Shadow of the Knight

by Susan Lee

  "Was there someone there to call an ambulance?" he asked. She thought maybe he knew an answer she didn't.

  "I....uh...I don't know." She frowned, her memory trying to call up something but not succeeding. She needed time. She needed to think. She needed to process. "I don't... I can't..."

  Patty jumped in to save her. "I think she may need some time. They put her on some heavy pain meds." Officer Tennant looks dubiously at Patty.

  "This wouldn't have anything to do with the incident two years ago, would it?" he asked pointedly.

  "That's ridiculous," Patty threw back at him. "Of course it doesn't. You think she did this to herself?"

  "I have to ask," he responded sharply. "Especially because of the previous domestic abuse incidents. I need to make sure it wasn't her ex-boyfriend. And the suicide attempt. If there's a pattern here, I need to know."

  "There isn't," Mickey interrupted. "But because of the 'incident' you brought up, I just need some time to sort out what happened.”

  Mickey took a deep breath before continuing.“And, yes, I'm drugged to my eyeballs so I'm not exactly sure if what I remember is right, although I know it wasn't him. The shape was all wrong. Can I have some time? Maybe some rest? Then I'll be happy to talk your ear off."

  She could feel her ability to hold a conversation slipping away as the twilight of narcotics began to take over. "Please. Patty will call you." Then she remembered nothing for a good long time.

  • • • • • • • • • • •

  When Mickey came to hours later, Patty was asleep in her chair and the windows were dark.

  She wasn't sure how much time had passed. Officer Not David Tennant was gone. The hospital was quiet. She figured it was the middle of the night. Good. That meant that the nurses would leave her alone, for the most part.

  She could see the whiteboard where the nurses posted their updates. She might have some time before they came in to check her vitals. She knew the routine. Vitals checked every few hours, especially when on narcotics, to make sure you're not dead.

  Her shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch. The meds never take away pain, she thought, they only make you not care about the pain. She wasn't on an auto-pump-thing so she'd have to summon a nurse if she wanted more meds.

  For now, she'd deal with the pain. It helped her think. It made her brain clear out a bit. She needed to think. Instead, she was drawn back into the netherworld of drug-induced twilight.

  Her dreams had brought things to her slowly. Still just bits and pieces. She was hoping by morning that she would have more to tell the non-Doctor officer.

  But she wouldn't tell him about the last thing she saw. She wouldn't tell him that she thought she saw Batman. That it was Batman who rescued her. That under his cowl, Batman was Rick, the programmer guy from work.

  THREE

  In the end, Mickey told Officer Not David Tennant everything she could, everything that sounded sane enough. She told him about the two shadows, the one that attacked her and the one that saved her. She told him she didn't recognize anything about the two shadows. Of course, she lied a little bit about that. He told her confidently that they would do everything they could to find the perpetrator. She knew just as confidently that they would never find the bad guy, and that she would find the hero herself.

  It took two days for the hospital to decide she wasn't hurt badly enough to stay longer. She thought it took that long because of her previous "incident". She was certain they wanted to make sure she wouldn't relapse. They cautiously prescribed her painkillers with numerous warnings about addition and suicidal tendencies. She wanted to point out that she hadn't used pills the previous time so they really had nothing to worry about unless they prescribed razor blades. But she knew they needed to cover their asses, so she signed the consent forms, the release forms and every other goddamned form they shoved in front of her, so she could go home.

  Patty had devotedly stayed with her as much as she could. Larry had assured her that her job would live without her and to take her time returning. Jerry had called, even stopping by in person to make sure she was doing okay.

  Even her volatile sister, Anne, had called to check on her. Mickey was a bit mad at Patty for even contacting Anne. In the end, however, she figured it was for the best. Family should know things, she guessed. Anne always made it seem like all the bad that happened to Mickey was somehow brought on by Mickey herself, and this time was no different.

  Mickey listened to Anne's annoying lectures passively over a day or two, then stopped answering her calls. Eventually, Anne would fine something shiny to distract her.

