by Greg Cox
“No!” she said. “Don’t, please.” The ghastly prospect was enough to mute her rage for the moment. Despite her anger at coming face-to-face with Dennis’s killers, she needed to keep her wits about her if she wanted to survive this ordeal. Dennis had died to save her from the Talon. She couldn’t let that sacrifice go to waste.
“Fine,” she said bitterly. “Let’s talk.”
“That’s more like it.” Vincent gestured for the Talon to back off. “We’ve seen your notes, what you shared with others. But there are gaps—details to which you allude, but don’t follow up. What do you know that isn’t there, in black-and-white?” He leaned in.
“What do you know about my ancestor’s work?”
She still didn’t know what he was after, but talking about Percy Wright enabled her to focus, no matter how scared or angry she was. It was almost comforting to think about her work, instead of her own uncertain future.
“It’s not so much what I know as what I suspect,” she hedged. Joanna’s mouth was dry. She considered asking for a glass of water, but feared that would be pushing her luck. “I know that Percy and Lydia had a secret affair, that he remained obsessed with her after her disappearance, immortalizing her in his art, over and over. It was as if he blamed himself for her death…”
“All of which is hardly revelatory,” Wright said impatiently. “What else?”
Aside from the fact that Percy was mixed up with the Court of Owls? She was only just now figuring that out. Bitter experience had led her to that particular realization. “Well, I have a theory that Percy hid something in his depictions of Lydia. There’s imagery that suggests Gotham’s future, warnings of days to come, even though they were sculpted a century ago.” She expected him to scoff… or worse. “I know it sounds crazy, but—”
“Hardly,” Vincent said, smirking. “Your ‘crazy’ theory is why you are here, so let’s skip the generalities. What do you know about Percy’s elixir?”
“Elixir?” she said. “What elixir?”
Wright looked angry at that, and she wondered if he might strike her—or have his muscle so do. Instead he stepped back.
“The elixir that enabled his subjects to perceive the future,” he said, and he began to pace. “Where else do you think those coded ‘warnings’ came from?”
“Percy could see the future…” Joanna was confused by what he was saying, and yet it also made a certain amount of sense. She needed to know more. “Because of this elixir?”
“Not Percy,” he said. “Lydia… before her unfortunate demise. She was his test subject; it stands to reason that he learned of the future from her. Are you saying you knew nothing of his formula?”
“I knew he was a scientist as well as a sculptor,” she responded, “but that’s all. And I’ve never read anything about him devising any… elixir.”
Wright frowned and stopped pacing. “That’s both comforting and discouraging. Comforting in that the secret remains hidden— no one else has located it, to use it against us. Discouraging, however, in that it makes me wonder if you were worth all this trouble.”
Joanna heard herself becoming expendable.
“Just tell me what you want to know, what you’re looking for,” she insisted. “Maybe I know more than I realize.”
“Let’s hope so,” Wright said. “Tell me, have you heard of the Burning Sickness?” The phrase sounded familiar, but it took Joanna a few long moments to place it from some of the old newspapers she’d prowled through in her research.
“It was some kind of epidemic or fever,” she said. “Beginning in Percy’s time, and continuing after his death.”
“It’s more like a recurrent ailment, actually,” Wright said, “but give yourself a gold star. A particularly nasty ‘fever’ that literally turned its victims into human bonfires, igniting their brains before baking them entirely.”
“I don’t understand.” Joanna shuddered, remembering the description of Professor Morse’s death. “What does this have to do with Percy and Lydia?”
“It seems as if Percy’s elixir had an unfortunate side effect— spontaneous combustion.” He started pacing again, and she wished he would stop. “My family and I have been trying to eliminate this drawback for generations, but have hit roadblock after roadblock. It’s been maddening.”
Spontaneous combustion? Joanna’s mind reeled. She’d always thought that was just an antiquated notion—something nobody took seriously anymore. Then again, she used to think that about the Court of Owls, too.
