Batman: Revenge Chapters 26, 27, 28

BATMAN: REVENGE

Chapter 26

    Like frosty tears from sorrowful, gray skies, a light, wet snow fell, accompanied by swirling winds the morning of Saturday, November the first. With temperatures hovering in the upper twenties, Bruce and Dick stood at the graveside of their longtime friend, the late Commissioner, James W. Gordon. They both wore long coats, and dark sunglasses to hide their tears and red eyes. Neither had slept. They had been up all night looking for leads that might give them an idea as to Vicki’s whereabouts.

      After the speedy issuance of warrants, they had searched Quinn Catering and Axis Chemicals but had found nothing that would begin to tell them where the future Mrs. Bruce Wayne might have been taken. They were here, not only to honor the memory of the late Commissioner, but also to see if someone associated with the Joker’s gang or the Quinn Catering crew might show up.

    Elizabeth Gordon Hurly had promised herself that she would be brave and wouldn’t make a scene, but after listening to “Taps” and truly understanding for the first time how so many Americans have felt when it was intended to honor someone they loved, she began to cry. As she had begun to pull herself back together, she had flinched with each firearm discharge during the 21 gun salute. The seven rifles fired in unison three times, seemed somehow as if they were saying, “Gone, Gone, Gone,” and made her feel as if the chasm between life and death, between she and her father, widened irreversibly with each report.

      The commissioner’s daughter weakly tossed the first handful of dirt into the grave as warm tears flowed freely down from her eyes over her cold, red cheeks. She turned to her husband, Jim, and buried her head in his chest as she cried softly. Jim put his arms around her and did his best to provide the comfort she needed. The realization of the finality of  death and how much she would miss the kind and caring guidance her father had provided began to sap her strength, forcing her to sit for a few minutes on one of the hard, folding wooden chairs under the large green tent, which had been erected by the funeral directors in case of inclement weather. The Commissioner’s funeral had been the kind of fitting tribute a long time public servant with an unblemished record deserved, complete with a long, Main street procession of mounted police, marching officers and the mournful wail of bagpipes playing “Amazing Grace.”

      From a black limousine with dark tinted windows, parked nearby, an unnoticed observer remarked,  “Lawrence, this kind of thing doesn’t have to happen anymore. The Commissioner would still be with us if he had previously been immersed in the holy waters. He could have consumed a gallon of that poison and it wouldn’t have fazed him in the least. Batman is the real villain, you know. He’s the one responsible for so many needless deaths. Aids, cancer, heart disease, diabetes, automobile accidents, murder, and death due to just plain old age could already be as rare as smallpox. Of course, not everyone will be able to afford immortality, so I suppose mankind’s leaches, the funeral directors and life insurance companies, will hang on for a while.”

    When the last of the well-wishers and concerned friends had offered their advice, hugs and pledges of support if needed, Elizabeth and Jim were taken back to Gotham City’s Hotel Belvedere, which is where they and everyone else who had intended on spending the night at Wayne manor had ended up after the bombs had weakened the foundation and left the mansion too dangerous to inhabit.

    The Commissioner’s daughter and her husband were weary beyond words and were glad to have the majority of the ordeal behind them. “Later today,” Elizabeth told Bruce, “we still have to meet with the real estate agent who will be handling the sale of Dad’s place. Then we have to sit down briefly with Dad’s lawyer before we can head back home. Our flight is at nine-thirty, tonight.”

    Bruce gave Elizabeth a quick hug and said, “Get some rest.” He handed her a small piece of paper with phone numbers on it. If you need anything, those are the contact numbers for Richards and Andre. Obviously I’ll be busy at the mansion. If it’s an emergency they’ll contact me. If I don’t see you or Jim again before you leave, have a safe trip back.”

    Before closing the door to their room, Elizabeth asked, “Where was Barbara today? I didn’t see her at the funeral and come to think of it, I didn’t see her at the benefit last night.”

    Bruce was prepared for this question and answered by saying, “She got a call, yesterday afternoon from her husband saying that little Alfred was running a fever, so she hopped on the first flight back. She said her husband gets frustrated when the little guy won’t stop crying, so she figured she’d better go. She asked me to tell you they will be in touch and maybe this spring you guys can get together.”

      The door began to close as Elizabeth turned away, but she stopped it one last time and peered out through the narrow opening to say, “Thanks for everything Bruce. Dad was lucky to have you as a friend and so are we. Good luck on repairing the mansion.”

      Based on what he had seen from the elevator Bruce knew he would need a lot of luck. Bruce and Dick had been keeping in close touch with Richards, who had stayed at the hospital. Richards informed them that Barbara was out of surgery and had been moved out of recovery, but remained unconscious and was listed as being in serious condition in the intensive care unit.

      The significant loss of blood had at one point threatened to shut down her kidney function. The doctor’s prognosis was that she would live, but that the damage to her leg had been extensive. Even after completion of a lengthy physical therapy program she might never be able to walk again. In all likelihood, the best-case scenario would be walking without a cane, aided by some type of leg brace, but even then she would walk with a severely pronounced limp for the rest of her life. The news hit Bruce hard. While he still fervently believed it was true that crime did not pay, he also had to admit crime fighting on the level carried out by BATMAN and his cohorts presented dangers that were all too real and potentially far greater than the rewards.

      Barbara was a young mother, a loving wife, a skilled gymnast and a holder of the black belt in karate. Look at the price this vibrant woman had been forced to pay. The lack of rest, coupled with the bad news about Barbara and his fears concerning Vicki all combined to severely torment him. He was too old to do this any longer. If he was lucky enough to rescue Vicki, what kind of husband would he be if he were to constantly risk his life in pursuit of what were usually petty criminals with deadly firearms?

      Somewhere down the line he would be injured severely, as Barbara had been, or perhaps killed. It seemed inevitable. And Vicki would be left with an invalid for a husband, (Bruce imagined a Christopher Reeves type of existence) or she would be widowed, perhaps with a child. They both wanted to have children as soon as possible. He was too smart to risk throwing it all away. Damn it, he knew what he needed to do, but he had to get Vicki back first. Getting her back and ending the threat of the JOKER was all that mattered.

    At The City of Tomorrow, Vicki began to wake up. She desperately needed to use the bathroom, her head ached and she felt sick at her stomach as if she was trying to shake off the effects of anesthesia after some kind of surgery. Appleby saw her stirring, and in the light was sure now that it was, indeed, Bruce Wayne’s fiancee, Vicki Vale.

    “Ms. Vale, can you hear me?” Appleby asked. “Don’t panic. We’re okay for now. I’m FBI agent, Thomas Appleby. We’ve been kidnapped, but from what I can tell we’re not in immediate danger.”

    Vicki tried to hold her head up and looked around while she wrestled with her bonds, but found the nylon cord was tied too tightly and the pain in her head was too sharp to continue. She attempted to relax and closed her eyes again, hoping the pounding would subside, as she fought the nausea that left her as weak as a kitten.

    “Who did you say you are?” she asked in a weak voice, “and where are we?”

    “I’m FBI agent Thomas Appleby. I was working at the Wayne Manor Benefit, stationed at the back kitchen door. I was drugged and brought here, just like you. I’m not sure where we are, but I know who brought us here.”

    Vicki attempted to rise up again and asked, “Who? Who brought us here?”

    Appleby wondered briefly if his captured companion could stand the news, but figured she had a right to know who had engineered her abduction. “It was the JOKER, Ms. Vale. The same man who supposedly fell to his death fourteen years ago.”

    Terrified, Vicki began to tremble. She said, “Oh God, he’s going to kill us!”

      Appleby replied, “I really don’t get that impression, Ms. Vale. In fact, as bizarre as this may sound, I think he’s in love with you. He knelt by your cot for hours last night, staring at you, mumbling and humming as if he was hypnotized. And the things he was humming, oh my god, you wouldn’t believe, things like the theme song from “Love Story,” I hate to say it, but I believe he adores you.

