Disclaimer – You recognise it, I don't own it.
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It had been quite some time since Montoya had seen Timothy Drake. Even then it had been a fleeting glimpse at some gala, probably a Charity one for the police. In fact, in every picture that Montoya had managed to obtain Timothy Drake was dressed in either a suit or a school uniform. There were no pictures where he was just a kid.
The teenager in front for her had longer hair and was dressed in a fashion that wouldn't get him a second look at pretty much anyone in the poorer areas of Gotham. The hoodie was old and tattered, even patched in a few places, the khaki shorts were clearly cut-down trousers repurposed for summer use.
However, despite the clothing choices, she could spot the resemblance to the photographs. The hair was longer and there were some visible healing injuries on his face, alongside a few fading scars. She wasn't certain, but she was fairly convinced that he'd lost some weight as well; even if the clothing hid it superbly.
"Rumours of your demise have been exaggerated I see." She smiled at him.
"So far," He returned, "I apologise for causing you such trouble, but I only found out about your investigation a few hours ago. Conner and Bart were kind enough to provide transport for me."
"Let's take this somewhere more private." She motioned, "I'll need a statement, you understand."
"Of course." He smiled at her.
For a moment, she was struck by the similarity between his smile and Grayson's; even if they weren't blood related, the smile was so familiar. However, she then looked closer. Grayson's smile always reached his eyes, it was clear in every part of his body that he was smiling.
Tim's wasn't like that. It only showed as wide on his face for a moment, before being pulled back and hidden. His body language was neutral, and his eyes had never shown the smile that his face had shown. It had been a lie. A very well crafted one, but a lie none-the-less.
His eyes told the truth though. There was pain in them.
Montoya knew, just knew, that this wasn't going to be a simple case of a misunderstanding and a poorly timed holiday.
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"Detective Allen will be joining us as soon as he gets back to the Precinct," Montoya stated, as she settled into one of the Interrogation Room chairs, "Do you mind if we start before he gets here?"
"I would prefer it, actually." Tim was blunt. Strangely his back was ramrod straight; his facial features were relaxed, but his body screamed tension.
She knew she couldn't keep her emotional distance from him. He seemed so fragile; she'd seen how the other Waynes were and could easily see how Tim could be so easily ignored. He wasn't loud or bold like the others. He was coming across as very quiet and thoughtful; reserved would be the term her old English teacher would have used. He seemed to be quite able to fade into the background of any situation. Part of the reason that she'd asked to talk with him without either of the other boys; something he'd easily acquiesced to, which made her suspicious.
"Mister Drake." She began.
"Please," He interrupted her, "Call me Tim. I… I don't… I can't be called Mister Drake… Not right now. Please."
A touch of desperation in the tone alerted her to a potential trigger. She wasn't going to push it.
"Tim then," She smiled, trying to radiate calm and peace, "Can you tell me what happened? From the beginning."
"What do you already know?" He countered her.
"You've been missing for some time; how long we can't determine. The last person who remembers seeing you was Mister Fox approximately five weeks ago. You told him you had a lunch meeting, however, he doesn't know where or who with. You stated that you'd be going home straight after and then going out of town for the weekend."
"It was at Cussler's," Tim easily mentioned the exclusive Two Michelin Star Restaurant, "I was meeting with McCaffery Enterprises. It was basically a 'Meet-And-Greet'. A sounding out of each other's sides. Trying to see if there could be co-operation between our two companies."
"Your Honda Civic wasn't found on any traffic cameras for that day."
"I didn't use it. Going to these sort of places, you're expected to show a certain type of class. The suit and general appearance isn't enough. The car you drive is very important. However, the amount it would cost to insure me to drive anything other than a fairly beat-up old car is not worth the occasional outing. Besides I like my Civic and I hate the usual Learners' Permit jokes that come out. So I have an arrangement with Jake."
"Jake?"
"Jacob Spencer. He's a mechanic. Restores classic cars. Has a shop in the suburbs. We met years ago. Classic Car Show. Kept in contact ever since. We've got a standing agreement. When I need a chauffeur with a posh car, he's the guy I call."
"Do you trust him?"
"Implicitly. He's been there for me through some rough times in my life. I wouldn't have passed English Literature or History if it wasn't for him."
"He drove you to the meeting?"
"Yes. We were talking on the way. Discussing Architecture."
"A real Renaissance Man, your Jake."
"Not really. He loves Art. Architecture is Art we live in. Literature is Art with words. Cars are Art we drive. His passion is Art. You should hear him talk about Food or Music. Art we eat and Art we listen to."
