DC Comics novels--Batman

by Greg Cox

  Joanna tried to process what she was hearing.

  “You’re insane. Delusional.”

  “If you say so, but I suspect you’ll change your tune soon enough.” He raised the sword above her. “Now be a good girl and let go of that fine knife you’re holding. We both know it doesn’t belong to you.”

  Her shoulders sagged beneath the net as she surrendered the knife along with what was left of her hopes.

  “Please,” she begged. “Just kill me now or leave me alone. I can’t take any more of this. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

  “Sorry, miss.” The Talon confiscated the stolen blade, adding it to his arsenal. “Nothing personal, I assure you. Just tidying up some old business, is all.”

  MacDougal Lane, Gotham City, 1918

  “The joker.”

  Percy turned over the playing card to reveal the leering countenance of a clown. “Precisely, my love. You are correct again.”

  Lydia shuddered at the card. She was nestled into a comfortable wingback chair in the upstairs bedroom of the row house, a wool blanket draped over her lower body. Her favorite robe from the studio clothed her as, trembling, she averted her eyes.

  “Please, Percy, don’t show me that card again. It… frightens me.”

  He leaned toward her, both fascinated and concerned. “Why, Lydia? Why does this card bother you?”

  “It puts pictures in my eyes, in my head. Terrible pictures. Dead men and women, grinning like skulls. A clown in a padded cell, cackling like a maniac.” She buried her face in her hands to try to keep the disturbing images out. “It’s like a nightmare. A waking nightmare!”

  Percy sought to calm her.

  “It’s all right, Lydia. Look.” He tore up the card and let the pieces flutter to the floor, while resolving to remove the jokers from every deck of cards henceforth. “It’s gone. You never need to see it again.”

  She peered out from behind her fingers. “Truly?”

  “I promise,” he said soothingly. “You’re safe. You have nothing to fear.”

  He prayed to God it was so.

  Miraculously, Lydia had yet to catch fire. Nearly two days had passed since the experiment, and she was still alive. Margaret had been thrilled—and perhaps also disappointed—by Lydia’s survival, but Percy had warned her not to celebrate their “success” prematurely. Lydia needed to be monitored for a time to ensure that there was no delayed reaction to the elixir.

  His wife and the Talon had left him to the task, but Percy had no doubt that the house was under observation, with every exit watched through the day and night. He felt unseen eyes upon him.

  They watch you at your hearth, they watch you at your bed…

  For her comfort, Percy had installed Lydia in the master bedroom. A brass fire extinguisher filled with liquid carbon tetrachloride rested discreetly in a corner, along with a neatly piled stack of heavy wool fire blankets. A third precaution waited in his breast pocket—a hypodermic syringe containing a compound designed to stop Lydia’s heart in an instant, should the worst occur.

  “Thank you, Percy. You take such good care of me.”

  “No more than you deserve. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m not sure,” she answered. “It’s difficult to tell how I’m feeling anything now, since I’m no longer sure when now is. I feel… unrooted, as though I’m experiencing something that hasn’t happened yet.” She looked at him with a distraught expression that tore at his heart. “When am I, Percy?”

  “Precisely where you belong, with me.”

  He placed his palm gently against her brow. She was running a slight fever, but nothing like the scorching heat the doomed sailor had radiated before bursting into flames. Percy realized he should be grateful that she was still alive at all, yet he couldn’t help worrying. What if his new formula had simply postponed the inevitable?

  “Are you warm, dear?” he asked. “Would you like some ice water?”

  “No, thank you, Percy. I think I just want to…”

  Her voice trailed off as she stared into space. Her eyes widened, twitching side to side at whatever prophetic vision had caught her attention. Violet smudges shadowed her eyes, testifying to uneasy slumber. Her lower lip trembled. Shaking hands clutched the blanket over her lap.

  “Lydia? What is it? What do you see?”

  “Fragments, flickers, like a moving-picture show.” Haunted eyes stared past him into tomorrow. “They’re coming toward us, Percy, or am I rushing toward them? I can’t tell anymore.”

