by Greg Cox
The moon and stars were in hiding, as well. It was a cold, misty autumn night cloaked in the sort of deep, primeval darkness found far from the lights of the city. A bitter wind rustled the treetops while small animals scurried through the brush. Dampness clung to every surface and softened the ground beneath his feet. An owl hooted, eliciting a scowl from the caped figure.
Night-vision lenses allowed him to study the cabin as easily as if it were daylight. Little more than a one-story wooden shack with peeling paint, asphalt shingles—several of them missing, a sagging front deck, and a brick chimney, the place was off the electrical grid and didn’t even seem to have a phone line. Not far away a dilapidated outhouse implied the absence of indoor plumbing. Cardboard had been used to patch broken windows. No light escaped the premises and no smoke rose from the chimney.
At first glance, it appeared as if the cabin had been deserted for some time. Closer inspection suggested otherwise. Modern blinds were drawn over the few intact windows. A waterproof polyethylene tarp protected a fresh supply of firewood. A motorcycle was hidden in the bushes behind the cabin, safely out of view from the approach. The license plate confirmed that the bike was Lewton’s.
Bingo.
The sagging deck creaked beneath Batman’s weight as he approached the front door, which he found riddled with bullet holes. Somebody had fired from inside the cabin—perhaps in self-defense?
The perforated door swung freely open, admitting him to the cabin’s sparsely furnished, one-room interior. Signs of a struggle were everywhere. Chairs, cots, and a table were overturned. A fallen shotgun had been smashed to pieces. Twelve-gauge shell casings littered the floor, along with a pair of crumpled sleeping bags and various articles of clothing. A hint of gunpowder lingered in the air, and he grimaced beneath the mask.
He didn’t like guns.
A cast-iron wood stove was cold, implying that some time had passed since the altercation, as did the dried blood splattered on the interior side of the door. No bodies were to be seen, charred or otherwise, which offered both a puzzle and a modicum of hope. Mere bullets weren’t enough to put a Talon down, at least not for long, but what had happened to Dennis and Joanna? The twin sleeping bags suggested that they had been hiding here together. Had they been abducted? It was a grim prospect, yet certainly better than the alternative.
He stepped back out of the cabin to survey its surroundings. A moss-covered picnic table recalled happier days. A winding trail led down to the shore of the lake where a wooden dock, extending out onto the water, could be glimpsed through the trees. No boat was visible, but someone still could have come or gone by water.
Leaving the cabin behind, he headed down to the shore, where a grisly sight awaited him. A charred body lay by the shore. Water lapped against the blackened corpse which was half-in, half-out of the shallows, lying facing down on the damp, rocky ground. A rapid inspection revealed that the victim was male.
Dennis Lewton, Batman assumed, although the corpse’s face had been burnt beyond recognition. He allowed himself a selfish moment of relief that it wasn’t Joanna, even as he regretted arriving too late to save her boyfriend. One more life lost to the Court of Owls and their latest Talon, whose incendiary methods still posed a mystery.
He’s not going to get away with this, Batman vowed silently. There’s a cell in Blackgate waiting for him.
Scanning the surroundings, he attempted to reconstruct the events that had led to the murder. There were overt signs of a struggle, and several more shell casings. His best guess was that Dennis had attempted to defend himself with the shotgun, but that hadn’t been enough to stop the indestructible Talon. Fleeing the cabin, Dennis had been herded toward the lake, where he would have had nowhere to run before the Talon caught up with him. A struggle had ensued, kicking up a great deal of gravel, much of it now charred.
The question that remained, however, was whether or not Dennis had delayed the Talon long enough for Joanna to escape. There was no sign of her.
Please let her be safe. Batman knew firsthand what it was like to endure the sadistic hospitality of the Court of Owls. The thought that Joanna might have fallen into their hands sickened him.
