Monsters, Murderers and Superheroes

KOLCHAK MEETS BLACULA

2011-09-27T03:35:00.000-07:00

THE REVENGE OF CARL KOLCHAK
aka "KOLCHAK MEETS BLACULA"

by Chuck Miller
(NOTE: This story begins immediately after "The Vampire" episode of the ABC TV series "Kolchak: The Night Stalker," and incorporates some events portrayed in the motion picture "Scream, Blacula, Scream.")

I DO NOT OWN THESE CHARACTERS. THEY ARE OWNED BY WHOEVER OWNS THEM, WHICH IS NOT ME. I'M JUST PLAYING WITH THEM. THIS WORK IS NOT FOR PROFIT.

Chapter one

Did you really think I’d just let them get away with it?

Well, to be honest, so did I. And I would have, had it not been for an extraordinary set of circumstances.

By “them” I refer to a small group of individuals who once wielded enough political power in Las Vegas to crush and discard a reporter who committed the sin of making them look stupid. Human beings will forgive you for all sorts of transgressions, but politicians never do. They are a breed weaned on vindictiveness and spite for whom “public service” begins and ends with their own careers. Power is the all-important end, pursued for its own sake by any means necessary and/or convenient. And once it is attained, any vestige of conscience... Well, I'd best jump off this soapbox for now. You get the general idea. More on this later.

You can ask anyone who knows me, I’m not the kind of guy whose name you’d expect to find following the words “The Revenge of” in a title. I seem to be curiously immune to personal insult, and indifferent to prospects for vengeance over any personal injury. But, as Hamlet pointed out, “seems” covers a lot of territory. I put a good face on things because I have to. In spite of certain appearances to the contrary, I take my career very seriously indeed, and personal vendettas are lethally unprofessional for a journalist. Generally speaking, I cannot afford to take much of anything personally, at least on the surface.

But I’m also not one to squander a wonderful opportunity when one is dropped into my lap. And that’s what this tale is all about.

My name is Carl Kolchak, and I assume if you’re reading this at all, you know something about me and my journalistic career. If you don’t, let me sum it up:

I’m the one that found a genuine vampire in Las Vegas in 1971, and killed him. That's how I got into the mess I alluded to earlier. The cops and the D.A. didn't much like the fact that I did something they couldn't, and the way I went about it rankled them deeply. For a few brief moments, after the vampire was dead, I thought I had won. But, in the way that Vegas is famous for, my high roller status got yanked out from under me in a split second, and I got dumped head first into the shithouse of defeat. Viva Las Vegas!

Anyhow, a year or so later, in Seattle, I grappled with a 144-year-old alchemist who had murdered a couple dozen women during his 80-plus year career. Shortly after that, I moved to Chicago, where I ran afoul of about 20 entities that could be described as being of a more or less supernatural nature. For about a year, I bumped into one right after another.

And yes, I know how all that sounds. If you don’t believe it now, you never will. Approach this account as you would a thrilling piece of horror fiction. Don’t even bother with benefit of the doubt, because it will never work.

In the course of these events, I made an interesting acquaintance. I wouldn’t call him a friend, or even an ally as such. We should have been natural enemies. However, for a time we needed one another, and in the end we both got what we wanted and then some.

And, for once in my life, I got to see how the other half lives. Or doesn’t…

I was headed back home to Chicago from Los Angeles. Catherine Rawlins was dead. I had pounded a stake through her heart just hours earlier. Which was not really murder, or even manslaughter, because she had already been dead for three years at that point. Or dead-ish. The authorities threatened me with a murder rap. Ten or fifteen cops, after all, had seen me drive a wooden stake into her heart. They had an excellent view, too, thanks to the 30-foot tall cross I had set on fire a few dozen yards from Catherine's rented house.

You really had to be there.

I considered my work done. My editor, Tony Vincenzo, on the other hand, would not see things that way. I had connived to get sent to LA on an assignment to interview a boy guru, Amurta Something, from Somewhere Exotic. I had not let that whole thing get in the way of my vampire hunt. Sitting on the plane out of LA, I was not looking forward to walking up the stairs to the offices of the Independent News Service, where the wrath of Vincenzo would be waiting, implacable, pitiless, and more certain than death or taxes. I wouldn’t be able to hold him at bay with a crucifix. I did, however, toy with the idea of a wooden stake and a mallet.

I was filled with dread as I got off the plane in Kansas City for a horribly brief layover. I slouched around in this mood for a little while, wondering if getting drunk would help anything, until I happened to glance at a headline on an LA paper at an airport newsstand.

My Vincenzo anxiety was swallowed whole by a dizzy numbness as I picked up the paper and read the first paragraph. Two more murders. Blood drained, puncture marks in the throats. Early that morning.

An hour AFTER I killed Catherine.

It was a shock, followed by something like relief.

I had to go back. No question. If I so much as got caught jaywalking in LA, they’d find a way to get me sent up for the rest of my life. Hell, they’d do it if they caught me doing nothing more than walking down the street, never mind interfering with an official murder investigation, which I was virtually certain to do. But I had to go back.

Not only that, I would have to joust with Vincenzo again, but at least it would be from afar. Not that it would prove any less lethal, of course, but there would be no immediate physical danger.

Then it hit me. I hit on a scheme so bold, so devious, that it would go down in Kolchak history as the bravest and most foolish act of my career.

I would tell Tony the truth.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

You can keep your Woodwards and your Bernsteins, my biggest journalistic hero was always Nelly Bly. She was the first female reporter to achieve worldwide fame. Her big break came in 1886 when, on assignment from the New York World, she infiltrated the notorious Blackwell’s Island Insane Asylum by pretending to be off her rocker. She turned her experiences into a book called “Ten Days in a Mad-House,” which led to the inception of some serious reforms in the system.

I wasn’t that ambitious, but I could see where such a ploy might be to my advantage now. Feigning mental illness wouldn’t be too difficult for me, surely. I always half-suspected that Tony was just waiting for me to hand him enough irrefutable proof of insanity to have me committed. I knew how dangerous my idea was, on a number of levels. Maybe I really WAS crazy, but at least I could be careful about it.

Vegas had been the start of a very strange cycle. There, I met and destroyed Janos Skorzeny. Then, in Seattle, I played the same basic script opposite Dr. Richard Malcolm. From there, I went to Chicago. In the year or so I had been working there, I had run up against the original Jack the Ripper, a Haitian zombie named Francois Edmonds, an invisible alien, and now, with Catherine, another vampire. In between these episodes, I managed to also produce a number of really first-rate crime stories. That is why, in spite of everything else, I managed to keep jobs a bit longer than I should have. That’s why Tony Vincenzo had hired me three times, and why he had not yet fired me from my berth at the INS, but I knew how hard I was pushing it. We both did, and we dreaded whatever it was that I might one day make necessary.

While I was an accomplished liar, I was not in the habit of making excuses for myself. I seldom admitted personal weakness. In other words, this was something Vincenzo had never seen before, and I hoped it would take him by surprise. I would tell him the full story behind the Rawlins affair, which was of course by any sane standard unbelievable. From there, it's just a short hop to crazy.

I was constructing a good story in my head, filled with the odd little details that make total bullshit sound plausible. I'd stick to the facts, but shade it here and there and imply a lot more than I actually said. If it worked, Tony would be worried sick, and I felt bad about that. But if there was another vampire loose in one of the nation's largest cities, a lot of people would be
more than worried, and quite a few would be more than sick.

For some reason, I decided to go into a restroom to spruce myself up, as though that would help me over the phone with Tony.

It was then that I made a discovery that chilled my blood.

A cliche, I know. But there's a reason things become cliches, and in this case it's because that's exactly what it feels like. I hobbled on into the men's room and splashed water from the sink onto my face, rubbed it vigorously, then studied myself in the mirror. I had numerous small scratches on my cheeks and forehead, though again it was not enough to command undue attention from anyone.

I rubbed a few of them with a fingertip, noting that they were very sore, but not discolored or swollen. I remembered the vampire on top of me, pinning me to the ground. She felt at once incredibly dense and heavy, and strangely insubstantial. Her skin was so cold you could feel the chill without even touching it. She squirmed on top of me and those eyes and that mouthful of teeth were right in my face. I recall thinking that the worst thing about her was her
breath.

Because there wasn't any.

Even when she was right in my face, snarling and hissing like a cat, no air passed her lips. I don't know what powered her vocal chords. She didn't breathe, she didn't sweat. Nor did she stink of the grave, like so many fictional vampires. Which makes sense, since one of the chief attractions of vampirism is the fact that you DON'T decompose. She smelled of nothing, apart from some perfume she must have put on earlier. It smelled just like perfume smells right out of the bottle, with no human scent underneath, no body chemistry with which to interact.

It had been a terrifying moment, and my reaction was one of total desperation. I dropped the large silver cross I was holding onto her back. The burning distracted her enough for me to push her off. I recall mentally congratulating myself and giving thanks to Something that she had not managed to sink her fangs into my throat. However...

By now, you have surely deduced what I'm about to say, so further dramatic buildup is unnecessary. (Pardon my melodrama, but I seldom get a chance in my usual line of work.)

There were two small puncture wounds on the right side of my neck, a bit below and to the rear of my earlobe. My blood did the cliche thing in my veins, and I probably would have done another cliche in my pants if not for the fact that I hadn't eaten anything for two days.

I must have let out some kind of a noise, because a guy I hadn't even noticed standing at the sink next to mine said, "Buddy, you okay?" I glanced briefly at a small man of no particular age, height or appearance.

I was still reeling and very distracted, and I said, "She bit me. I didn't even feel it, but she bit me!" I was twisting my neck around, trying to get a better view of the wounds.

"Who bit ya?" my neighbor asked with genuine interest.

"She was a vamp..." Vaguely aware that I now had an audience, I edited myself a little bit, though I was still pretty frantic. "A hooker. A hooker bit me."

My new friend nodded sagely. "I hear ya," he said. "You never know what to expect. Lucky for you, you can't catch anything just from their teeth."

"This one you can," I said.

"Naah, that's just an old wives' tale. Like getting something off a doorknob. If you're worried, just get your doc to give you some antibiotics. 'The Magic Bullet,' they call it. There was a movie with Edward G. Robinson, he played this Doctor Ehrlich, who invented..."

"You're thinking about a werewolf," I said absently, prodding at the punctures with a forefinger. "Magic bullets are for werewolves."

"Edward G. Robinson wasn't in no werewolf pictures. That was Lon Chaney Jr. He did a bunch of them."

"Maybe it'll be okay," I rambled. "All it is is a bite. It doesn't even hurt. Why, the skin is barely broken. She didn't have a chance to suck me dry."

"Well, then, looks like you missed out on the whole point of the thing. What happened that she didn't do that?"

"I got lucky. I was able to get her on her back. It wasn't easy. either. She almost finished me off right there. But while she was stretched out flat, I pounded my stake into her. God, I pounded harder than I ever have in my life," I said, rotating my right shoulder, still sore from the exertion.

"So it wasn't a total loss, then."

"No," I said, "you're right. I got what I was after. I left her good and dead. I almost got charged with murder. The cops let me go, though, since she was technically already dead before I got my hands on her. But I'm gonna have to pay for that huge cross I set on fire. Do you have any idea how much a thing like that costs?" I turned to my new friend to receive a bit of sympathy, but he was gone, leaving only the men's room door swinging back and forth on its spring hinges to mark his passage.

I laughed as I mentally reviewed our disconnected conversation, imagining what the poor guy must have thought. Encouraged by this impromptu demonstration of my ability to look like a dangerous lunatic-- a successful warm-up act-- I girded my loins for the main event, one Anthony Albert Vincenzo.

TO BE CONTINUED

UNFINISHED BUSINESS: Gotham X 3 Part One

2010-05-05T02:54:00.000-07:00

THE FINAL CURTAIN
OR: “OH, MAMA, CAN THIS REALLY BE THE END?”

PART ONE
“Dead Children and a Dead City: Happy New Year 2000”
By Chuck Miller

(Note: This story begins the day after the “Millennium” episode of The X-Files, and proceeds to destroy the continuity of every character involved. I am taking it upon myself to tie up all of Chris Carter’s dangling plot threads, and at the same time lay waste to the DC Universe. This will conflict with everything else that comes after it, so consider it an “alternate reality” tale. Enjoy.)
(Further Note 2010: This story was started many years ago, and for some reason never finished. It may never be finished.)

-- Chuck
drsivana99@gmail.com

"Life is short; filled with stuff."
-Lux Interior, the Cramps

LEXCORP TOWER

8:35 a.m.
January 1, 2000

“Would you mind not smoking in here,” Lex Luthor said to the man in the cheap suit and trenchcoat.

It wasn’t a request, so there was no question mark at the end. Luthor had a way of making the most offhand statement come across like an imperial command, and he had only a scant understanding, mostly theoretical, of the concept of asking for something. The other man, however, ignored him and lit up a cigarette. Luthor stared at him for a second, then let it drop. There were more important things on his mind today.

Not many people would dare to behave in such a cavalier manner in Luthor’s presence. There was certainly more to this individual than met the eye, which wasn’t much. To describe him as “unprepossessing” would be a bit too lavish. His bland face was lined and weathered, his clothing clean but obviously inexpensive. He looked like a minor civil servant, an older man nearing the end of a drab, unspectacular career.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Even Lex Luthor, with all his formidable resources, had been unable to uncover much information on the man who stood before his huge mahogany deck, quietly smoking a cigarette. The man had at least a dozen different names, none of which were very likely to be the one he had been born with.