  “Speak to me, darling! What exactly do you see ahead?”

  “Owls,” she whispered, “and bats. A bat across the moon, striking fear into the hearts of the wicked and unjust. Owls and bats, hunting one another in the night.”

  Percy struggled to decipher the cryptic prophecy.

  “What else?”

  Her eyes locked onto his. Her voice was hollow.

  “Flames,” she said. “The future is on fire.”

  “Sure, I know him,” the bum said. “Old Joe. Been around forever, until… you know.” He spat chewing tobacco onto the trash-strewn shore beneath the southern end of the Sprang Bridge. The looming structure provided shelter from the light rain that drizzled down. “Damn shame what happened to him.”

  Bruce Wayne had numerous contacts among Gotham’s A-list, but Batman had his own sources closer to the streets. Frank Dodge was a semi-homeless street peddler who had often provided him with valuable intel. A regular at Leslie Thompkins’ free clinic near Crime Alley, Frank was short and squat and affected the look of an aging hippy. His thinning gray hair was tied up in a ponytail, while a huge poncho fell over him like a tent. Mismatched socks could be seen through his sandals. It had taken Batman a few nights to track Frank down, but he wasn’t surprised that the man recognized the photo of Joe Bava. Frank swam in the same waters as the murdered vagrant.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Hmm. Gimme a minute to think on that.”

  Frank scratched his chin as he searched his memory, which Batman knew to be fairly reliable. Unlike many other unfortunate denizens of Gotham’s underclass, Frank wasn’t addled by mental illness or substance abuse. He had simply checked out of the rat race and its demands, for reasons of his own. Batman had come to trust his observations. Frank’s eyes and ears worked just fine.

  “Let’s see. Seems to me I ran into Joe just recently, but where exactly?” He snapped his fingers as the answer came to him. “Got it! It was at the plasma center, over on Duke Street.”

  Batman knew the place. It was a commercial outfit that paid donors for fresh blood plasma, which was then used to produce vaccines and other pharmaceutical products. Gothamites in need of ready cash could donate as often as twice a week. There was a more upscale plasma center in the University District, attracting cash-strapped college kids, but the place on Duke Street mostly lured in poorer folks who were down on their luck. He could easily imagine Joe Bava in that establishment.

  “Do you recall anything unusual about that last encounter?” he asked. “Did Joe do or say anything that might seem strange in hindsight?”

  “Come to think of it,” Frank said, “one of those lab-coated vampires asked Joe to stick around after donating. Wanted to talk to him about making a little extra money by taking part in some sort of study.” Frank shrugged. “Didn’t think much of it at the time.”

  “No reason you should.” It wasn’t uncommon, in fact, for selected plasma donors to receive targeted vaccinations in order to increase the antibody count in their plasma, which could then be harvested at a profit. Batman changed the image on his phone to a photo of Ronnie Kellogg, and showed the dead teenager’s photo to Frank.

  “What about this man? You know him?”

  Frank squinted at the photo. “Face rings a bell. Ron something-or-other? Don’t know him like I knew Joe, since he’s just a kid, but, sure, I’ve seen him around.”

  “At the plasma center?”

  “That�
�s right.” He looked up from the phone. “That mean something?”

  “Hard to say, but you’ll want to find a different place to sell your plasma.”

  Frank nodded gravely. “Message received.”

  Batman fished a hundred-dollar bill from a compartment on his belt. Paying informants wasn’t his usual custom, but he figured Frank had earned a few good meals at Bruce Wayne’s expense, and it did no good to steer Frank toward social services. Frank wasn’t interested in that kind of assistance.

  “Here.” Batman handed him the bill. “Don’t flash it in the wrong places.”

  “Not a chance.” Frank glanced around warily before tucking the cash inside his jacket. “Always glad to help you make this rough old city a little safer.” He started to head off, his windfall burning a hole in his pocket, then paused at looked back at Batman with a mournful expression on his weathered features.

