by Greg Cox
“No questions,” the man growled.
Billy didn’t understand. Self-preservation won out over grief. He promised himself that he would mourn Lydia later.
“It wasn’t me.” His mind raced. “It must have been Percy Wright, that lecherous old bastard. He corrupted Lydia. Whatever has happened to her, he’s the one you want!”
“Think about it, Billy,” the masked man said. “Think about Lydia’s reputation. Do you want the truth about her to be made public, to be splashed all over the front pages?”
Billy cringed at the notion. That was the reason he had taken Wright’s letter to his wife, and not to the press. He’d had no desire to bring shame to Lydia. He just wanted that pervert Wright out of the way. Lydia was meant for him—of that he was certain.
“No, of course not, but—”
“Do you want her to be remembered as Wright’s mistress, or as an innocent victim who perished through no fault of her own?” The Talon eased the pressure of the sword, ever so slightly. “Lydia needs you, Billy. She counts on you to keep her name from being dragged through the mud.
“You loved Lydia, didn’t you, Billy?”
“Yes,” he said. “More than anything.”
“This is your chance to be her hero, Billy. Do it for Lydia.”
Billy wavered. He grasped what the Talon was saying. The idea of rescuing Lydia’s reputation after Percy Wright had defiled her appealed to him. He would indeed be a hero, a martyr for love. It would be the ultimate sacrifice…
“No,” he shouted. “I’ll go to the electric chair!” A fresh wave of panic swept over him, and it was all he could do not to bolt for the door. I can never reach it, he thought wildly. The Talon will take my head.
“You can’t ask me to do this,” he whimpered, and tears began to flow down his cheeks. “Please…”
“That’s good,” the masked man said. “Contrition—it will make your story so much more believable. Yet perhaps you require more incentive. Something that will ensure that you won’t betray us at the last minute.” The Talon pulled an object from a pouch, a slip of cloth. He held it up, and Billy recognized it instantly as a woman’s blouse.
His mother’s blouse. She had worn it just yesterday.
Oh dear Lord…
“If you don’t care about your own head, what about your mother’s?” the Talon said, a new edge creeping into his voice. “She still lives in that big house outside Blüdhaven, am I correct?”
“Momma?”
“And your sister,” the man continued. “She married that nice fellow—a lawyer, I believe. They have a lovely daughter, Rose…”
“No, please, don’t!” He sobbed openly. “You win! I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you say.”
“For Lydia?” the Talon prompted.
“Yes, yes!”
“Very good, Billy. Now you’re being reasonable.” The Talon withdrew his sword, but kept it at his side. “Now get up and get dressed. I’ll tell you exactly what to say…”
The Great Owl loomed above them.
At least fifty feet tall, the mammoth white marble statue dominated the otherwise barren chamber at the heart of the underground Labyrinth. Its vast, folded wings were the size of drawn sails, while its legs served as huge stone pillars.
The Owl perched atop a pedestal fashioned to resemble a large craggy boulder rising out of a ring-shaped fountain. High walls made of cruder, less expensive marble—too sheer to scale by hand—defined the chamber, with narrow gaps permitting access to the rest of the vast subterranean maze where the Court of Owls had tormented prisoners for generations.
To all appearances, the Labyrinth had been abandoned ever since Batman had escaped from it months ago. With its existence and location exposed, the place was no longer safe for its former inhabitants. The days when they could trap their enemies for weeks at a time, watching sadistically as the starving prisoners broke down, were past.
As they should be, Batman thought.
Strategically placed light sticks illuminated the chamber. He, Batgirl, and Joanna had reached the Labyrinth the same way he’d escaped it—via a gaping hole in the floor that led down into the filthy sewers below. Reversing his escape route, they’d climbed a Batrope up into the chamber. The stench from the sewers rose up through the breached floor.
“Ugh,” Joanna said, wrinkling her nose. She was dressed for field work in a jacket, jeans, work gloves, and rubber boots. “Just when I was starting to feel clean again.”