Luthor stared coldly at the man, who gazed through the window, his thoughts seemingly miles away. Luthor shifted slightly in his leather chair, waited another moment, then said, “Well?” The man looked at Luthor. He took a drag from his cigarette
before he spoke.

“I take it, Mister Luthor, that you are now more willing to take me seriously? In light of this morning’s events, perhaps?”

“Let’s not dance around this,” Luthor said sharply. “I have a feeling the time for bulls*** and obfuscation is long past. You’re talking about Seattle, yes? Do you know what happened? Are you involved in it?”

Seattle. That was all anyone had talked about since six o’clock that morning, Eastern time. A cruel damper had been put on Millennium celebrations all over the world by the news from the West Coast.

Seattle was gone.

The man shook his head. “Not involved. But I have a good idea who is responsible. And it won’t stop with Seattle. That was just the opening round.”

Luthor’s eyes narrowed. “If you want to someday walk out of this building alive, I suggest you tell me everything you know. Now.”

The man shrugged. “I have no secrets to keep from you. I need your help. You’ll want to help me. You’re an ambitious man, Luthor. You want power, more power than you have now. But power won’t mean much to you if the world is reduced to a charred husk, will it?”

“No. Of course it won’t. Now, the next sentence you speak had better contain some concrete information, or my patience with you will be exhausted. Do you understand?”

The man nodded. He actually smiled a little as he crushed out his cigarette in a small potted plant. “Tell me, Mister Luthor, have you ever heard of the Millennium Group?”
Luthor raised his eyebrows, sat up straighter in his chair. “I’m listening,” he said.

FBI HEADQUARTERS
11:37 a.m.

Fox Mulder, weary and injured from the events of the previous night, took one look at the folder on his desk and said a very vulgar word.

Dana Scully looked up sharply. She hadn’t fared as badly as Mulder the night before, but she still had dark circles under her eyes and looked tired and disheveled, in spite of a bath, a change of clothes and four hours’ sleep. “What?” she asked, not sure she really wanted to know.

Mulder sighed. “You’re not gonna believe this. Skinner just sent this down. Grave desecrations ...” He looked up at his partner, his eyes ever so slightly unfocused. “Exactly the same as the others.”

Scully’s eyebrows went up. “More FBI agents?”

“No,” Mulder shook his head. “But that’s the only thing that’s different. The blood circles, the damage inside the caskets, that was the same. But the ... can we call them victims? They weren’t FBI at all. They were just kids.”

“Kids?”

“Yeah. Three kids. Two of them were brother and sister, the other one was a friend of theirs. They all died a few days ago.”

“Suicides?”

“No. That’s another difference. They were all murdered.” Mulder thumbed through the folder.

“Let’s see ... We’ve got a Mary Bromfield, a Billy Batson—that’s the brother and sister. They’re orphans; the girl was adopted when she was a baby. And a Freddy Freeman. Seems they spent a lot of time together. Says here they were poisoned, probably while they were at a local… hm, malt shoppe, I didn’t know there still were such things. How Archie Andrews. I wonder if Reggie Mantle can account for his whereabouts. Well... No suspects, no leads… Though the cops did find one odd thing, in the kitchen at the malt shoppe. Says here ‘a worm unknown to science…’ Anyhow, the graves were discovered desecrated yesterday, while we were investigating the others.”

“Where?”

“Near Fawcett City. Halfway across the country.” Mulder gave Scully one of his looks and she blew air through her pursed lips. “So that means ...” she began.

“That we have another necromancer out there,” Mulder continued for her. “But why kids? Why THESE kids?”

Scully sat dumbly, fingering the tiny gold cross she wore on a chain around her neck. What was it Mulder had said to her last night—this morning? “Well, the world didn’t come to an end, did it?” She had agreed with him that it had not. But that was before they got the news about Seattle, what little news there was. Most of the state of Washington was under a communications blackout. Whatever had happened to Seattle had disrupted telephone and power lines all up and down the coast. What they did have was that awful satellite photo which had been running on CNN all morning. Taken from a satellite in geosynchronous orbit above Seattle, it showed ... nothing. A big, black hole where the city itself and several surrounding communities had once been. There appeared to be a considerable amount of debris floating in the waters of Puget Sound, and not a building could be seen standing within a 40-mile radius. The Army and Navy were conducting radiation tests from a distance before sending anyone into the affected area.

“Mulder slapped a hand down on his desk. “I HATE cases like this. I hate cases involving kids. It always reminds me of those three kids who disappeared in Blair, Maryland, five years ago. I hope we make more progress on this case than we did on that one.”

Scully realized she had lapsed into a staring spell, broken by Mulder’s outburst, and shook her head to rouse herself. She stood up slowly. “The name of the town was Burkittsville, Mulder. Besides, that was a witch—supposedly. At least we’ve already whipped one necromancer, so we can go for 2-0 on this one.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. She made her way, a little unsteadily, out of Mulder’s office and to the women’s restroom, where she stood in front of the aluminum sink, ran some cold water, splashed it on her face, rubbed her eyes. They were sore from fatigue and rubbing them felt good. When she opened them, she saw a dark figure reflected in the mirror above the sink. It was a man. A man in a dark suit and a cloak, with a black, wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes. He had some kind of strange-looking amulet hanging around his neck from a heavy chain.

Terrific.

"Sir,” she said wearily, turning to confront the man. “I think you’re in the wrong room ...”

He cocked his head slightly, regarding her with eyes that were invisible under the shadow of his hat brim. “Dana Scully,” he said. “I need to speak with you.” Scully could feel the eyes on her. This wasn’t an ordinary man, she knew immediately. She wasn’t afraid; she felt more weary irritation than anything. She was a bit fed up with mysterious strangers and their cryptic pronouncements. Ever since she finally took the plunge, and began giving credence to ideas that she would once have found out of the question, she had learned that the paranormal is generally more annoying than scary.

”Okay,” she said with a sigh. “Who are you and what cosmic secret do you want to reveal to me or wipe from my mind?” She glanced at her watch. “I really don’t have all day, you know.”

The man seemed momentarily taken aback. Then he smiled, just a little. “I am ... a stranger.”

”No S***.” She looked him up and down. “Well, you’re not the strangest stranger I’ve ever seen, by a long shot. I hope you won’t be offended if I don’t go all slack-jawed in your presence. I’ve spent most of the past 24 hours shooting zombies in order to prevent the Apocalypse, so you’ll understand if my shock threshold is pretty high this morning.”
Now the man, if that’s what he was, was definitely smiling.

”I’ve had many reactions from mortals through the centuries,” he remarked, “but nothing quite like this. I must admit, I find it ... refreshing.”

”I’m thrilled for you,” Scully said dryly. “Now, can we please get to the point?”

”Of course. Oh, may I say that the creatures you fought were not proper zombies. A zombie is a creature animated by a very specific Voodoo ritual process. What you fought would more properly be called a ghoul, or perhaps a…”

He stopped short, having detected the look in Scully’s eyes, a glare that might very well have enough intensity behind it to kill even him. He cleared his throat and began again.

While you and your partner made a valiant effort, I’m afraid you did not ‘prevent the Apocalypse,’ as you put it. Your necromancer was nothing more than a distraction. The Millennium Group has other plans afoot, as I think you knew in your heart they would.”

Scully made a face. It was true, she hadn’t been satisfied with their latest bit of work. From what she had learned of the Millennium Group, she found it hard to believe that the plan that she and Mulder and Frank Black had interfered with was the only one the Group had in place.

The Stranger’s face and voice became grave. “There are awful times ahead, Dana Scully. You will play a role in the drama that is to unfold. You will survive, but the cost will be terrible. Not more than you can bear, for you are strong, but terrible nonetheless.”

Scully rolled her eyes. “I knew it. I knew you were gonna go cryptic on me. I suppose you can’t tell me any of the details because there are some things that it is better for mere mortals not to know, or something like that. Am I right?”

”Uh ... well, yes. Though I would not necessarily say ‘mere,’ although…”

”SO,” Scully snapped, and the Stranger decided that if her eyes didn’t kill him, her tone would. “The point of this visitation would be ...?”

The Stranger became even more solemn. “To tell you not to give up. You will want to. A moment will come, very soon, when you will be tempted to give in, to cease caring. You will doubt yourself and the future. Please, Dana, do not. Much will depend upon the decision you will make. You have great inner strength, more than you have ever been aware of. When the time comes, use it. Look into your heart and you will find what you need.”

Scully nodded slowly. “Yes, okay. Very good. You used to work for Hallmark, right?” She rubbed her eyes again. “I’ll tell you what I’m hoping right now,” she continued. “I’m really, really hoping you are an hallucination brought on by fatigue, a bit of undigested beef perhaps, and when I open my eyes again, you’ll be gone.” She stopped rubbing but kept her eyes shut. “Okay, are you gone yet?”

”No,” came the Stranger’s voice.

”I didn’t think so.” Scully sighed and opened her eyes. Sure enough, he was still there, very solid and real. She studied his face, tried to get a glimpse of the eyes beneath the hat brim. “I’m not going to ask you what you are,” she said, “because I know you’ll say something weird and I’ll be tempted to shoot you. If I find you have mirrors on your shoes, I will not hesitate.”

The Stranger smiled again. “It wouldn’t have much of an effect, I’m afraid.”

” But I’d enjoy it. Really.”

The Stranger raised his hand in a gesture of farewell. “Remember what I have told you, Dana Scully. Everything you will need is already inside you. I have faith that you will make the right choices.”

”Then why did you have to run me down in the ladies’ room?”

“You would like the truth?’

“I would,” Scully said, nodding. “I keep hearing it’s out there.”

“Very well. I have walked the earth for a staggering span of years. I have seen almost everything and been almost everywhere. I have journeyed to hell itself and I have traveled to distant stars. But in all that time, I have never seen the inside of a women’s restroom. I was… curious.”
This succeeded in rendering Scully temporarily speechless. She was trying to frame a response, when the Stranger spoke again.

“Tell me,” he said, gesturing toward the opposite wall, “why are there no urinals in this restroom?”
Scully glanced in the direction the Stranger had indicated and stared blankly at the row of stalls. Her eyebrows went up. She said, “Damn, you really ARE a Stranger.” She turned back around and started to speak. “Are you being serious…”

But the Stranger was gone. Just like that. No noise, no puff of smoke, nothing.

Scully shook her head. She resolved that if she ever met this phantom of the lavatory again, he would pay for his little joke. Not the cryptic prophesy. That was par for the course. The thing about the urinals, though, that was too much.

A fucking comedian.

All that was left for her now was to shrug and sigh and jump back into the meat grinder.

It was going to be one of THOSE days.

GOTHAM CITY
NOON

“I understand, Clark,” Bruce Wayne said into the telephone receiver, with a hint of exasperation. “And you know I’m not
unsympathetic. But I just don’t see what I can do. Whatever happened in Seattle was terrible, but the rest of you are far better equipped to handle it than I am. If you need me, you know I’ll be available. But Gotham is where I belong. This city is just starting to get back on its feet, and after what happened this morning, people are scared to death. And frightened people can be dangerous people.” He listened for a moment, then spoke again. “Of course. You know how to get in touch with me. I know you’ll do your best. Goodbye.”

Wayne hung up the phone on the bedside table and leaned back against his pillows for a moment, rubbing his forehead. He had just had three hours of sleep, which was about average for him. He had long ago mastered relaxation techniques which made three hours of repose the equivalent of a full night’s sleep. A thin shaft of brilliant sunlight streamed through a space between the heavy drapes covering the large windows of Wayne Manor’s master bedroom.
“Happy New Year,” he muttered sourly. He was deeply concerned about what had happened in Seattle, but he had moved that concern to the back of his mind. There was little or nothing he could do about Seattle, but much he could and needed to do in Gotham. The city was in the first stages of recovery from the earthquake that had devastated it a year ago. The previous evening, in fact, had been his first night back in his family home. Reconstruction of the mansion was underway, but it was being done slowly and discreetly by a handful of individuals who could be trusted with the mansion’s secrets.

One of those individuals, who was trusted not only with the mansion’s secrets, but with the Batman’s as well, was Alfred Pennyworth. Alfred was Bruce Wayne’s oldest friend. More family than friend, actually. The only constant in his life.

Wayne recognized the tapping at his chamber door as Alfred’s. “Come in,” he said distractedly, his mind still on the events of the morning. Alfred entered in his usual quiet, unobtrusive manner. Alfred was such a fixture in Bruce Wayne’s life that he sometimes took his manservant’s presence for granted. And whenever he caught himself doing that, he corrected himself as quickly and severely as he could. Taking people for granted was something he didn’t want to get into the habit of doing. The nature of his work—his obsession—sometimes made him self-centered and unnaturally focused. He walked a very fine line
between the man he was and the mission he had undertaken.

“Come in,” Wayne said. He could tell immediately by the expression on the older man’s face that something was very wrong. Alfred handed him a sheaf of computer printouts. “I just received these from Miss Oracle, sir,” he said gravely. “She told me to bring them to your attention immediately.” Wayne thanked him and took the papers. Alfred stood by, an expression of deep concern on his face.

Wayne studied the papers, then looked up into his old friend’s eyes. Alfred gasped. He had never, in all the years he’d been associated with Bruce Wayne, seen such an expression of raw fear on the man’s face.

“My God,” Wayne said. “My ... God.” He stood for a moment, still, silent.

