by Greg Cox
Barbara nodded. “Same MO, but different motives.”
“Yet all four men, equally dead.”
One innocent victim was too many as far as Bruce was concerned. He had no intention of letting the Burning Sickness run unchecked through Gotham once again.
Not on my watch.
“So where does that leave us?” Barbara asked.
“Looking for a connection between Bava and Kellogg, beyond the fact that they both lived on the fringes of society, and therefore were vulnerable. We need to find how exactly they fell into the Court’s hands, and then ended up back on the streets. Once we discover how they were selected, we can try to prevent any more innocents from becoming victims.”
“Understood,” Barbara said. “What do you need me to do?”
“Keep working the history angle. I want to know how exactly this all began… and why this damned elixir is worth so many lives.”
“And you?” she asked.
“Joanna is still missing.”
* * *
“I appreciate your concern for the young lady’s safety, Master Bruce, but you should get some rest. You’ll be in no shape to help Ms. Lee if you don’t take care of yourself.”
Alfred hovered in the background as Bruce remained rooted at his computer station. Barbara’s image had been supplanted by multiple photos of Joanna Lee, culled from social media in hopes of finding some clue as to where she might be hiding, now that her late boyfriend’s fishing cabin was no longer safe. He scrolled through the photos one after another, scanning the backgrounds and attempting to identify her various associates.
“Soon, Alfred,” he said. “As long as Joanna is in the wind, she’s in danger from the Talon and any other resources the Court— Hang on, what’s this?”
His search had turned up an older photo of a teenage Joanna at what looked like a beach in summertime. She lacked her glasses, and had yet to adopt the henna color and bobbed hairdo she had sported more recently. Damp, curly brown hair framed her smiling face, which once again struck him as oddly familiar.
Where had he seen that face before?
Then it hit him.
“Of course,” he muttered. “How could I have been so blind?”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”
“Look at this,” Bruce said. He knew he was onto something, but he still needed to verify his discovery. He enlarged Joanna’s adolescent face as much as he could without losing too much resolution, then called up a vintage photo of Lydia Doyle for comparison, deliberately selecting an old beachside postcard in which she wasn’t too heavily made-up or becurled.
Although the photos had been taken close to a century apart, there was a distinct resemblance between the two bathing beauties—one he might have missed if he hadn’t spent so much time scrutinizing Lydia’s bronze and marbles likenesses.
“I say.” Alfred saw the similarity as well. “They could be sisters.”
Just to backstop their own impressions, Batman ran both photos through a sophisticated facial-comparison program that quickly established a match. According to the computer, there was at least a seventy-nine percent chance that Joanna and Lydia were related.
Closely related.
“I knew it,” Bruce said.
“Ms. Lee and the tragic Miss Doyle share a family connection?” Alfred peered at the computer result. “Who could have imagined it?”
“I should have,” Bruce said, frowning. “Long before now.”
“In your defense, sir, you can be forgiven for not immediately seeing the features of an old-fashioned Gibson Girl behind the contemporary stylings of a modern college student, particularly as there was no reason to suspect a familial link.”
“True enough,” Bruce conceded, “but now we know why Joanna was so fascinated with the sad saga of Lydia Doyle.”
“Indeed,” Alfred said. “One can only hope her story ends more happily.”
MacDougal Lane, Gotham City, 1918
“Welcome back, Percy. I was wondering where you’d gotten to.”
He was startled to find his wife waiting in the foyer when he returned to the row house after posting a new letter to Lydia. A cruel smirk belied her cordial greeting.
“Margaret?”
“Don’t just stand there gawking, dear,” she said, beckoning. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Percy blinked in surprise. “We?”
“All will be made clear,” she promised, enjoying his stupefaction. “Shall we join the others downstairs?”
With a growing sense of unease he followed her down to the laboratory, where he found the Talon—and Lydia. His lover was lodged in the iron tub, bound and gagged as the doomed rummy had been. Her anguished eyes entreated him as he froze in utter horror, abruptly confronted by the worst nightmare imaginable.