Batman peered up at the towering white bird. When last he’d seen it, sparkling water had cascaded down from the bird’s beak to splash against its craggy perch before flowing into the fountain to tempt dehydrated prisoners. Against his better judgment he had succumbed to that temptation and drunk from the fountain. The clear, tantalizing liquid had been laced with a powerful hallucinogen that had made his ordeal in the Labyrinth even more nightmarish.
Lifting his gaze, he sought out the walkways atop the high stone walls, where the Court had flocked to witness his suffering. Blinding white lights had exposed him to their scrutiny while depriving him of any shadows in which to hide. His drug-induced delirium had transformed the masked Owls into monsters—inhuman, half-avian creatures sporting beaks and feathers and talons, hooting shrilly for his death as they hungered to consume him the way owls in nature ate bats, bones and all.
“You okay?” Batgirl asked quietly.
She came up beside him, but tactfully refrained from placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Barbara had insisted on joining him on this expedition in large part, he suspected, because she hadn’t wanted him to face these memories alone. He appreciated her concern, even if he didn’t want to admit just how harrowing the memories were.
Deprived of his belt, his ropes, and his weapons, he’d had no way to strike back at them. He could only waste away in the maze the way his great-great-grandfather had done—before a Talon had put Alan Wayne out of his misery.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Drawing a deep breath into his lungs, he pushed the memories back where they belonged, in the past, and inspected the Labyrinth as it was now. The chamber had seen better days. Beside the gaping hole he’d blasted in the floor, scattered debris littered the area both from the explosion and from his savage battle with a Talon. Cracks and craters testified to the force with which they had slammed each other into the stone walls and floor. Dried brown bloodstains could still be seen on what was left of the floor, looking like shadows with no source. The fountain had stopped flowing, so the water that remained in the pool was stagnant and coated with greenish scum.
He wasn’t tempted to take a sip.
Batman looked around. Alan Wayne had died here, in fear and anguish. It was satisfying to see it fall into ruin.
Let it rot.
“You sure?” Batgirl pressed gently.
“Yes,” he told her. “Let’s get on with this.”
Meanwhile Joanna circled the huge marble owl, studying it from every angle, an amazed expression planted on her face.
“Yes, yes,” she said, talking as much to herself as to her caped companions, “you can definitely see Percy’s style and technique here. The rocky pedestal, in particular, is reminiscent of his ‘Andromeda’ and ‘Prometheus Tormented.’ The stylization of the feathers, for that matter, echoes the feathers of the devouring eagle in ‘Prometheus.’” She stepped back to take in the entire massive installation. “It belongs in a museum, not buried beneath Gotham.”
“We’ll have to see about that,” Batman said. Unlike Joanna, he didn’t see a magnificent work of art. He saw a monument to generations of fear, cruelty, and terror. Then again, as much as he wanted to deny it, the Owl was a part of Gotham’s history. Perhaps it should be dragged into the light.
“The Court of Owls precedes Percy by generations,” he observed, “dating back to the colonial era at least. I suspect that this isn’t the first such idol, more likely a replacement or restoration undertaken during Percy’s time. It’s
probable the Court would take advantage of having a celebrated sculptor among their number.”
“There’s no trace of Lydia anywhere,” Batgirl observed, “although I suppose Percy would have to be pretty nervy to memorialize his mistress—no offense, Joanna—at the very heart of the Court’s secret dungeons.”
“Then again,” Batman said, “we found an owl cleverly hidden with that last Lydia. I wouldn’t put it past him to hide a Lydia amidst the Owls, particularly if he blamed them for her death.” Stepping over the edge of the fountain, he waded through the scummy water to take a closer look at the immense sculpture, seeking out shadowy clefts and crevices that might hide another century-old clue. If necessary, he could dispatch a drone to conduct another 3D scan for analysis back in the bunker or the Batcave, but he hoped to avoid that.
I’m not coming back here if I can help it.