Alfred Pennyworth watched as Wayne’s features slowly hardened into a grim, impassive mask. When he spoke again, every trace of Bruce Wayne was gone. Alfred shuddered. He had watched many times over the years as Bruce Wayne had taken on the frightening persona of his dark alter-ego. But this time was different. Alfred had never seen the transformation so
intense, so complete. The man standing before him now was the Batman, completely and totally.
“This is very, very bad,” said Batman. “Someone killed those children and raised them again. Those blood circles around the graves? That’s necromancy, Alfred. The summoning of the dead. Necromancers can sometimes use the dead they’ve raised to perform certain tasks.”

“Good Lord,” Alfred said. “But, sir. When I say this, I am in no way minimizing the tragedy of what happened to these children. But they were ... are ... only children. What can they do that might be so terrible?”

Batman looked at his oldest friend. His eyes were cold. “There are a few things you don’t know about some of my associates. I don’t suppose I’m violating any confidences telling you this, since they are—technically—dead now. Billy Batson, Mary Bromfield and Freddy Freeman led double lives. Literally. The story is a bit complicated, but what it comes down to is this: Those three children are actually three of the most powerful beings on the planet. The Marvel Family, Alfred.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yes. Do you see the implications? These graves were opened yesterday. This morning at 6 a.m. SOMETHING ripped through the city of Seattle ...”

“Sir, you don’t think ...?”

“I never guess, Alfred. And I never jump to conclusions. There may be no connection at all. On the other hand, I’ve never believed in coincidence. I hate to leave Gotham at a time like this, but I HAVE to look into this thing. I could hand this off to the League, but they’re already busy dealing with the damage that’s already been done. If we are dealing with the Marvel Family under some kind of occult control, we need to know for certain. Or Seattle could happen again. It could happen here. This city has been through enough.”

“I am certain Master Dick and Master Tim can help keep order here, sir.”

“They’ll have to. I don’t want then to know anything about this. It could be far too dangerous.” He took a deep breath, released it slowly. “I’ll be leaving for Fawcett City within the hour. I need you to do a couple things for me before I go. First, find out anything else you can on these grave robberies. Who’s investigating, what they’ve found out, if anything. Second, get me anything you can on necromancy, the raising of the dead, that sort of thing—ESPECIALLY information on how to reverse the process. If that’s possible.”

“Perhaps I should phone Mister Blood, sir.”

“Good idea.” Jason Blood was an old acquaintance of both Bruce Wayne and the Batman, and an expert on occult matters. He also shared his existence with a totally amoral, utterly vicious demon called Etrigan, but that was another story. Batman nodded. “You do that, Alfred, while I go down to the cave and get ready. Oh, and Alfred—“

The manservant was already on his way out of the room but turned his head and stopped. “Yes, sir?”

“I know we’ve never discussed religion. I choose to keep my own beliefs to myself. But you’re Church of England, aren’t you?”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “You’re stereotyping again, Master Bruce. I am in fact a Unitarian.”

“Oh.” The Batman was silent for a moment, then he said, very quietly, “You might want to say a prayer for me. For all of us.”

And that frightened Alfred Pennyworth more than anything he had ever heard in his life.
Frank Black was tired and confused. He had a horrible feeling of foreboding, stronger than anything he’d ever felt in his life. He was scared, he had no trouble admitting that to himself. Something very big and very dark was happening. And it was just beginning.

He was in a motel room in Portland, Oregon. He’d been on his way back to Seattle, back home, with his daughter Jordan, when he’d heard the unbelievable news.

There was no more Seattle to go back to. No yellow house. No anything. All his friends, his associates in the Seattle P.D ... Gone.

And no one knew why or how.

According to the latest reports on CNN, the Army had determined that there was no danger from radiation. Teams from all branches of the service had moved into the area to find a scene of incredible devastation. Members of the Justice League were rumored to be at the scene, though that had yet to be confirmed. The White House had been silent, save for a routine expression of shock and dismay from the president, a request for national unity in this time of crisis and prayers for the residents of the affected area and their loved ones.

Same old S***. Rumors flew. It had been a sneak attack by China or Russia or Korea or someone else, some new kind of radiation-free bomb. Mongul had returned from the dead and was once again trying to transform the earth into a new Warworld; the inevitable comparisons with the Coast City disaster were drawn by numerous commentators. But, when all
was said and done, no one knew anything.

Except that a city was dead.

Frank sat in a chair by the window, staring blankly at the silent television, aerial shots of the area surrounding Seattle, taken
from news choppers at the very limit of the military-imposed no-fly zone. Fragments of buildings, smashed vehicles, uprooted trees ...
And bodies.

Piles and piles of bodies.

Frank thumbed the remote control and the set went dark. He looked over to one of the twin beds where his daughter lay sleeping. She was so peaceful, so sweet. He was overcome for a moment with sickness and sorrow and anger that she would have to face a world things like Seattle could happen. She didn’t deserve it. She’d already lost so much, endured so much. And now this. What was happening? Where would it lead? How would it affect Jordan?

Frank bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood. God, how he missed Catherine. He still loved her so much. In a way, he was glad she was gone, glad she wouldn’t have to face whatever was coming. But he’d give anything, do anything, just to speak with her one more time. God damn it, Frank thought. God damn it to hell.

Jordan came awake suddenly, gasping, sitting upright, startling Frank. He jumped from the chair and moved to the side of her bed. Her eyes were wide open and so was her mouth. She made small, inarticulate sounds. Frank took her by the shoulders, shook her gently. “Jordan, honey. It’s me, it’s daddy. Are you okay?”

She stared at him for a moment with no sign of recognition, her eyes totally blank. Then she seemed to focus, to come back from wherever she had been, and she threw her arms around her father’s neck.

“Daddy,” she said softly. “I saw them. I SAW them.”

“Who, honey?” Frank asked, stroking her hair. “Who did you see?”

She pulled away from him so she could look him in the eyes. “The three black angels. The ones who killed all the people and smashed all the buildings. I saw them.”

“Black angels?”

“Yes,” the girl said, nodding vigorously. “Three of them. Two men and a woman. They did it. They were killing people and knocking down trees and throwing cars ...”

“Settle down, sweetheart. You had a dream, that’s all.” But it WASN’T all, Frank knew. Jordan had a gift, the same gift he himself had. The gift that made him who he was. The gift he hated.

“No, daddy,” Jordan insisted. “It wasn’t a regular dream.” She became grave. “I know the difference. I SAW them, like it was happening right in front of me. They were black angels and they were very strong. And they had lightning on them.”

“Lightning?”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded again, patting her small chest with the palm of her hand. “Right here. And daddy ...” Her eyebrows came together and she pursed her lips.

“What, honey?”

“They didn’t look like they were alive, daddy. They looked like dead people. Their faces were all purple. They had ... their eyes were lighted up yellow.”

Frank felt a chill and realized that sweat had popped out on his forehead. He wiped it away with his hand.

“And they flew, daddy,” Jordan continued. “They could fly, and they were SO strong, nobody could stop them. The police shot at them, but it didn’t work.”

Frank hugged her to his chest, kept stroking her hair. “I know, honey. I know. It’s bad. You calm down. Try to forget about it. They won’t hurt us.”

Her face pressed to her father’s chest, voice muffled, Jordan said, “Yes they will. They will. They’re going to kill everyone.”

Frank was about to make another meaningless, reassuring remark, one they both would know was nothing more than a comforting lie, when the telephone rang. Frank stiffened. Who would be calling him here? No one even knew where they were. Maybe it was just one of the motel staff calling about something or other. Frank patted his daughter’s head and reached over to the little table between the beds, picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“This is who we are,” came a voice. A familiar voice. A voice Frank had come to hate. “This is what we do.”

Frank Black stood up, turned away from his little girl, spoke softly into the phone. “Peter? Peter Watts?”

“Yes, Frank. It’s me.”

“You sonofabitch,” Frank said coldly. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

“But you didn’t, Frank. I don’t blame you for wanting to. You never understood. You weren’t ready, you hadn’t seen enough. Maybe now you have.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Seattle, Frank. I’m talking about Seattle.”

Frank experienced a moment of vertigo, an unsettling mixture of near-panic and physical sickness. His vision blurred and he blinked his eyes rapidly. His breathing became heavy and ragged. “Do you ...” he began, but his voice was nothing but a low, inaudible croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Do you know what happened to Seattle?”

Yes, Frank. I do. I did it.”

Frank had to sit down on the other bed. Jordan was watching him, eyes wide, her expression one of deep concern. I must look like hell, he thought. “You ... did it?”

“Frank, listen to me. That isn’t important right now. I want to see you. I want to offer you a place in the world that’s coming. I haven’t given up on you, Frank. I want you to survive this. You and Jordan.”

Frank gritted his teeth. “Watts,” he said. “You ... filthy ... you ...” He was as angry as he had ever been. He couldn’t think of a word vile enough to express what he was feeling. He gripped the receiver tightly, wishing it was Peter Watts’ throat.

“Listen to me, Frank,” Watts continued calmly. “What happened to Seattle will happen again. To New York, Los Angeles, Metropolis, Gotham City, Tokyo, London ...”

“Where are you, Watts?” Frank choked out. “Where can I find you? Face me, you bastard. Let me have five minutes with you, you—“

“Please, Frank. I know you’re upset. I understand. But you want a future for Jordan, don’t you? You can’t stop what’s going to happen. No one can. Meet with me. Listen to what I have to say. Please?”

Frank, breathing heavily, stared into his daughter’s face. Her eyes were filling with tears. Frank felt dead inside. “Okay,” he said after a long silence. “I’ll meet you. Where and when?”

LEXCORP TOWER
3:14 p.m.
“I dislike aliens,” Luthor remarked to his visitor. They had been talking almost non-stop for seven hours, with only a short break for a light lunch. Now, they were seated side-by-side at a conference table in a room adjoining Luthor’s office, looking over a stack of documents the other man had brought with him.

“I don’t care for them very much myself,” the other man admitted. “But in this case, they are the devil I know.”

“They want to colonize this planet,” Luthor said. “Take control. Make us into slaves. Or worse.”

“And the Millennium Group,” the man said, lighting another cigarette, “wants to DESTROY the world. Or most of it. They’ve been laying the groundwork for a long, long time. Their secrecy was impeccable, I must admit. It was only by chance that I was able to discover what I have. I don’t suppose you heard about what happened to Ra’s Al Ghul?”

Luthor was surprised. “Happened to him? No, I haven’t heard.” It was Luthor’s impression that things didn’t “happen to” Ra’s Al Ghul. Ra’s made things happen to other people. Luthor had for years been developing plans to deal with the Demon’s Head, as he was known, should he become a serious threat. It was Ra’s Al Ghul’s ambition to wipe out most of the human race and start over again—with himself as leader of the survivors. Fortunately, every one of his schemes had been thwarted by The Batman. Luthor had never relished the idea of facing off against the powerful leader of the secret worldwide organization known, among other things, as the League of Assassins.

“He’s dead,” the smoking man remarked casually. “For real this time. His body was found a few miles outside of Jerusalem just a week ago. He’d been crucified and decapitated. Also staked through the heart with what some people believe was a fragment of the True Cross. All of his enclaves were destroyed, his followers scattered or killed. His daughter is missing, presumed dead.”

“And the Millennium Group did this?”

The man nodded. “That’s what my sources tell me. Eliminating the competition.”

“My God,” Luthor said. “That is incredibly ... disturbing. That they could dispose of Ra’s Al Ghul as casually as that ...”

The smoking man nodded agreement. “And Seattle. Don’t forget Seattle.”

“They have to be stopped,” Luthor said flatly. “They will be. If we have to get into bed with your alien friends, so be it. That will at least buy us some time. We can deal with the colonists later.”

“You’re a man after my own heart, Luthor,” the smoking man said, smiling dimly. “In that neither of us is needlessly encumbered by one. I always intended to stab them in the back when I got a chance. I just never knew how I was going to accomplish it. I believe you are the man for the job. But, as you say, first things first.”

“Indeed. The Millennium Group has a formidable force at its disposal, if what you say is true, and I have no reason to think that it isn’t. Some of my contacts in the government have informed me that human handprints have been found in steel girders and automobiles inside the Seattle perimeter. Notice I said IN, not ON. Some of them were several inches deep.”

“In solid steel.”

“Yes. So we’re dealing with ... entities ... who can, to coin a phrase, bend steel in their bare hands. It may be a cliché, but I’ve always found that it’s best to fight fire with fire. I think it’s time we had a look at this ‘black oil’ of yours.” He gestured at the papers they’d been studying. “If I grasp the molecular makeup analyses you’ve shown me correctly, I think we can make some suitable modifications.” He leaned across the table to touch a button on the intercom box. “Mercy,” he said. “Have laboratory number four prepared. I’m going to be doing a little work. And bring me the contents of the vault.”

“The vault?” came a female voice from the speaker. “You mean ...?”

“Yes, Mercy. The kryptonite.” Luthor leaned back in his chair, smiling at his guest. The other man lit yet another cigarette, returning Luthor’s smile.

They looked like a pair of sharks who had just found a particularly choice piece of prey.

LEXAIR FLIGHT 401
SOMEWHERE BETWEEN WASHINGTON D.C. AND FAWCETT CITY
5 p.m.
Mulder and Scully felt as bad as they looked, if not worse. They were clean and groomed, but nearly slack-jawed with fatigue. Scully felt as though she might go catatonic at any moment. Mulder, his right arm in a sling, stared out the window at the clouds beneath them, occasionally popping a sunflower seed into his mouth. They hadn’t talked much during the
flight. Scully had not yet told him of her encounter with the stranger in the ladies’ room. She still wasn’t certain it had actually happened, but her skepticism had taken so many mortal blows lately that she supposed she could believe just about anything now.