The Talon stood beside the tub, dutifully keeping watch over his latest acquisition. A cotton robe protected Lydia’s modesty. Muffled pleas escaped the gag around her mouth.
“Quiet, girl,” Margaret said. “I need to speak with my husband.”
Percy had words for her, too. “My God, what have you done? Have you completely lost your mind?”
“I could ask you the same thing, Percy.” She produced a folded piece of stationery and began to read from it aloud:
“‘My beloved muse, how I wish we were together in my studio as before…’”
Percy’s blood ran cold. He recognized the opening of a letter which he’d dispatched only days ago.
“How…?” he gasped. “Where did you get that?”
“I believe you are acquainted with a rather peculiar young gentleman named Billy Draper? A tad parvenu for my tastes, and possibly touched in the head but, like you, he appears unduly enamored with the lissome Miss Doyle.” Margaret spoke Lydia’s name as if it left a bad taste. “Indeed, he is highly suspicious of your relations with her. He’s quite convinced, in fact, that you are ‘corrupting’ her, and is rather desperate to remedy the situation. He even went so far as to intercept one of your letters to the lovely Lydia, in order to confirm his dire suspicions.”
Draper? Percy could well imagine that jealous lunatic doing such a thing, but—
“From the dumbfounded expression on your face,” Margaret continued, “you wonder how this incriminating document came into my hands. As it happens, Billy came to me with the letter, apparently in the hopes that I could put an end to your sordid little affair.” She chuckled. “I believe he saw us both as the wounded parties in this drama, and therefore natural allies. In truth, he was not entirely mistaken.”
Percy silently cursed the man. I should have sent the Talon after him when I had the chance.
“In the interest of time and taste,” Margaret said, flaunting the stolen letter, “I shall spare us the bulk of your romantic drivel and proceed to the passage that most caught my interest. No doubt you will recall it.”
He twisted in agony as she quoted his own words back to him:
“‘The work goes slowly, too slowly. At times I despair of ever finding the solution, but the thought of you—and our future together—gives me the strength and will to soldier on. Let others yearn to conquer tomorrow. I wish only to live out my remaining years with you at my side. You are, as ever, my inspiration. With love, P.’”
She lifted her gaze from the note. “Well? What have you to say for yourself?”
“I… I have never seen that letter before. It’s a fake, a forgery, manufactured by that reprobate Draper. You said yourself that the man is demented, and—”
“Stop it, Percy,” she snapped. “You’re embarrassing yourself. Do you think me a fool to fall for such feeble denials?”
“No,” he admitted bleakly. Margaret was many things, including a monster, but she had never been a fool. Alan warned me not to cross her.
“You’ve gone too far this time, Percy. Dallying with a wanton demimondaine is one thing, but confiding in her concerning the business of the Court? That is another matter altogether.” Her ma
nner became less mocking and more severe. “You know our ways, Percy. Such a grievous indiscretion cannot go unpunished. There must be consequences.”
“Then punish me!” he pleaded. “I’m at fault here, I’m the one who broke our code of silence. Don’t make her pay for my indiscretions. Let her go, I beg of you.”
“You know that’s quite impossible,” Margaret said. “You sealed her fate when you rashly shared our secrets with her.” She paused to let her words sink in before continuing. “But perhaps there is a path to atonement, one that might even spare your paramour’s life.”
“What path?” Percy grasped for hope as a burning man ran toward water. “Tell me what it is!”
“The Court is most anxious to learn how your work is progressing. I trust you have developed an improved formula by now?”
“I am continuing to refine it, yes, but—”
“Excellent,” Margaret said. “Then let us test your latest formula on Miss Doyle, so we can measure your progress and derive some benefit from these proceedings.”