  “You’ll fix this, right?” he said. “Deal with whatever did in Joe?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  Backing away into the shadows, Batman ascended to the rooftops to consider what he’d just learned. The connection with a pharmaceutical company pointed toward Vincent Wright, whose family fortune was tied up with that industry. He recalled the scientific books and journals he’d found in Vincent’s penthouse, indicating a personal interest in biotech. Now he just needed to confirm a connection between the Owls and the plasma center. He had to do it quickly, too, before more of the homeless became human guinea pigs.

  A water tower shielded him from the rain, which was already dying out. He peered out over the city, spying a certain clock tower in the distance. He activated the headset in his cowl.

  “What is it?” Barbara replied.

  “The Crown Point Plasma Collection Center on Duke,” he said. “I need to know if and how it might be connected to Vincent Wright and his family’s business interests.”

  “You have a lead?”

  “Possibly.” He explained how he’d linked the two “random” combustion victims to a common location, which just happened to involve pharmaceuticals.

  “As in compounds and elixirs?” Barbara grasped it immediately. “All right. Let me see what I can dig up.”

  Signing off, Batman waited beneath the water tower. Barbara could have joined him in the field, but she was more valuable in the Clock Tower. It allowed him to continue the search without distraction. Joanna was still in the wind, as was the Talon, while another innocent victim could be facing death at any time.

  * * *

  “You called it,” Barbara reported a few minutes later. “I had to wade through a maze of corporate branches and shell companies, but, sure enough, the Crown Point Plasma Collection Center is a fully owned subsidiary of the Pangeonics Health Consortium— which is owned lock, stock, and barrel by guess who?”

  “Vincent Wright.” He nodded in satisfaction, convinced that he was on the right track. “Good work.”

  “Any time,” she said. “What are you going to do now?”

  He was already sprinting across the rooftops toward Duke Street. The last of the rain sluiced off his waterproof cape and cowl. It was well past eleven, and a police blimp passed by overhead. He briefly considered hitching a ride.

  “I’m going to pay a late-night call to Crown Point.”

  * * *

  Joanna had no idea where in Gotham she was.

  That steampunk Talon had drugged her, so she only blurrily recalled being hustled into a waiting car and driven across town. By the time the drugs wore off, she found herself strapped into a padded chair or recliner in what appeared to be a medical facility of some kind. A faintly antiseptic smell, like that of a hospital or nursing home, unnerved her. Her left shoulder ached—she must have slammed into something at the fairgrounds.

  A large amount of sophisticated laboratory equipment occupied the windowless chamber, while the recliner into which she was strapped reminded her of the ones used by chemotherapy patients or blood donors. The laboratory setting scared her more than a conventional prison might have. Images of scalpels and syringes forced their way into her head.

  The Talon stood watch from a corner, silent as a statue.

  “Please, where are we?” she asked. “What are we doing here? What are you planning to do to me?”

  “That’s not up to me, miss,” the Talon said. “Just be patient. What comes will come.”

  “Easy for you to say.” She strained at the leather straps and shouted. “Help! Somebody? Anybody? Help me!”

  “Save your breath,” he advised her. “There’s no one to hear you, and you can save your strength as well. Unless you’re the reincarnation of Harry Houdini, you’re not escaping that chair or this place.” He placed his arms across his chest to signal the end of the discussion. “Now hush and make your peace with the Almighty, if need be.”

  Joanna shouted herself hoarse before finally giving up. Time passed, measured only by her growing anxiety, thirst, and hunger, until it was practically a relief when the door opened to admit another Talon. He was accompanied by a bald man wearing a goatee, a tailored business suit, and a smug expression. Whatever was about to happen could not be good, she knew, but at least it was happening. She had no illusions that the newcomers were here to rescue her. If anything, they acted like they owned the place.

  “Finally,” Vincent Wright said, looking her over. “I was starting to think that you’d dropped off the face of the Earth.”