"What happened at the meeting?"
"There were five members of the McCaffery board there."
"Five? And no-one else on your side?"
"No. I was given the impression that it was a one-on-one meeting. Usually I would have brought Tam. But she was in Hawaii, so I had gone alone. It did raise my suspicions that there were so many of them."
"How did the meeting go?"
"Badly. They were trying some dodgy dealings. Their plan seemed to get me to sign an agreement which would prevent WE from developing our products into anything that could encroach on their territory. Which covers a lot of areas. We would also have to pull out of certain areas where we have been extremely profitable in the past few years."
"They thought they could get away with that?"
"Apparently. They'd brought a lawyer to try and convince me it was all legit. But I have a policy where I don't sign anything that hasn't passed through the hands of my lawyers and that I've spent at least two hours pouring over, just in case. Particularly after last time, when Tam caught it."
"Paranoid?"
"Cautious. Businessmen are ruthless. If one of them could find a use for my soul they'd try to get me to sign it over. I'm young in the business world. That makes me fresh meat in their eyes. Blood in the water."
"What did you do?"
"Humoured them. Prevaricated. Played up the unsure, innocent, naïve CEO. I've gotten quite good at it."
"And you just left at the end of the meal?"
"Pretty much. I'd discretely recorded the conversation, just in case. And I think they knew it was a long shot. They were more resigned than anything. I'd asked one of the waiters to tell the valets to tell Jake to come pick me up."
"He'd waited the whole time?"
"He usually does. Give Jake a good book and he's gone for hours. It's why I don't text him, but send a person to tell him. He really can ignore his phone if he's wrapped up in something."
"You left."
"I got into the back of the car. Privacy divider was up and the windows are tinted. I wasn't in the mood to talk. As much as I get on with Jake, after a meeting like that I like silence to get my head in the game. I was writing up notes from the meeting, who and what and where and everything. I downloaded the recording and saved it. I realized the journey was taking longer than it should have. I looked up thinking that Jake had decided that I needed to spend some time at his shop. It's a good de-stress. Only I wasn't anywhere that I should have been. I tried to talk with Jake, but I got no answer. That was when I realized it wasn't Jake."
"You're certain about that? He could have been bribed or blackmailed."
"Jake's not that kind of guy. Never has been. He doesn't care about money. And he wouldn't give up a friend because of violence. Not against him. Not against anyone else."
"Not even if they threatened you?"
"No. Jake would have grabbed me and legged it. He would have taken out anyone trying to hurt me. The only way they got control of that car was if they restrained him or killed him… Do you know if they killed my friend?"
"I'm afraid not." Montoya stated, although the name rang a bell, "I'll find out though. What happened next?"
"I shut my laptop down, while I tried to phone for help. They must have had a signal jammer, because I didn't have service. The doors were locked and the controls for the privacy divider weren't working. All I could do was watch and try to figure out where we were. It was in the warehouse district. However, I couldn't give you more details."
"Did you see who was driving?"
"Not right then. Not until the car stopped. It was inside a warehouse. I tried to fight, but there were too many. They made it pretty clear that no-one would be able to find me. That the only way I was leaving was if I co-operated."
"What did they want?"
"WE has a contract with the DoD. We're working on some DARPA contracts. They wanted access."
"You don't work in R&D."
"I'm not employed there. But I often pop down to work alongside them. And I'm the CEO. I have access to everything. At first they were focused on getting into my laptop."
"I take it they failed."
"I know that my laptop is a potential weak point in the WE security system. So I have a thirty character password. A deadlock on it, so if it doesn't connect with one of three wi-fi spots in forty-eight hours it locks you out unless you get the right password, which is different from the other password, and you only have three goes to get it right. Get it wrong and the hard-drive wipes itself, writes over itself about twenty times, so you end up with a laptop that has no operating system, never mind anything actually useful."
"How difficult is the password to crack on that setting?"
"Well, it's over a hundred and seventy characters, so I wouldn't bet on anyone managing to brute force it. And it's not really predictable."
"How do you remember something that long?"
"There are methods. I ended up using something along the lines of an old story I read, years ago. Sixty Million Trillion Combinations, I believe it was called. Once I refused to give them my password, they just stuffed me in an old industrial freezer and I presume they tried to hack it. I could hear them swearing as my system kept them out. They didn't give up though. They really wanted that information. After what I presume was two days they tried me again. That's when things got not so nice. Up till then they'd basically ignored me, just chucked me a few bottles of water when I was thrown in there."