Zombies. Phantom strangers in restrooms. Cities disappearing in minutes. Happy New Year, Dana. Let auld acquaintance be forgot—like sanity and stability—and days of auld lang sine. God Almighty, someone please kill me now.

And the plane lurched so violently that she was almost dumped from her seat.

“I was just KIDDING!” she shouted, then looked around her, slightly embarrassed. Mulder, along with everyone else nearby, was staring at her.
The plane was still vibrating a little, but stabilizing.

“What the hell WAS that?” Mulder asked.

“I don’t know. It didn’t feel like any ordinary turbulence I’ve ever encountered,” Scully whispered, so as not to alarm anyone around them. “And I’ve done quite a bit of flying.”

Mulder nodded. “Yeah. I was thinking the same thing. Maybe we should—“ He was interrupted by the voice of the pilot coming over the loudspeaker.

“Attention, this is the captain. Everyone please remain calm, we just encountered a bit of ordinary turbulence. Everything is under control.” The “Please Fasten Your Seatbelts” signs were flashing. “I would like to ask you to fasten your belts in case we encounter any further ... bad weather.”

Mulder and Scully looked at one another. The pilot’s pause had told them what they wanted to know—or, rather, what they really DIDN’T want to know—something weird had happened.

Without a word, they both stood and moved toward the front of the plane. A pair of stewardesses started to protest, but Mulder and Scully flashed their FBI badges and kept going. The stews followed behind, but didn’t try to stop them as they approached the cabin. Mulder pushed the door open without ceremony and they went in. The pilot and co-pilot both turned and said in unison, “What the hell?”

“FBI,” Mulder said, displaying the badge. “Now I’ll ask you: What the hell? Just happened, I mean.”

The pilot, a heavyset man in his fifties, said, “Look brother, you can’t just come barging in here.”

“Well,” Mulder replied, “seeing as how we just have, how about it? That wasn’t ordinary turbulence.”

“Yes it was,” the pilot insisted. “We hit a ... low-pressure zone,
and --.”

“Oh, hell,” said the co-pilot, a much younger fellow with a blond crew cut. “Let’s tell them the truth. They’re with the government. Maybe the KNOW something.”

The pilot frowned. Finally, he said, “Well, why not? The tower wouldn’t tell us anything.” He turned to face the two agents. “We encountered three bogeys.”

“Bogeys,” Mulder said. “You mean UFOs?”

“Yeah,” said the co-pilot. “But not like regular UFOs. These were WEIRD.”

Mulder skipped the obvious retort and said, “What do you mean by that?”

“They were SMALL,” the co-pilot continued, warming to his story. “No bigger than—well, an average human being, I guess. We didn’t actually SEE them, but the radar painted them briefly. They shot by us, oh, I’d say as close as a hundred yards or so. And they were MOVING. Mach 5 at least. They were churning the hell out of the air in their wake. That’s what we hit. I’ve never seen anything like THAT. And then they were gone. Off the radar screen in less than a second.”

“Damn,” Mulder said. Unable to come up with anything else, he said it again.

“What direction were they heading?” Scully asked.

“Roughly northeast,” the pilot said hurriedly, eager to take the spotlight away from the co-pilot for a while. “In fact, if they stay on the same heading they were on when they passed us, they ought to wind up over Chicago within the hour. That’s the closest major city in that direction.”
Mulder looked at his partner. “Why does this scare the crap out of me, Scully?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “But I’m right there with you.”

“You don’t have any family in Chicago, do you?” Mulder asked. Scully and the flight crew all responded in the negative. Mulder sighed. “Neither do I. And for some reason, I’m very glad.”

No one could think of anything to say after that. The silence in the cabin became uncomfortable and Mulder and Scully meekly returned to their seats.

UNFINISHED BUSINESS: Gotham X 3 Part Two

2010-05-05T02:09:00.000-07:00

BRUCE WAYNE’S PRIVATE LEAR JET
SOMEWHERE BETWEEN GOTHAM AND FAWCETT CITY
5:12 p.m.

The Batman was pretending for the moment to be Bruce Wayne. He found it more difficult than usual and was grateful that he didn’t have an audience at the moment. The little jet was on autopilot and Batman was sitting back in his seat in the cockpit, studying the book Jason Blood had sent him by special messenger before he’d left Gotham. The volume was at least a hundred years old and was bound in something that looked disturbingly like human skin.

The name of the book was The Necromancer, written in the mid-19th century, as far as he could judge from internal evidence such as grammar and topical references (there was no date or publisher information on the flyleaf), by someone named Johanna Constantine. It was, frankly, a sick and repulsive piece of work. It featured detailed instructions on the raising and controlling of the dead. If someone had done these things to Billy, Mary and Freddy, that someone needed to be put down fast.

Unfortunately, the author of the book had been more concerned with raising the dead than with putting them back where they belonged. Only a small part of one of the chapters was devoted to spells and methods of protection against the raised dead. You could protect yourself against them and control them to an extent, but the only way to return them permanently
to the grave was to inflict severe trauma on the brain. Johanna Constantine recommended removing the organ, preparing it with certain herbs believed to have mystical powers, and eating it. Batman decided he would settle for inflicting the trauma.

That, however, wouldn’t be easy.

It might even be impossible.

He radioed ahead to the Waynetech office in Fawcett and made what the staff there considered a very bizarre request. He told them he would like to have several large bags of kosher salt waiting for him at the hotel room he’d reserved. The office manager had merely shrugged, said, “The rich are different,” and had one of the clerks go out and purchase the salt with
money from petty cash. Salt, for some reason, affected the animated dead in much the same way kryptonite did a certain acquaintance. Batman could not imagine why. The human body, even after death, contains a certain amount of salts, and these are necessary for proper functioning. Perhaps, he mused, additional salt causes a kind of “overdose." Or perhaps it is a totally arbitrary rule, of the kind that prevails in the world of magic. He snorted. He really, really did not like magic. Any system that operated totally removed from the scientific logic that was almost a religion to him... Well, he just didn't like it. However, as his father used to tell him, "You may not like it, but it's a fact of life."

He was a little surprised that he’d been able to get through so easily. He had tried repeatedly to get in touch with the League via his signal device, but hadn’t been able to make contact. After he finished speaking with the Fawcett office, he tried to shut off the radio. He found to his surprise that he couldn’t turn the knob. This plane had just had a complete overhaul. Had someone overlooked the radio?

Static came from the small speaker, then a jumble of sounds, the ghosts of several different radio stations at once. That was odd. This radio wasn’t supposed to pick up commercial broadcast frequencies. Gradually, one by one, the stations faded away until there was only one left. One song ended and another began. The Batman was by no means a pop music aficionado, but he recognized this song, which had been popular during his youth. Being possessed of near-total recall, he had no trouble identifying the song, the only chart-topping tune by a “one-hit-wonder” band called Paper Lace.

The song was The Night Chicago Died.

Stupid song, he thought, trying once again to twist the knob, with no success. He sighed and stopped trying, went back to studying the book, ignoring the radio.
The song played to its end. The sound from the speaker abruptly ceased, causing Batman to look up from the book. He started to reach for the knob, to try once again. It was now in the “off” position. Batman’s eyes narrowed. Something decidedly odd had just happened. What it meant, he didn’t know, but he was sure there was meaning in it. He could feel it. His instincts were good, and he trusted them implicitly. He filed the peculiar incident away for the moment and had one more go at the book, hoping to find something he’d missed. But there was nothing else. If this book is the final word on the subject, he thought, then we are all in deep trouble.
He took the plane off autopilot and prepared for the final approach to the Fawcett City Airport.

SOMEWHERE NEAR FAWCETT CITY
6 p.m.
Doctor Thaddeus Bodog Sivana, not the bravest or noblest of men even at the best of times, was currently scared witless. Why, oh, why had he gotten involved with these people? What in the hell were they DOING?
It had dawned on him earlier in the day that he was virtually being kept prisoner in this house. Hell, there was no “virtually” to it; he WAS a prisoner. That Watts character ... He was up to something far deeper and darker than he had led Sivana to believe. When this “Millennium Group” had approached him and offered to compensate him very generously indeed for his assistance, he had jumped on the deal like a hungry mutt on a porterhouse steak. They were, they told him, planning to take over the world, an ambition that he could understand and admire since he shared it. And he had possessed hubris enough to think that he could control the terms of the deal he would make, thus securing for himself a prominent place in the world to come.

He brought to the table with him a wonderful bargaining chip, one that, he now realized, he had given up much too easily. He was one of the few people on Earth who knew the secrets behind three of the most formidable creatures on the face of the planet. They were also Sivana’s mortal enemies; they had crossed him up time after time. He had been happy to sell them out.

But that was last week.
Today, he was wishing he’d played his hand a bit differently. Or perhaps not at all.

Today, he was wishing he’d never heard of Peter Watts and the Millennium Group.

Today he was wishing he hadn’t given Peter Watts an introduction to a worm from Venus.

Today, he was wishing he hadn’t picked the locked door of his bedroom in this place and snuck down the stairs and seen the report on CNN about what had happened to Seattle.

Today, he was seriously thinking that it might have been a very good thing if he had never been born at all.

BECK GARDENS CEMETERY
FAWCETT CITY
8:04 P.M.

The police were gone, but they had left their yellow tape behind, stretched from a series of wooden spikes driven into the ground, to offer its feeble protection to the disturbed graves of three young people. The police had also left behind a halogen lamp on a metal tripod, powered by a large battery. It didn’t make a lot of sense. Something felt wrong about it. The two agents had slipped into town and then into the cemetery after deliberately omitting to announce their presence to local law enforcement. Had they encountered guards, they would have bluffed their way through. They hadn’t expected a setup like this.

The cemetery was actually in the city proper, just a few blocks from the downtown area. It was an old cemetery, some of the tombstones dating back to the late 1700s. It had been here when Fawcett was just a small trading outpost on the banks of the Mississippi and had watched the city grow around it.

Despite its proximity to a densely inhabited area, the place was quiet and had an out-of-the-way feel to it. They might have been in a remote rural graveyard, Scully reflected, had it not been for the faint sounds of traffic and city life drifting over the high stone fence, just audible over the swishing of the wind through the leaves of the huge old oaks that grew there. Some of the trees might have been here as long as the graveyard itself. Scully found that thought strangely sad and disturbing. It reminded her of the piles of uprooted trees she’d seen on television earlier in the evening at their hotel, part of CNN’s awful, eternal coverage of the Seattle disaster. That had happened just 14 hours ago, Scully realized with mild surprise. It felt like years.

Trees and cities that took centuries to grow could be wiped out in minutes. There was no such thing as safety. She pulled the collar of her overcoat up around her neck. It was cold and she was tired and frightened. But she had a job to do. Seattle was gone, but the rest of the world was still here, and it wouldn’t just stand still. People had to be fed, streets had to be cleaned, and crimes had to be investigated.

Panic-induced riots had broken out in major cities all over the world. Oddly, from what she’d seen on television, Gotham City was one of the few major population centers that had been spared this phenomenon. She supposed the citizens had taken a “thank God it isn’t us this time” attitude. She wondered what Bruce Wayne was doing right now.

She stood, watching her partner walk slowly back and forth in front of the open graves, peering into each one in turn. “Deja vu all over again,” Mulder said. “The caskets are in the same shape as the ones we saw yesterday. The lining appears to have been clawed at by whoever was inside. So, where do we go from here? We know it isn’t our boy Johnson. He’s still safely locked up.”

“He wasn’t locked up yesterday,” Scully pointed out.

“But he WAS a thousand miles away, more or less,” Mulder countered. “Maybe he could raise the dead, but I doubt he could be in two places at the same time.”

“Mulder, I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you reject an impossibility as a possibility in an investigation.”

“I’ve probably been influenced by this chick I hang out with. She’s a scientist, see. A real no-nonsense, by-the-book stickler for logic.”

“’Chick?’ Since when do you use words like that to describe women?”
“I was going for shock value,” he replied, giving her a sad, tired smile, which she returned. Mulder sighed. “You know who we could use right now? The Batman. He could tie this thing up in no time.”

“You may be overestimating me,” came a voice from the darkness beyond the lamplight.

Mulder and Scully both turned quickly to face the direction from which the voice had come. They had both drawn their guns. They peered into the darkness but saw nothing thanks to the glow from the lamp. The voice came again, this time from behind them:

“Would you mind putting those things away? I’ve told both of you how I feel about them.”

Mulder, recognizing the voice at last, holstered his weapon. Scully let her arm drop, but held on to her gun. Mulder smiled a little, squinting at he spot from which the voice seemed to have come. He couldn’t see or hear anything, but he said, “Is that you?”

A dark figure moved from the gloom into the light. “Of course. You realize, don’t you, that anyone in the world could truthfully answer ‘yes’ to that question. You should be more specific.” The figure came closer.

“I’ll be damned,” Mulder said. It was him all right. He looked like a man-sized piece of darkness come to life, detached from the rest of the night beyond the lighted circle. The blackness was broken only by the yellow oval on the chest and the fainter pale blur of the mouth and jaw beneath the cowl.

“Speak of the devil,” Mulder said as he stepped over to shake hands with The Batman.

“These are bat ears, not horns.”

I know,” Mulder replied. “But, y’know, they don’t really LOOK like a bat’s ears. Bats’ ears are more ...”

“Mulder,” Batman said, “let’s skip the journey into absurdity. I’m here on very serious business. I expect you are too.”