“I don’t know,” the Talon commented. “It isn’t entirely ‘unfortunate’—especially if you like watching people go up like fireworks. Trust me, it’s quite impressive, and comes in handy if you don’t want to leave any evidence.” A sadistic chuckle emerged from his hood.
Oh, God… Was that how Dennis had died—engulfed in flames? Burnt alive? She tried to force the image out of her brain, but failed miserably, choking back a sob.
“I’m glad you find it so entertaining,” Wright said dryly, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Your sadistic enthusiasm aside, however, the elixir is of little value if all it gives us is human torches. We need more.” He turned back to face Joanna. “That’s where you come in.”
“I still don’t understand.” She felt frustrated, angry, and grief-stricken in equal measures. “Exactly what is it you want from me?”
“Near the end, relations between Percy and the Court were… strained. He insisted to his dying day that he had never overcome the problem, yet when he died, he left behind a letter. In it, he claimed to have secretly perfected the serum, but he left no details.” Vincent looked angry, as if he had been the person betrayed. “It was his final revenge, all because of what happened to Lydia.”
“What did happen to Lydia?”
“Like you, she learned more about the Court’s affairs than was healthy for her,” he explained, “which is why she went from model to guinea pig.”
“Oh, no.” Joanna put the pieces together. “For the elixir.”
“Another gold star,” he said. “Without going into the messy details, let’s just say it didn’t end well for Lydia—much to Percy’s chagrin. As a result, he had more than enough reason to hide the formula from the Court. I suppose I can’t blame him, really, but that brings me no closer to the answers I want. Answers I need.
“You, however, have fresh insights into my great-grandfather and his work,” he continued. “You’ve seen patterns where others have missed them. If there are secrets to be found—in his works, in the messages to his beloved Lydia—you will know where to find them. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” she said, fascinated in spite of everything. “But I’m an art history major, not a chemist. I don’t know anything about elixirs or formulas.”
“So you say,” Wright said, “but I’m not certain I believe you. I’m not entirely convinced that, like Percy, you aren’t holding something back. If you wish to survive this, however, you would do well to cooperate.” He gave her a smug smile. “I’m a scientist, you’re an art expert. Think of it as a collaboration.”
His arrogance infuriated her. “You call this a collaboration? You’ve threatened me, killed my friends, taken me prisoner. Why the hell would I want to help you get your hands on this ‘elixir’? It sounds to me like Percy had the right idea, keeping it from the Owls.”
The smile disappeared. “I was being polite,” Wright replied. “But if you insist on making this unpleasant, allow me to oblige you.” He crossed the lab to open a small refrigerator, from which he extracted a vial containing a shimmering, metallic silver liquid. “This is my latest variant on Percy’s elixir. I have yet to test it on a human subject, so it’s entirely possible that this version won’t set anyone on fire.” He carried it closer, for her to see. “Maybe it’s safe, maybe it’s not. Would you like to help me find out… or would you prefer to assist me in a less risky fashion?”
Joanna actually hesitated. The idea of cooperating with Dennis’s killer
s made her sick to her stomach, especially since she knew damn well that Wright intended to dispose of her once she’d outlived her usefulness. He hadn’t even attempted to conceal his identity.
And yet…
“It’s far from a pleasant way to go,” he said. “Burning alive from the inside out.” He loaded the vial’s contents into a syringe.
Joanna stared at it in fear and fascination.
“So,” he asked, “what do you say?”
The Crown Point Plasma Collection Center looked as dull and institutional as its name implied. The two-story, white-washed cinderblock structure squatted on a rundown city block around the corner from the municipal bus station, in the vicinity of a soup kitchen, a condemned church, a liquor store, and a bail bondsman’s office.
A helicopter parked atop the plasma center’s flat roof looked out-of-place in the low-rent neighborhood. Studying the site from the church’s dilapidated steeple, Batman could only assume that somebody really didn’t want to rub shoulders with the folks down at street-level.
Vincent Wright.
