by Greg Cox
“Janus. The Two-Faced God.”
“Yep,” Barbara chimed in. “Remind you of anyone?”
She didn’t need to spell it out. It was in this very courthouse some years ago that District Attorney Harvey Dent lost half of his handsome face to acid thrown by a vengeful mobster. His disfigurement had driven Dent mad, transforming Batman’s onetime friend and ally into a psychotic split personality.
“Two-Face.”
Once again, Barbara felt obliged to play devil’s advocate. “On the other hand, according to Roman mythology, Janus is the god of doorways, gates, and transitions, so one might expect to find him over the entrance to a courthouse, where lives undergo transitions every day—marriages, divorces, sentencing, and what not. There’s a certain artistic logic to it, which is probably why nobody has ever wondered about it before now.”
“Except that Janus is not traditionally associated with Lady Justice,” Batman said. “That’s an innovation on Percy’s part, which, in light of later events, now seems eerily on the nose. Almost prophetic.”
“Much later events,” Barbara stressed.
“That nonetheless took place at this very location.” Batman’s mind boggled at the notion. Harvey would have passed beneath the twin profiles on the day of his undoing. “A two-faced god presiding over Two-Face’s birthplace? Percy is batting a thousand so far.”
“Hang onto your cowl,” Barbara said. “We’re not done yet.”
* * *
“Eve” was found in a public garden in Grant Park, south of the courthouse. Given the hour and the season, the gardens were deserted when Batman arrived, its dormant blooms and skeletal bushes patiently awaiting the coming of spring. The life-sized bronze statue contemplated a sculpted apple, as one might expect, but instead of the traditional fig leaves, her modesty was protected by strategically placed vines of ivy, which played along her arms and trailed down her shapely legs before spreading out over the base of the statue.
Thorns sprouted from the vines as they extended beyond the figure’s bare feet. Pointed, trifoliate leaves betrayed the true nature of the vines.
“Poison Ivy,” Batman said.
“As portrayed by Lydia Doyle after her death, yet long before Pamela Isley was born,” Barbara agreed. “I don’t know about you, but I’m detecting a theme here.”
“Dangers to Gotham City,” Batman said. “Menaces somehow foreseen by Percy Wright, embodied by Lydia for reasons known only to him.” It defied reason, but they were far beyond coincidence now.
“Still nothing that tells us anything about Percy’s so-called elixir,” Barbara said, “or that inferno he spoke of.”
“Not yet,” Batman stressed. “We know Percy sculpted Lydia many times, both before and after she vanished. Maybe we just haven’t yet found the right artworks.”
“That’s always possible,” Barbara said. “Especially given the sheer quantity. These are the easy-to-find ones. Some have ended up in private collections, been shipped cross-country or overseas, or been destroyed over the years. Remember the time Bane blew up City Hall? Well, that statue is long gone. In some cases, all that’s left are reproductions or old illustrations. The originals didn’t survive.”
That complicated matters, Batman understood, but they could still work with whatever statues remained. A jigsaw puzzle could be identified, even if a few pieces were missing. They just needed to assemble enough pieces to see the big picture.
“We should chart the statues on a map of Gotham, to see if their placement forms a pattern of any sort,” he suggested, “taking into account both their past and present locations.”
“Already working on it,” she assured him, “although no obvious patterns are leaping out at me just yet.” Batman trusted her powers of observation, but resolved to conduct his own analysis anyway.
“Let’s narrow our focus to sculptures done after Lydia’s disappearance in 1918,” he said. “That’s where all of this seems to have begun.”
“Will do,” she said. “To be honest, I was starting to feel a little overwhelmed.” She sighed audibly. “Being a research junkie can be a double-edged sword sometimes. It can be too easy to lose the forest for the trees, especially in the age of the internet, when countless bits of obscure data are only a keystroke away.”