“Yeah,” Mulder said. “Yeah, we are. Uh, you know my partner, I believe?”
“Yes,” Batman said, nodding at Scully. “Nice to see you again, Agent Scully.”

“Nice to see you, too,” she replied, finally putting her pistol away, satisfied that this was indeed who it seemed to be. “What brings you so far from home?”

“This. These graves. I don’t know why the FBI is involved, unless you know more than I think you do about the kids who were buried here. I’d have thought this would be a matter for local law-enforcement.”

“Well,” Mulder said, “this is just the latest in a series.” He quickly related the previous day’s events to The Batman. “What I can’t figure,” he concluded, “is why these kids were ... uh, necromanced. It seems highly unlikely that they would have been members of the Millennium Group, they were murdered rather than committing suicide. ... None of it adds up.”

“I’m afraid it does,” Batman said. “These were not ordinary kids. This is bad. Very bad. Probably worse than anything any of us has ever encountered.”

Mulder’s eyebrows went up. “Even worse than the last time we met? What could be worse than the original Jack the Ripper making himself immortal?”

“Mulder,” the Batman said evenly, “this will make the original Jack the Ripper, along with the Boston Strangler, the Son of Sam, the Yorkshire Ripper and Mr. Zsasz seem like a pleasant afternoon’s diversion.” He proceeded to explain why Billy Batson, Mary Bromfield and Freddy Freeman were so special. The color had drained from both of the agents’ faces long before he finished.

“That,” Mulder managed to say, “is what I would categorize as a very, VERY bad thing. A 10 on the Bad Things scale.”

“Try eleven,” Batman replied. “Or higher. You remember my colleague who gave us a ‘ride’ into Gotham last year? Each one of these ‘kids’ is easily as powerful as he is. Maybe more. And there are three of them.”

“Lord. And you think they may have been responsible for Seattle?”

“It’s possible. If they wanted to, they could take Seattle—or any other city for that matter—off the map before breakfast. Which is just what happened. And I’ve saved the worst for last. Their power comes from magic.”

Mulder winced and Scully rolled her eyes.

They were all silent for a moment, the only sound the breeze moving through the trees and gently ruffling the Batman’s cloak.

“There’s something else I’m concerned about,” Batman said after a time. “Tell me, have either of you heard of The Spectre?”

Scully nodded. “Wasn’t he one of the old-time superheroes? From the’40s? He had sort of a ghost motif, right? I thought he was dead.”

Batman actually laughed, but it was hollow and a little frightening. “Oh, yes. He’s dead all right.”

“I tried doing some research on him once,” Mulder put in. “We had a stack of cases involving anomalous deaths in the early ‘70s. People being turned into wood and sawed up, that kind of thing. There was a crooked fortune-teller that got turned into glass and then tipped over.” He ignored the look Scully gave him and forged ahead. “There were rumors that The Spectre was involved. But I came up blank. The FBI files on all the old Justice Society members are sealed until the year 2055. And, in case you’re interested,” he said directly to the Batman, “the files on the Justice LEAGUE are so far above Top Secret, I doubt even the Director has seen them. Of course, I have no idea what the DEO might have. I sometimes think they outrank the President.”

“I don’t know if that’s a comfort or not,” Batman replied.

“Don’t worry. I don’t think they even HAVE one on you. You being an ‘urban legend’ and all.”

“That is a comfort.”

“Wait just a second,” Scully interjected, gesturing with her hands. “Let’s back up here. Are you saying that this Spectre ... really was ... is ... whatever ... a ghost? Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me the ‘Martian Manhunter’ is actually from Mars.”

Batman sighed. “Regarding your question about The Spectre, yes and no. The story’s a bit complicated.” He pointed at the cross hanging around Scully’s neck. “I take it that’s not just for show? You have religious convictions?”

Scully nodded slowly, wondering where this was heading, not really wanting to find out.

“Did you ever wonder,” Batman went on, “what happened to God between the Old and New Testaments? His temper seemed to improve considerably, right?”

Scully nodded again.

“Well, The Spectre is actually the vengeful side of God’s personality,” the Batman went on, as calmly and matter-of-factly as though he were explaining how cats get hairballs. “It was sundered from the rest several centuries ago. It has existed since the beginning of civilization, meting out its own version of justice. The thing is, it needs a human host. Or, rather, the spirit of a dead human, to anchor it to our world. Don’t worry, Agent Scully, I felt the same way you do when I first heard the story. Theology is not my strong suit, and neither is magic. When the two are combined, it’s all I can do to keep my head above water. Mulder, I assume you have no problem with it?”

“Nope,” Mulder said. “It all sounds fine to me.”

“I figured it would. Scully, I further assume you dismiss this in its entirety. I don’t blame you. I don’t believe a word of it myself. Which does not change the fact that it’s all true.
“Anyhow, The Spectre’s last host did ‘die’ recently—that is to say, he was finally allowed to pass on to the afterlife. The Spectre has a new host now. A man I don’t trust any further than I can throw an automobile. Which I CAN’T do, by the way.

“He used to be a good man. He used to be Green Lantern, in fact. But something bad happened to him and he ... didn’t handle it very well. He went insane, changed his name to Parallax. He was at the bottom of a crisis we called ‘Zero Hour’ a couple of years ago. He played with the time stream, tried to restructure reality to his own liking. There were lots of temporal anomalies involved. You may have experienced some of the effects, though you probably don’t remember them very clearly now.”

Mulder recalled a particular day, a very bad Monday ... a ruptured waterbed, a bank robbery, a bomb ... a strange, pale girl who insisted she had met him before ... a sequence of events repeating itself over and over and over, until the strange girl put a stop to it.

Batman continued, “We put a stop to that, and he supposedly reformed, redeemed himself. But I still don’t trust him. Near-absolute power corrupted him once. The Spectre entity may have even more power than he usurped as Parallax. If this Millennium Group of yours is trying to bring about the Apocalypse, I’m sure The Spectre will be getting involved sooner or later. And, as far as I’m concerned, that’s tantamount to putting out afire with gasoline.”

Batman drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. “However. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’ You see,” he said, turning to Mulder, “even the devil may quote Scripture. Anyhow, the Spectre has yet to rear his head and we have enough on our plate as it is.” He glanced at Mulder, then at Scully.

“You have any objections to working together on this?”

“Hell no,” Mulder said. Scully shook her head. As Batman nodded, Mulder spoke again. “Just one thing, though. From everything I’ve heard about you—which admittedly isn’t much, you do a damn good job of covering your tracks—you’re something of a loner. Hell, you’re the ORIGINAL loner. Outside your immediate circle, I mean. You don’t have much of a reputation for trusting or working with anyone other than your own handpicked allies. So, why us?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why us? You hadn’t known me for 20 minutes before you let me come along when Scully was abducted—sorry, KIDNAPPED—by Two-Face. I could see how shocked Commissioner Gordon was. I have a theory, if you’d care to hear it.”

Batman nodded sharply. “Go ahead.”

“I’m a criminal profiler, you know,” Mulder began. “But profiling doesn’t necessarily have to be applied to criminal behavior. Any kind of—pardon the word I’m about to use—aberrant behavior can be grist for the profiler’s mill. And, no offense, but dressing up in a bat costume and fighting crime is pretty far off the beaten track.”

“A point I conceded to you a few months ago, as I recall.”

“That’s right. Do you remember the first thing you said to me when we met?”

“Yes. I said, ‘Be careful with this thing, Agent Mulder. You could get hurt,’ in reference to your gun, which I had just relieved you of.”
Scully snickered and Mulder shot her a look. “After that, I mean, “ he continued. “You knew my name, my assignment, what I was doing in Gotham. You’re thorough. I’ll bet you knew quite a bit more than that about me that night, didn’t you? You knew about my sister even before I told you, right?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And you knew about my work. You knew how far outside the mainstream I really am, in spite of my position with the Bureau. I’m guessing that reminded you a little of someone you know? Guy about so tall, black cape, points on his head he thinks look like bat ears?”

Silence from the dark, cloaked figure. Mulder felt a little nervous now, but forged on. “You responded to something you learned about me. Maybe more than one thing. I’m not going to ask you to confirm or deny anything, but I’ll bet you lost someone once, just like I did my sister. I’ll bet that’s why you do what you do. We’re not that different, are we? You have
your Batcave, I have my office in the basement.”

Batman glanced at Scully, who was looking at him. They couldn’t make eye contact because of the Batman’s opaque white eye shields, but he had a pretty good idea of what she was thinking. She knew the truth about him. She had figured it out months before, in No Man’s Land, and she had kept it to herself. Mulder’s analysis was coming awfully close to that truth. But that was because he was good at what he did, Batman knew. Scully might be afraid right now that he, Batman, thought she’d revealed something to her partner. He knew she hadn’t, but there was no way for him to reassure her at the moment.

“Maybe,” Batman said to Mulder. “Everything you say might be right on the money. Perhaps I did respond to what I learned about you and Agent Scully and the things that have happened to you both over the years. And perhaps the impressions I formed were reinforced when I met you in person. I don’t trust easily, or lightly. But I haven’t lost the capacity to do so.

“And sometimes I NEED to. Tell me, Mulder, did you apply your profile to yourself? I noticed you were pretty quick to accept someone to whom you referred as ‘an anonymous man in a bat costume.’ Your logic cuts both ways. Thirty minutes after we met, you were trusting me with your life. Is that typical of you?”

“Hm. Well, you’ve got me there. No, it isn’t.”

“So, let me ask you: Why did YOU do it? Why me?”

Mulder shrugged. “I ... I don’t know, exactly. I just ... trusted you. I didn’t have a single logical reason to, but I did. Scully, Did you want to say something? Perhaps to the effect of since when do I need a logical reason to do anything?”

“No,” Scully said. “You aren’t an idiot, Mulder. You always have a logical reason for what you do—or at least what you believe to be a logical reason. And I have to admit, I responded the same way you did to our friend here.” And then some, she added to herself.

“So, Mulder said to Batman. “What you’re saying is ... we just hit it off?”
Batman held his hands out, palms upward. “Sometimes, Mulder, the truth is as simple as that. I’m a very good judge of character. I have to be. If I weren’t, I would have been dead years ago. When I met you, I believed you were worthy of my trust. You too, Agent Scully. And I was right.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Mulder said. “You’re saying you LIKE us, aren’t you? That we’re buddies?” He ignored the poke in the ribs Scully gave him.

“I didn’t say that. And I don’t have ‘buddies.’”

“But you do like us?”

“You’re competent, you’re honest, you’ve maintained your integrity in the face of overwhelming adversity. I admire that. I respect it.”

“Yeah, but...” Scully finally poked him hard enough to bring a yelp of pain. “Let it go, Mulder,” she said. “You can work on reaching the Batman’s inner child after we deal with the current mess.”

“IF we can deal with it,” Batman said, relieved to steer the conversation in another direction, and grateful to Scully for making it happen. She really IS remarkable, he thought. “We’re looking at forces here that I normally consider to be outside my ‘jurisdiction.’ But they appear to have been set into motion by a human agency, and THAT I can deal with. Let’s get to work.”

CHIGACO, ILLINOIS
8:49 p.m.

Three black angels hovered high in the sky above the Windy City. They were silent, these three, like dark statues floating impossibly in the crisp winter sky. One was a man, one was a woman, one was a boy. Below them, the lights of the city lay spread out in a display that would have dazzled the three had they any human emotions. There was very little of that left in them now. Once they had been sunshine itself, bright and happy and full of life and color.

They did not look at the lights below them, the stars above them or even at one another.

They waited.
For the signal to begin their work.

The lights of Chicago burned and the citizens went about their business, enjoying, suffering or sleeping through the last hours of their lives.

The three black angels waited.

OUTSIDE FAWCETT CITY
11:04 p.m.

It was a little after eleven when Frank Black arrived at the address Peter Watts had given him. Jordan was asleep in the passenger seat of the Jeep. Frank pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine, sat for a while listening to the ticking and popping as the hot metal under the hood cooled down. Audible just above that was the gentle, rhythmic breathing of
his daughter.

The house was a box, a whitewashed, two-story, nondescript piece of work that could have been built at any time during that past 50 years. It was just like all the other houses surrounding it in this suburb of Fawcett.
Nothing remarkable about it at all. Except to Frank. He could feel sickness and malevolence radiating from the place.

The house was quiet and dark and there were no other vehicles parked nearby. Frank had debated with himself on the wisdom of coming here, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do. Was it a trap? Maybe. But Watts had sounded sincere. And even if it was a trap, what could Frank do? Peter Watts had already destroyed a city, if his story was to be believed, with the promise of more to come. Frank Black couldn’t fight that kind of power. But maybe, somehow, he could fight the man behind it Maybe he could kill Peter Watts, as he should have done months ago. By letting Watts live, Frank had condemned the city of Seattle to death. It wasn’t logical to feel that way, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. He had to make it right, as best he could. Even if it cost him his life, and even if it cost the life of his daughter. The kind of world Peter Watts was trying to make wouldn’t be a fit place for Jordan to grow up.

He scooped the girl up in his arms without waking her, opened the door of the Jeep and got out. He approached the quiet house slowly. There was no sign of habitation. A brief movement caught his eye in one of the upper windows. He noticed for the first time that the second-floor windows were all barred. He wasn’t sure he’d actually seen anything, but he had the
impression that a curtain had been drawn back for just a fraction of a second and a face had peered down at him. A bald man with buck teeth and thick-lensed glasses. But it was only a flash. Had it been real or was it one of Frank’s “visions?” He couldn’t tell.