It was well after midnight, and the center had been closed for hours, but lights on upstairs suggested that the building wasn’t sitting empty. His infrared binoculars detected three human-sized heat signatures in an interior room on the second floor. One of the figures was seated and unmoving; the others were standing. Lowering the binoculars he spotted a fourth figure on the roof, smoking a cigarette—presumably the pilot.
When in doubt, ask.
* * *
The pilot was still working on the cigarette minutes later when Batman came up behind him as silently as a ninja. He clapped his hand over the man’s mouth to keep him from raising a racket while twisting his arm behind his back.
Caught off-guard, the pilot reached back and tried to jab the lit end of the cigarette into his attacker’s face, but Batman turned his head so that the glowing red tip was crushed against the heavy-duty casing of his cowl.
“Nasty habit,” he growled. “You should get some air.” He shoved the man to the brink of the roof, overlooking a back alley two stories below. The man squirmed, but could not escape. Batman let his black cape billow out where the pilot could see it.
“You know who I am?”
The man nodded.
“Good. Keep your voice low, or we’ll see how well you can fly without a chopper.” He took his hand away from the man’s mouth, ready to cover it again the instant the pilot tried to sound an alarm. To his annoyance, however, the man mustered a show of defiance.
“Y-you can’t scare me,” he stammered. “You’re bluffing. I’ve heard about this stunt of yours. You never actually kill anybody!”
Batman scowled. He didn’t have time to waste.
“That’s because they all talked… eventually,” he growled. “You want to be one who didn’t?” With that he kicked the pilot’s legs out from under him, so that the man tumbled forward over the brink. He gasped as Batman seized him by the collar. Leaning out over the edge, gazing at the pavement below, the man was kept from falling by Batman’s strong right arm. The pilot’s bravado shattered along with his nerves.
“Okay, okay,” he said quickly. “Wright isn’t paying me enough for this!”
Batman didn’t draw the man back. Let him sweat.
“Keep it down,” he said. “So Wright is here?”
“Yeah, downstairs,” the man replied. “I didn’t do nothing, I swear to God. I just flew him here.”
There had been three heat signatures. “Who’s with him?”
“This creepy enforcer type, decked out like one of you costumed freaks. Calls himself the Talon, like in the old rhyme.”
Batman’s stern expression darkened further. Butchered cops and burnt corpses demanded justice. His voice took on an even harder edge.
“Who else?”
“I don’t know. I just flew the two of them here. That’s all I got.”
“Not good enough.” He shook the pilot roughly by the collar.
“A girl! I heard them say something about a girl, who they’ve got holed up inside,” he said.
“What girl?” Batman stopped shaking him for a moment.
“I don’t know. Cross my heart. I don’t know anything else. I don’t want to know anything else!”
“Joanna?” Batman asked. “Is her name Joanna?”
“Beats me! I’m telling you, man, I just fly the chopper.” He sounded too scared to be holding anything back, and Batman grudgingly conceded that he’d probably gotten as much as he was going to get from the dangling pilot. He swung the man back onto the roof, then rendered him unconscious with a chop to a pressure point on his neck. The pilot collapsed onto the tar-covered surface.
It seemed likely that the woman was Joanna. Batman frowned. He’d hoped to locate the missing student before the Owls could, but they had found her first. What had been a fact-finding expedition was now a rescue mission. The Talon’s presence wasn’t going to make liberating their prisoner any easier.
He surveyed his surroundings. A roof exit resembling a tool shed led down into the building. A ventilation fan hummed in its casing. There was a conspicuous lack of skylights, thus limiting his options. He was tempted to charge in, counting on the element of surprise to give him an advantage over the Talon, but that was too risky. If he wanted to beat his opponent and get Joanna out of the hands of the Owls, he needed to arrange the chessboard in his favor.
I’ll choose the battlefield this time.
Returning his attention to the ventilation fan, he plucked a smoke-capsule from his belt.
* * *
“Maybe if you tell me more about this elixir, I can figure out something that will help.”