He knew what she meant. When he’d first started investigating the Court of Owls, it had threatened to become an obsession. The more he’d looked, the more he seemed to find evidence of them lurking just out of sight, until he started seeing Owls everywhere— to the point of paranoia.
But was it just paranoia?
“We need to keep our heads clear and our eyes focused,” he said. “Take nothing for granted. There are two fronts on this case: yesterday and today. We need to work both angles in hopes that one will illuminate the other… and keep Joanna from going the way of Lydia.”
“In which case, there’s probably another statue you need to see,” Barbara said. “But I should warn you, you’re not going to like it.”
Batman was losing his patience with cryptic warnings. He wanted answers, not more mysteries. He knew, however, that Barbara had her reasons to be concerned.
“Where?”
* * *
The sculpture was titled “Mother and Child” and it could be found on display, at least during visiting hours, at the Ellsworth Museum in Old Gotham. Bronze figures depicted a young mother balancing a cherubic male infant on her lap. The pudgy child tugged on a pearl necklace strung around his mother’s graceful throat, which had been sculpted at the very moment it broke apart. A handful of fallen pearls littered the base of the statue, while the sad smile on the mother’s face broke Batman’s heart.
Falling pearls, he thought. He couldn’t blame Barbara for wanting to prepare him. His throat tightened. A gunshot echoed in his memory.
She didn’t need to ask if he’d made the connection. There was no way he could miss it, even if he wanted to. The possible involvement of the Court of Owls only made it worse. He wasn’t just trying to solve a century-old mystery. It felt as if the Owls’ constant presence throughout Gotham’s history was being rubbed in his face.
“I’m sorry, Bruce,” she said gently.
“Don’t be,” he said gruffly. “It’s just a statue. Another piece of the puzzle.”
“Are we sure of that?” she asked. “Tell me I’m crazy to think this has something to do with what happened to your parents. How could Percy Wright have possibly anticipated that?”
“He couldn’t have,” Batman said. “The same way he couldn’t have anticipated the Scarecrow, or the Joker, or Two-Face, or Poison Ivy. And yet somehow he did. All these statues hint at horrors and tragedies awaiting Gotham, long after Percy’s time. In our time. Who knows what we’re not seeing, that occurred before we were even born.”
“So what does it mean regarding his rantings?” Barbara said. “What could his ‘inferno’ refer to? Another outbreak of the Burning Sickness, or something else altogether?”
Batman wished he knew. He didn’t believe in fate, but he couldn’t ignore what stood right before his eyes.
MacDougal Lane, Gotham City, 1918
Percy’s private laboratory occupied the basement of his downtown row house, a full three floors beneath his studio in the attic. Only a few small windows at the top of each wall offered any light from outside. The majority of the illumination came from electric bulbs. He had been known to wryly observe that the floor plan placed Art closer to heaven, and Science closer to hell.
Never had that seemed truer than today.
“Explain again the theory behind your elixir,” the Grandmaster demanded. Despite his advanced age, the geriatric Owl had chosen to pay a personal visit to the laboratory, which he had reached via a series of underground tunnels that connected the soundproof basement to hidden nests throughout the city. This unprecedented call was surely intended to impress upon Percy the urgency with which the Court desired a perfected version of his elixir.
A formu
la that, in theory, would grant human beings the ability to see the future.
“It sounds incredible, I know,” Percy said, “but hear me out. We know already that certain exotic heavy metals and alloys— most notably electrum—possess unique properties of which we are only beginning to grasp the full potential. My own studies suggest that, properly administered, these metals can increase the superconductivity of the brain, speeding its electrical impulses to an uncanny degree.” He pointed to an elaborate chemical formula he had written on a scrap of paper.
“At the same time,” he continued, “I have concluded that electrum, combined with certain other metals not yet found on the Periodic Table, can transmit and receive vibrations from across time and space, which current science holds to be one and the same. Taking advantage of these properties, my elixir allows the brain to receive signals from across the fourth dimension by way of ripples in the very fabric of what we now refer to as space-time.”