  The one person she didn't hear from was Rick. She thought maybe Patty had said something somewhere in the fog but she hadn't asked about it again. She filed that away to deal with later. It was too big to deal with now.

  Patty drove her home, trying to avoid every bump but seeming to hit all of them anyway. Even with her shoulder wrapped tightly with layers of bandages and secured by a sling, everything hurt all the way home. By the time they got through the door, Mickey could barely stand from the pain.

  "Sit here," Patty insisted. She had set up a whole area for Mickey to recuperate within - couch with extra blanket, remote control within easy reach of her right arm, many pillows, several bottles of water and some snacks. Mickey couldn't help but laugh.

  "Jesus, Patty, did you think of everything?"

  "Yup," Patty said, reaching behind the couch and pulling out a plastic robot-type of arm. "This extends, so if you can't reach something, you just hit this button and then squeeze this and, viola, you have a grabby arm."

  She demonstrated this, both of them ending up laughing until they cried as Patty knocked multiple things over.

  "Okay, so it may take some time to learn how to control it. But it should help."

  "You're amazing. Thank you." Mickey finally felt the emotions rise in her as Patty sat in the chair. "What would I do without you?"

  "That's what friends are for, ya doofus." But Patty was fighting back tears as well. "I'm just glad you're still here."

  "Me, too."

  Patty reached over and linked fingers with her best friend. They stayed that way for a long time, watching Netflix, talking about nothing. Mickey needed the contact, grateful for her friend. Even more grateful that Patty fell asleep holding her hand. She didn't want to face the dreams alone.

  • • • • • • • • • • •

  Mickey sucked it up and went into work four days after the attack. She couldn't sit at home. The shadows there taunted her. Batman scowled down at her, challenging her to expose him.

  The doctors were apparently correct. Her injuries weren't as bad as she thought. She had filled the pain meds but hadn't used more than one or two. Between ice packs and heating pads and anti-inflammatories, she was able to keep the pain at bay. She was even able to move her arm a bit without blinding pain, although drawing was out of the question until she started therapy. That sucked in a major way because she had an issue of the comic book to finish.

  Her publisher obviously was understanding, even saying it was a good story and would line up some interviews when she was feeling better.

  Comic book artist attacked at a convention. Yeah, great story. The geek world had already done a number on it, now they wanted the real world to get in on it, too. She told them she would think about it. Her publisher told her to think hard because it could mean huge exposure for the next issue. Mickey muttered all the appropriate things as she rolled her eyes and hung up.

  Mickey hated the pitying looks as she walked to her office. She had hated it two years ago when she returned and she still hated it now. She held her head high, not meeting anyone's gaze. She shut her door when she got to her office, grateful that she now had a door to shut. If she had had a "do not disturb sign", she would have hung that fucker up, too. She hoped the closed door and her headphones would say that for her.

  Her boss had stuck to his word, handling much of her work for her so
there wasn't much to deal with. She scrolled through emails, checking his responses, noting anything that needed follow up. She was so grateful that he had been so kind to her, then and now. She'd have to tell him how much it meant to her. But right now, she just wanted to lay low and be unobtrusive.

  She saw Patty approach her door once or twice, but she never came in. She knew Mickey needed time to settle in, but Mickey also knew Patty needed to check in on her. So they played this game for the day, each knowing the other knew the rules.

  Finally, Mickey could hide in her office no longer. She needed to get some lunch. She needed to talk to some of the designers. She needed to get back to normal. She needed to see Rick.

  Still, she waited until most of the staff were off on their lunch breaks before she opened her door. She was not surprised to find that Patty had gone, though she knew she wouldn't be far. Probably the break room or the cafe downstairs. Far enough, close enough.

  Mickey couldn't help herself. She went to Rick's office, which was dark. She hadn't seen him come in, so she shouldn't have been surprised.

