by Jason Starr
“We need to talk,” Thomas said without pleasantries.
“I’m detecting a sense of urgency,” Strange said. “Interesting. Please, follow me.”
Thomas trailed Strange along a stale, fluorescent-lit corridor, and then they entered his office. It was well decorated, and had two exposures providing a spectacular view of Gotham, including the Wayne Tower off to the left. With his medical school diploma on the wall, and standard medical texts on the shelves, Strange’s office looked like that of any other upscale psychiatrist. Thomas could understand why his patients trusted him.
Strange shut the door. Then he sat at his desk and motioned toward the guest’s chair.
“It always brightens my day to see an old friend,” Strange said. “Please, have a seat.” But Thomas made no move to do so. Instead, he launched right into it, casting aside the speech he had planned on the way over.
“Were you behind the robbery at Wayne Manor the other night?” he asked.
“Excuse me?” Strange sounded baffled. “Wait, was there a robbery? At your home?”
“You heard me,” Thomas said. “A Picasso was stolen Friday night. I think it was a cover.”
“A cover?” Strange said. “A cover for what?” Thomas couldn’t tell whether he was lying or not. Weren’t all psychopaths natural liars? So he decided not to give ground.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Thomas said. “You also sent a man to follow me on Saturday. Perhaps you have had people following me for some time.”
“Following you? Why would I have someone following you?”
On the absurd chance that he might be speaking the truth, Thomas didn’t want to give anything away about Karen Jennings, nor speak about Pinewood, or the experiments. For all he knew, their conversation was being recorded.
In fact, he was certain it was.
“Stop playing games, Strange.”
“I’m detecting significant paranoia, and focused aggression,” the bearded man replied. “Actually, I find the entire nature of this visit to be quite bizarre. I think it’s quite rude, as well. I may have to ask you to leave, Thomas, if your behavior doesn’t improve.”
“I’m warning you,” Thomas said, trying to sound as firm as he could. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but if you’re planning what I think you’re planning, it’s a huge mistake.” He paused to gather himself. “I have connections, I can use them if I want to. I’ll make sure none of your plans come to fruition, and that you wind up where you belong—in prison.”
“Interesting,” Strange said. “So angry. And after such a long time. Quite anti-social. I can’t think of any explanation for this other than you’re having some sort of mental episode. I can’t speculate myself on the cause of it, of course. That would be a severe conflict of interest, and quite unethical—you know how I am on ethics, Thomas.
“But if you’d like me to refer you to another psychiatrist, I can provide a name to your office… or your butler. There’s an up-and-coming therapist named Leslie Thompkins who I hear is quite good at what she does. She sees private patients occasionally, and I believe she would take you on.”
Struck by sudden doubt, Thomas wondered if it was possible that he had been wrong. Perhaps the break-in had nothing to do with Strange. Maybe Strange hadn’t been searching for the documents on Pinewood. Maybe it had simply been a robbery by a gang of thieves.
I don’t think so.
“I think you’re lying,” Thomas said. “It’s not unexpected. For all I know you’re recording this conversation, so why would you want to implicate yourself? There’s no way you’d admit to having any connection to the robbery, or to having that man follow me on Saturday.”
“Man?” Strange said. “What man?”
“You know who I’m talking about,” Thomas shouted.
Then Strange stood. “You have overstayed your welcome, Thomas. You’re clearly unstable, having some sort of an episode, and I suggest a full psychiatric screening. Miss Peabody will give you the contact information for Miss Thompkins on your way out. Please don’t return again until you’re healed.”
“Stay away from me and my family, you son of a bitch,” Thomas said. “And stay off my property.”
He turned to go.
Then he heard Strange laughing.
Thomas wheeled around, livid, and asked, “What’s so funny?”
“Humor,” Strange said, “the most subjective emotion. What makes one person laugh can make another cry. So, you’re wondering, why did I choose to laugh? Perhaps there are two explanations. First, I remain baffled by your behavior. The bewilderment of others can, at times, be quite entertaining.