“Fascinating,” the Grandmaster said. Per tradition, or perhaps merely to conceal the ravages of age, he wore his gold-trimmed mask. He leaned heavily on a polished wooden cane topped by a silver owl’s head. “And yet, receiving messages from the future, perceiving that which has not yet occurred—how is that even possible?”
“The basic theory is not new,” Percy insisted. “Indeed, no lesser personage that Edgar Allan Poe proposed some seventy years ago that, and I quote, ‘space and duration are one.’ It has been commonly accepted by modern science that time is merely another dimension. It differs only from the other three— length, width, and height—in that our consciousness travels along it in a linear fashion. It therefore stands to reason that our consciousness, as generated by the brain, should be able to receive signals across time as well as distance. All that would be required is the proper stimulation.”
“As provided by your elixir,” Margaret stressed.
Like Percy, she was unmasked. This was the first time she had set foot in his downtown sanctuary. That she had done so testified to her ambitions. Only the opportunity to play host to the Grandmaster, and tout Percy’s elixir, could have induced her to join him here. Her face bore a look of smug satisfaction.
“Astounding,” the Grandmaster said, staring at the formula. “I must see this for myself.”
Percy attempted to lower the old man’s expectations.
“Soon, perhaps,” he said. “As I’ve explained, the elixir in its current formulation cannot be consumed without loss of life. Its interaction with human physiology generates a tremendous amount of energy, and overheats the brain, resulting in a fever that ultimately leads the test subjects to spontaneously combust. I have every hope of eliminating this dire consequence, but that will take time.”
“Nevertheless,” the Grandmaster said, “I demand evidence of your claims.”
A bell rang at the rear of the basement, indicating that someone desired admittance from the tunnels beyond. Startled, Percy turned toward the hidden door.
“What the devil?”
“Ah.” The Grandmaster consulted his pocket watch. “Right on schedule.”
Percy noted that Margaret also appeared to be considerably less than surprised. He looked to her for an explanation.
“Margaret?”
“Surely you didn’t think that the Grandmaster came all this way just for a lecture,” she said, smugness giving way to a smirk. “He has requested a demonstration, and he shall have it.”
“Demonstration?”
“Open the door, Percy.”
Growing increasingly apprehensive, he did as instructed. A concealed latch caused a section of the basement wall to swing open, admitting a Talon who bore a heavy bundle over his shoulder. Percy shuddered at the sight of the fearsome assassin in his ominous black regalia. A black leather trench coat, worn over a double-breasted leather tunic, distinguished this Talon from those of earlier generations. A hood and goggles rendered him faceless. He effortlessly toted a large burlap bag whose unseen contents appeared to be… squirming?
“What is this?” Percy demanded.
“Nothing anyone will miss,” Margaret said.
“True enough, madam.” The Talon dumped the contents of his bag onto the concrete floor in front of them. Percy was horrified to find a bound human captive lying at his feet. The man reeked of rum and his tattered, soiled clothing gave off a nauseating stench of urine and filth that made Percy’s gorge rise. Bloodshot eyes and a bulbous red nose marked him as a likely dipsomaniac. His unshaven face and generally bedraggled appearance led Percy to suspect that he was some unfortunate sot plucked from the gutters of Gotham.
Panic showed in the man’s eyes, although a gag muffled his anxious vocalizations. The conspicuous absence of a blindfold troubled Percy. The Talon seemed unconcerned with what his captive might witness.
“A fine selection, Frederick.” The Grandmaster congratulated the Talon. “You have done well.”
“Whatever pleases the Court,” the hooded killer replied. In his youth Frederick Coolidge had been conscripted from a traveling carnival, and had served the Court faithfully for years. His loyalty ran deep. “Rest assured that I was unobserved.”
“I never doubted it.” The Grandmaster turned his masked face toward Percy. “You have your test subject, Wright. Let us proceed with the demonstration.”