Kneeling next to the body, he examined it closely. Sure enough, stab wounds suggested that, like Professor Morse, Dennis had been brutally interrogated before immolation occurred. As ugly a picture as that painted, it also suggested what might have happened to Joanna. Why would the Talon have questioned Dennis if he already had Joanna in his grasp? Perhaps Dennis hadn’t died in vain—it might be that his doomed battle with the Talon had at least bought her time to escape, possibly by boat.
A vivid image played in his mind’s eye—of a screaming Dennis plunging into the water even as he burned up from the inside. He had never met the young man, but hoped the frigid lake had provided him some small measure of relief before he died.
It was cold comfort, however.
After inspecting and digitally recording the crime scene, Batman dragged the body further up onto the shore. He would need to alert the local police to the body’s location, but first he wanted to take another look at the cabin. Returning to the violated structure, he conducted a swift but efficient search—this time with a powerful flashlight. A small stockpile of woman’s clothing supported the idea that Dennis had not been alone.
Only the Talon’s blood had been spilled inside the cabin, implying that Dennis had been tortured outdoors. The assassin had removed any records of Joanna’s thesis from Morse’s office, so Batman assumed he’d searched the cabin as well.
Was there a chance he had missed something?
There was a conspicuous absence of any electronics—laptops, phones, or tablets. Not even a smart watch. Granted, the remote cabin was off the grid, but Batman doubted either Dennis or Joanna would have abandoned their devices entirely when they retreated into the wilderness. Joanna in particular would have hung onto copies of her work, if at all possible. While it was likely that the Talon had already made off with any devices he had found, he was an assassin—not a detective.
It’s worth another look, Batman thought. Any chance to learn more about what she was working on.
Pulling an advanced sonic scanner from his utility belt, he used it to inspect the cabin’s interior from one end to another, but found nothing hidden in the floor, ceiling, or even the linings of the sleeping bags. The wood stove held nothing but ash.
The outhouse? He rejected the notion quickly. Joanna surely had more respect for her labors than that. In addition, the decrepit structure was hardly secure from the elements, let alone waterproof.
Waterproof…
A possibility struck him. Rushing out of the cabin, he yanked the waterproof tarp off the woodpile and began rooting methodically through neatly stacked firewood. Within moments his efforts were rewarded by a plastic case sealed inside a Ziploc plastic back for extra protection. Opening the bag and cracking open the case, he found a single thumb drive tucked away for safekeeping. A rare smile lifted his lips.
Good girl, Joanna.
Batman hoped the drive held at least some of the answers he needed.
For Gotham’s sake.
Wheeler-Nicholson Exposition Grounds, Gotham City, 1918
The grand Gotham City International Exposition was in full swing. For weeks it had drawn throngs to the colossal fairgrounds, which had been created on the grounds of a sprawling estate just for this monumental event. Although Metropolis, Star City, and St. Roch had all bid to host the 1918 World’s Fair, Gotham had triumphed over the competition and had spared no expense in mounting the Exposition, the better to show off their rising preeminence as one of the nation’s great cities.
Spacious boulevards wide enough to accommodate legions of visitors connected hundreds of acres of ornate courts and pavilions boasting exhibitions from all across the globe. Sparkling white towers studded with cut-glass “jewels” of myriad hues rose to the heavens. Temples of science and industry displayed the wonders of the
modern age, from a transcontinental telephone connecting Gotham with far-off San Francisco to assembly lines and baby incubators and even a working model of the world’s first radio-controlled airplane.
Clanging trolleys carried wide-eyed fairgoers from one end of the Exposition to another, while a veritable galaxy of bright electric lights set the warm summer night aglow. Colored spotlights reflected off the jeweled towers. Lydia had read that more than twenty million people, including sightseers from all over, were expected to pass through the imposing arched gates. Looking about, it seemed to her that all of them had chosen to visit the fair the very same night as she.
“It’s astonishing,” she marveled aloud. “Like a city of stars.”
Arm in arm with Percy, she strolled down a boulevard, trusting in the anonymity of the crowd to protect them from undue scrutiny. There was almost too much to see. She didn’t know where to look first.