    Vicki shuddered and said, “You’re right. It was the same, fourteen years ago. Oh, God, he’s so revolting...”

    Harley walked up as Vicki spoke and said, “Well, well, Sleeping Beauty has awakened, isn’t that special, and she did it without a kiss from her prince charming.” She turned and shouted down the hall, “Hey guys, Cinderella’s awake, can you get in here, and untie these cords so she can get up and use the john? Now listen, fairy princess, there isn’t a single window for you to crawl out of in the restroom and if you try anything funny I’ll kill you myself, which, incidentally, I would enjoy and then do my best to explain it to the Joker when he gets back from the Commissioner’s funeral, got it? He may think you’re hot shit, but I don’t, and when it comes to you, I don’t give a shit what he thinks. I think you’re trouble! I think having you here is crazy and if you give me just one reason, good or not, I’ll kill you. Now, go powder your nose.”

      By now, the nylon cords had been untied and Vicki sat up, took a deep breath and stood up, unsteadily, making sure she had her balance before allowing herself to be led to the restroom.

~        ~        ~

    Dick flipped through pages of documents, as Bruce drove. “According to this, Axis chemicals is manufacturing the stuff and is going to market variations of it as soon as the government tests verify the product’s safety. They‘re going after the market, currently dominated by Armor All, to prolong the performance and appearance of rubber, leather, vinyl and plastics under the name, Axis Long Life. Hey, look at this! Here’s a list of Congressmen and Senators whose approval is being solicited. Damn, looks like about everyone in the northeast and the New England states. Whoa, they have names of the people involved in doing the testing! They even have names of their spouses and children, what’s up with that, huh?” Dick turned and glanced at Bruce, who hadn’t commented on anything he had been saying. His head was drooping forward, as if he was falling asleep at the wheel. “Hey,” Dick shouted, “wake up, Bruce!”

    Bruce’s head jerked upward and he defended himself, saying, “I’m awake, I was just thinking!”

    Dick said, “Yeah, thinking how good a nap would feel to your tired old bones. You haven’t had any sleep since about five yesterday morning, Bruce. You’re too old to play that game any longer. If you got in a jam you wouldn’t be at your best and you could get hurt, or even worse, you could get me hurt! How about dropping by that little town home you keep and getting some rest? What do you say?”

    Bruce shook his head and attempted to rub the fatigue away from his face and eyes with his right hand, while he drove with his left. “I say no, Dick. As long as Vicki is out there, I have to keep going. I can’t…”

    Dick interrupted and said, “Hey, until we find Vicki you have to be at your best, man. You can’t find anyone, or fight anyone in your sleep. C’mon, just a quick 30 minute nap. Then you’ll feel better and be thinking more clearly, and my incessant babbling is less likely to make you fall asleep at the wheel.”

    Bruce knew Dick was right. When he was 25 he could go three days without sleep. When he was 35 he could do two days, no problem. But he was more than ten years past that point in time and might as well admit it. He needed some rest. He took the next exit off the freeway, turned the Mercedes left, doing a U-turn under the freeway, got up on the freeway once again and headed back in the direction of the town home Dick had mentioned.

    At Gotham Memorial Hospital the Intensive Care Unit on the trauma floor was a model of efficiency. The middle of the unit consisted of a circular nurses station, which was surrounded by 8 separate areas, in which critically or seriously injured patients were kept. Since all of the “rooms” used white sheets, rather than doors and walls to separate them from the next patient, the entire floor was filled with the whooshing, sucking sounds of respirators, beeping heart monitors and an assortment of other mechanical medical miracles.

        Andre pulled the white sheet back that served as a door for Barbara’s “room,” and found not one, but two people asleep as Richards, after keeping an overnight vigil, had finally dozed off. He had purchased a silver colored, “Get Well,” helium filled, balloon, downstairs in the gift shop and after wrapping the string around the foot of the metal bed frame, he looked, with a feeling of helplessness, at his good friend who lay in her bed with her injured leg elevated by a system of pulleys and ropes. An intravenous drip coming from a pair of bags suspended by a metal pole at the side of her bed, delivered a combination of fluids and antibiotics through a long, winding, clear tube into a vein on the top of her left hand. Although she remained unconscious, her skin color was not alarmingly pale and her breathing was soft and rhythmic, which contrasted with the buzzing and irregular snorting coming from Richards, who was slumped slightly forward, with his chin resting on his chest.

    Andre sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the “room” from Richards and realized how tired he was. He had not been asleep since getting up yesterday to fix breakfast at Wayne Manor. Representatives of the local police as well as the FBI had questioned him late into the night about the incidents that led to the death of Emille Chevre. Around four in the morning the battery of investigators had finally grown weary of asking the same questions and getting the same answers, so they had released him. He had driven back to the hotel, shaved and showered and had then sat down on the foot of the bed to read the morning newspaper.

      Naturally, the Gotham Globe was brimming with news of the incident at Wayne Manor. On the front page the lead story with the headline, THE JOKER RETURNS, chronicled the events of the past week, which had raised suspicions concerning the possible return of the notorious villain and had culminated with his appearance on a video presentation, followed by explosions that injured over 200 and weakened the Wayne Manor foundation to the point where it was now considered uninhabitable. Only two of the 27 admitted to Gotham Memorial, as of press time, were listed in serious condition, having been hit by flying pieces of wood and debris when the explosion above the Casino area occurred.

      The Joker’s claims that he would have brought his miracle, life extending drug to mankind, far sooner, had it not been for Batman’s interference, were covered in a related story, with the blatantly accusatory headline, BATMAN BLAMED FOR MIRACLE DRUG DELAY. In a fit of frustration, Andre had wadded up the newspaper at that point and tossed it in the trash can next to the bed. He had turned on the television in his room to see, not unexpectedly, that the return of The Joker was the number one story. As he flipped from station to station over the next hour or two he must have seen what the media was referring to as “Danny’s Miracle” a half dozen times. And though there was little humor to be enjoyed this day, Andre had to chuckle when a reporter asked Danny, if, in a future film he would consider playing an action hero. Devito stroked his chin in serious thought for a moment and answered, “I might consider it, if it was a really good script.”

      Andre had always liked Danny Devito and considered him to be an excellent actor. “I’ll bet he could pull it off,” he said to himself. Smiling, which was something he hadn’t had much reason to do lately, he got up off the bed, turned off the television and got dressed to go to the Commissioner’s funeral, after which, he headed for the hospital.

    Dick Grayson pulled back the white sheet in the Intensive Care Unit and couldn’t believe his eyes. Andre and Richards were fast asleep, both slumped forward in their chairs with their chins on their chests. Richards was snoring. Dick had left Bruce at the town home and had promised to be back in forty five minutes to an hour. Well, if he was a few minutes late, it wouldn’t hurt anything. Bruce needed the rest badly. Evidently, so did Andre and Richards.

      Dick placed a card with a picture of a pig whose leg was bandaged, on Barbara’s night stand next to her bed and went to the nurses station to ask for an extra chair. After getting one, he sat down next to Andre and began to read the newspaper, hoping that Barbara would awaken before long, while all three of them were there for her. He got his wish an hour and a half later, as he was awakened by Barbara’s weak, but cranky sounding voice.

    “Will you guys get out of here, so I can have some privacy? If you’re so tired, go home and go to sleep for goodness sake.” A nurse stood at the foot of the bed, holding a bedpan, impatiently tapping her foot. The surprised and embarrassed look on each of the visitor’s faces was priceless, as they blinked and attempted to regain their senses.

      Richards had no idea Andre and Dick had arrived. Andre was surprised to see Dick. Dick glanced at his watch, wincing at how much time had elapsed, and then at the floor, realizing he had let the paper drop out of his hands when he had fallen asleep. And they were all shocked to see that Barbara was awake.

    “Barbara, you’re awake,” was all that Dick could come up with.

    “Yeah, well you weren’t,” was her answer. She looked at the nurse and said, “If you have any spare beds, see that these old men get one, will you?”

    Richards kissed her on her forehead,  Andre waved, pointed to his balloon and said, “I’ll be back, later.”