Percy wouldn’t have thought it possible for him to be more afraid for Lydia’s safety, but Margaret’s proposal plunged him further toward absolute terror—to the extent that he could barely stand. He had to fight the urge to try to physically wrest Lydia from the basement, even knowing that he was no match for Talon. He couldn’t even lunge at Margaret, for the Talon would surely strike him down before he could do her any harm.
All he could do was beg for mercy from the merciless.
“Margaret, please,” he said, “if ever you cared me for at all, don’t make me do this. You’ve seen what the elixir can do. The odds that I’ve succeeded in eliminating the fever—”
“Are Miss Doyle’s only hope,” Margaret said. “I’m offering her a chance, Percy. Her life is in your hands now. If you have indeed perfected your elixir, she will live. If not… well, science is a matter of trial and error, is it not?”
Her callous indifference infuriated him.
“No, damn it! You can’t make me do this.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we can.” She glanced Lydia’s way. “What deters you? Is it the thought of marring her celebrated beauty? If so, that can be easily remedied… by the Talon’s blades.”
She nodded at the assassin, who drew a knife from his belt and placed it against Lydia’s cheek, pressing but not yet drawing blood.
“It would be a pity to deface such loveliness,” the Talon said with what sounded like genuine regret. “An act of vandalism, truly, but you should understand, sir, that I will do what is necessary to serve the interests of the Court.”
“No, don’t!” Percy appealed to him. “I’m as much a member of the Court as my wife. I order you to put that knife away!”
“You are a traitor to the Court,” Margaret said acidly. “You have no privileges here.”
“Madam is correct, sir,” the Talon said. “My duty and loyalties are clear.”
Percy realized he was bound as much as Lydia. He had no allies, no recourses. He stared bleakly into his love’s fear-filled eyes.
“Just… let me speak to her, please.”
The Talon looked at Margaret, who nodded in assent. He deftly removed Lydia’s gag.
“Percy!” Her voice was hoarse from fighting to be heard through the gag. “The Talon… he came for me… I’m so frightened!”
He went to her, as close as the Talon would allow. “Please, forgive me, my love. I never meant this for you. I never intended any of this!”
“For pity’s sake, Percy,” his wife said impatiently, “I hope you’re not going to subject us to too much cheap romantic melodrama. Don’t make me regret having that gag taken off.”
“Just a moment’s decency, Margaret,” he said. “That’s all I ask. Is that completely beyond you?” He turned his back on her to concentrate on the captive. “I’m so sorry, Lydia. This is all my fault.”
She shook her head. “I told you before, you did not choose this. If anything, it was I who persuaded you to share your secrets with me. We are not to blame here, only the monsters who have us at their mercy, as they always have.”
He did not deserve her absolution, but was grateful for it anyway.
“But what are we to do, Lydia? I’m trapped. I don’t know how to protect you.”
She swallowed hard before answering.
“You must do it. Let me brave your elixir… for both our sakes.”
“No! You can’t mean that!”
She gazed at him, her pale face so full of sorrow and resignation that, even now, part of him ached to preserve it forever.
“There is no other choice. I must put my faith in your genius.” She smiled sadly. “Your hands have shaped and molded my likeness, making me immortal. If I must now trust my life to them… that’s only fitting, isn’t it?”
He wished he shared her confidence.
It begins as it always does. She’s down by the lake, fetching water under the cover of night, when gunshots come from the direction of the cabin, shattering the nocturnal stillness. The plastic water container drops onto the shore, making a hollow clattering sound. Her heart races in terror.
The Talon has found them.
For a second she dares hope that Dennis has shot the Talon dead, but then shouting and the sounds of a violent struggle crush those hopes. Dennis yells in fear or anger, although she can’t make out the words. She knows, however, what he would want her to do.
Run.
She freezes by the shore, paralyzed by indecision. It’s her fault that he’s trapped in this nightmare with her. She can’t just abandon him.
Can she?
