by Peter David
Who gave him the right? Who gave him the goddamn right? Well . . . ultimately, It didn’t matter. Because Edward Nygma was going to take it away from him.
“There are seven million brains in the Naked City. And they’ll all be mine.”
Later that night, cloaked in darkness, Bruce Wayne sat in the depths of the Batcave. He felt as if he were standing on the edge of a diving board, and it would only take the slightest nudge to send him plummeting, headfirst, into . . . what? Bottomless depths? An empty pool?
His entire life was a riddle . . . and was now being further aggravated by some weirdo who had dropped off a riddle in his office.
He was used to weirdness in his life as Batman. But did it have to intrude into his life as Bruce Wayne?
Who had sent him the riddle?
Unbeknownst to Bruce, the answer to that question had slipped a second riddle into the mailbox near the great front gate and was scurrying away as fast as his bicycle would take him . . .
CHAPTER EIGHT
When Alfred did not find Bruce in his bedroom, he felt that same little jump of concern he always felt at such moments. Had Bruce decided to don his caped leisure suit and make an evening of it? Was he lying in an alleyway somewhere, dead or dying? And, as always in such moments when Alfred’s fancy turned to morbidity, he started asking himself what he could have done to prevent it.
All this tumbled through his mind as he descended to the Batcave to check. And there, seated in a high-backed chair, was Bruce Wayne. His fingers were steepled and he was staring off into space.
“Mister Wayne?” Alfred said rather formally.
“Alfred,” replied Wayne.
“Have you been to sleep, sir?”
“On and off. A few minutes here and there.”
Alfred couldn’t think of what to say. Wayne’s voice was so distant . . . and so unspeakably sad. And perhaps it held something else that Alfred couldn’t recall hearing since Bruce was a young boy. Perhaps he sounded just a little bit afraid.
“Can I get you anything, sir?” he asked finally.
“Yes.” Bruce nodded slowly. “You can get me an appointment with Dr. Meridian. I think . . . I could use a sounding board for some . . . things . . . going through my head lately.” He looked up at Alfred. “I hope you aren’t insulted?”
“You mean because, for once, you’ve chosen not to make me the sole beneficiary of your . . . odd confidences?” He smiled ever so slightly. “I shall manage to live with the devastating humiliation.”
By the time he’d gotten upstairs, however, Alfred had brought in the mail . . . and discovered the second riddle. Which meant that, all of a sudden, Bruce Wayne’s reason for going to see Dr. Meridian had changed.
Bruce Wayne drove his gleaming red Jag into the municipal police complex, the guard recognizing him and waving him through immediately. He pulled into a spot, made a mental note of a car parked illegally in a handicap slot, and then made his way upstairs.
Dr. Meridian was a fairly new arrival to Gotham City, and Gordon had rather graciously afforded her office space at the police complex. In return she made herself available several days a week to consult with Gordon and other police officers on various investigations. Her private practice was just starting up but—knowing what a major supporter of the police the Wayne Foundation had always been—she had agreed to make time for him.
Bruce walked briskly down the hallway, needing to ask directions to her office only three times and getting lost only twice. But as he approached the office, he heard grunts and the sounds of combat from within. Quickly he tried the doorknob, but it was locked tight.
He heard Dr. Meridian cry out, and there was the sound of a vicious punch being landed.
He put two and two together, and got . . . Two-Face.
Without hesitation or regard to his secret identity, Bruce Wayne kicked open the door. The lock and knob flew off, clattering to the floor, and the door banged inward. Bruce leapt in, fists cocked . . .
And realized he’d slipped up.
Chase’s hair was a bit matted and hanging down. Her fists were taped up and poised in front of the punching bag that she had been whaling into until Bruce had charged into her office.
Bruce froze where he was, as did she.
The air should have been rife with embarrassment, or shock. Or shouting, “Get out!” or “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” or something.