    Dick was finding it tough to say anything, and his chin quivered, followed by big tears flowing from the corners of his eyes. “I was so worried,” he said, “I was so scared.”

    Barbara managed a smile and said, “Nurse can you reach the Kleenex? He needs some. Now Dick, you take care of Bruce and finish what we were working on.” She made a shooing motion with the hand that didn’t have the I. V. in it and Dick turned to go. The impatient nurse wasted no time in pulling the white sheet closed.

    On the way down, in the hospital elevator, Richards commented that he hadn’t fallen asleep while sitting up in a chair for years. He said he recalled the last time was during an early Sunday morning church service, after he had been up very late the previous night, studying for an upcoming college exam with a particularly delightful young woman who was also in his class.

    Dick asked, “What were you studying, anatomy?”

    Richards cleared his throat, indignantly, while Andre chuckled.

    Dick continued, “I hope you didn’t entertain everyone in church with your snoring, the way you were entertaining us, back there.”

    Indignantly, Richards turned to Dick and replied, “I don’t snore.”

    Andre said, “Zen what was Zat noise I heard? Did you recently swallow a buzz saw? I have not heard such snorting since zee last time I veesited zee peeg farm!”

    Dick was still laughing, as the doors opened and Richards walked out, his feathers obviously ruffled, by what he perceived as false accusations of snoring and improper behavior with coeds during his youth. He expected it from Dick, but when Andre had joined in with that pig farm comment he had been crushed. Perhaps he should go see a doctor. Maybe he had sleep apnea and wasn’t aware of it. He had been feeling a bit tired lately.

BATMAN: REVENGE

Chapter 27

    “I want that thing working without a hitch, do you understand? I can’t have our viewing audience thinking we don’t know what we’re doing. We have to instill confidence in the marketplace! Everything has to look first class! Everything has to go smoothly.” The JOKER was ranting because the twelve foot tall cross on which agent Appleby was to be lowered into the “Holy Waters,” was not tilting forward and smoothly descending into the Holy Waters. Instead, it jerked and twitched, convulsively, threatening to either lockup and stop prematurely, before lowering it’s payload into the waiting chemical mixture, or it looked as if it might just fall forward at any moment,
collapsing on top of it’s hostage, into the round baptismal vat.

    Harley suggested, “Hey, listen JOKER, we should tape the whole thing and then edit it down to DVD, like we did with the Diabetes presentation thing. That worked out nicely, didn’t it? We can’t take a chance on this thing not working during a live broadcast to millions of potential converts. There aren’t any windows to tip someone off as to when this was done. We control the lighting. The people watching would never know it wasn’t live.”

    The JOKER listened carefully to what Harley said, his eyes narrowed and he tilted his head to the left as he contemplated the suggestion. He briefly weighed the potential plusses and minuses of a live, versus a taped broadcast. “Harley, he said, “there is a certain energy and spontaneity during a live event that just can’t be recreated. I like the feeling of knowing that people are going to be watching, spellbound, reacting to what they see at that very moment. I feed off the energy of that feeling, similar to a Broadway actor feeding off the energy of a good crowd enjoying his performance.”

    Harley pointed towards the cross, which was still jerking as if it had some kind of palsy. “What if we can’t get that thing fixed in time for the broadcast? What if it fails when the time comes? You can’t go back and start over, or just say ‘take two’ when it’s all live! Thinking you have everything fixed and ready doesn’t always make for the happiest of endings. Look at NASA. Look at how meticulous they are. But the Challenger and Columbia accidents still occurred. I hate to say it, JOKER, but I don’t think we have that kind of expertise here.”

    The JOKER nodded and said, “You’re right, we don’t have that kind of expertise, Harley, but we aren’t launching a space shuttle and going into orbit, either. We’re just lowering a 12 foot tall cross with a man strapped to it, into a vat of chemicals and then we’re going to lift it back out. It just isn’t that difficult. After that, we’ll shoot him a few times to prove he can’t die, and we’re going to broadcast the event, via satellite, all over the world. Now what’s so hard about that? Everything has checked out and is working fine, except for this cross, so as I was saying, let’s get it working! And, Harley, because I know I can trust you, I’m putting you in charge of making sure that this thing gets fixed, do you understand?”

    Harley’s hands were on her hips in a physical display of defiance, but she could see that it was useless to argue the point any further. Submissively she lowered her head and said, “I’ll take care of it.”

    “I knew you would,” the JOKER added, breathing heavily, “because Harley,” he panted,  “you’re my number one gal!” Reciting what had been said to him fourteen years earlier, right before the Axis Chemicals incident that had led to the death of Jack Napier, the JOKER stood directly in front of Harley, massaging her shoulders as he spoke, imitating the mannerisms and speech of his long dead boss, Carl Grissom, Sr.

      The door to the recording studio flew open and there, looking like a terrorized, dirty refugee from some oppressed third world country, stood Carl Grissom, Jr.      “Talk about coming back from the dead!” the JOKER shouted out, “We thought we had lost you, Carl. Where the hell have you been?”

    Harley couldn’t believe her eyes. Carl was a man she once considered to be fairly attractive, in a rough sort of way, but to look at him now you would think he was one of those characters that live in a cardboard box on some street corner, and not one of the nicer boxes either. Although he was still 10 to 15 feet away she could smell him from where she stood. With revulsion on her face and in her voice, she asked, “What the hell did you get into, a fight with a 300 pound skunk? You are totally trashed, man! You are disgusting!”

    After what Carl had been through, he was feeling, to say the least, a little less diplomatic than he might normally feel. He shouted, “Yeah? Well fuck you, Harley!” and then began to explain what had happened, “I was knocked unconscious by an explosion of C-4 that had been discovered and thrown out in back of Wayne Manor. When I woke up, I ran around to the back, looking for you guys, but you had already left! How could you leave without me?”

    The JOKER replied, “We waited as long as we could for you son, but we couldn’t jeopardize the entire mission. Let me assure you that we were pretty torn up over having to leave without you, it just about killed Harley - me too, but then I can't die.”

    “Yeah, I imagine Harley needed grief counseling,” Carl shot back. “I could really hear the relief in her voice. So you guys were gone and then it started to pour, and I’m not talking about a little rain, man, I mean it poured, like a you better call Noah and book passage on the arc, kind of rain.”

    “Yeah, okay, it rained,” Harley agreed, “but why are you just now getting back, and why do you smell so, so ughhh, bad?” She held her nose to block the stench.

    “I trudged along the road that leads back to the highway for a while until I hitched a ride, but the guys that picked me up mugged me. Can you believe my luck? They weren't from the party at Wayne Manor, that's for sure. They knocked me out, and remember, that was the second time I had been knocked out last night, they took my wallet and my wolf’s head, from my costume, so I’ll be out at least $500.00 for that, and they dumped me into a ditch that actually had raw sewerage draining into it. When I came to, I was
totally disoriented. I didn’t have a clue as to where I was, I just knew I was freezing, so I found a shack that wasn’t much more than a deer blind, but it blocked most of the wind. I laid down in there and passed out again. God, my head was pounding! Anyway, later, when I woke up again, I was afraid I had frostbite on my nose and fingers, so I  got up and I hitched another ride, but this guy wouldn’t let me in the cab with him, he made me ride in the back of his old pickup with his three dogs, wrapped up in a filthy blanket. Hey listen, they were nasty, flea bitten, half-starved mongrels, had the mange and everything, at first I thought they might attack me, but I guess I smelled so bad even they wouldn’t get near me. He dropped me off a couple of blocks from here, and here I am. I still can’t believe you left me, you assholes.”

    “Now Carl,” the JOKER again tried to soothe Grissom as best he could, “you know we never would have left you if it could have been avoided. Jamal, Benny and Charlie are all missing too and we have to consider them gone, so this place has been pretty down all morning. Your reappearance is the first good thing that has happened for us, today. Please, go take a hot shower and get back in here to help Harley with this hydraulic contraption that tilts and lowers the cross into the vat.”