“Second, I find it amusing that you think you’re in any position to put demands of any kind on me. Oh yes, I’m well aware of the power Wayne Enterprises wields in Gotham. I’m also well aware of my power over you, Thomas. Perhaps you’re conveniently forgetting your involvement in the past—in our past. Without your financial investment, none of the unfortunate events would have taken place. In fact, an argument could be made that you’re more culpable than I am.”
“You son of a bitch,” Thomas said.
“There, there, I think name calling is a non-productive way of expressing anger,” Strange said. “You should work on that.”
“I don’t submit to blackmail,” Thomas said.
“In that case,” Strange said, “I’m warning you. If I do choose to pursue any creative, experimental medical endeavors in the future, that will be my own prerogative. And if you choose to try to stop me, you will suffer the consequences for your actions. But I don’t have to tell you this—I think you’re already aware of the dangerous line you’re walking.”
Staring at his reflection in Strange’s tinted glasses—a face in each lens—Thomas wondered how he’d ever called this maniac a friend. Had something happened with Strange, from the first day they’d met till the time he conceived of Pinewood? Or had he always had a maniacal side that he’d kept hidden from Thomas?
“What are you thinking?” Strange asked.
“What happened to you?” Thomas asked. “How did you get this way?”
“Hmm, I wonder,” the doctor said. “Are you asking me that question, or are you asking yourself that question? We have a psychological explanation for this phenomenon—it’s called projection. I really think some intense psychoanalysis would do wonders for you.”
“I think you’re the one who’s projecting, Hugo,” Thomas said, and he left the office.
* * *
Several minutes later, walking along the busy street, Gothamites rushing past in both directions, Thomas decided it had been a mistake. He hadn’t learned whether or not Strange was involved in the robbery and, worse, now the psychopath knew Thomas was on to him.
Strange was brilliant, crafty, and relentless. These attributes had once made him a great competitor as an athlete, but as a mad scientist he was alarmingly dangerous. One thing had become very clear, though—Strange wasn’t going away on his own. If he was hell-bent on restarting a Pinewood-like program he would do it, and the only way Thomas could stop him was to go public. Strange assumed Thomas would never do it, as it could destroy his own reputation.
This is where Strange had gotten it wrong. If it meant saving lives and avoiding another Pinewood, Thomas was willing to do anything to stop him—even if meant turning himself in to the authorities and relinquishing control of Wayne Enterprises.
He tried Frank’s cell, but the call went right to voicemail.
“For Christ’s sake,” Thomas said as he ended the call.
The streets were crowded. To avoid being recognized, he put on dark sunglasses. Still some passersby said, “Good morning, Mr. Wayne,” and others acknowledged him with a smile and a nod of the head. He had gone a few blocks when his cell chimed. He checked his phone, hoping it was Frank with some goods, but the display told him otherwise.
Martha
He hit “accept.”
“Hello,” Thomas said,
walking.
“You won’t believe it.” Martha sounded upset.
Thomas stopped. “What is it?” He wondered, Has Strange contacted her? Has he threatened her in some way?
“It’s Bruce,” Martha said.
No…
“Bruce?” Thomas’s panic intensified.
“Yes, it’s so awful,” Martha said.
Had Strange sent someone to hurt Bruce? If so, Thomas planned to go back into that office building and kill him, strangle the son of a bitch with his bare hands.
“He was in a fight,” Martha said.
“A fight? What kind of fight?”
“A fight in school. With two other boys.”
Thank god. Just a harmless school fight. Thomas felt the tension lift.
“I knew that boxing would be a bad influence on him,” Martha said, “and now look what happened. He gets into a fight, and gets suspended from school for an entire week. I mean, if he wasn’t talking about boxing all weekend, reading about it in the papers, watching that fight on television, then he wouldn’t have gone to school and gotten himself into trouble. It’s awful, just awful.”