Joanna was stalling to a degree, but she was also curious as hell. This was more about Percy and Lydia than she ever dreamed of learning. She just prayed it wouldn’t cost her life.
“I doubt you’d understand the biochemistry that’s involved,” Wright said. “Few people can. Let’s just say the elixir stimulates the brain in ways unknown to conventional science. At the same time the chemical reaction produces unprecedented amounts of heat—with spectacularly incendiary results.”
The Talon grunted. “That’s one way to put it.”
She glared angrily. “But precognition… how is that even possible?” she asked. “I mean, I knew there had to be something that caused Percy to incorporate that imagery in his sculptures, but some sort of chemical potion?”
“Don’t underestimate my ancestor’s genius,” Wright said. To her relief, he placed the syringe down on a counter. It still lay within easy reach, but wasn’t quite so immediate a threat. “Tell me, are you familiar with a substance called electrum?”
Before she could respond, a fire alarm went off, blaring loudly throughout the building. The sprinkler system activated, drenching the lab and everyone in it.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Wright exclaimed. “What the devil—?”
“Can’t be a coincidence,” the Talon replied. “It must be an intruder.” The spray ran down his skintight suit, leaving him considerably dryer than Wright or Joanna.
As the first hint of smoke appeared in the air, Joanna tugged futilely at her restraints, alarmed at the prospect of being tied up inside a burning building. The irony of her situation didn’t escape her, either. She was going to go up in flames like Dennis and the others—just not as spontaneously.
“Damn it all!” Wright hastily capped the hypodermic and tucked it into a pocket on his lab coat, which was now soaked and clinging to him. “We have to go. I can’t be caught here—with her—so soon after that break-in at the penthouse. The Grandmaster would have my head.” He nodded toward Joanna. “Bring her.”
The Talon quickly and efficiently released her from the recliner, yanked her to her feet, and took hold of her wrist. “Don’t give me any trouble,” he warned her. “You can leave here under your own power or not. Got it?”
She nodded, perversely grateful not to be forgotten, then h
ating herself for feeling any gratitude toward her captors. The Talon dragged her toward the door, which Wright held open.
“Hurry!” he said. “We need to head for the roof.”
Abandoning the lab, they scrambled into the hall, which was filling up with thick, black smoke. The acrid fumes had a faintly chemical odor. Coughing, she held her free hand over her mouth as they made their way to a stairway at the end of a corridor. There weren’t any flames, just the choking smoke, but her heart was pounding anyway. She hoped there was a safe way off the roof.
“I don’t like this,” the Talon said. His hood seemed to protect him from the fumes. “Something’s up.”
“All the more reason to depart,” Wright said, “with all deliberate speed.”
A short flight of stairs brought them onto the rooftop, where the cool night air came as a relief after navigating the smoky hallway. A helicopter was parked on a concrete pad, revealing how Wright planned to flee the scene. Its pilot was seated in the cockpit.
“Quickly,” he insisted again. He shouted at the chopper. “We’re coming aboard. Prepare for immediate departure!”
“Hold on.” The Talon paused to look around. “I smell a Bat—” Before he could finish a razor-sharp object sank into his wrist, causing him to hiss in pain. His grip loosened. Joanna pulled her arm free and backed away from him.
“Not so fast!”
Despite the injury, he lunged after her, only to be tackled to the ground by a cloaked figure springing from atop the shed-like structure housing the stairway. Without hesitation Batman delivered one solid blow after another to the hooded assassin. In spite of herself, Joanna felt a wave of elation.
“Run!” he shouted. “Leave him to me!”
She glanced at the exit. “But the fire?”
“No fire. Just smoke.” He grappled with the Talon as they rolled across the tar paper. He twisted the Batarang that was lodged in the killer’s wrist, causing the assassin to howl in fury. “Now go!”
Over by the helicopter, Wright yelled frantically at the pilot, who seemed oblivious. “Answer me, damn you! What’s the matter with you?” He pulled open the hatch and shoved the man, who lolled over in his seat and fell out of the cockpit. Wright reacted in shock. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening…”