Chapter Eight: Can't Erase the Facts
Night had fallen hours ago. Peter sensed the presence in his hotel room before he saw the figure standing by the curtains. He turned away from the computer screen and stood up to greet the vigilante.
"Thank you for coming."
"You had something you wanted to tell me?" the Cape rasped, his hood and mask conspiring to conceal his face.
"You mean besides telling you to stay away from my daughter?" Fleming quipped. Jamie had delivered the message that Peter wanted to see the Cape, which meant that he was right—she did have a means of contacting the hero. Who knew what the nature of their relationship was.
But no, she was seeing that Ian fellow, so that ruled out certain possibilities.
"Kidding," Peter raised his hands in a 'take-it-easy' gesture. "It's hardly as if either of you would listen to me."
"You're taking this awfully well," the younger man said, full of suspicion, "finding out that your daughter is in league with your sworn enemy," he clarified.
"She hasn't stabbed me in the back yet," Peter's eyes sought out the other man's, "though I suppose I would deserve it if she did."
"You're not going to get any arguments here. You asked for this little rendezvous and I don't think it was to shoot the breeze. Or," he stopped, backtracked so as not to betray Orwell's secret. "Jamie said there was something you knew about Queen's list of targets. You ready to share with the class?"
Peter turned away from him and stepped closer to the window before beginning.
"It was about eight years ago. You know of course what happened—what I did to Henry Jerrod."
"One of Chess' first documented murders," Vince replied. Jerrod's murder had been meant to pave the way for Peter to profit from the man's research on little Tracey Jerrod. Fleming didn't realize that his daughter knew about the murder, too.
"Indeed; what you don't know is that giving it a personal touch was not part of my original plan. I had, up to that point, done very little in the way of killing. My intention was to use a proxy.
"This was before I'd discovered that the Tower and the other branches of Tarot were more than mere legend. But I had heard enough to spark my interest in another society—the League of Assassins."
"Never heard of it," the Cape frowned.
"And I suppose you had heard of Tarot before Cain's poison was running through your veins?"
"No," Faraday admitted.
"They're called secret societies for a reason," the billionaire drawled.
"Yeah, I got that," the blond crossed his arms. "So, League of Assassins—sounds like the obvious place to go to order a hit. Why'd you decide to do it yourself?"
"It turned out my information was incomplete. I'd been looking for an independent contractor, if you will, someone who would do freelance work."
"You wanted to hire a hitman, right, so what was the problem, they wouldn't play by your rules?"
"Their organization has their own code, their own mission, along with a leader to answer to. Knocking off one PhD to further my already not inconsiderable wealth didn't fit in with their plans, which was just as well, as I found I wasn't particularly fond of their…culture, shall we say."
"What does this have to do with Queen's hit-list?"
"Don't interrupt, dear."
Vince's eyebrows shot way up at the term of endearment, though he doubted the psychopath could tell.
"What did you just call me?"
Peter mentally replayed his last words.
"Did I say, 'dear'? Must have been a slip of the tongue; as I was saying, they refused the job, we went our separate ways, the Palm City Police Department was befuddled by Jerrod's murder and that should have been the end of it.
"Six weeks after the homicide one of the League members came to pay me a little visit," his jaw clenched at the memory. "The audacity that he had… He said that they were looking for more members. He wanted to recruit me."
The Cape studied the criminal's face for a moment.
"You told him to fuck off, didn't you?"
"I don't believe I was quite so crude, but I did make my point, yes. Chess works alone. He told me I was making a mistake," Peter made an impatient gesture. "I expect you can imagine the sort of rubbish. You must have heard your own share of inane speeches by now."
"I have; many of them from you. Where does the book come into this?"
"You are aware that Jamie at age six was better at patiently sitting through a story than you are?" Peter sighed in exasperation.
"Figures she'd be a weird kid," Vince uncrossed his arms and waited for the other to get on with his explanation.
"When he understood that I could not be persuaded to accept his offer, he produced the book you're so anxious to hear about it. It was a list, he said, not of members of the League of Assassins—they do have more intelligence than to put something so damning in writing, I'll give them that—but of tools," Fleming spat the word, "that the group found useful. To them, the men on the list were no more than pawns to be played to bring about the ruin of Starling City.
"That's their long-term strategy," he continued. "Destroy a city financially and watch as the society descends into chaos."
"But if Starling was the target…"
"He knew ARK was branching out into Starling," Peter explained for the other's benefit. "Perhaps the League was considering extending their influence to Palm City, as well, I don't know. He wrote my name in the list, I told him to stop trespassing on my property and, as far as I know, I haven't encountered any members of the society since."
The Cape tried to digest the information. He wondered how it fit into the larger picture; how the list had been appropriated by the Hood.
"Do you know who he was, the agent that tried to recruit you?" he asked.
"At the time, no, I was woefully out of touch with the who's-who crowd of Starling. I have since identified him," Peter walked away from the window and back to his computer. He turned the screen so that the photograph on the monitor was facing the hero.
"His name was Robert Queen."
"Queen… You mean the Hood's father?!"