Actually, it was the best news he’d heard all day, and he was eager to get more details about it from Bruce later on. In the past, Bruce had avoided fighting, often just running away from the bullies. But today, it sounded as if he’d taken a giant leap toward growing up, learning how to stand up for himself.
If Bruce was going to follow in Thomas’s footsteps, and run Wayne Enterprises someday, he had to follow the example Thomas had tried to set for him. He had to be strong, resolute, a stoic.
“That’s awful,” Thomas said, going for an appropriately somber tone, mixed with disappointment. “I’ll definitely have to have a talk with him about this when I get home.”
“I hope you’re serious,” Martha said. “I’m just so angry right now. Bruce is a smart boy, not some… some savage. This has been such an appalling day. I mean, given the news about that man Collins.”
“What news?” Thomas said, startled by the sudden shift. “What about Frank?”
“Oh, I thought you saw it in the paper this morning, before you left. It was on the front page.”
Thomas’s gut tightened.
“What about Frank?” he asked.
“Oh no, you didn’t know.” She paused as if struggling for the right words, then went with, “He’s dead, Thomas.”
TWENTY-SIX
“It’s troubling,” Hugo Strange said. “Very, very troubling.”
After Thomas left, Strange re-read the story in the Gotham Herald about the murders at the Star Bright Motel, and at the residence of the psychic known as Belladonna. Miss Peabody came into Strange’s office and sat across from him.
“What did Mr. Wayne want?” Peabody asked.
Strange heard the question, yet he didn’t feel compelled to answer it.
“It disturbs me when people don’t follow orders,” he said. “I wonder why that is.” After a long pause, he added, “Perhaps it’s because I’m such a perfectionist in my own life that I demand it in others. For example, my inherent sense of style. I would never let anyone else choose my wardrobe, or trim my beard, I must always do it myself.
“Perhaps it’s because my father was such a bastard. I felt helpless as a child, watching him beat my poor mother on a nightly basis, so now I demand order and perfection in my life. I require control. When this doesn’t happen it irritates me to no end.”
“That’s understandable,” Miss Peabody said.
“Oh, but believe me,” Strange said, “I thank my father for the man he made me today. He made me driven, I live to want to prove him wrong. He told me the night my mother killed him that I had been the biggest mistake of his life. He told me I would never accomplish anything, that I was destined for a life of failure. When I had to shut Pinewood down, his prediction seemed to come to fruition.”
“So what are you planning to do about it?” Peabody asked. “Change your plans? Abandon them?”
“Oh, no, on the contrary, I intend to fast-track them.” He grinned, and then said, “Ten years ago we were so close to a major breakthrough, to unlocking the greatest mysteries of genetic research. The secret to my success thus far is that I’ve never been a quitter. I always see things through to the bitter end. I knew that the time would come for me to resume my life’s calling, and that time is now.”
“But the robbery didn’t work the way you wanted it to,” Peabody said. “You didn’t find Wayne’s files, did you?”
“Oh, it’s much worse than that,” Strange said. “The thieves my contact hired stole a painting. If they had just found the files, Thomas wouldn’t have even reported the robbery. What would he have said? That the files detailing his involvement in Pinewood had been stolen? But now Thomas wants his painting back, and the trail has led him to me. Can you imagine if the most important genetic research in the history of mankind was halted because some idiots stole a painting?”
“So what are you planning to do about it?” Miss Peabody asked again. He frowned at the repetition.
“Every doctor understands that you always need a plan B,” Strange said. “My ultimate goal remains to take control of Arkham Asylum. I refuse to let anything stop me. Thomas Wayne wants to turn Arkham into a mental health facility, no doubt in another desperate attempt to redeem himself. He feels guilt for Pinewood, which seems to drive every decision of his life. He would make a fascinating case study in pathological guilt.