  She recognized Percy’s descendant at once. Indeed, she had hoped to contact him at some point, in hopes of gaining access to whatever personal papers and memorabilia might still be in the family’s possession. His appearance alongside the Talons startled her, but she couldn’t help being intrigued, as well. What did this have to do with Percy and Lydia?

  “I would have found her eventually,” the newly arrived Talon grumbled. He glanced at his fellow assassin. Although his face was hidden, resentment could be heard in his voice. “On my own.”

  “Don’t be too proud to accept help, lad,” the older Talon said. “I’m sure you earned your station, just as we all did in our day, but it’s never too late to learn from those who came before you.”

  “Says the old man who was put on ice how many decades ago?”

  “Watch your tongue, boy. I was serving the Court before your father’s father was conceived.” Their hoods failed to conceal the tension between them, yet Joanna had no idea how she might use it to her benefit.

  “That’s enough, both of you,” Wright said. “All that matters is what best serves the interests of the Court.” He turned toward the retro Talon. “You’ve done well, Frederick. The Grandmaster will be pleased, I’m sure. No doubt she’s waiting for your report.”

  “No doubt,” the older Talon said a bit stiffly. “Unless you’d prefer me to remain?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Wright replied. “Your associate and I can handle matters from here. But thank you again for your invaluable service in locating our new guest.”

  “You’re welcome, sir. I’ll be on my way then.”

  Joanna wished she had a better sense of what was going on between her captors. She watched tensely as the older Talon exited the laboratory, brushing past the modern one—who made no effort to get out of his way.

  “Stuck-up old relic,” the younger Talon snarled after his counterpart had gone. “Who does he think he is?” He swung his gaze toward Joanna. “He just got lucky, that’s all, going back to that broken-down old fairground.”

  “Let it go, Carson.” Wright checked to make sure the door had locked. “I’m no happier than you are that the Grandmaster thawed him out to babysit us. His first loyalty is to the Court, not our grand objectives.” He turned to face Joanna. “Still, I can’t deny that it yielded valuable results.”

  The Talon muttered behind his hood.

  “Hello, Joanna,” Wright said. “It’s past time we talked.”

  Taking his time, he hung his jacket on a hook by the door a
nd put on a white lab coat instead. Next he pulled on a pair of sterile latex gloves.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  Joanna didn’t see any point in pretending otherwise.

  “Vincent Wright.”

  “Good. That makes things simpler.” He approached her. “Here’s how it’s going to work. You’re going to tell me everything you’ve learned about my distinguished ancestor and his work.”

  “Everything?” She tried to put on a brave face. “That could take a while.”

  “The night is young,” he said with a smirk, “and I’ve got as much time as it takes. Don’t even think about holding anything back, not unless you want to go the way of your boyfriend or professor.”

  His threat amounted to a confession. Dennis’s screams echoed in her mind as she suddenly hated Vincent Wright with all her heart.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  “I’m also a busy man,” he said glibly. “Can we save the histrionics for later?”

  You wish, she thought angrily. “You had him killed, didn’t you? And Professor Morse?”

  “I think there’s a lot of guilt to go around here,” Wright said. “You’re the one who started this by digging into my family’s past. Your associates were just… collateral damage.”

  Guilt stabbed her again, but not enough to let Wright and the Talons off the hook. She strained again to break free, wanting to lash out regardless of the consequences, but her fury didn’t make her bonds any less secure.

  “I was just studying history,” she protested. “That’s no excuse for murder or any of this.”

  “You see, that’s where we must agree to disagree,” Wright responded. “And if I were you, I’d focus more on my own situation right now than on any past grievances.” He beckoned to the Talon, who stepped closer. She froze in her struggles. “Perhaps you’d like my lethal friend to describe in detail exactly how your friends met their ends… and what’s waiting for you if you don’t cooperate.”

  “Works for me,” the Talon said. “I can give you a play-by-play, right up to the moment your boyfriend died screaming…”