    Carl turned and headed for the shower. As he headed down the hall he passed Lawrence, who seemed genuinely glad to find him alive. “Hey Carl, I was worried about you, man. I was watching TV this morning and that Sid Lancer guy was down at the Gotham Lexus dealership announcing the winner of the Wayne Manor costume contest. They said something about a guy with a Wolf’s head costume being judged the best, based on the costumes they saw last night, but that guy didn’t show up this morning. They said the winner had to be there. They even said they would wait an extra 30 minutes, but then after thirty minutes they came back on and gave the award to Danny Devito. Man, where were you? Wasn’t that your wolf’s head costume they were talking about? I thought, for sure you were gonna win. Devito’s costume wasn’t anywhere near as good as yours. Why didn’t you show up, man? You should’a seen that guy gettin’ in that beautiful silver convertible! Man, what a sweet ride. By the way, you should get a shower, you’re a little ripe, you know? Hey, what’s wrong? You okay, man?”

    Carl hung his head and walked past Lawrence. “What else can happen?” he mumbled. Once in the shower, he found out. He slipped and fell on a bar of soap. He sat there, on his bruised, bare ass, dazed for a moment, looking up at the spray of warm water and actually began to chuckle. A grin spread across his face as he decided he wasn’t about to let the world get him down. After all, he owned a beautiful Mercedes Benz, lived in a $5,000.00 a month penthouse and was pulling down over $700,000.00 a year. He may have had a little bad luck but that wasn’t going to last long, no sir. He made up his mind he would change his own luck starting right then by accentuating the positive. As he stood back up, he thanked his lucky stars for at least having a nice hot
shower. That’s when the hot water ran out and while frantically backing up to get away from the suddenly ice cold water, he slipped and fell again.

~    ~    ~

 
 
      The handcuffs that confined Vicki to the bed on which she lay were mercifully loose enough to allow her to move around without them cutting into her wrist, but were not so loose that she saw any way to get out of them. She had tried and quickly found there was no way they would slide over her hand. It was her left hand that was cuffed to the metal headboard, which was thoughtful since she was right handed. Appleby had told her of the JOKER’s plan to turn him into some kind of freak that can’t die. He had also
confided that he would attempt to escape the next time they removed his handcuffs. He knew they would probably kill him, but he wasn’t about to live forever as a circus sideshow testimonial to the JOKER’s chemicals. If there was such a place as hell, how could it possibly be any worse than being examined forever by the great minds of medicine, poking, prodding, running their tests, doing their best to determine what it was that kept him alive, year after year, decade after decade, century after century? Vicki shuddered at the thought and wondered what kind of horrors might lay in store for her. But she had not given up hope, yet. She knew BATMAN would find her, but would it be
in time? Would he get there before she was turned into a ghastly white ghoul with green hair? She shuddered again.

    A door opened and voices approached from the other end of the hall. It was the JOKER, accompanied by Harley and two other men. He bent down and asked, “Feeling okay, princess? Is there anything I can get for you to help you pass the time? The newspaper, magazines, or maybe this might help?” From behind his back, he produced what looked to be a very expensive Nikon camera. He handed it to her and said, “I know you must feel helpless with all of this world changing history occurring around you and no camera to record the events. So I had Lawrence pick this up for you. Now I don’t proclaim to know much about photography, but the man at the camera store assured Lawrence that this was the best camera he had in stock.” The JOKER stopped talking for a moment and just watched as Vicki tried to examine the camera with her one free hand. “Unlock her handcuff, Harley,” the JOKER ordered with a snap of his fingers, “so that she can really examine this fine instrument.”

    Harley didn’t appreciate finger snapping but knew there was no sense in arguing over the wisdom of releasing Cinderella from her shackles. She reached over after grabbing the key out of her blue jeans pocket, inserted the key into the hole, twisted it until she heard it click, and said, “Okay, your highness, you’re back to having two hands again.” The cuff around her wrist loosened, and Vicki pulled her hand free. It felt good to have the full use of both hands once again and it felt good to have a camera in her hands.

      This was not a cheap camera, it was a Nikon digital DX-1, which sold for over $4,500.00, not including the lenses, which cost another arm and a leg. Vicki still preferred film, but for a digital camera this was a nice one. She checked to see if the memory card was inserted and noted that it was. She checked to be sure the camera had batteries. It did. She looked up, feeling herself being watched, into the yellowish, green eyes of the man she had
watched fall from a helicopter’s rope ladder at the top of the old Gotham City Cathedral. His gaze spoke of nothing except the genuine desire to please her.

    “Do you like it,” he asked?

    “It’s a very nice camera. What would you like me to photograph?” she asked.

    “Come with me,” The Joker said, “I’ll show you.” He waited for her to get up and headed down a hall. A second hallway, which she remembered as the one that took her to the ladies room when she had first regained consciousness, branched off to the right, from the main hall, which had a large green door at the end. He reached that door now and pushed it open. Vicki saw that it was his office and also his bedroom, or at least it had a bed in it. Vicki wasn’t really sure if he ever slept. Two doors were visible from this room, one which was open, obviously led to his private restroom, but the other door
was the one he opened next, revealing a makeshift television studio, complete with professional spot lighting and a sophisticated video mixing console.

      In the center of the room stood a tall white cross, rising up from a vat filled with some kind of liquid that gave off an odor, an odor that she recognized instantly. It smelled like formaldehyde. Formaldehyde mixed with who knows what. It smelled like the Joker. This was the concoction that had turned him white and had kept him from dying. This was where they intended to turn Appleby into whatever it was things became when they were submerged in that liquid. To the right she saw a man sweating profusely, occasionally cursing, as he worked on some kind of mechanical engine, which evidently had something to do with the large white cross. She raised the camera and took her first picture. Startled, the man working on the engine looked up and then went back to what he had been doing. 

    “That’s it honey bunch,” the JOKER encouraged her. “Make a pictorial record of what we are doing here so that in the millenniums that follow we can all look back and remember the effort we put forth this weekend. Millions, maybe even billions will view these pictures, which will be enshrined in the Temple of Forever, for all to see.” The Joker walked over to the baptismal vat and struck a pose, but before Vicki could snap the picture, he said, “Wait, Princess, I want my high priest and priestess in the picture with me. Carl, stop working on that engine for a minute, and Harley come here, we need to have a picture, together.” Harley joined the JOKER, who put one arm around her.

    “Be careful Carl,” Harley said, “be sure there’s no soap or anything slippery on the floor. I’d hate to see you fall and hurt yourself.”

    Carl shot her the finger and limped gingerly towards the pair to have his picture taken with them.

    Harley giggled and asked, “What’s that supposed to be, a new religious signal?”

    “Now children,” the JOKER interrupted, “we are on the brink of a new beginning for all mankind. On the very edge of starting the human race on a fascinating journey that will lead to immortality. This is no time to fight amongst ourselves.” He held his arm out, and wrapped it around Carl and hugged his high priest and priestess, looking as happy as the nerve damaged, frozen grin on his pale face could possibly look. Vicki snapped the picture, wondering briefly if photographers that had recorded the key moments of Hitler’s rise to power had felt the way she felt now. She knew these people were insane, especially the JOKER, and there was no way their plans of ending death and being worshipped as Gods could ever come to pass, or could they? As she prepared to snap her next picture, it was that little nagging doubt in the back of her mind that made her feel so strange and so sick.

    Bruce sat on the side of the bed, expecting Dick to arrive any moment. As a matter of fact, Dick should have been there about 30 minutes ago. He felt better, now. After sleeping almost an hour, his mind was clearer and the overwhelming feeling of fatigue was gone. He picked the TV remote up off the nightstand and clicked it. While flipping through the channels he saw a report on the female police officer, Sheryl Wilkinson, who had been missing for several days. A couple of fishermen out on the lake early Saturday morning had made the gruesome discovery of  her nude body, or most of it, which had
washed up, onshore. The corpse was missing its right hand, which according to Dr. Melvin Slaughter looked as if it had been chewed off by some kind of animal, perhaps a dog. Slaughter had concluded she died as a result of multiple gunshot wounds, one of which had been to the center of her forehead, and had later been dumped into the lake.

