Angel?" I ask him gently. "Angel?" I try to cover his face, turn him away, but something stays me. He needs to see. He needs to know.
I let him look. Long and terrible, it is seared into our eyes, our hearts, our souls. This is our secret. This is our love. His safety. This is what I have done. This is what I will do to anyone who ever harms you. Never again. Never again. They can't hurt you anymore…
Angel shudders and places his face against my neck.
The hallway is smeared with Gerald's blood. There are fingernails in the baseboards, scratches in the paint. I stagger to the kitchen, holding Angel against my chest. There has to be something. Gas stove or burners. Lighter or furnace…
I pass the door, that slatted door and puddle of urine where Angel witnessed his mother's death-Sudden pang. I press him closer. "They can't hurt you anymore." I promise. "Never again." But as the whispered words leave my mouth they taste a lie. Can they? What if Gerald were telling the truth? What if the real killer is still loose-? Could there be a fifth?
"There's nothing in there, baby. They can't hurt you. No one's gonna hurt you-" Then the panic hits. These men were molesting him. That cell, that tiny cell in the closet-! I can't burn the house down. Not until I know. "Baby are there more like you?" I ask him fiercely, force his face to mine. "More children like you, are there more, Angel!"
Those impossible lashes flit slowly shut. He is sorrow. He is silence. Whatever other sinister secrets Gerald was hiding are locked forever behind his lips. Too late, too late, too late, bitch. You've failed. He's won…
"Baby, baby please!" I beg him. "Are there more like you? Is there anybody else like you!" I search. Cry out. Fling open every closet door, hammer every wall. No cries. No whimpers. "Can you hear me! Is anyone there-?!"
….Nothing. I am gasping, shaking. Press him tighter, fears assuaged. It was horrible. Unforgivable. Damnable…but not the worst I feared. They were molesting him, only him. And guilt washes over me that I could ever feel such relief. I stagger back against the slatted panels, slipping down to the tile floor in shame.
Stale, dusty urine soaks through the back of my pants. I clench my eyes, bury my face in my Angel's hair. Soothe. Shush. "I'm here, Angel. I'm right here…"
But Angel is rigid in my arms. Hot liquid seeps down my legs and the biting, acrid scent of piss permeates the air. That heavy horror again crushes my heart. I crawl into that pantry, one arm around Angel hands and knees slick with blood and urine. There is something here, something still here something wrong something scaring Angel something bad enough to scare the shit out of a little kid…
The wall. The wall behind the water heater. It sounds nearly like all the others…not dull and hollow hiding and empty space, simply muted. Cleverly disguised. I kick it, kick it and plaster falls with every blow chipping cracking I cover Angel's eyes close my own kick the fuck out of that wall as dust rises and chokes us. And finally, finally that wall is soft and relenting and I rip through three feet of insulation until my fists hit plywood and splinters tear under my nails. Another kick. Another blow-
A chunk of plywood falls slowly, thumps resounding and ominous onto the floor below.
The fake wall was a soundproof doorway, and through the jagged hole of insulation and splintered wood a gaping pit yawns to reveal a cement staircase. Darkness. Echoed breath. Angel whimpers in my arms and clutches me tighter. He begs me not to go, not to slip down into that inky blackness that empty nothingness but I have to know, have to see, to be sure…
I call for more children. Only echoes. No one answers. No smell of chemicals. No noisome fumes. No hydrogen peroxide or ammonium nitrate. What else is it Gerald would go to such lengths to hide-?
My fumbling fingers trail down the wall, feet groping blindly down the stairs. Angel is coughing. Chirping. Choking. Solid ground. I hold him close, promise not to let him go…I grope down the wall, and find the cold, hard plastic of an electric switch. With an eerie hum, the room comes to life, and after several shrinking seconds, my eyes adjust.
Computer monitors. Bright blue stage walls. Booms hang from overhead. Cameras. Camcorders. Tripods, jibs and dollies. Cinematography equipment, professional cinematography equipment…
And lining the walls, lining the walls of this underground hell are racks upon racks of hung clothing and costumes. My heart begins to pound. Lingerie. All of it fetish and role play. Brassieres. Negligees. Lacy panties. Slutty sci-fi latex, flowing white togas, starchy Elizabethian gowns and silky kimonos. Endless rows of boots, silk slippers, torturous high heeled shoes. Impossible wigs. Cuffs, whips, ropes heinous cages and chains…
…Anguish.