A shriek of pain cuts through the night and jolts her into action. She races onto the dilapidated wooden dock, where a small rowboat is tied. She clambers into the boat. Cold water pooling in the bottom soaks through her sneakers. With shaky fingers she struggles to undo the rope that moors the boat in place. She peers back at the shore, wanting desperately to see Dennis emerging along the wooded trail.
Please, she thinks, don’t make me leave without you…
The Talon strides out of the woods.
Shoving off from the dock, she tugs frantically on the ignition cord. The motor surges to life, drowning out his words. Then the boat speeds away from the dock, heading out onto the lake and away from her pursuer.
Thunk!
She jumps, causing the boat to rock alarmingly. Moonlight glints off of the blade, lodged in the wooden hull.
* * *
Joanna woke up abruptly, finding herself alone in the morning hours. Her heart pounded and she was drenched in sweat. Sitting up, she took a deep breath to steady her nerves even as the nightmare echoed in her mind, pursuing her as relentlessly as the Talon had in real life.
A sob escaped her, the dream having ripped the scab off her wounds once again. It wasn’t fair, damn it. How many times did she have to relive that awful night?
“Crap, crap, crap,” she muttered. I’m so sorry, Dennis. I hope it was quick.
A glance at her wristwatch informed her that it was well past nine, but she was in no hurry to return to dreamland. She glanced around, orienting herself in the here and now as her pulse began to settle down. The domed roof of a weathered concrete rotunda soared high above her, supported by a ring of once-majestic archways.
The imposing structure was all that remained of the Temple of Fine Arts, which had drawn throngs of wide-eyed visitors during the great Gotham International Exposition of 1918. Desperate for company, Joanna risked aiming a flashlight beam at the fading mural adorning the interior of the dome. Lydia Doyle, cast as the Three Graces, gazed down at her in triplicate.
“I hope you’re looking out for me, wherever you are,” Joanna said, addressing the long-vanished model. “Least you can do, after getting me into this mess.”
Like Joanna, the old world’s fairgrounds had fallen on hard times. She had seen more than her fair share of vintage photos and newsreel footage of that bygone Expositio
n, when vast crowds had packed acres of ornate courtyards, boulevards, and pavilions, all aspiring to the grandeur and elegance of classical art and architecture. Constellations of electric lights had lit the night, while fireworks and colored spotlights added to the spectacle. Images of Lydia presided over the festivities in countless decorative pieces of art.
That was a century ago, however, and those glory days were long gone. The fairgrounds had endured as an amusement park for decades, under various changes of management, before finally closing their doors in 1965. A ruinous fire had cost the lives of dozens of visiting patrons, delivered the killing blow after years of inexorable decay and neglect.
There had been talk—on and off over the years—of restoring the grounds to their former glory, but a tangled crow’s nest of bankruptcies and competing claims had kept the property tied up in litigation for longer than Joanna had been alive, making its revival more unlikely with each passing year. Time and vandalism had taken its toll on the abandoned facilities, reducing them to a crumbling, graffiti-covered, burned-out landscape inhabited only by the occasional arch-criminal in need of a colorful hide-out or a convenient place to dump a body.
Marshland had reclaimed the converted estate the fair had once occupied. Once the pride of Gotham, the former World’s Fair was now its own cemetery and all but forgotten, except perhaps as a place nobody in their right mind would want to visit anymore.
Or so Joanna prayed.
She shivered in the cold. The towering walls of the rotunda sheltered her from the elements, while a hoodie and sweatshirt helped her hang onto whatever body warmth she could muster, but she would have killed for a space heater or even the courage to light a small fire. She hugged herself to keep warm as she contemplated her dismal surroundings.
After the Talon’s attack on the cabin, she hadn’t been able to think of anywhere to hide until she’d remembered the old fairgrounds. This place had been important to Lydia and Percy, back in the day, so she’d already spent some time exploring the place, seeking inspiration. She knew her way in and around the ruins, which offered sanctuary of sorts—at least while she tried to figure out what to do next.