      Bruce got up from the corner of the bed and looked in the mirror. Looking back at him was BATMAN, ironically clad in the very costume he wore 14 years ago, when he encountered Jack Napier during the police sting at Axis Chemicals, which had been set up by Carl Grissom, Sr. It was the night Napier had died and the JOKER had been born. Due to improvements in fabric durability and changes in personal taste, this suit had become a backup to be used only in an emergency. Since all of the other suits had been lost in the collapse of the Bat cave, this most certainly qualified as an emergency. Seeing the reflection of this suit from his past, combined with the rest he had just received, somehow made Bruce feel as if 14 years had been peeled away. He felt younger, more determined and more confident. Barbara would recover. He knew she would surprise everyone, especially the doctors. He would find Vicki and he would stop the JOKER once and for all. He reached for the tiny cell phone on his utility belt and realized the utility belt from fourteen years ago had no such item. They were too large, too heavy, needed to be recharged too often and were just too unreliable back then to carry around on his belt. Instead, he picked up the receiver from the phone on the night stand and dialed the number for the Wayne Foundation research department. The phone was answered on the third ring.

    “Research, Jones speaking.”

    “Jones, this is Bruce Wayne, how are you coming on the mass production of that cellular acceleration formula?”

    “We have eight people working on it, sir,” Jones answered. “It should be ready by Sunday afternoon, barring any unforeseen circumstances. We have encountered some unanticipated issues regarding degradation of the formula’s potency, based on the length of time it’s exposed to oxygen.”

    “Bruce said, “See to it that there aren’t any unforeseen circumstances, Jones. Too much is riding on having this formula ready as soon as we need it, and we don’t know how soon that will be. Bring extra people in if you need to. Work around the clock until the job is done and everything checks out. Get Fire Chief Pounds on the phone and let him know what we need. I think two trucks ought to be plenty.” He hung up as he heard someone at the door. There was only one person that should know he was here.

      Dick walked in and said, “Hey, bright eyed and bushy tailed, you look better and that outfit looks pretty good. How old is that thing, anyway?”

    “Would you believe fourteen years?” Bruce answered. “Time flies and so should we.”

He pulled off the cape and mask, stuffed them in a duffel bag and pulled a sweater and a pair of pants on over the remainder of his costume.

    After Dick changed into his NIGHTWING costume and put some street clothes over it, he drove the silver Mercedes to a remote point on the outskirts of town where the rolling hills and thick trees made it easy to hide something as big as a sleek, black, two seater with a turbo jet engine. Upon giving the command for the shields to open the two crime fighters began to take inventory of the weapons they currently had at their disposal.

      BATMAN looked at the ancient Bat grappler on his old utility belt and said, “I think this may be the same unit I used when Vicki and I were falling from the tower of the Gotham City Cathedral. I wonder if it still works?” He fired it towards a tree, fifty yards away, and watched with satisfaction as it performed flawlessly, hitting it’s target and sticking securely. “See,” he said as he gave the line a pull, “old doesn’t necessarily mean bad.”

    NIGHTWING answered, “I never said it did, but you shouldn’t have to wonder if something is going to work when your life is on the line. I had a spare new one in my room at the mansion. Take it. It supports more weight than the old ones did, and it’s smaller.” He reached down to his utility belt, but BATMAN stopped him.

    “No, thanks just the same, NIGHTWING, but I think I can rely on my old friend, here.”

    Dick shook his head, but could see his friend’s mind was made up. He just hoped the decision, obviously based on nostalgic feelings, wouldn’t be regretted later.

    They climbed into the Batmobile after shedding their street clothes and hiding the Mercedes behind a grove of trees, covering it up with a camouflage tarp and some brush. As they drove off, NIGHTWING looked in the rearview mirror and said, “I hope nobody finds the Mercedes. I hate leaving it out here.”

    BATMAN turned slightly, looked in the side view mirror, at the scene quickly disappearing in a cloud of dust behind him, and commented, “I just hope we can find it, again.” They roared back towards town with NIGHTWING behind the wheel to continue the search for Vicki. As they rode along, BATMAN said, “I called Barbara’s husband and let him know she had been injured.”

    NIGHTWING answered, “That couldn’t have been easy. When did you do that?”

    “Right after you left the townhouse. I couldn’t have slept with that on my mind.”

    “How did he take it?” NIGHTWING asked.

    “He was pretty worried, naturally. He’s jumping on the first plane down here. He said the one good thing was that it was an open date for the Giants, so he wouldn’t have to miss a game.”

    NIGHTWING wondered, “Is he going to be staying at the Belvedere?”

    “I called and made a reservation for him there, under Barbara’s alternate identity last name of Nicholson,” BATMAN replied. “I hope he remembers to use that name.”

    “I thought you told Elizabeth and Jim that Barbara had gone back to take care of little Alfred. What if they run into him before they leave?”

    BATMAN shrugged his shoulders and responded, “Their plane leaves tonight. I think Elizabeth said at nine thirty. So they won’t have much chance of bumping into each other. Besides, he said he would be heading straight to the hospital from the airport.

    “I thought you were supposed to be sleeping while I was gone,” Dick scolded. Did you really get any rest, or did you just call up everybody you could think of and shoot the breeze? Do I have to take your phone privileges away young fella?”

    “I couldn’t sleep until that was taken care of. I just feel awful about Barbara.”

    “Yeah,” NIGHTWING nodded, “well, you didn’t have any trouble falling asleep while you were driving earlier. I guess a little thing like crashing doesn’t keep you awake, huh?”

    “That’s different,” BATMAN replied, “and I did get close to an hour of sleep while you were gone, Mother. Now, if only you had been there to tuck me in…”


    “Oh, hush,” NIGHTWING interrupted, “I’ll be glad when you get married. You obviously need someone more than just Richards to look after you.”

    “I know you won’t believe this, but I really do agree with you.” BATMAN turned again toward NIGHTWING and with a serious tone to his voice that demanded attention, he asked a very important question. “Would you ever consider coming back to Gotham City, permanently?”

    “Why would I do that? This is your city. I’m trying to establish NIGHTWING in Chicago, the way you have made BATMAN a household name here in Gotham City.”

    “You know, ever since Alfred died I just haven’t, and this is really hard to put into words, so bear with me here. I just haven’t had the same zest for doing what we do. It’s like I’ve just been going through the motions. And now that Vicki and I are going to be married, I don’t know if I can still be what Gotham City needs and be what Vicki needs at the same time. I’m not the kind of guy that gets up in the morning and kisses his wife goodbye and goes to work at some normal kind of job, and then comes home to have dinner, play with the dog and help the kids with their homework. Am I making sense, here?”

    NIGHTWING eased off on the accelerator, turned, looked at his mentor and said, “You were for a minute, but now you may have lost me. Are you trying to say you want me to leave Chicago, come back here and team up with you again, like in the old days?”

    “No,” BATMAN shook his head and looked down at the floorboard, trying to find the right words. “Okay,” he began again, “have you ever done something for a really long time that you got a lot of satisfaction from and you felt like it really defined who you were, but then you found out you weren’t that person anymore?”

    NIGHTWING slowed down further and pulled off onto the shoulder of the road they were on. Once the Batmobile had come to a halt, he turned to his old partner and said, “Look, BATMAN, just come out and tell me whatever it is that’s bugging you. I’ll understand. Really I will.”

    BATMAN wanted to say that he wanted out, as soon as they find Vicki and stop the JOKER. But he couldn’t make himself say the words, no matter how hard he tried.With his mouth open, trying to form the words that were in his mind, all he could manage when he looked NIGHTWING in the eye, was to stammer, “I…I…I…”

    The phone interrupted him. It was Richards, who had returned to Wayne Manor to deal with the insurance claims adjusters. He had just seen the report on the missing female officer. “With all that you are currently dealing, sir, I didn’t know if you had seen the information on the missing police officer. Regarding the people from the insurance company, they have noticed a soft area in the floor and are being quite insistent about going down into the basement. Shall I remove the cover to what used to be the spiral staircase and allow them to peer down into the darkness, or should I let them take a ride on the elevator that now descends to nowhere?”