“I almost feel sorry for poor Thomas,” he continued, “that he is bound by such useless emotion, and that he will never see his dream for Arkham come to fruition. The patients there will provide fertile ground for my future endeavors. But, I’m getting ahead of myself—right now there is some more housecleaning I need to do.”
Strange went to the window, stared at gray, foggy Gotham. The whole city seemed to be smoldering.
“In this case, I actually need to let go of control,” he said with his back to Miss Peabody. “My protection is in layers. The more layers, the less likely I’ll get caught.”
“Have you confirmed that Karen Jennings has been killed?” Miss Peabody asked.
“Negative,” Strange said. “But if Karen is indeed still alive, and I have my doubts, then she’s living in seclusion, and thus is contained. I’m more concerned with other threats that are roaming around this city.” Strange turned again toward Miss Peabody, and said, “Please make an appointment for me to see The Lady.”
* * *
“Stop right here.”
The driver double-parked in front of the luxury town house, and Strange exited. It was early evening, and the air was crisp. He went up the stoop, rang the bell exactly five times, and then the door opened. Alonso, the young butler Strange knew from his previous visits, stood there.
“Please, come in, Dr. Strange.”
The place looked more like a bordello than the home of one of a discreet and expensive businesswoman. Exotic rugs, dim lighting, the scent of incense. Strange waited on one of the plush velvet couches, gradually getting annoyed. He enjoyed making people wait for him, but he didn’t like waiting for others.
Finally, after an excruciating four minutes and twenty-three seconds—yes, he timed it—The Lady entered.
Strange didn’t know her real name—and it was possible that no one did. She was a middle-aged woman, with elegance to her, although she was dressed the way her apartment was decorated. Gaudy, over-the-top. She wore a red dress, heels, and had on several gold necklaces.
“Dr. Strange, such a pleasure to see you,” she said, coming over to him and kissing him European-style, on both cheeks.
“Thank you for having me,” Strange said.
“Has Alonso offered you a drink yet?”
“No, he hasn’t.”
“He hasn’t?” The Lady sounded appalled. Then she called out, “Alonso! Alonso!”
The butler dashed into the room. “Yes, my lady?”
“Why didn’
t you offer Dr. Strange a drink?”
“Oh.” He sounded nervous, as if he feared consequences. “Well, because the previous times Dr. Strange visited here he didn’t want anything to drink, so I assumed that this time—”
“Part of your job is to offer our guests drinks, Alonso.”
“Y-yes, my lady,” he said. “I-I won’t make the same mistake twice.” Then he said to Strange, “W-w-would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you,” Strange said.
“You’ll be punished for this, Alonso,” The Lady said. “Now please leave us alone.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Alonso exited, still trembling. Strange had no idea what “punished” entailed, but the power dynamic fascinated him. He enjoyed observing Alonso’s fear response. Fear was such an interesting phenomenon—so powerful.
“I’m so sorry about that,” The Lady said to him. “It frustrates me to no end when one of my workers can’t complete a simple task.”
“I very much agree,” Strange said. “Delegating always presents its challenges.”
“Speaking of which,” The Lady said, “I apologize for what happened with the man who followed Thomas Wayne last Saturday. The man I sent, Scotty Wallace, is one of my best, but I lost contact with him upstate. So I suppose he was one of my best.”
“Was Thomas meeting with Karen Jennings, as I’ve suspected he has been?”
“I haven’t been able to confirm that one way or another,” The Lady conceded. “Since Wallace has disappeared, the only conclusion I can reach is either that he’s incapacitated or dead, more likely the latter.”
Strange considered this new information. “So the assassin disappeared while following Thomas Wayne. Is it possible that Wayne was responsible for his… disappearance?” Thomas Wayne was one of the last people whom Strange could imagine committing a murder. Then again, as Strange’s experiments had proved, everyone has a monstrous side.
“Any explanation is possible,” The Lady said. “It’s also possible that Wallace killed Karen, and then wound up dead himself. Perhaps someone killed him or he was even in a car accident.”