"The same, which explains how he obtained the book in the first place."
This was starting to give Vince a headache.
"It doesn't explain what he's after. If his father was using these people then…" the Cape trailed off as a thought occurred to him. He knew someone else who had tried, in her own way, to make amends for her father's sins. "No," he shook his head.
"What?" Fleming demanded.
"My god, he thinks that what he's been doing is balancing the scales!" he grimaced.
"I take it you don't approve?" the dark-haired man asked.
"You said so yourself—the League was manipulating these people for its own agenda—and now the ones that Oliver Queen hasn't knocked off are being picked off by some sociopath trying to get his attention. And we still don't know who that is, but whoever it is—is going to be coming after you," Faraday concluded.
"Careful, you almost sound as if you care," Peter mused, stepping into the other's space. How tempting it was to reach up and remove the hood and… It was best not to lose himself in fantasy, though.
"We do have something to go on, do we not?" If the CEO's voice was a little deeper than normal, well, there was no harm in that. "The copycat is someone who knows the list. By process of elimination, Robert Queen is ruled out, but…"
"His known associates," the vigilante finished. "We find out who they were and we'll find members of the League of Assassins."
~GA~
Vince didn't waste any time in going to tell Jamie what they knew. If anyone could follow the lead, it would be her.
The feeling that he'd somehow betrayed the trust of goddamn Peter Fleming was completely illogical, he reminded himself. Jamie already knew about the blood on her father's hands, after all.
"We're looking for someone connected to Robert Queen who isn't on the list," Orwell hummed, and then got to work at the computer. "Since the list is what got Walter Steele kidnapped, the kidnapper is probably connected to the serial killer, heck there's even a decent chance he is the serial killer… Bingo."
"What bingo?" Vince asked, peering over her shoulder.
"Within hours of the kidnapping, someone who was a close friend of Queen's made a very substantial withdrawal from a bank account."
"Who was it?"
"Malcolm Merlyn."
~GA~
"Was it like Survivor?" Maria asked, referring to the five years the billionaire spent stuck on the island.
Oliver stared at the voluptuous blonde that was his blind date for the evening as he tried to decide on an answer. That reality show had predated the shipwreck, but he couldn't recall watching it. Not that it could possibly have compared to the hell he went through—
He tamped down that thought before it could trigger another flashback.
"Not really," he said at last. "There were no hidden cameras, and no one to vote off the island," he aimed for flippant. "But I don't like talking about it. Tell me, how has," what was her brother's name again? "Ben…been doing since high school?"
"He's been doing well. He went to med school and—"
Oliver's phone interrupted her sentence. He checked the caller ID—Diggle—and flashed an apologetic smile at Maria.
"I'm sorry, I have to take this. Give me one second," he stood up from the table and walked a few feet away before answering. "Diggle, perfect timing," he'd been hoping for an excuse to cut this disastrous evening short. When he got a chance, Oliver was going to have words with Tommy. "What's up?"
"It's about your stepfather," Diggle replied.
"What about him?" Oliver asked.
"He's been rescued."
"Thank god," Oliver sighed in relief. "Hang on," he went up to the front desk to ask for the check. "The police found him?" he asked Diggle, once he had paid the bill. Looked like he should give Detective Lance more credit if he and his men had located Walter before Oliver had had the slightest clue as to where to start searching…
"No, they didn't. Apparently your 'friend' in the cape did."
"What?"
~GA~
"Mr. Steele, tell us more about the Cape. You get a good look at him?" Quentin asked, seated across from the CEO in the Queen living room. "We can come back with a sketch artist later, unless you'd like to drop by the precinct."
He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Sergeant Faraday tensing. Just what he needed—his new recruit acting suspiciously. Lance filed that thought away to worry about when he had the time.
"It was rather dark," Walter shrugged. "And he was wearing a mask and a hood to cover his features. I'm not sure that I could be of much help identifying him."
Vince kept his mouth shut, resolutely not asking his new boss why they needed to treat his alter ego as a criminal when he'd just saved the man they were interrogating. At least it seemed Steele bore him no ill will.
"The Hood conceals his identity, too, but that doesn't change the fact that every little bit helps," Lance said.
"Detective, I must protest," Moira spoke up, "I've only just had my husband returned to me. He's been through quite the harrowing ordeal. Couldn't you leave him in peace for a little while? It's hardly his fault that some vigilante is showing you up."
Quentin's eyes snapped to Oliver, who was doing his best to stifle a grin. Lance scowled.
"In case you've forgotten, Ms. Queen, that vigilante hasn't brought your husband's abductors to justice. They're still out there," he got to his feet. "When you're ready to help us get to the bottom of this and hunt down the perpetrators, you let me know."
Author's Note: Chapter title is from Pink's "I'm Not Dead."
Thanks to IronAmerica for reviewing!
This fic has now been going on for over a year. Missed the anniversary, but here's an early anti-V-Day chapter for you.
Sorry about the wait in between chapters. Got side-tracked with shorter stories, including "Reap With Thanksgiving" (gen fic with background Quiver that still hasn't gotten any genuine reviews, would you believe it?)