    BATMAN didn’t know whether to be relieved or dismayed at the interruption. He had wanted to tell Dick he was thinking about retiring, but perhaps his inability to say it meant he wasn’t really ready to do it. “There isn’t anything left down there for them to see, Richards, so just remove the cover to the staircase,” he replied, “the elevator is too dangerous. I’m not sure I’d want to go back down in it, myself. Keep an eye on the news for us, Richards. I saw the report on the policewoman, but call us if there is anything new that we need to know.”

    As the day progressed, BATMAN and NIGHTWING drove back and forth acrossthe city, looking for clues and speaking to everyone they could reach that might have anything to add to their investigation. Dr. Slaughter had told them that tests were being done to see if the bullets found in Sheryl Wilkinson’s body matched the firing patterns from any registered weapons. At four o’clock the lead story, on Gotham’s all news radio station was a real shocker to BATMAN and NIGHTWING. It was being reported that one of the inmates at Arkham Asylum by the name of Edward Nygma, had escaped. He
had taken the clothes and the car of one of the guards. An extensive search of the entire facility and grounds had been conducted to verify the escape before alerting the authorities. BATMAN and NIGHTWING looked at each other and simultaneously said, “Uh-oh!” They had no sooner said that than the phone rang and Richards was on the line, checking to see if they had heard about the escape.

    BATMAN said, “Richards, you know Dr. Meridian is going to blame me for this. Do me a favor and don’t forward her call to me when it comes, no matter how angry she is.”

    Richards replied, “Understood, and If she comes by in person, sir, and gives me a great deal of trouble, I’ll give her a tour of our newly renovated Basement.”

BATMAN: REVENGE

Chapter 28

    At the City of Tomorrow, Lawrence and Carl had finally fixed the hydraulic motor that powered the movement of the cross that would lower FBI agent, Thomas Appleby, into the baptismal vat. Carl knocked on the JOKER’s office door and waited for an answer before walking in. After waiting a while he knocked again and still got no answer, so he pushed lightly on the door to open it just enough to peek in. There, decked out in a royal purple and gold ceremonial robe, standing in front of a full length mirror, stood the JOKER, rehearsing his lines for the live infomercial on how to obtain immortality. Carl listened, spellbound. 

      “…dial 1-800-555-LIVE, that’s 1-800-555-5483. For the first one thousand callers, we are offering a one time only, 25% discount on the normal low, low, rate of only $300,000.00 dollars! And we have a special bonus for the one-thousandth caller, Harley, tell them what they can win!”

    Harley Quinn walked over to stand by the JOKER in a costume that was like something you would expect Vanna White to wear on Wheel of Fortune, and held up a picture of an adorable Beagle puppy. “For our one-thousandth caller we’ll provide immortality for you and one other person of your choice, which of course is a $600,000.00 value, and all of the pets in your household! That’s a $10,000.00 value for each pet, free, if you are our lucky one-thousandth caller!”

    “Hooty, hoo, hoo, won’t Stephen King be sad,” the JOKER asked? No more pet cemeteries! No more tearful burials in the backyard! If Bowser bounds into the street and gets flattened, he’ll just pop back into shape and come running back to you as good as new! And there’s an added benefit! You won’t have to feed your pets anymore, unless you just want to. They won’t starve and they won’t die of thirst! Think of the savings on Purina chow for those big dogs! And Moms, you’ll be glad to know, the kids won’t be tracking in little poodle bombs from the back yard anymore. And, oh yes, for those of
you that think it’s a shame those little darlin’s ever have to grow up, guess what? Now they don’t have to! Keep them young and precious forever! No need to worry about them falling in with the wrong crowd when they become teenagers! And here’s some good news, during our introductory offer we’re doing kids for half price! Are they eating you out of house and home? You say your kids eat like horses? Well, you won’t have to feed them anymore! Hey, what about horses? Horse lovers, we’re off to the races! No need to rub them down after a good run, and the hay in the stalls will stay fresh so much longer! Bird lovers rejoice, no more lining the Cockatoo’s or parakeet’s cage with
newspaper. No food and no water means no mess. The whole world is going to be a brighter, whiter, better place for you, forever, and it all starts with a simple phone call to 1-800-555-LIVE, that’s 1-800-555-5483. Call and make your arrangements for eternal life, today! Tomorrow may be too late. Once again, those numbers are…”

    Carl stepped back and closed the door, stunned at the things he had seen and heard. It was all happening. It was all coming true. The JOKER was right. A hell of a lot of people would give almost anything to live forever and they wouldn’t mind if it meant having white bodies, with green fingernails, toenails and hair. Most of them, especially those over 40, wouldn’t mind when they found out about the holy waters causing sterility. Preliminary research results at Axis Chemicals had indicated female eggs would be stopped from maturing, and sperm would likewise never reach the maturity level necessary to impregnate a fertile egg. These alarming results had not yet been reported to the press and never would if the JOKER had his way. His plan was to offer
unquestionable proof of a way to obtain immortality, establish a large number of celebrity spokespersons and then sit back and watch the government hopelessly try to intervene. Look at how hard the government had tried to stop people from smoking, yet millions of people in this country and even more in Europe and around the world continued in the face of irrefutable evidence that it could significantly shorten their lives.

      How could the government stop its citizens from becoming enamored with the idea of never growing old and dying? On television and radio, interviews were beginning to pop up with  a number of celebrities that had seen the JOKER’s video presentation last night, and were already lining up, or had sent representatives to stand outside Axis Chemicals, wanting to be among the first to sign up for immortality. A number of Swiss bank accounts had been set up and two marketing companies in Nevada, with huge call centers, had been contracted to take incoming calls as the JOKER was expecting an initial response of over 3,000 orders the first day. There was no question, the
repercussions of Monday’s worldwide infomercial, would be staggering.

    Thomas Appleby sat on the edge of his bed, still shackled by handcuffs to the metal headboard. Vicki Vale was about to take his picture, but he was worlds away from smiling. He looked up with a tired, “I’m no longer in control of my destiny,” look, similar to the expressions seen on the faces of the Jewish prisoners at Auschwitz. He had wanted to be ready to escape if the opportunity presented itself, but now the sedatives, which had been slipped into his food and drink, made it hard to stay awake, hard to focus, hard to care. He barely blinked when the bright flash of the camera illuminated in front of him.

    Vicki turned to Lawrence, who had been told to follow her wherever she went. “Lawrence,” she said, “why do you guys have to drug him? He hasn’t caused any trouble.”

    “The boss said to do it,” was Lawrence’s answer, and as far as he was concerned it was all that needed to be said on the subject. When the boss spoke, you did what he asked. Those that questioned the boss had a habit of dying or disappearing. Lawrence was not a man known for insightful introspection. He was aware of his limitations, as well as his strengths, and by being aware and acting accordingly, he was perhaps smarter than many surmised.

    Vicki followed up her last question with a simple one that she felt would force Lawrence to begin to think for himself. “Lawrence, will you do something for me? Will you pose for a picture?”

    “Sure,” Lawrence answered without hesitation, putting his hands on his hips, and smiling.

    While she prepared to snap the picture, Vicki asked, “If the JOKER asks you to dive into the vat and become like him, are you going to do it?”

    “Sure,” came Lawrence’s reply, as quickly as he had answered the previous request.

    “Really?” Vicki asked, as she lowered the camera and looked at him for a moment, “just like that?”

    She raised the camera back up to her eyes again as Lawrence nodded affirmatively, and answered, “Just like that.”

    Vicki snapped the picture, lowered the camera, and looked into Lawrence’s eyes. “Would you throw me in if he told you to?”