“Just wait,” he said. “I have a surprise for you.”
A silk top hat perched rakishly atop his head gave him a jaunty air. Beneath the electric glow of the lights, she admired his lean, distinguished features. His noble brow and high cheekbones conveyed remarkable intellect and breeding, while his angular features were softened by a magnificently fulsome mustache. Her own hair was done up in the bouffant style of a Gibson Girl, beneath a wide feathered hat. She flattered herself that they made a handsome couple, which caused her to worry just how inconspicuous they truly were, even in the midst of thousands of other fairgoers.
“Percy, this is heavenly,” she said, keeping her voice low, “but is it truly safe for us to be seen together? Your wife—”
“Is not here,” he replied firmly. “We are but one of many couples taking in the Exposition. Its sheer spectacle all but guarantees that no one is looking at us when there are so many other attractions on which the eye may feast.” He smiled to reassure her. “In the unlikely event that anyone should ask, you are merely my niece from Chicago, come to experience the Fair like countless other out-of-towners.”
He made a good point, she conceded. Every day, trains and steamboats and coaches unloaded yet more visitors to Gotham. Hotels and inns were booked for months with nary a room to be had for love or money. Some enterprising citizens had even taken temporary lodgers into their homes and apartments, causing ad hoc boarding housings to spring up all across the city. Yet even allowing for such a flood of new arrivals, she could not help feeling as though she and Percy might be pressing their luck by parading out in the open together.
“It is still a risk,” she insisted. “You didn’t have to do this for me.”
“I beg to differ,” he said warmly. “You deserve it, after being cooped up in my studio for hour on hour, day after day. We deserve this.” He looked at her longingly. “Alas, my scientific efforts are likely to consume much of my time and concentration in the coming weeks and months, which means, sadly, that we shall not be able to see each other as much as we might prefer. This being the case, I believe that we are damn well entitled to a night out, before my experiments tear me away from you.”
“Your experiments?”
“Have reached a critical juncture, I’m afraid. I believe I am on the verge of an important breakthrough, but I cannot say for certain how much time may be required.”
“I have faith in your genius, darling,” she said, a hint of sadness in her voice. “You are bound to succeed brilliantly, and in no time.”
“Thank you, dearest. Your confidence in me bolsters my spirits.”
“You have it always,” she said. “Never doubt that.”
Despite her disappointment at his upcoming absence, she could hardly object to the experiments that impinged on their romance, since his remarkable mind was one of the attributes she most admired in him. That he was both an artist and a scientist— altogether cultured and worldly—had attracted her from the start.
There was so much more to Percy than the callow Stagedoor Johnnies who had attempted to woo her during her short-lived career as a chorus girl, before she discovered that she was better suited to posing as a model than prancing about on stage. She had never intended to become intimately involved with one of her employers, let alone with a married man, but the magnetic pull between them had been impossible to deny. It was worth whatever challenges and inconveniences their unlikely relationship entailed.
“I’ll do no more fretting,” she promised. “Let us put the future aside for the moment, and make the most of tonight while we can.”
He gently squeezed her arm. “I couldn’t agree more.”
They strolled past the Temples of Agriculture and Invention as ragtime music played from a bandstand. Fireworks erupted in the sky, eliciting appreciative gasps and applause from all around. Immense bursts of brightly colored sparks expanded outward to fill the firmament, accompanied by the bangs and pops of the exploding gunpowder. Lydia squealed in excitement. She had always loved fireworks.
“A teddy for the lady?” a raspy voice called out. “Get yerself a cuddly teddy bear here.”
A peddler was hawking his wares near the illuminated entrance to the Amusement Zone, where the sideshow attractions, concessions stands, souvenir shops, and mechanical thrill rides were cloistered. Stuffed bears upholstered in tawny mohair sat atop wooden crates, waiting to be adopted. Truth be told, Lydia had never quite seen a resemblance between the popular toys and the rambunctious former president, but the furry animals were quite appealing in their own right.