"What did they do?"
"What I presume is the usual, based on the stories and films I've seen. Fists and cuts. I tried to fight back. I tried to run. They broke my leg for that."
Montoya was slightly impressed that Tim was managing to stay so detached from the situation. It was clearly a coping mechanism.
"At what point was that?"
"Day four or five," Tim shrugged, "I'm not entirely certain how long they ignored me at first. I should have waited longer. Waited for their attention slip more. I just took the first chance I saw. It was stupid. I was stupid."
"No. You did what anyone would do."
"I was stupid. I should have waited. I should have waited. I couldn't run after that. I didn't have a chance to run. With only one leg, I couldn't run. I thought I was going for freedom. Instead I just trapped myself. They avoided my arms… Well, my hands anyway."
"How long did it go on for?"
"I'm not certain. The initial beating was only a few days. It wasn't all that bad. Even combined with food and sleep deprivation. I've done worse to myself when I've pulled a couple of consecutive all-nighters. Although I do usually have more caffeine. I think it was seven or eight days of sleep deprivation. Certainly no longer. I was still fairly lucid. I think that annoyed them."
"What happened next?"
"They got more serious. I think there were two torturers. They kept arguing about what was the right method to use. One liked passive methods, using my body against me. He liked dumping water over me, throwing me back in the freezer and turning it on. The other was all violence. Knives and bats and fists. He didn't always do it himself. But he was always there. He always directed it though. The two of them didn't get on. Violence said that Passive was giving me time to recover. Passive said that Violence was giving me something to fight against. Giving me an enemy to defy. They argued a lot."
"They let you hear it?"
"They didn't know I did. Sometimes when they hit me I would be dazed. I'd seem unconscious. But I was still aware of what was going on. I'd fake it for as long as I could. Just to make the pain stop for longer. And when I was in the freezer, sometimes I'd press my ear against the wall to try and listen to them. I figured anything I heard was useful."
"You expected to be found."
"Yes. I knew someone would be looking for me. I just had to hold on. I was hurting. But I was managing to stay optimistic. But then the Boss got impatient."
"There was a Boss? Not one of the two torturers?"
"Yeah. I don't know his name. Don't think I ever saw him. I just remember Passive and Violence used to say "He's getting impatient"'; "He's not happy"; "He thought it'd be done by now". There was definitely a Boss. And he got impatient. He sent Phobos. Everyone was scared of him."
"Phobos?"
"I doubt it's his real name. Name of the God of Fear in Greek Mythology… I had a module on Mythology once."
"Stop this nonsense!" Allen barrelled in, "You ran off on holiday and broke your leg. And now you're covering your backside."
Montoya knew what Allen was doing; it was a set-up they'd used many times before. Allen would be antagonistic and generally the "bad cop", while she was the "good cop". Admittedly they didn't usually use it on witnesses, but she knew Allen wasn't a fan of the Upper Class.
"What would you accept as evidence?" Tim asked calmly.
"A doctor's report. Chosen by ourselves. And we sit in on it." Allen declared firmly.
"Set it up." Tim stated, "My only conditions are that no Waynes are informed about it and that my two friends are present."
"Why?" Allen demanded to know.
"Because they know me better than you. I have triggers. A lot of triggers now. Some that even I'm not aware of. And they'll know if you step on one. They'll stop things from getting bad."
"Is that a risk? We're trained police officers."
"And I'm a Gotham kid born and bred. I may have grown up in a fancy house for most of my life, but that doesn't make you immune to the violence on the streets. I know how to fight. And you both should know that the worst creature to fight is one you've backed into a corner."
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Please Review.
I write stories because I can't draw. I have all these images in my head that I cannot reproduce. So I try and describe them with words. If anyone else would like to try to translate what I have written into what they think I saw in my head, they have my permission. I only ask that I be notified of it, so that I may look and go "OOoooh!".
Many thanks to my reviewers:
Loftcat27 – I like writing cliffies.
Perish-the-thoughtless – Hope you enjoy this.
BatWingteenavenger – Sorry, not sorry. I enjoy writing cliffies. The reactions I get entertain me.
Red-Hot Habanero – *Grins*
Rehabilitated Sith – *Smirks*
Inthenightguest – Thanks, don't worry too much about me. I'm looking after myself and doing well. With Jason… I don't know, he just comes across to me as someone who swears a lot when his emotions are high (not just angry).