Instead there was a long moment of tension that didn’t seem to arise from stress but from something else entirely . . .
Act casual, buzzed a voice in Bruce’s head. He tried to do so, leaning slightly against the doorframe and saying, “I guess I’m early. I have an appointment. I’m Bruce Wayne.”
“The billionaire. Oh, good. Then you can afford to buy me a new door.”
Bruce stared at what little she was wearing and, clearing his throat, said, “I can come back . . .”
“Oh, absolutely,” she said wryly. “Maybe you’ll catch me in the shower next time.”
He glanced around. “There’s a shower here?”
She sighed and gestured, “Turn around.”
Bruce obediently turned in a 360-degree circle, and then held out his hands as if to say, “Ta daa.”
She pursed her lips, clearly unamused (or, at least, trying to pretend that she was unamused.) This time Bruce obeyed the spirit of the request in addition to the letter, and turned his back. To make some use of the time, he worked on closing the door. Without benefit of the lock it seemed inclined to swing open, and he finally settled on propping it shut with a chair.
From behind him Chase said, “Okay.”
He turned back to her and, except for the fact that she was busy untaping her hands, she could have been another woman entirely. She was wearing a dark brown wraparound skirt and a cream-colored blouse. Bruce gestured with some chagrin to the door. “I’m sorry. I thought you were in trouble.”
She indicated the bag with a nod of her head. “It’s therapeutic.” Then she looked back to Wayne and actually smiled. She had the smile of someone who didn’t smile quite enough. “I guess I should be grateful. You risked danger for someone you haven’t even met.”
She waited for a modest “It was nothing,” or perhaps even an endeavor to parlay his heroism into some sort of pass. Perhaps. But instead he just shrugged and kept a level gaze on her.
“Somehow, I thought you’d be older,” she said after a moment. “Well . . . how can I help you, Mr. Wayne?”
He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the two riddles, tossing them onto her desk. “Somebody’s been sending me love letters. One at my office, one at home. Commissioner Gordon thought you might give me your expert opinion.”
She read them both quickly. “A clock,” she said. Deciphering the first one almost as quickly as Wayne had. “But . . . this second one: ‘Tear one off and scratch my head. What once was red is black instead?’ ” She shrugged. “A newspaper?”
“No, that’s black and white and read all over.” He indicated the riddle. “The answer to this is a match.”
She nodded absently and continued to study the riddles—looking for some further clue or indicator of the author’s mind-set. The first one seemed as if it had been done hurriedly, but the second was far more elaborate. Letters were trimmed out of newspaper and magazine headlines, and there was also bizarre calligraphy around the edges. Question marks snaking in and out of everywhere. And, most disturbing, a border composed of dripping daggers.
“Didn’t exactly pick up this stationery at a Hallmark store,” she observed. Then she noticed that Bruce Wayne was drumming his fingers absently on the chair arm. “Psychiatrists make you nervous?”
“Just beautiful ones.”
“The infamous Wayne charm,” and she sat back slightly in the chair. “Does it ever shut off?”
He smiled thinly. “You should see me at night.”
She took it as a come-on and brushed it off. Then she held up one letter in either hand. “My opi
nion: This letter writer is a total wacko.”
“Wacko?” He seemed amused. “Is that a technical term?”
“Patient may suffer from obsessional syndrome with potential homicidal inclinations. Work better for you?”
“So what you’re saying is that this guy’s a total wacko, right?”
She smiled just slightly. “Exactly.” She couldn’t help but find his reaction fascinating. “I can’t help but observe, Mr. Wayne: Most people, if informed that they were being harassed by someone who was quite likely off his rocker, would show some degree of concern or fear. But you seem . . . more amused than anything. Then again, I guess someone like you encounters more than his share of nutcases, eh?”