“Oh my,” she exclaimed. “Aren’t they adorable?”
“That they are, miss!” the peddler agreed enthusiastically. “Go ahead, gent. Treat the pretty lady to a teddy. You won’t be sorry.”
“Why not?” Percy traded a silver dollar for a bear and handed it to her. “To keep you company while I’m slaving away over my test tubes and retorts.”
“I’ll cherish him forever!” She hugged it to her bosom, then kissed it playfully on the snout. “Perhaps I’ll name him Percy, so that he will always remind me of this magical evening.”
“The best is yet to come,” he responded. “Follow me.”
Leading her through the crowd, he steered them toward one of the Fair’s most elegant structures. The Temple of Fine Arts was comprised of a wide, semi-circular art gallery built around a huge domed rotunda on the shore of a shimmering artificial lagoon. They made their way through one of the rotunda’s tall archways to the interior of the building, which was packed with sightseers gawking at its classical splendor. To Lydia’s eye, it seemed as glorious as any monument that might be found in Greece or Rome.
Not that she had ever personally ventured overseas.
“It’s very impressive,” she told Percy. “And right here in Gotham City.”
“Look up,” he said.
Lifting her gaze to the domed ceiling, she saw three female figures painted on a mural high above her head. She had learned enough about art over the last year or so to recognize them as the Three Graces of pagan mythology, clad only in diaphanous wisps of cloth. Then she let out a gasp.
“It’s me,” she whispered.
“In triplicate,” he said. “Each as lovely as her sisters.”
“But when?” Looking more closely, she recognized each of the three poses from past sessions in Percy’s studio, studies for coming sculptures. “How?”
“Have you forgotten that I have a talent for painting, as well?” he said. “It took very little effort to persuade the organizers of the Exposition that I had ‘located’ the perfect model to represent the Graces and all they embody, then to allow me to execute the mural.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said, then she covered her mouth. “If that’s not too vain to remark.”
“You are the fairest beauty to ever grace Gotham,” he said, and with a wave of his hand he indicated the crowds that surrounded them. “The whole world is flocking to admire you.”
Staring at the mural, she was filled with pride. She had seen her face and figure reproduced before, of
course, on everything from postcards to building façades, but it still took her breath away to discover that she was part of the great Exposition, being viewed by hundreds of thousands of strangers every day. If only her family could see her now, she thought. They had not approved of her running off to the big city to seek her fortune, nor had they approved of the vocations that had been available to her. Yet here she was, part of the Temple of Fine Arts, no less.
Not too shabby for a former chorus girl.
Suddenly self-conscious, she peeked at the fairgoers who surrounded them. None appeared to note her resemblance to the goddesses on the ceiling. Indeed, she felt like a princess in disguise, wandering incognito through her fairy-tale kingdom, unrecognized and unseen. Percy was right. Lost in the crowd, they were all but invisible.
“Why, Miss Doyle. Fancy meeting you here.”
Her heart sank as she saw a man elbowing his way toward them. As usual, his smile was a little too broad, the gleam in his eyes rather too bright. A straw boater capped his head.
Billy Draper was a young man about town, a dilettante playboy whose primary vocation was squandering his sizable allowance on music halls and showgirls. He had been pursuing her for some time, despite her polite attempts to dissuade him. Indeed she wondered about this chance meeting. It was hardly the first time that they had “accidentally” crossed paths.
“Hello, Billy,” she said courteously. “Are you enjoying the Fair?”
“Very much so,” he said brightly. “And all the more so now that I’ve come upon your delightful presence.” He attempted to kiss her hand, but the teddy bear conveniently obstructed his efforts.
Good teddy, she thought.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Percy said stiffly.
“Billy Draper, of the Blüdhaven Drapers.” He extended his hand to Percy, who grudgingly accepted it. Billy beamed at Lydia. “I’m Miss Doyle’s greatest admirer.”