I am consumed by grief and rage. Numb even to the boy who buries his face between my breasts. I sm Isaiah, my eyes have been opened, and the hidden horrors of Gotham's rotting heart are laid bare. I burn with a zealous fire. I thought I knew Gotham. I was wrong. Gerald wasn't hiding a meth lab or explosives…this is something I never even knew to fear.
It's a studio. A porn studio.
We were wrong. Blinded. Naïve. Fettered by self-imposed standards of the boundaries of 'usual evil' we saw only what we wanted to see. There are some horrors the mind refuses to contemplate. Some evidences our brain turns to madness to deny. Some truths so self-evident we hope for falsehood instead. That woman with the green eyes wasn't Gerald's battered wife or girlfriend…she was those bastards' sex slave.
…Like her son.
"N-no," I moan. "No, no, n-no Angel, no…"
Angel's eyes leak hot tears of shame. "Angel," I sob. "Why'd you go? Why? Why'd you go back to him? After all he did to you, what he did to both of you oh Angel why-!" I rock him and weep, hold this child locked away underground in the darkness to be raped abused filmed and recorded fondled and dressed like doll like a toy nothing more than a sex toy a prop to make movies to sell to be watched again and again and again…
Gerald was a man. Gerald was his father. The only life he'd ever known. And no matter how gruesome the cost, how terrible the pain or shame, my Angel went crawling back to this twisted pervert for Love. Acceptance. Approval. Too innocent not to give his forgiveness. Too goddamned naïve to know any different. Cold, terrible feeling deep in my gut. Sudden ache in my breasts. Harleen Quinzel's words: 'That child needs to be institutionalized. Placed in full-time psychotherapy indefinitely. Perhaps even for the rest of his life."
…No.
No-!
I love you baby I love you I love you I fucking love you I'll be everything you need never let you go I'll raise you Angel love you Angel I'll protect you I'll keep you safe teach you right and wrong no one can know they can't know can't ever know you have to forget forget it all can never tell never tell they'll take you away lock you up lock you up for forever and ever…
Doors. Darkness. I fall again into that Hellish pit that horrible dread gives way to desperate hope and longing even dead even dead I can kiss can caress him my Angel my child my only son-!
Lawless staggers in behind me gun draw and ready. The flashlight whips in dizzying arcs blue UV lamp spins as the room erupts into eerie blues and glowing whites blood blood there is so much blood…
Panted breath in the dark. Muted footsteps on bloodstained cement. My heart is aching, flesh crawling, hair raised on end. The darkness closes in, presses back against light and life, hot and heavy against unwelcome intruders. We shrink together and approach that wall. Here is the gurney. The bloodstained sheets. Here is his dried blood that drips forever in a sinister sneer…
The doors swing shut on shrieking hinges. It is a death knell to my heart. I was prepared for anything. Expected the worst of the Joker's twisted tricks…
…all but this.
Heartbeats cease, my body sways. Heedless I fall into Lawless' chest. Cry so fucking hard my eyes explode. Retch out my heart and entrails. Bury my face in tearsspitsnotblood and rip my throat ragged what do want youbastardyoubastard what do want what do you want I want him backI needhimback just give him back you motherfucker IneedhimIneedhim give him back give him back oh God oh fuck oh Angelangelangel-!
Night falls. Eternity passes. The sun freezes over. The Devil is laughing a Clown is laughing hope and happiness splinter into a myriad of shattered stars the universe unravels into clouds of chaos and doubt, an Angel shrieks, my soul is rent to nothingness and darkness covers the face of the waters.
11: 13 EST
Aramathea Apartments and Leasing
I wake in Lawless' arms and wish he were Jon, wish it all away: Angel and Lawless and Gordon and Gotham. Wish I had died on the operating table in France, wish to God that grenade had killed me in Warizistan JobJob the book of Job better death better darkness better stillborn than to live, to live and know such searing pain…
"Where'd they take him." I choke. "W-why..."
"I don't know." Lawless answers honestly. "I just don't know."
I sniff. Wipe a string of snot and tears across Lawless' shirt. Shut my eyes in this darkness pierced only by the dying glow of a flickering flashlight and weep anew. I am the Madonna. The Magdelena. The tomb is empty. He is not here.
… yet even I am not foolish enough as to hope he may have risen.