    Lawrence looked back into those beautiful, blue eyes that were pleading for a different answer, and said, “I’d have to.”

    “Why?” Vicki asked.

    “Cause he’s the boss, that’s why.” Lawrence looked down now, avoiding her intense gaze. He had the ability to say a lot with very few words. She could see he didn’t want to hurt her, but he would, without question, and that’s the way it was. She knew now that Lawrence was not going to be the weak link she searched for in the JOKER’s crew. Vicki knew she couldn’t overpower her captors, but she couldn’t just sit around, helplessly, waiting to be rescued. If there was a way to turn them against each other, she had to find it. She would have to explore the possibilities that Carl, whom she saw as a man who was not particularly brave, driven by greed and ego, or Harley, who lived on the edge and shunned the conventional world, might, for some as yet undiscovered reason, be persuaded that white and green was not their favorite color scheme.

    Back at the Belvedere Hotel that evening at seven, Bruce and Dick were having dinner in Bruce’s room, discussing their plans for the next day. “We know Harley Quinn, has to be involved,” Dick alleged, “based on the fact that the head of Quinn Catering was trying to kill Andre while Vicki was being abducted, and Axis Chemicals is the company manufacturing the JOKER’s juice. Since Harley is the CEO of Axis, I’d say she is heavily implicated.”

    “But where is she, now?” Bruce asked. “After talking today to most of the high ranking executives who’s phone numbers we found and copied last night, she evidently doesn’t fraternize with anybody there. At least we haven’t found anyone that she buddies up with, or that will admit to it, and she lives in the penthouse, right there in the factory.

    Dick nodded, and said, “I’m sure she hangs out with the JOKER and his crew, but we’ve combed the city and so have the police and the FBI. I would have thought something would have turned up by now.”

    “Maybe something has,” Bruce asserted, “and we just haven’t heard. Or maybe something was right under our noses and we just didn’t realize it. Bruce got up from the couch and went over to the desk where his laptop sat. Looking primarily for the name Quinn, or any other names that might ring a bell, he pulled up all of the records he could access on either occupied or abandoned warehouses and condemned properties, and who the current and previous owners were. After scrolling past hundreds and hundreds of names without finding what looked like a strong lead, Bruce logged off, closed the
laptop, got up from the desk, went over and sat down on the bed, and turned on the TV.

    As Bruce searched for CNN or any other channels that might carry the latest news, Dick asked, “You wanna get some rest and then start patrolling again, around midnight?”

    “Yeah, I guess so,” Bruce said. “Hey, did you see the guy Harley was with last night?”

    Dick answered, “Come to think of it, yes. While I was upstairs, I looked down and saw Harley and her date having some kind of disagreement with the old fortune teller. For a minute it looked like it might get ugly, then the guy backed off.”

    Bruce asked, “Was it a guy in a tuxedo with a clown mask?”

    “Yeah,” Dick responded, “Why?”

    “I’d like to know what Harley’s date said to that old woman. Why was he upset? Richards should have her name and phone number, or the FBI should have it. Bruce spun around on the bed and picked up his cell phone off the night stand. He called Richards. Minutes later, after getting the phone number he was after, he was dialing the number of the old woman, who had registered at Wayne Manor as Miss Dritta Luminitsa Emaus.

      The phone was answered by a young sounding female, who answered by saying, “Who Calls Miss Dritta?”

    Bruce replied, “This is Bruce Wayne, is Miss Dritta there? I was calling, concerning the payment for her services at the mansion, Friday night. Is she there?”


    “Who did you say this was?” the young voice asked again, sounding as if she did not believe the caller was telling the truth.

    “Bruce Wayne, from Wayne Manor, where Miss Dritta performed on Friday night. I need to talk to her about payment for her services. Would you please get her for me?”

      Bruce began to realize the young lady was acting as a call screener for the old fortune Teller, as she said, “You can tell me what you need to say, and I will let her know.”

      Bruce tried a new approach, “I’d sure hate to have to delay her check, Miss… I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. The auditor is here now making out the checks, and if we can’t speak to her, then we’ll just have to put it off until the auditor returns, next month.”

    “I am Nadya, Miss Dritta is very old, so I am secretary for her. I save her from being bothered by crazy calls that waste her time. I will get her for you. Do not hang up.”

    Bruce could hear the sound of the phone receiver being put down, and he waited for the old woman to come to the phone. Five minutes later, he was still waiting and was beginning to get impatient. “I’m beginning to think Nadya is playing a little trick on me,” he said. “I don’t think she ever went to get Miss Dritta.”

    “What makes you think that,” Dick asked? “Where’s your patience? Maybe Miss Dritta was in the bathroom upstairs, and it takes a while when you’re around a hundred years old, to do your business, get dressed again and then get downstairs with your walker. They probably don’t have an elevator or a slide, you know.”

    Bruce listened, but wasn’t buying it. He still figured he was being played for a fool by Nadya, but just as he was going to hang up, he heard the receiver on the other end being picked up, and the croaking voice of Miss Dritta asked, “Who disturbs Miss Dritta at this late hour?”

    Bruce glanced at his watch and saw that it was just after eight. “Miss Dritta, this is Bruce Wayne, from Wayne Manor, where you told fortunes last night. I have the auditor here to cut your check and I had a question for you also, if you don’t mind. Do you, perhaps, remember a man in a clown mask and tuxedo last night? Did you tell his fortune? He was with a lady in a red and black jester’s costume.”

    The reply, after a lengthy pause, was “Yes.” The tone of her voice and the way the word was uttered indicated her suspicion as to the reason for the call, and her obvious reluctance to discuss the encounter. This was not a simple yes. It was a long and drawn out exhalation of air, pronounced slowly, capped by an “s” on the end that sounded like a room full of snakes.  She continued after another pause, “You speak of the bengalo one, with bad baxt. The Tarot cards did not favor him. They foretold doom and he became upset.”

    Bruce wanted to be sure he understood everything she was trying to say, and asked, “When you said the bengalo one, what does that mean, and what is baxt?”

    Miss Dritta replied, “It is talk from the old country,” bengalo means Devilish. He is evil. And baxt is luck. His luck, according to the Tarot, has run out.”

    “I see,” Bruce responded. What did he say to you when he became upset, do you remember?”

    “His lady friend tried to pull him away, but before he left he said things that did not make sense… crazy things. He said he could not die.” She cleared her throat before continuing, “He said death had come for him a long time ago and the Tarot cards could not deal with those that continue to live after death. He handed me a playing card, which he took from his jacket and said the Tarot cards needed…” she paused briefly and took another ragged breath before saying, “a Joker.”

    The word hit Bruce like a ton of bricks. He had seen the tuxedoed clown dancing with Vicki. He remembered Vicki’s words about his fascination for the photographs she had taken of the dying patients at Gotham Memorial. Now there was no longer any doubt about Harley Quinn. She had undoubtedly been involved in the resurrection of this evil monster, the abduction of Vicki, the bombing of Wayne Manor, and the production of his holy water. She must have been plotting and preparing this whole thing for years.

      He had actually sat next to her at a number of social functions. He had complimented her business acumen on numerous occasions, most notably when she was given the award for Gotham City’s Business Woman of the year, he had been one of the keynote speakers. 

      He had always been impressed at how a young woman with none of the usual advantages, such as wealthy parents, could have come so far and accomplished so much. But now it all made sense. She had done it with the help of the JOKER’s money.

    “Are you still there?” Miss Dritta asked. “What about my check?”

    Bruce became aware of the fact that he was actually grinding his teeth and had a pulverizing grip on the phone, which was not meant for such abuse, as Miss Dritta’s voice brought him back to reality. “Yes, Miss Dritta, I’m still here, sometimes these cellular phones will lose their signal, but now I can hear you just fine. About your check, we were so pleased with your fine performance at Wayne Manor we are doubling the amount you had requested. You should receive the check within the next five days. Thank you again for the fine job you did for us. I’m sorry to have bothered you so late in the evening.”