He looked at her levelly. “You’d be amazed.” Then he saw, over her head and to the right, a framed print of a bat on the wall. This struck him as rather odd. It wasn’t the sort of thing one ordinarily would stumble over in an office, particularly a shrink’s. But there indeed it was, black and with its wings spread wide. He pointed at it and said, “You have a thing for bats?”
From her expression it was clear that she hadn’t a clue as to what he was talking about. She turned to see where he was pointing, and when she looked back at him it was with that unmistakable air of clinical interest in her eyes. “That’s a Rorschach, Mr. Wayne. An ink blot. People see what they want.”
Bruce started to say, “Oh, come now, I know an ink blot when I see it . . .” but didn’t get any further than a simple, “Oh.” Because when he looked back at the print he saw that it was, indeed, a Rorschach ink blot. Oh, there were the vague outlines of what could be a bat, certainly. But it could also have been a butterfly. Or two faces in profile. Or . . .
A bat. Dammit, it looked like a bat, ready to flap its way off the paper . . .
Dr. Meridian watched Bruce Wayne’s face carefully as he stared at the ink blot. There was something going on. Something in the conversation, some subtext, that she was missing. She could sense it, almost taste it. With a raised eyebrow, she said, “I think the question would be, do you have a thing for bats?” she asked.
It was an inquiry that he clearly had no interest in answering and every interest in avoiding. He reached over and tapped the papers. “So, this . . . Riddler, for want of a better name . . . is dangerous?”
She pursed her lips in thought, letting the topic drift. “What do you know about obsession? Seriously, Mr. Wayne.”
“Seriously?” He hesitated. “A little.”
There it was again. That same tone of voice which she’d heard in his comment about seeing him at night. A tone that she’d at first dismissed, but now was starting to notice recurring at key points in the conversation. She made a mental note to watch when such vocal shifts occurred again. “Obsessions are born of fear. Recall a moment of great terror. Say you associate that moment with . . .” She paused and then thought of the blot. “. . . a bat. Over time, the bat’s image penetrates the mind, invades every aspect of your daily life. Can you imagine something like that?”
“It’s a stretch but I’ll manage.”
Damn! There it was again! That same tone of voice, practically sending off flares screaming into the night, saying, Look here! Right here! More than meets the eye, right over here!
She gave no clue to what was going through her mind. “The letter writer is obsessed with you. His only escape may be to . . .”
“To purge the fixation. To kill me.”
“You understand obsession better than you let on.”
He nodded slightly as he picked up a small wicker totem doll from the table. “Still play with dolls, Doctor?”
“She’s a Malaysian dream warden. Some cultures believe she stands sentry while you sleep and guards your dreams. Silly to you I’m sure—”
But Bruce’s expression stopped her short. Somewhere within her, her little inner psychiatrist cried Bingo! Paydirt! You got him! There’s something there, just reel him in now . . . start asking questions, probe, find out what’s bothering him . . .
“You look so sad. Do you need one?”
“Me?” He laughed easily. He was clearly rather practiced at masking his feelings. “No. Why would I?”
She made a thrust forward, a probing question. “You’re not exactly what you seem, are you, Bruce Wayne? What is it you really came here for?”
He wanted to answer her. That much she could easily see. But instead he coolly looked at his watch and said, “Oops. Time’s up.”
“That’s usually my line.”
“Look, I’d love to keep chatting . . .”
“Would you?” She looked at him so appraisingly that if he’d been an automobile, she’d be kicking his tires. “I’m not so sure.”
“You misunderstand, Doctor. That wasn’t an open, ‘Gee it might be nice in the indeterminate future’ type comment. And if you didn’t have the annoying psychiatrist habit of interrupting people with questions . . .”
“Now when have I—?” But then she caught herself and smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”
“I was simply going to say that I would love to keep chatting, but I’m going to have to get you out of those clothes.”
She felt lost. “Excuse me?”
“And into a black dress.” Once her confusion was utter bafflement, he said, “Tell me, Doctor, do you like the circus?”