He recalled the harsh white light that had shone down on him before. The glare had come from high-intensity lights suspended high above the chamber. The Owls, too, had peered down at him from their lofty perches atop the walls. Thus, if there was anything Percy wanted to hide, he’d have made certain it couldn’t be spotted from above. Tapping into the barbed memories of his captivity, Batman visualized the light pouring down, illuminating the finely sculpted surface of the idol while creating contrasting shadows…
Where?
Climbing onto the rough-hewn pedestal, he squinted into the negative space beneath the Owl’s folded wings and behind its thick, ponderous legs. He ignited another light stick to dispel the shadows—and found Lydia Doyle peering back at him.
“She’s here.”
A small portrait was hidden behind the Great Owl’s right leg. Like the tiny owl tucked away among Wisdom’s robes, the portrait was placed where it couldn’t be seen by anyone who wasn’t deliberately searching for it. Percy had hidden her well, right beneath the Court’s eyes. Her goddess-like features were rendered in bas-relief, her eyes closed in repose, her lips bearing that same sad smile Batman had come to know so well.
“Where?” Joanna asked excitedly. “Let me see!”
Heedless of the guck, she splashed through the fountain to join Batman, who helped her up onto the fabricated boulder. He stepped aside to let her get a better look as she squeezed between the Owl’s scaly legs to get to the newly discovered portrait. He held up the light stick so that the glow fell upon his discovery.
“Oh my God, that’s definitely her.” Joanna’s eyes were wide behind her glasses. “Even after all my research, I never dreamed of finding something like this.” She stared at Percy’s hidden tribute to his lost love, which he must have carved before he shaped the statue at the university, not long after Lydia’s disappearance. “This is so amazing…”
She reached out to touch the portrait, as though to assure herself that she wasn’t just seeing things. Her outstretched fingers grazed the polished stone, exploring its graceful contours. Unexpectedly, the portrait slid further back into the marble. She yanked her hand back, gasping in surprise.
“What in the—?”
There was a click, followed by a low mechanical rumbling as of concealed gears and counterweights, stirring after a long slumber. The statue began to totter above them.
“Watch out!” Dropping the light stick, Batman sprang forward, seized Joanna, and leapt out from beneath the Great Owl. The force of his leap carried them over the stagnant pool so that they crashed onto the hard marble floor. He rolled into the fall, absorbing the brunt of the impact as he cushioned Joanna with his body. Grunting, he looked past her to see the top of the boulder shear off from the rest of the pedestal, sending the entire monolith toppling toward them.
“Batman!” Batgirl cried, too far away to help.
We didn’t get far enough away…
Gripping Joanna tightly, he rolled them out of its path. A tremor shook the Labyrinth as the Great Owl crashed to earth, raising a cloud of dust and pulverized marble. The huge idol shattered into pieces only a few feet away from them. Flying bits of debris pelted his cape as he shielded her from the fragments as best he could. A fist-sized chunk of marble bounced off his shoulder, making him wince and grit his teeth. Armored suit or not, he was going to be black and blue tomorrow.
Yet they had survived.
Rising cautiously, he watched the surrounding walls, ready to respond if they started tumbling as well—but only the Great Owl had been uprooted by whatever long-dormant booby trap Joanna had inadvertently triggered. As the dust and debris began to settle, he looked about for the third member of their party.
“Batgirl?” he called out.
“Over here!” she shouted from the other side of the rubble. Her voice sounded hoarse from the dust. She came into view, clambering over heaps of debris to reach them. “And you two?”
“Alive,” Batman said, “and uncrushed.” He helped Joanna to her feet. She appeared shaken, but not seriously injured. Even her glasses had survived their narrow escape.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I had no idea… I just wanted to touch it, to confirm that it was real.”
“It’s not your fault,” Batman said. “You couldn’t have known. In your world, fine art doesn’t come with booby traps.”
“Well, except maybe in Gotham,” Batgirl quipped. She contemplated the wrecked statue, which was no longer in any shape to adorn a museum. “Boy, Percy really didn’t want people messing with his lady.”
Batman found that oddly encouraging.
“I wonder what he thought he was protecting?” It occurred to him that the deathtrap had been there the entire time he had been imprisoned in the Labyrinth. Had he known the Great Owl was rigged to collapse, he could have used that to his advantage when he was fighting for his life.