  Still, she stood there a moment, trying to decide what to do. It would be weird to go into his office. After all, what did she expect to find? A mask and a cape? Evidence of his lurking in the shadows? Keys to the Batmobile? Her sane voice still denied it was Rick that night. Her maybe-not-so-sane mind didn't want to deny it.

  She actually had her hand on the doorknob before her sane mind reasoned her out of it. Stop it, she chastised herself. Go have lunch, get some air, laugh with Patty. Come back. Do client shit. Be boring. Go home. Netflix. Sleep. Sanity will return.

  She followed her own instructions. Lunch. Air. Laugh. Client shit. Boring.

  By the end of the day, Mickey was looking forward to going home. Everyone had been quietly kind, expressing their sympathy succinctly and sincerely, which she appreciated. She somehow felt Patty's influence in there.

  Patty knocked on her door at six o'clock. "What the hell are you still doing here?" she demanded, teasingly. "Get yourself home."

  "I'm going, I'm going," Mickey assured her, gathering her stuff.

  "How are you feeling?"

  "Not too bad, actually." Her eyes went to Rick's door. Patty couldn't help but notice.

  "He's out of town, remember? Brother had a car accident. That's why he left the con early. I told you in the hospital."

  Mickey froze. He left the con early? Was that possible? Was it really not him?

  "You okay?"

  "Yeah, yeah," Mickey said, moving to the door, shutting off the light. "My brain is still a little behind. I think you did tell me that."

  "Well, get your behind outta here."

  Mickey waved as she walked out the front door.

  It wasn't until she was walking to her car that she wished Patty had walked with her. Even though it was only six, the late fall sky had started to darken, casting shadows everywhere. Shadows like the ones the night of her attack. Shadows that haunted her.

  She stopped, unable to make herself take a step. What if that shadow moved again? What if came alive again? And what if the other shadow didn't show up?

  Instead of fear, her heart began to beat with something else. Excitement? Anticipation? Nothing that made any sense. She looked at the shadows again, realizing that she wasn't looking for an apparent attacker. She was looking for her hero, her own personal Batman.

  Ridiculous, her rational mind argued. Even if it wasn't Rick, what were the chances that this guy was following her around, trying to protect, tuned into her frequency so he would know exactly where she was at any given time? Seriously?

  But what if it was Rick and he was lying about being out of town so she wouldn't suspect him? He would know where she was most of the time. He would know her schedule since they had been talking a lot recently. He would know what time she was at work, what time she went home, and that she rarely did anything in between the two. He could be lurking in the shadows somewhere, just waiting for her, just waiting to save her. Because he would know she needed saving. Because he was her personal Batman. Or whatever his superhero persona was.

  She completely ignored the fact that Patty had just told her that Rick was out of town. Maybe he came back and Patty didn't know.

  She walked very slowly to her car, almost wishing a bad guy would leap out and try something so she could prove her theory, have her hero swoop in and save the day. Her rational mind tried to tell her how stupid this whole stupid theory was, but she wasn't hearing it. She was lost in the fantasy.

  A footfall made her turn, breathless with anticipation that her fantasy had come true and that she would again see her masked avenger.

  But it was Patty, maskless and ordinary. She jumped a little because Mickey turned on her so quickly.

  "You okay?" Patty asked, noting that Mickey's face was flushed and her pupils were a little too large. She had seen that look on her face before, after Mickey had lost touch with reality for a little bit after the last time.

  "What?" Mickey stammered, trying to get her reality back. "Oh, Patty. It's you."

  "Who did you think it would be?"

  "I... uh... I don't know. I wasn't... I was thinking maybe..." Mickey took a deep breath to slow things down. "What're you doing here?"

  "I figured I should have walked you to your car, after... you know..."

  "Oh. Really. I'm fine. I have to learn to walk by myself. It's not like someone is always going to be around to protect me." That may have come out a little more harsh than she had intended but Mickey couldn't take it back now. She tried to soften her tone this time. "I'm fine, Patty. You don't have to baby-sit me."