He moved up the front steps, across the dark porch. He knocked at the door with his free hand.

Silence.

Then sound.

The door opened.
Peter Watts stood there, backlit by a single, shadeless lamp. For a moment, Frank was lost. Images raced through his mind. Three children, poisoned as they ate. Then dirt, piles of soft, fresh dirt, and a shovel flashing in moonlight. A phrase, muttered over and over again, and then a command. “Say the words.” Three flashes of lightning and in the cold cemetery suddenly there were three monsters. Three black angels.

The rush of impressions ended, leaving Frank swaying slightly, clutching Jordan. He was cold, all the way to his bones, and tired.

“Frank,” said Peter Watts.

“I’m here,” Frank replied.

“I’m glad. Please, come inside.” Watts held the door and Frank went in, avoiding physical contact with his former friend.

“You’re looking well, Frank,” Watts said, as though they were a couple of old college buddies meeting after a few years. The two men sat facing one another in large, overstuffed armchairs in the living room. The room was lit by a small lamp and several candles. The windows were covered with heavy black drapes. Jordan lay on a sofa, still asleep.

“Why did you do it, Peter?” Frank asked. “HOW did you do it?”

Sitting here, now, face-to-face, it was impossible to believe that this man, whom Frank had once trusted and considered a friend, had gone so bad. It just couldn’t be.

“Is that important, Frank?” Watts asked softly.

“I’d like to know.”

Watts nodded. “Maybe that’s best. Maybe if you see what is happening you’ll understand what you must do. This is the culmination, Frank, of everything the Millennium Group has done for the past thousand years. ‘And a strong angel took up a stone, as it were a great millstone, and cast it into the sea, saying “With this violence will Babylon, that great city, be overthrown, and will not be found any more.”’ The time has come. The angels are here. Babylon will die.”

“Peter, this is ... I just can’t ...”

“I want to show you something, Frank. Please, come with me.” Frank glanced quickly at the sleeping form of his little girl. “She’ll be okay, Frank. Nothing will happen to her, I promise.”

The two men stood. “I don’t know what these ‘angels’ are, Peter, but there are people who can stop them. Stop you.”

“I don’t think so,” Watts replied, shaking his head and smiling sadly. “In the months since I last saw you, I’ve been busy assembling a collection. Holy relics, Frank. I can deal with any opposition. That’s what I want to show you. Follow me.”

Peter Watts led Frank down a short hallway to a door. The basement, probably, Frank thought. Watts took a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. The steps were shrouded in gloom, but from somewhere below came a faint green glow. Frank blinked several times, trying to adjust his vision.

“It’s just down here. Take my hand.”
“No. I’m okay.” Frank groped for a handrail, found it. The two men descended in silence.
At the bottom of the steps, they rounded a corner. The green glow became much brighter and Frank could see its source.

It was a man. Or something shaped like a man, at any rate. The figure was up against the far wall of a small alcove, erect but slumped. The arms dangled at its sides and the knees buckled. Frank saw that it was pinned to the wall with something, a shaft of wood.

“Peter, what --?”

The figure, Frank could now see, wore a long green cloak and hood. The green glow came from a circle on its chest, from the middle of which protruded the shaft of wood. Its skin, if that’s what it was, was waxy and white as chalk. It twitched now and then and moaned softly, as though in troubled sleep.

“My God,” Frank said in a whisper. “Is that --?”

Watts nodded. “The Spectre, Frank. The most powerful paranormal being on earth. Do you see now? Are you beginning to understand?”

“How did you do this? What is that thing in his chest?”
“The Spear of Destiny. The most powerful relic on the planet. It pierced the side of Christ as he hung on the cross.”

“I know what the Spear of Destiny is,” Frank said with some irritation.

“Then you understand what’s in play here. The time is now, Frank. The Spear isn’t the only relic in my control. I believe I’m ready for anything anyone might throw at me. Amazon princesses, Atlantean kings ... even archangels. This is who we are. This is what we do. Will you join me at last?”

Frank Black sighed heavily. “I don’t think so, Peter.” He turned swiftly, removing the pistol from inside his jacket and pointing it at Watts. “This ends right here.” No more talking, Frank thought. No more explanations, no more pleas, nothing. He pulled the trigger seven times, emptying the clip.

Peter Watts stood before him, unharmed.

“I thought you might try that. I understand, really I do. But it’s too late for any of that. The time for that was months ago, and you didn’t do it. You can join me now or you can die.”

“I’m not going to join you. You’re sick, Peter. You need help.”

“No, Frank. You need help. But it’s too late, isn’t it? You’ll never understand. You’re an infidel. You cling to ideas that have no meaning in the world to come. I hate to do this. I’m going to show you one more thing. I don’t expect it to sway you. But I want you to see.”

“God damn you, Watts,” Frank said, raising his arm, intending to use the empty pistol as a club. “I WILL kill you.”

“No. You’re too late for it to do any good anyhow.”

Frank felt himself gripped from behind. A pair of hands, so cold he could feel the chill through the sleeves of his thick leather jacket, gripped his arms, twisting them behind his back. The useless gun clattered to the floor. Frank strained to look over his shoulder at whoever—whatever was holding him.

It was the face he thought he’d glimpsed in the window. A short, bald man in a lab coat. His skin was post-mortem purple and his eyes glowed yellow behind the Coke-bottle lenses of his glasses. “Oh, no,” Frank said.

“Bring him this way,” Watts said to the creature holding Frank. The little group moved away from the alcove where The Spectre was trapped and walked down a short, dark corridor. The keys came out again and another door was unlocked.

This room was almost totally bare, the walls unpainted wood, the floor concrete. It was lit by a single glaring bulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling. The only ornamentation, if one could call it that, was a red circle painted on the floor in what looked like, and probably was, blood.
Human or animal, Frank couldn’t tell.

Watts unbuttoned and removed his shirt, dropping it in a corner and taking something out of a small wooden crate. A garment of some kind, a red sweater, Frank thought. Watts pulled it over his head. It was far too small for him and some of the seams along the side gave way. He went to the center of the circle and began to speak:

“I am the resurrection and the life. Whosoever believeth in me ...”

“STOP IT!” Frank shouted hoarsely. He didn’t know what Watts was up to, but he didn’t like it one bit. “SHUT UP!”

But Peter Watts continued his chant. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he stopped. He raised his head, spread his arms, and said a single word:
“Begin.”

From upstairs, Frank heard the shattering of glass and the splintering of wood. Two voices, one male, one female, shouted something he couldn’t understand.

“Jordan!” Frank cried.

At one minute past midnight on January 2, 2000, the three black
angels hovering patiently above the city of Chicago began their descent from
the heavens.

JOLIET, ILLINOIS
12:02 a.m.

On the whole, Felix Faust was feeling a lot more cheerful than he had in a long, long time. Knowing that you are condemned to hell when you die is not conducive to restful sleep or general enjoyment of life. But now he had a chance. To change things. To rearrange the order of the universe and avoid his sentence.

All thanks to his new friend, Peter Watts.

Things were going very well indeed. He had just hung up the telephone in the warehouse Watts had rented for him. A cold, anonymous voice had spoken three words that had filled Faust with joy.

“Constantine is dead.”

Faust had giggled like a child. He’d been worried about Constantine. The Englishman always seemed to know what was going on and had an annoying need to involve himself in it.

That threat was gone.

Faust moved through the gloomy warehouse, running his hands over the crates spaced neatly around the concrete floor. He could FEEL the power radiating from the objects inside. THIS time would be different. THIS was some serious magic.

This time, the Justice League would die.

GO TO PART 2

black centipede creeping dawn

GOTHAM X PART ONE

2009-10-13T23:37:00.001-07:00

ALL OF THE CHARACTERS USED IN THESE STORIES ARE PROPERTY OF THEIR RESPECTIVE COPYRIGHT HOLDERS. I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THEM, AND I AM NOT PROFITING FINANCIALLY FROM ANY OF THIS.

GOTHAM-X
by Chuck Miller

Note: This story takes place shortly after the events in the X-Files movie and before the events in "Batman: Cataclysm."

GOTHAM CITY: 4:46 p.m.

This was Dana Scully's first trip to Gotham City, and she fervently hoped it would be her last. Gotham wasn't exactly fun city at the best of times, and the institution she was visiting was about as bleak as it got. A depressing pile of-- what else?-- gothic architecture hunched under shadows behind a huge iron fence. This was the house where it was always Halloween. This was the place where some of mankind's worst nightmares were locked up. This was Arkham Asylum.

Scully was here to speak with one of the inmates. It didn't seem likely that he could have had any direct involvement in the burglary in D.C. But it wouldn't be the first time this individual had orchestrated something from his cell, and there were enough clues pointing in his direction that it seemed worthwhile to check him out. Anyhow, Mulder had insisted that someone had to come here to talk to him immediately. Scully knew that when her partner got a bug up his butt there was no use arguing with him, so she had called the travel office and arranged for a plane ticket and a rental car.

And now she was here, for her interview with the Joker.

She had gone over the FBI's dossier on the criminal during the short plane jump from Washington to Gotham. He was a real piece of work.

Personally responsible for over 300 homicides, indirectly at the bottom of dozens more. Practically nothing was known about his background. He had never even been identified. No one knew his real name, where he was from, what had made him into what he was. His psych file was chaotic and not very helpful. No two doctors were able to agree on what was wrong with him. Mulder, the trained psychologist, had said, "There's nothing wrong with him. I've read these files and others, too. He's jerking them around. He isn't insane. He's evil."

This was one time Scully had no trouble agreeing with her partner. She believed in the existence of evil, and if anyone deserved the label, the Joker did. But just because you're evil doesn't mean you can't be crazy, too. And most of the things the Joker did-- even not counting the mass murder-- were not products of a healthy mind. Had his criminal escapades not been so bloody they would have been humorous. "The Laughing Fish." The kidnap-murders of a group of East Coast comedians. The bombing during one of Gotham's annual Christmas parades. That last caper had resulted in the deaths of 14 children, among others.

This was evil, this was insanity. But it was something else, too. It was theater. Bloody, violent Grand Guignol on a huge scale. He was playing to the crowds. He was an entertainer.

Scully braked the rental car to a stop in front of the massive iron gates. She shifted into park and got out, walking over to the small speaker mounted on the fence. It was late fall, just starting to turn really cold. It was almost 5 p.m. and the sun, huge and bright orange, was dipping toward the horizon, passing behind a thin layer of grey clouds. An icy breeze tossed a dead oak leaf into her face. She brushed it away and pressed a button on the speaker. A small video camera mounted at the top of one of the concrete fence posts swiveled to point at her, and a voice came from the grille:

"This is Arkham Security. State your business, please."

She was looking at the Asylum itself, back behind a small grove of trees at the end of a winding drive. There wasn't a soul in sight anywhere. She thought they ought to have guards patrolling the grounds, there ought to be gun emplacements and sniper towers and searchlights. This was supposed to be a combination hospital/prison, but it didn't look like either. You'd never know that some of the most dangerous men and women in the world called this place home. She hoped the security wasn't as lax as it appeared.

Then again, that might be why so many of the "patients" broke out on a regular basis.

She cleared her throat. "Dana Scully. FBI. I have an appointment with Dr. Arkham." She produced her ID and held it at arm's length toward the camera. There was silence for a moment, then a short buzz and a click. The huge gate began to swing inward. "Drive to the main entrance at the end of the path," came the voice. "Lock your doors and do not stop if you are approached." Was this standard procedure, Scully wondered, or had one of the nuts flown the coop again? She got back into her car and did as she had been instructed.

No one "approached," and she made it to the front of the building without incident. She had to admit, though, that she was starting to get a case of nerves. During the short drive from the gate she had been half-expecting to be attacked by mutated plants or frozen in a block of ice. She knew that the government had stepped in on Arkham's operations to the extent that they confiscated super-weapons like freeze-guns and fear-gas bombs instead of leaving them in the asylum's storage room where their owners on the way out could conveniently pick them up. All that stuff was supposedly in a CIA vault deep underground at Langley. It seemed odd to her than the Company should be involved in a domestic situation like Arkham, and she rather suspected that some of these toys were winding up in the hands of South American guerillas. But that had nothing to do with her, not today.

There was a small parking area in front of the main door. She pulled into a space between a bright red Ferrari and a paddy-wagon-style truck with the words "Blackgate Prison" stenciled on the side. A bored-looking driver sat behind the wheel smoking a cigarette. Scully got out and locked the car. She hefted her purse, just to feel the weight of the gun inside. She didn't feel terribly secure here.

There was another speaker set in the wall beside the door and she went through the identification routine again with the same flat-voiced guard, showing her ID once again to the small camera attached to the top of the doorframe. She clipped the ID badge to the front of her blazer as the door clicked. The door opened inward and Scully saw her first armed guard of the evening. The man wore a drab brown uniform, more paramilitary than security guard in design. He wore a black leather holster on his hip and had an assault rifle slung over his shoulder. Lovely. Nice place to work.

"Follow me," he said without preamble. "Dr. Arkham is expecting you." He turned and led Scully across a spartanly furnished foyer and down a dimly lit corridor. He seemed to be paying her no attention whatsoever.

The feel of the place was odd. It seemed to be part museum, part hospital. The corridor they were walking in had several old oil paintings hung on the walls. Severe-looking faces. The light, from ornate old fixtures set into the high ceiling, was too dim for Scully to read any of the brass nameplates attached to the frames.