    Miss Dritta thanked Bruce for his generosity, and added, “I sense the great tension you feel regarding certain events that confront you. Your spirit struggles to be healed but your soul, although noble, is deeply scarred. I wish you well. You must know the evil one will not achieve his goals as long as he continues on his current path. But beware, Bruce Wayne, beware. Paths can change and plans may be altered.” She hung up, and Bruce sat there dazed, he lowered the phone from his ear and stared at it, as if somehow it might
hold some answer to the questions that consumed him. Where was Vicki? What had they done to her? What were they planning to do to her?

    Dick walked up to Bruce and shook his shoulder. Bruce looked up, eyes squinting as if he were confused, trying to understand something, or like he was coming out of a dream, having trouble adjusting once again to the harsh reality of the real world. “Earth to Bruce, earth to Bruce, come in, Bruce. Can you hear me, repeat, can you…”

    “Oh, cut that out,” Bruce begged, “How could I have been so blind? Why didn’t I see it coming?”

    “See what?” Dick asked.

    “Harley Quinn,” Bruce shot back, “The trail was so obvious, so many clues. I’m reaching the point where criminals have to come up to me and hit me over the head with the evidence before I see what’s going on. What’s happened to my intuition, Dick?"

    "Geez, Bruce, will you tell me what the fortuneteller lady said, already? You’re fun to watch when you get freaked out like this, but you’re not making a whole lot of sense!”

    At Gotham Memorial hospital, Barbara’s husband was doing his best to understand. “So, are we or aren’t we supposed to be married"

    “Of course we’re married, honey,” Barbara replied, reaching out for his hand, “you just have to remember your last name is Nicholson.”

    “And you’re checked into the hospital as Barbara Nicholson, which protects your identity and keeps the press from hounding me. Okay, I got that part, but honey,” he said, “I know you believe what you do is important and I happen to agree with you on that issue, but how can it be more important than taking care of little Alfred and me? What if you never regain enough strength in that leg to run or walk? What if you have to use a cane or even a wheelchair for the rest of your life? Was it all worth it?”

    Barbara looked up at her husband and said, “I’m part of a team, James, you can understand that, can’t you? I knew this was going to be dangerous and I knew if I told you about it you’d hit the ceiling. I hated hiding the truth from you, but I had to get involved in this because people were depending on me. Right from the start you and I have done things the hard way. We took a lot of flack when we started dating. You were the big, black football superstar going out with the blonde. Remember how the bigots called you, O.J. Jr., and me, Nicole? And by the way, don’t talk to me about being injured, you’ve been injured numerous times—"

    “But I don’t do dangerous things without you knowing about them," James interrupted. "And I make fourteen million dollars a year. Injuries are something an NFL quarterback has to expect. You know that! I’m well compensated for the risks I take. I also have a decent pension waiting for me and besides, I won’t be playing much longer. Next year, I’ll be starting my career as an attorney. That should be a little safer.”

    “Yeah, I would think so,” Barbara agreed. She carefully wiggled around a little on her hospital bed, trying to get more comfortable. “The Giants are going downhill anyway,” she continued, “and so are you. At the ripe old age of 38, I don’t think you were ever going to get another shot at a fourth Super Bowl Championship ring. I sure can’t see you sticking around and playing backup to some young kid.”

    James Terrance Lewis, one of the most successful quarterbacks in NFL history, a sure bet to be inducted into the NFL hall of fame, leaned over the hospital bed and looked into his wife’s blue eyes. He said, “Barbara, I love you, but you can’t do this ever again. I’m quitting football. I know I can’t play anymore, at least not at my previous level of excellence, and you have to give up your alter ego. I can’t believe you went behind my back and got yourself shot. How dumb is that, Barbara? What you do isn’t all that different from what I do. You can’t just walk away for years and then suddenly suit up, and actually expect to be able to perform flawlessly. For my sake, as well as for little Alfred, promise me that you won’t do this anymore.”

    Barbara turned her head and looked away. She couldn’t lie to him when she looked him in the eye. “Okay,” she said, “I promise.”

    An Asian man wearing a white lab coat, over green scrubs pulled the white, privacy curtain back. He held a clipboard, which he glanced down at and then said, “Are you Mrs. Nicholson?”

    Barbara said, “Yes, and who are you?”

    “I’m Dr. Nguyen, your anesthesiologist. I wanted to stop by and touch base with you about your surgery, tomorrow.”

    “What surgery?” Barbara asked. The shock of hearing she had been scheduled for surgery without having been told, coupled with the pain she was experiencing, made her temper flare up. She attempted to rise up in her bed, which she quickly realized was a big mistake, as a bolt of searing pain shot through her injured leg. “Oh, Jesus,” she yelled, as she fell back onto her pillow, her eyes clamped tightly shut. She grabbed both ends of the pillow and pulled them up around the sides of her face, which contorted in apparent agony.

    After Barbara had recovered to the point where she could once again carry on a conversation, the anesthesiologist apologized and explained that he thought somebody had already spoken to her about the impending surgery. A nurse came in and took her blood pressure and temperature, while he asked all the usual questions concerning her family’s medical history, her previous illnesses and hospitalizations, as well as any allergic reactions to anesthesia during prior surgeries, and he had Barbara sign the hospital waiver forms, which made it sound like he could kill her or leave her brain dead and not be liable for his actions. Before he left he promised to have her surgeon call within the hour, and told her that tomorrow’s surgery would certainly not be the last.

    Barbara looked up at her husband and asked, “Is that legal? The way they throw those forms at you? Like, what choice did I have? You’re the lawyer, don’t they call that extortion?”

    James assured her that it was all standard stuff and would never hold up in court if negligence were proven. He said, “Baby, I’ve had to sign those things for every surgery I’ve had. Don’t let it upset you. It’s the same kind of forms you signed when you were going to have little Alfred.”

    “It’s not the same, James,” Barbara disagreed. “I had known that Doctor for over a year, while I have never yet spoken to the man who is going to do surgery on me, tomorrow. He may come highly recommended, but he better call me tonight, or….”

    The phone next to Barbara’s bed rang and because it looked as if it was too far away for her to reach without causing her more pain, James picked it up and answered.

“Hello, this is Barbara’s room.” Smiling, he handed the phone to her and said, “It’s the Doctor.”

    The JOKER marveled at the pictures on his desk. He looked up at Vicki and said, “My dear, you have a gift. You capture images in a way that no one else can. I hope you found the camera, computer programs and supplies for printing to be at least adequate. Also, I noticed you didn’t eat much of the salad Lawrence went out and got for you. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

      The sound of somebody faking throwing up came from the bed where Harley sat drinking whiskey. Slurring her words, she yelled out, “God, you make me sick!”

      The JOKER responded, “Well, at least you got my name right.”

      Harley had left her better judgment about half a bottle ago. She made wet kissing noises and said, “Bend over Queenie, he wants to kiss your ass! Hey boss, you want me to call the preacher? Maybe we can get him to marry you two, tonight!”   
   
    The JOKER turned his attention away from Vicki momentarily, chuckled, and cleared his throat, indicating he had just about had enough of Harley’s behavior. “Harley,” he said, “I think it’s getting past your bedtime.” He got up and walked to the  opened door that led to the broadcast studio. “Lawrence,” he yelled, “would you come in here and give Harley something to help her sleep?”

    From the other room Lawrence answered, “Be right there boss.” There was a sound of something metal dropping to the concrete floor, followed by footsteps approaching. Lawrence stepped into the room and said, “Okay Harley, time for bed.”

      Harley immediately threw the whiskey bottle at Lawrence. It rocketed through the air leaving a trail of whiskey, passing a mere three inches to the right of  Lawrence’s face and disintegrated against the wall behind him. Lawrence walked without hesitation to where Harley sat and delivered a crushing right hand to her chin. She went out like a light. “Anything else, boss?” he asked, as he headed back towards the studio.

    “No, Lawrence, I believe that will be all for tonight,” the JOKER answered. He turned his attention back to Vicki, grinned and asked, “Now, where were we?”