  "Okay." Patty kind of gave in but stood and watched as Mickey got into her car. She watched as Mickey waved then drove away. It took her a few minutes to get moving again. She didn't like what she was seeing with Mickey. She wasn't sure what to do about it, but she didn't like it.

  • • • • • • • • • • •

  At home, Mickey found herself once again with sketchbook and charcoal, trying to chronicle the incident. She ignored the fact that she had already chronicled it more than a dozen times in various mediums.

  All spooky, all dark, all from the shady part of her memory. Was it real? Or was it what she wanted to be real? She usually shared her work with Patty, but these were too personal, too spooky. She knew they would worry her friend, so she kept them to herself.

  She had begun to lose the sense of what was real about that night, though continuing to draw felt right.

  Her arm was shaky, the earlier drawings reflecting that. At first, she had barely been able to hold anything, yet the compulsion to draw had been too much. She drew anyway.

  Tonight was no different. She drew out of need, not out of creative drive. This was primal, primitive. An urge from so far inside that no psychiatrist had discovered it yet. Pain didn't reach her in this place. Only the need to put it down on paper.

  She only stopped because the pain finally permeated her lizard brain. Frustrated, she slammed down the charcoal, accepting that she had to put the sling back on and take something for the ache. She tucked the book away, wanting to keep it safe. Safe from what, she couldn't say. Just that it needed to be safe.

  Mickey slapped an ice pack on her shoulder and tossed a couple of Aleve into her mouth. Her laptop bing'd with an email alert. She slid it closer and scrolled down. A couple of pieces of spam, big surprise, and one from Rick. Wow. Had she given him her personal email? She couldn't remember. Oh, of course, she suddenly thought, Patty. That's where he would get it from.

  She opened the email, hoping it was something good.

  "Hey, you," it read, in his voice in her head. "Just wanted to drop you a line and see if you're okay. Heard about your injury. So sorry. I got hung up at the con with friends and missed you by a few minutes when I finally got back to your booth. Then I had to fly home because my brother was in an accident. All is well on the homefront and I'll be back soon. Anyway, hope you're healing w
ell and, again, I'm so sorry to hear this happened to you. We'll talk when I get back tomorrow. Best, Rick."

  He didn't leave the convention early. He was still there when she was attacked. He hadn't headed out of town. It could have been him. It must have been him. It HAD to be him.

  Stop it, her sane side argued once again. That's just ridiculous.

  But maybe ridiculous can give hope because she clung desperately to the hope that Rick was the hero, that Rick had saved her. She needed that to be the truth. Otherwise, there was no answer for her, no hope. She'd see him tomorrow. That would confirm it. Bruce Wayne hid behind arrogance and money, but if you looked real hard, you could still see Batman underneath.

  • • • • • • • • • • •

  Rick certainly didn't look like a superhero the next day, or even a superhero's alter-ego.

  He looked like a guy who had dealt with a family crisis, just traveled across the country, had too much caffeine and not enough sleep, and was now back at a job that maybe he didn't want to be back at yet. In other words, entirely human and entirely not Batman.

  It didn't matter to Mickey. She saw what she wanted to see. She saw the tired, sad man, but to her, he looked world-weary and sexy. Might have been the stubble darkening his chin that leaned toward sexy. Her Dark Knight-colored glasses made him mysterious and troubled, not exhausted and worn out.

  She was giddy with anticipation, dying to talk to him. So many people were pulling him aside to express their concern for his brother that it took a while for her to finally manage a few moments with him.

  She caught him in the breakroom grabbing coffee. He didn't see her. Something in his defenseless demeanor finally got through to her and she caught a glimpse of the real Rick.

  The real Rick looked beat to crap. Pain weighed on him in a way she had never noticed before. Emotional or physical, it was hard to tell. But his weary eyes and his jet-lagged body telegraphed how truly difficult the past few days had been. Because he couldn't hide behind the winning smile or the easy chatter, his real heartbreak was evident. Somehow, that made him even more attractive to her.