From a little way down the corridor, two men approached. One of them was a guard, almost identical in appearance to Scully's guide. He was leading the other man, a tall, lanky fellow with receding brown hair who was snugly wrapped in a canvas straitjacket.

As the two parties met in the hallway, the man in the straitjacket stopped abruptly, looking at Scully. "Come on, Eddie," his guard said, almost running into him. "Quit screwing around."

But he remained still. Scully stopped walking, too, and looked at the man. He seemed familiar.

"Miss?" he said. "Can I ask you something?" He had a pleading look in his eyes.

"Now, dammit, Eddie..." the guard said. But Eddie wouldn't calm down. He bounced up and down nervously on the balls of his feet. "Just one question, Miss?" He nodded in the direction of her badge. "You're one of Them, right?"

"One of who?" Scully asked. The two guards looked on without speaking further, ready for action if necessary. Eddie's guard looked peeved but not terribly upset. He had the long-suffering expression of someone who deals with recalcitrant mental patients every day.
Eddie looked from side to side. "The Feds. The government."

"I am a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,"
Scully said carefully.

"Yes, yes," Eddie said. "Maybe you can answer a question, then."

He cleared his throat. "What did the smoking man say to the clown?"

Scully was silent for a moment. Her mouth opened slightly, but she managed to keep from going completely slack-jawed. "Did you say the smoking man?"

"Yes, yes," Eddie said, growing a little agitated. "What did he say to the clown?"
"I... don't know." Scully said.

"Neither do I!" he said, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice. "I thought he was one of you people... the way he acted... but I didn't hear what he said!"

"Okay," said Eddie's guard, having reached the limit of his patience. "That's enough of this. Come on. You're going back to Blackgate. Vacation time is over." He grabbed Eddie firmly by the upper arm and led him in the direction of the front door. Scully stared after him.

"Who was that man?" she asked the guard who accompanied her.

The guard snorted. "That's Eddie Nigma."

"The Riddler?"

"Yeah, that's what he likes to call himself." They resumed
walking down the hallway. "He isn't very dangerous, and I don't think he's really crazy. He generally spends his time in Blackgate Prison. But he gets a little manic once in a while and they send him out here for treatment."

Scully searched her memory. Eddie Nigma, a/k/a the Riddler, was a small-timer by Gotham City standards. He was nowhere near as dangerous as head cases like the Joker or Two-Face. He was basically a small-time bank robber with a gimmick. And probably not terribly stable, or else why would they bring him out here? He wasn't a homicidal maniac, but he wasn't playing with a full deck, either. So, the question he had just asked Scully could be nothing more than pure nonsense. "What did the smoking man say to the clown?" It sounded like a riddle, but Scully didn't think it was. He really wanted to know. Eddie had seen something that had disturbed him. And it involved a "smoking man." And a clown. She looked back down the hallway. Eddie and his guard were already gone.

But Scully could get access to the Riddler in Blackgate if she needed to. She was beginning to feel that this errand might turn out to be something more than routine.

Scully knew of a "smoking man." And she was here to see a clown.

She did not like the implications, not one bit.

The guard led her to Jeremiah Arkham's office. He tapped on the door. "Dr. Arkham? Agent Scully is here."

"Send her in, send her in," came a voice from inside. The guard pushed the door open. Arkham got up from behind his desk and came around to shake her hand. There was another man seated in a chair near Arkham's desk.

"Ah, Agent Scully, this is Bruce Wayne. One of Gotham's more prominent citizens and quite a philanthropist as well. He is aware of the financial difficulties the asylum has been having and he has kindly offered to help us." Scully had the feeling that Jeremiah Arkham wasn't very good at kissing up to people. But his work obviously meant a great deal to him, and he didn't mind giving it a try. The performance was a little grotesque, and she had the feeling that it wasn't necessary anyhow. She had only just laid eyes on him, but she had the feeling that Wayne was the kind of man who would be impervious to flattery.

Wayne stood up. He was a big man and there was a sense of restrained power about him. Large and obviously in good shape, but not a jock. He was expensively but tastefully dressed. He smiled in a manner which struck Scully as being deliberately insipid. An act of some sort, for some reason.

"Pleased to meet you, Agent Scully," he said affably, shaking her hand.

"Mr. Wayne."

"Jeremiah says you're here to speak with this... Joker?" Wayne
gave an exaggerated shudder. "Brrr. I don't envy you. I wouldn't want to get within ten feet of him."

"Well, I'm not doing it for enjoyment, Mr. Wayne. There has been an... incident in Washington which may or may not point to the Joker's involvement."

Wayne stiffened. He seemed, for a moment, to become another person entirely. Then he relaxed again and when he spoke his tone was languid, almost indifferent. Almost. "What sort of incident, Agent?"

"I'm afraid I can't discuss it with you. You understand."

"Of course. Well, Jeremiah, I'll have to be on my way now. We'll discuss this further another time. Pleased to meet you, Agent Scully."

"A pleasure, Mr. Wayne," Scully said.

Bruce Wayne slid behind the wheel of his Ferarri, picked up the car phone and punched in a number. The signal did not go through normal telecommunications channels. It was scrambled and piggybacked off of several different communications satellites so as to make the call completely untraceable, even though the party he was calling was only a few miles away.
"Yes, sir," came a dignified British voice from the other end of the line.

"Alfred," Wayne said shortly. His voice was different from the one he had used in Arkham's office. It was deeper, colder. "I need anything you can get on an incident in Washington D.C. Probably within the last few days. Look for anything that might remotely suggest the Joker."
"Dear me. I thought he was still safely in Arkham."

"He is. I'm there myself. But he could still be involved in
something. The FBI has sent a special agent out here to talk to him. Don't bother with the regular news and police outlets. I think they're burying this one. See if you can hack into the FBI database."

Alfred sighed. "For a crime fighter, you spend an inordinate amount of time committing acts of sedition. Or instructing me to, I should say."

"Never mind. See what you can find... Oh, and get me any information you can dig up on a Special Agent Dana Scully."

"Yes, sir. Will there be anything else sir? Shall I endeavor to penetrate the Department of Defense, the Pentagon and the CIA's electronic defenses as well this evening?"

"That will be all, Alfred. I'll be home soon."

"Very good, sir. Shall I have your... evening clothes ready for you?"

"I don't know. We'll just have to see what we come up with." Wayne broke the connection. He started the car, then hesitated. He had no idea where any of this was going, but he had a bad feeling about it and he wanted to make sure he had things covered as thoroughly as possible. He punched a code into a keypad set into the door of the glove box. Inside was a small assortment of exotic-looking electronic equipment. He selected a small tracer device, about the size of a ladybug, which was so advanced as to make what most people considered state-of-the-art seem primitive. He held it delicately between thumb and forefinger, stepped out of the car, looked around, then began circling his car, touching the body here and there, as though inspecting it for dirt or damage. When he got between his car and Scully's rental he squatted down, pretending to examine the bottom edge of the door panel, while deftly slipping the tracer into place under the bottom edge of the rental's front fender. He stood up, continued his performance back around to the driver's side of the Ferarri, climbed in and drove away from Arkham Asylum.

Arkham led Scully through a wing of what appeared to be ordinary hospital rooms. "These are our less violent cases," he explained. "We have an excellent record working with most of our patients. Unfortunately, the only publicity we ever seem to get is connected with our... less successful treatment plans. Like Number 1012. That's what I call him. The Joker. We try not to encourage the patients' delusions by using their fantasy names. Since we've never learned his real name, he is Number 1012."

They stopped before a large metal door. This was the entrance to the maximum security wing, occasional home to most of those "less successful treatment plans." Arkham pressed a button on a speaker next to the door.

"Arkham Security." It sounded like the same voice Scully had heard at the gate.
"This is Dr. Arkham. I'm here with Agent Scully. Buzz me in, please, Jerry."

There was a muted buzz and a click. Arkham pushed the heavy door open.
They were in a small alcove which contained a desk and a couple of chairs. A bank of closed-circuit monitor screens covered one wall. Another guard, presumably Jerry, sat behind the desk. He was dressed like the others and well-armed, with a pistol in a shoulder holster and a two assault rifles in a rack on the wall behind him. Next to the rack was another metal door, darker, heavier and more ominous-looking than the one they'd just passed through. Jerry, saying nothing, pressed a button set into the desk and this second door buzzed and clicked. Arkham pushed it open and gestured for Scully to step through.

Dana Scully was not a superstitious woman. She had had more than her share of odd experiences, but she remained, for the most part, rational. She wasn't given to hunches or premonitions of dread. But as the metal door swung inward she was conscious of a peculiar sensation.

A slight chill went through her and she recognized something she'd felt before-- the proximity of strangeness and evil.

Stepping through the doorway with Arkham, Scully found herself in a long hallway with large Plexiglas windows in rows down either side, like little shopfront display windows.
"This is the maximum security wing," Arkham explained. "Those windows are bullet-proof Plexiglas. The inmates we keep here are visible at all times." They began to walk slowly down the dimly-lit corridor. "Ten-twelve is at the very end. We try to keep him as isolated as possible. He can have an... unsettling effect on the others."

Scully looked to her right, through the first of the windows. A man sat on a cot, flipping a silver dollar, over and over again. His profile was quite impressive, movie-star handsome. Arkham stopped briefly and spoke, raising his voice so the man could hear him, "How are you this evening, Harvey?"

Harvey turned his head to look at the doctor. Scully's eyes widened slightly. That was the only outward sign of shock she showed, but she felt a little sick at her stomach. The other side of the man's face was a ruined mass of ugly, raw scar tissue. A yellowish eye bulged hideously above the cheekbone. The face was split precisely down the middle, one side handsome, the other side...

"Hello, Jeremiah. We're fine this evening." Harvey replied in a cultured, urbane tone of voice, continuing to toss and catch the coin. "We feel balanced today. Comfortable and content."

"I think YOU are getting better, Harvey."

Harvey tossed the coin again and caught it in his open palm. He held it out so the doctor and Scully could see. It was an old silver dollar, It had come up heads. The face was damaged. It looked as though someone had carved deep gouges in it with the point of a knife.

Harvey sighed, a sharp, exasperated sound, like a parent about to explain something to a child for the thousandth time. "There is no ME, Jeremiah. Not in the way you mean. There is this..." He held the coin up between his thumb and forefinger, showing them the scarred face.

"...and there is this." He flipped the coin over. The other side was heads also, but it was bright and clean, totally unmarked. Harvey tossed the coin again, caught it, shoved it into the pocket of his grey institutional uniform. "And that makes US." He smiled and a little drool ran from the scarred side of his mouth. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped a couple of octaves and taken on a distinctly menacing tone.

"And you never know which one of us you'll be dealing with, do you, you preening little bastard?"

Arkham pursed his lips and shook his head, motioning for Scully to follow him on down the corridor. Harvey stared after them.

"That's Harvey Dent?" Scully whispered. "Two-Face?"

Arkham nodded. "One of the most tragic cases I've ever seen. A brilliant man. He was once the District Attorney, you know..."

Arkham stopped a few feet before the final cell. "Agent Scully. There are a few things I'd like to say to you before you talk with Ten-twelve." He sighed and then was silent for a moment. He seemed to be searching for words. "I'm a physician, as I know you are, too. I heal people. I TRY to heal them... I WANT to heal them. Have you ever...lost a patient? Do you know that feeling?"

Scully nodded, waiting for Arkham to continue. The man was obviously upset. He seemed...hurt.

"One doesn't like to believe that there isn't any hope. Whether you're dealing with a physical illness or an emotional one. But this man... this..." He shook his head. "I've never encountered anyone like him. He seems to have no conscience, no remorse. If any human being in this world is totally incorrigible, he is. God knows, we've tried everything. We've never been able to make the slightest progress with him." He stared down at his shoes, rubbing his hands together slowly.

"Drug therapy is useless. I don't know, it seems as though he has some kind of... unique body chemistry. Psychoactive drugs have no effect on him whatsoever. Even thorazine barely fazes him. The best we can do is lock him away and try to keep him here. It's... discouraging. I'm a doctor, not a...a zookeeper. Even Harvey Dent shows signs of responsiveness now and then. I don't think he'll ever be ready to return to society, but there is at least something... human inside him, something you can reach if you try hard enough. But THIS one... Ten-twelve..." Another deep sigh.

"I'm a psychiatrist. A man of science. I don't use words like 'evil' to describe my patients... But sometimes..." He shook his head again. "Just be cautious when you speak with him. Don't let him get inside your head."

"'Gaze not into the abyss...'" Scully quoted softly.

Arkham looked up at her. " '...for the abyss gazes also into you,'" he finished. "Precisely." Scully studied the doctor's face. He was young, but there were deep lines around his eyes and mouth. He had spent more than his share of time gazing into the abyss, she reckoned, and it had affected him profoundly. Harvey Dent's scars were easy to see, but Jeremiah Arkham had scars of his own, and they weren't as visible.

For a moment, Scully wasn't sure the man on the other side of the transparent partition was alive. His flesh was whiter than any she had ever seen, as though there wasn't a drop of blood in his body. It was almost translucent. He sat motionless, a wide, mirthless grin carved into his face, staring at her. His lips were bright red and there were faint dark circles under his eyes. He sat bolt upright, hands on his knees. He looked like a corpse someone had made up like a clown and propped in the chair.

And then he spoke.

"Agent Scully," he said, his voice low and soft. He sniffed the air. "I can smell your... no, that gag's been done to death. Anyhow, I can't smell a thing in here. This cell is more or less hermetically sealed, you know. Independent air supply. I have a... history of experimenting with various gasses."