CHAPTER NINE
Dick Grayson rummaged through his costume box. Although he was already dressed in the red-and-green tights that he and the rest of his family would be wearing tonight, he was still looking for some other sort of accoutrements that would spiff up the old outfit a little. He was always trying to convince his folks to jazz up the look, and was forever modelling masks, flared boots, capes . . . whatever occurred to him. But he always had trouble convincing his father. John always argued for simplicity, and naturally mom went along with him. Wherever John Grayson stood, Mary Grayson was right there with him. It was kind of comforting in a way, but it was also as annoying as hell.
The door to the trailer that he shared with his brother Chris slammed open. The sounds of the crowds and the organ music were that much louder as Chris entered quickly and grabbed Dick by his shoulder. “Fer cryin’ out loud, Dick. Will you come on? We’re going on in five minutes!”
“Chris, how about if we add a—”
Chris didn’t want to hear it. Instead he pulled Dick to his feet and said, “Look, you want to go into clothing design? So leave the act and become a fashion designer, okay? Until then, will ya come on!”
“I’m the only one in the family with vision, Chris,” he said as he allowed himself to be pushed out the door by his older brother. “When the rest of you are so old and decrepit that you fall off swings at playgrounds, I’m going to be living in a mansion and driving the bitchingest car in town. Just wait and see.”
“I should live so long,” said Chris Grayson.
It wasn’t a black dress.
It was dark maroon, crushed velvet. Still, it had been more than sufficient when Bruce had picked Chase up at her rented town house. Bruce was in his tux, and the two of them were third row center at the Gotham Charity Circus, being held in the midst of the vast Gotham Hippodrome. From all over, gossip columnists were peering at Bruce’s date. Chase noticed it, and Bruce noticed Chase noticing.
“They’re trying to determine who you are and what our relationship is,” he told her.
“Don’t you find that intrusive?”
“You get used to it. Besides, don’t worry about it. What they don’t know, they can easily make up.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t bother you if, a week from now, it’s reported that you’re pregnant with a space alien’s baby, would it?”
“Depends.”
He wrinkled his nose and stuck out his tongue at her.
Damn . . . even when he makes a hideous face, he’s gorgeous, she thought bleakly.
From the center ring, the ringmaster was calling, “Ladies and gentlemen. Seventy feet above th
e ground, performing feats of aerial skill without a net, the Flying Graysons!”
The name “Grayson” immediately rang a bell with Chase, and she looked up at the family of aerialists, already embarking on their trapeze act to the accompaniment of pounding drums. There were four of them . . . it shouldn’t be too hard to pick out . . .
She pointed. “Some guy was making off with my purse the other day, and that boy—that one there,” and she pointed as Dick hurtled across the open air into the waiting hands of his father, who was dangling upside down from his knees. “He stopped him. His father was with him. Richard and John, those were their names. Richard and John Grayson. The boy was incredibly brave, and now I understand why. Look what he does for a living.”
Bruce nodded as Chase bit her lower lip thoughtfully. “They ran off before I really had a chance to talk with them. I’m not sure why. A pity, too; it would have been fascinating to investigate the kind of psyche that would not only risk death on a regular basis, but subject one’s own children to the same sort of danger.”
“Did they ‘run off’ right after you told them you were a psychiatrist?”
“Hmm? Uhm . . . yes. Why?”
“Nothing. No reason.”
She jostled his arm. “What are you implying?”
“Me? Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Before she could ask him anything further, they suddenly found themselves with a spotlight shining directly on them. And the ringmaster was announcing, “Tonight’s charity benefit has raised $375,000 for Gotham Children’s Hospital. Let’s thank our largest single donor: Bruce Wayne.”
Bruce shrugged to Chase in a “Whattaya gonna do?” manner and stood, taking a quick bow before quickly regaining his seat.
“And now,” continued the ringmaster, “Richard, the youngest Flying Grayson, will perform the awe-inspiring Death Drop.”