“But I just told you. The elixir is not ready to be tested on human beings!” The scientist could not contain his horror. His prior tests had been conducted on animals, employing an elegant experimental technique of his own conception, which had involved forcing mice and rabbits to choose between three empty boxes. Once injected with the elixir, the animals would invariably head straight for the box which would soon contain food.
Their accuracy was uncanny.
“If you insist,” he said, “I can certainly arrange a demonstration employing a laboratory rat.” He needed to regain control of the situation.
But no.
“I have no interest in animal tricks,” the Grandmaster said. “If I wished to observe performing animals, I would attend a circus.” He gestured with his cane at the kidnapped rummy. “Get on with it.”
“But the side effect!” Percy protested. “This would be nothing short of murder!”
“We are the Court of Owls,” the old man replied. “I fail to grasp your objection.”
Unsurprisingly, the word “murder” only heightened the captive’s fearful state. He thrashed violently upon the floor, struggling in vain against the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles. His muffled cries grew louder.
“No,” Percy stated. “I won’t be party to this.”
“The Court demands otherwise,” the Grandmaster decreed. “Do not test my patience.”
Percy turned to his wife for support. “Margaret, please. Help me make him understand. You must see that how unconscionable this is.”
“Must I?” she said coolly. “If this subject does not suit you, perhaps we can find another? Maybe one of those highly disposable young women who model for your art? Certainly such creatures are a dime a dozen.”
“No!” Percy said. “You can’t be serious…”
“Do not test me, Percy.” She backed away from the panicked rummy, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “Are you truly prepared to take that risk… for the likes of this miserable specimen?”
He imagined Lydia in the drunkard’s place.
His shoulders slumped in defeat.
No, he realized. I’m not.
“Very well, damn you.” He gestured toward a large cast-iron tub which he used to rinse his equipment and dispose of excess chemicals. “Place him over there… for our own safety’s sake.”
“As you wish.” The Talon easily lifted the squirming man from the floor and deposited him in the tub. The man’s thrashing became even more violent, yet the assassin showed no notice.
“Now you’re seeing reason, Percy,” Margaret said. “I must say I’m relieved. For a few moments there, I was starting to fear that something—or
someone—had softened your heart… and your brain.” Percy didn’t dignify the insinuation with a reply. Under these nightmarish circumstances, his wife’s sharp tongue was the very least of his concerns.
As she and the Grandmaster looked on, he extracted the most advanced version of his elixir from a refrigerated cabinet of the very latest design. He had yet to test this formula. Once mixed, it had to sit for at least seventy-two hours, and that time had just passed. It included an antipyretic agent, so it was at least possible that he had succeeded in neutralizing the incendiary effect. The challenge had been to somehow retain the heightened cerebral function while suppressing the violence of the reaction.
To date, this had proven a difficult balance to achieve.
I’m sorry, poor fellow, he said silently to their captive. I wish I could do better by you. Preparing the hypodermic, he approached the tub.
The Talon held the rummy in an iron grip as Percy rolled up the man’s sleeve to expose the vein at the crook of his arm. A faded tattoo of a ship’s anchor suggested that the man had once been a sailor. This biographical detail, reminding Percy that the rummy was an individual with his own unique history, made the task all the harder. His heart sank as he injected the sot as painlessly as he could.
May God have mercy on my soul.
The protestations continued, and he tried his best to ignore them. He tried to tell himself that this poor, pathetic wretch had already wasted his life, that the rummy’s part in this experiment might well be his greatest contribution to mankind, but the rationalizations rang hollow. He knew what he was doing.
What would Lydia think if she saw him now?
“It’s done,” he announced.
“Excellent.” The Grandmaster settled into a chair next to Percy’s downstairs desk. “How long before we can expect results?”
“It would be difficult to say,” Percy replied. “I administered a high dosage, so I anticipate a rapid reaction, but as noted I’ve never tested the elixir on a man before. The sheer bulk of the… test subject adds a factor that is difficult to assess.”