Water under the bridge.
And drugged water, at that.
“Hey, guys,” Batgirl called. “You need to see this.” She’d made her way over to what had been the base of the statue, where the bottom half of the boulder still remained in place above the center of the pool. The urgency in her voice caught his attention.
“What is it?” he asked, a thrill of anticipation running through him.
“I think we found what Percy wanted to hide.”
Batman and Joanna scrambled over to investigate. Inside the bottom half of the rocky pedestal, exposed to the light for the first time in a century, was a bronze sarcophagus fashioned in the shape of a woman: Lydia Doyle, lying supine atop the lid of the casket. Burial cerements draped her form. Her eyes were closed in slumber.
“Oh my,” Joanna whispered.
This could be it, he thought.
“Shades of Edgar Allan Poe.” Batgirl looked at Batman. “You think this is what it seems to be?”
“Lydia Doyle’s tomb,” he replied. “Almost certainly. This has always been about Lydia, at least as far as Percy was concerned.”
Being careful not to touch it, Batgirl surveyed the sarcophagus, which appeared untouched by the passage of time.
“But how on Earth did Percy manage to hide it here, right under their beaks, as it were?”
“My guess?” Batman said. “He constructed the pedestal off-site, sealed the sarcophagus inside it, then had it installed here in the Labyrinth. He may have bribed or blackmailed some laborers, who—knowing the Court—might have been disposed of after the work was complete. By that time, any squeamishness Percy might have felt likely had given way to cynicism.
“The same for the booby trap,” he continued. “If Percy supervised the installation himself, and tied the mechanism in with the hydraulics for the fountain, any special ‘modifications’ could have gone unnoticed.” He shrugged beneath his cloak. “It’s not easy, but it’s doable. The trick is to divvy up the labor so that nobody can see the whole picture.”
He spoke from experience. His very existence as the Dark Knight relied upon the subtle art of commissioning labor and materials from multiple sources, the better to conceal the true nature of his work. If he c
ould establish secret armories throughout Gotham, and equip himself with an ever-growing array of vehicles and gear, then Percy Wright could have been creative enough to hide Lydia’s tomb below the Great Owl.
“Right beneath the Court’s very noses,” Batman said. “He hid Lydia at the heart of the Owls’ sanctum as a final ironic act of defiance.”
“Not unlike the way he placed a sculpture of Lydia at the door of his own tomb,” Joanna observed. “The artist in him was clearly drawn to symbolic acts of revenge.”
“I take back what I said before,” Batgirl said. “He was even nervier than I gave him credit for.”
Batman leaned in to study the sarcophagus. Joanna hung back, keeping her hands to her sides. Batman appreciated her restraint, and approached the casket with caution.
“There’s an inscription,” Batgirl said. “Running along the edge of the lid—do you see it?”
“Yes.” He activated a new light stick to get a better look. It was written in Latin, as befitted Percy’s erudition. Squinting at the inscription, Batman took a moment to translate it, then read it aloud. “You will bring conflagration back with you. How great the flames are that you are seeking over these waters, you do not know.”
“There’s a cheery epitaph.” Joanna shuddered, hugging herself. “It sounds familiar.”
“It’s from Ovid,” Batman said. “Cassandra, the doomed prophetess, predicting the Fall of Troy.”
“Cassandra,” Batgirl echoed. “A seeress, condemned to see the future, consumed by visions of impending disaster. Some stories say it drove her mad.”
“And the most beautiful of Troy’s daughters,” Batman said, “not that it saved her—or her city—from the doom she foretold.”
“Cassandra has always been a popular subject for traditional sculptors and painters,” Joanna said. “Percy revisited her a few times over the course of his career. One of his earliest works was a bust of Cassandra, gazing off into the future. It took a prize at a student exhibition when he was just starting out. Made his name, in fact.”
“A famous beauty. Visions of tomorrow, and a warning of disaster to come,” Batman said. “Lydia. Cassandra. As classical allusions go, it’s pretty apt.”