"I'm aware of your history," Scully replied evenly. "What I'm interested in is your present. I'll come right to the point. There was a break-in at a chemical storage warehouse in Washington D.C. early this morning. Someone wiped the computerized inventory, so we don't know what was taken. We do know that some rather exotic substances were stored there."

"And this involves me how?" the Joker asked.

"Four guards were killed during the burglary. They were poisoned."

The Joker leaned forward. Though Scully wouldn't have thought it possible, his grin got wider.

"You interest me strangely, Special Agent. Do go on."

"The toxin used to kill the guards produced some very unique physical effects. Rictus of the jaw muscles. Loss of skin pigmentation. Do I need to elaborate?"

The Joker tossed his head back and chuckled. It was a chilling sound. "What handsome cadavers they must have been." He ran a hand through his green hair. "You know, I never perfected a formula that would change the color of the hair. Not enough hours in the day..."

Scully leaned forward. "Were you involved? Did you have anything to do with that burglary?"
The Joker straightened up in the chair and looked at her, an expression of mock indignation on his face. "My dear Special Agent, I have not left this room in several weeks." He spread his arms. "You see here my whole world. Three hots and a cot, as they say. That's about it for the time being. I certainly haven't been visiting our nation's capitol."

"That doesn't mean you don't know anything about it. It was your toxin that was used on those guards."

"Agent Scully. I invented the stuff, sure. But I don't have a patent on it. For some reason, the U.S. Patent Office is reluctant to issue patents on deadly nerve toxins to certified sociopathic murderers. Go figure..."

Scully was silent for a moment, looking at the ghastly face on the other side of the Plexiglas. The Joker stared back at her, the grin fixed on his face, nothing remotely human in his eyes. The abyss, indeed. Scully took her eyes from the bizarre figure and glanced around his small cell. There was little in the way of furnishings. A steel cot, bolted to the floor. A steel commode, built right into the block wall. The chair the Joker sat in. Nothing else. The cell seemed immaculately clean, except for something over in the corner by the cot. Scully squinted at the small white piece of debris until she was sure of what it was. She kept her face still, clearing her throat and looking back at the Joker.

"Well," she said calmly, "we seem to be getting nowhere." The Joker nodded. Scully rummaged in her purse and took out a pack of cigarettes. It was a habit she rarely indulged, but couldn't quite shake. "Would you like a cigarette?" she asked.

The Joker looked at her, his smile widening slightly. His eyes moved to the spot on the floor, the little piece of trash that had caught Scully's attention. "Oh my," he said. "You are good, Agent Scully. Sharp as a tack. You remind me of someone I know-- though you dress far more sensibly." He chuckled. "Okay, I know how to play a scene." He straightened in his chair, cleared his throat and spoke a bit more stridently, like an actor delivering a monologue. "No thank you. It is forbidden for visitors to pass any object to a patient in the maximum security wing. Besides... I don't smoke. Filthy habit. I want to live to a ripe old age, die in bed, surrounded by..."

"Corpses?" Scully offered. She lit a cigarette. She needed to do something with her hands so as not to betray the nervousness she felt in the presence of this creature. To be honest, she felt a little out of her depth here. Dealing with freaks like this was more Frank Black's stock in trade. Black was back with the Bureau again, she knew. Maybe she should give him a call. But, from what she had heard, he was having plenty of problems of his own these days.

"Actually, I was going to say 'grinning, white-faced grandchildren.' But I like yours better!"

"How often do they clean your cell?" Scully asked abruptly.

"Oh, every now and then. I am neat as a pin by nature, I don't generate much rubbish. And they really don't like opening that door any more than they have to. Once or twice a week, perhaps."

"When was the last time?"

"Day before yesterday, I believe."

Scully tapped the ash from her cigarette onto the concrete floor
and jerked her head in the direction of the empty cell on the other side of the hall. "How long has that been empty?"

"It stays empty as a rule. I am considered a bad influence on people. But they use it occasionally when they run out of space." He put his hand to his chin and squinted, pretending to search his memory. "Why, I believe they did have a young fellow in there for a couple of days. He just left, in fact. Boy by the name of Eddie. While I admire his taste in colors, I don't think much of him personally. He's kind of derivative, don't you think? I mean, the 'Riddler' for God's sake? I think I ought to be offended. Maybe I am."

"Did you have any trouble with him while he was here?"

"No. He keeps to himself mostly. Talks to himself a lot. Restless fellow. Manic depressive, I think. Has trouble sleeping sometimes. Sometimes he lies there awake when he should be asleep."

"And sees things he shouldn't see?"

The Joker tapped a forefinger against his chin. He glanced at the object on the floor near his cot. "We all have that problem at times. Don't we, Agent Scully?" He stretched his arms and gave an exaggerated yawn. "I think we've gone about far enough, don't you? You're no tyro, Agent Scully. You know I'm not going to give anything up, even if I have anything to give, which I may or may not. And I don't think you have anything I want. So let's call it a day, shall we?"
Scully knew the Joker was right. There wasn't any point in prolonging this. And she was, frankly, grateful for the opportunity to get away from him. She dropped her cigarette to the floor and ground it out with the toe of her shoe.

The Joker pointed at the cigarette. "That's a dangerous habit, Agent Scully. You're a doctor, you should know that. Those things can give you cancer. And cancer," he continued, leaning closer to the glass and tapping a spot on the back of his neck, "can be a real pain in the neck, can't it?"

Scully's eyes widened and her hand moved to the back of her own neck, where she could feel the tiny bump caused by the subcutaneous object Mulder referred to as her "alien implant."
The Joker's grin widened until it looked as though his ghastly face might split in half. "Ha! Gotcha!" Then he tossed back his head and began to laugh.

Special Agent Fox Mulder was asleep on the narrow couch in the living room of his Georgetown apartment. The only light in the room came from the television, an episode of "Sightings" featuring a story about a newspaper reporter in Chicago who claimed to have tracked down a vampire in Las Vegas in the early 70s. Mulder twisted uneasily on the sofa, grunting, dreaming an old, familiar dream.

The telephone on the coffee table buzzed. Mulder opened his eyes, fumbled for the receiver.

"Yeah. Mulder here."

"Mulder it's me."

"Scully." He came more fully awake at the sound of his partner's voice. Images of his sister faded away, replaced by a quick rush of memory: Gotham City. The Joker. Scully. What's up?"

"There is something very weird going on here." She told him everything that had happened at the Asylum, the Riddler's strange question, the cigarette on the floor of the Joker's cell. "And, Mulder, listen. He knows about my cancer and the implant."

"What?" Mulder sprang upright on the sofa, spilling a couple of magazines onto the floor. "How?"

"I don't know how. Something is going on with him and I think it involves our 'friend' the Cancer Man."

Mulder was silent a moment. He stood up and paced around the room, scratching his head.

"What could he possibly be doing with the Joker? I don't get it. We know Smoky never does anything without a reason, and we have a pretty good idea of the kind of stuff he's involved in. How does the Joker fit in? How COULD he?"

"Listen, Mulder. What do we REALLY know about the Joker? What does anyone really know? Can you believe than nobody even knows his real name? He's been investigated by the Bureau in the past... Do you believe we weren't able to turn up anything at all?"

"What are you saying, Scully?"

"I'm not saying anything. I'm asking questions. You've read the Bureau's file on the Joker, right?"

"Sure. I'll admit it's pretty thin. All anyone has ever been able to get out of him is that he was once a small-time burglar called the Red Hood. He fell into a vat of chemicals during a burglary that went bad and it turned him into... what he is."

"Just think about that, Mulder. Stories about little green men from outer space make more sense than a cock-and-bull scenario like that. People who fall into vats of chemicals die. They don't turn into living playing cards. Industrial waste kills you or makes you sick. It doesn't turn your skin white and your hair green. Not permanently."

"Well, you're the doctor."

"Yes, and while I'll admit I've seen a lot of things I can't explain, I don't buy a story like that. This whole story is according to HIM. It's never been corroborated. It's just something he TELLS people. It's like he's thumbing his nose at the doctors and investigators by offering such an obvious line of bullshit."

"Scully, language."

"Well, that's what it is! And I'll tell you something else. Dr. Arkham told me that the Joker seems to be immune to psychotropic drugs. Another by-product of his swim in the vat? No... There's something very odd about the Joker, and I mean beyond just the obvious. It's as though he's been... I don't know, genetically altered or engineered somehow."

"Scully, I hope you don't mind me pointing out all the times you've accused me of jumping to conclusions... Trying to see how the other half lives?"

"Blame yourself, Mulder. Five years ago, I might have accepted the party line on the Joker. I might not have given it any thought. But you've... broadened my skepticism, I guess. You know I've never accepted anything at what seemed to be face value. I've always wanted the right answer... the TRUTH. Maybe one of the things I've learned from you is that the truth can be bigger and stranger than I ever imagined."

"Well, that's something. I feel honored."

"You should. Listen, I'm going to nose around here a little more. See if I can get in to talk to the Riddler tomorrow."

"Okay. And Scully. Be careful."

"I always am. Talk to you later..."

"Oh, one more thing."

"What?"

"Say hello to the Batman for me if you run into him."

Scully sighed. "The Batman is nothing but an urban legend, Mulder."

"What were you saying earlier about the truth being bigger and stranger..."

"I have to draw the line somewhere. Maybe I can accept Flukemen and Jersey Devils... with some reservations... but a man who dresses up like a bat and fights crime? I would think even YOU would have your limits, Mulder."

"Ahhhhh! I feel relieved. Now THAT'S the Dana Scully I know. You had me worried for a minute. I was afraid I might be talking to a clone or something."

"Mulder, PLEASE don't mention clones..."

"Sorry. But tell me this. If there is no Batman, who keeps catching the Joker? And all the others? They tell a pretty consistent story, you know."

"Not surprising, especially in the Joker's case. How could such a colossal egomaniac admit, even to himself, that an ordinary police force is capable of getting the better of him? The Batman legend is tailor-made for a case of such extreme narcissism. The others follow his lead. Gotham City is a strange place, Mulder. There seems to be a whole different set of rules here. Sort of like New Orleans, only worse. This has to be the single largest concentration of superstitious, fetishistic and histrionic criminals in the country. Something about this place seems to nurture severely unbalanced personalities bent on total self-aggrandizement. At bottom, though, they are cowardly and insecure. Egos made of very thin glass. Desperate, I suppose, to impress the other flamboyant deviants as well as themselves. The Batman legend is at least a way of saving face when they fail."

"Or," Mulder said, "in Harvey Dent's case, saving two of them."

"Goodbye, Mulder."

THE BATCAVE
7:03 p.m.
As Dana Scully cut the connection on her phone, Bruce Wayne leaned forward and flipped a switch on the console in front of him. He was seated in front of one of the Batcave's massive Kray computers. He tapped his fingers on the console for a moment or two, then punched a few commands into the keyboard in front of him. The large monitor screen came to life, displaying a picture of the Joker. Wayne stared at the image for several moments, lost in thought.

"I must say," offered Alfred, who was standing behind Wayne holding a silver tray, "your 'ladybug' is most impressive. It can actually tap into a cellular telephone?"

"As long as the phone's close by, yes," said Wayne. "She must be calling from her car. Apparently they don't bother scrambling their calls."

Alfred placed the tray on a clear section of the console, near Wayne's right elbow. "I find it curiously reassuring to know that the FBI is not as paranoid as yourself, sir," he said dryly.
Wayne ignored the sarcasm. "I wish I'd thought to slip one onto her jacket or something when we shook hands. She won't stay in or near the car the entire time she's here."

Alfred cleared his throat. "The things she said about the Joker, sir. What are your feelings on that?"

Wayne rubbed his chin. "I'm damned if I know. I know there WAS a Red Hood and he DID fall into a vat of industrial chemicals... I was there that night. But Agent Scully is right, we only have the Joker's word that he and the Hood were the same man."

"And if I might ask sir, precisely how much stock do you place in the Joker's word... on any subject?"

Wayne was silent, looking into the computer screen, at the still photo of the ghastly, grinning face. "Damn it, Alfred, maybe I've been a fool. All these years. I've read every word the doctors at Arkham have ever been able to pry out of him in therapy. The most consistent story he tells is that he was a young, would-be comedian. A decent, ordinary man with a wife and a job. His wife was pregnant... she died in an accident... he allowed himself to be talked into leading a gang of burglars into a chemical plant, disguised as the Red Hood... I never questioned any of that. But Agent Scully is absolutely right. It really doesn't make much sense."

He shook his head. "You know, I've never been able to think straight where the Joker is concerned. I hate him, Alfred. I really do. In the kind of... work I do, I try to remain as detached as possible. People like Harvey Dent I even feel sorry for. But the Joker... I hate him, and yet...
"I keep remembering something he said to me, the night I caught him... after he... shot Barbara. He kept talking about 'one bad day.' What one bad day could do to a person." Wayne looked up at his butler.

"And then he said he bet I had a bad day once."

"And in your experience, sir, does one bad day necessarily transform a 'decent, ordinary man' into a monster overnight?"

Wayne sighed. "Well, Alfred. I DID have a bad day once, you know. A terrible day. And, as you have often pointed out, my lifestyle is not what you would call... normal."

"Perhaps not, but you are no monster. And, if I may say, sir, what you have become, you have become by choice. And determination. You made yourself into what you are, and it did not happen overnight, or by chance. The circumstances of your youth did not dictate what you would become. YOU did that, consciously and deliberately, and it took you years to do it. Might not the same be true in the case of the Joker?"

"If that's the case, Alfred... Then the Joker is right about something. Something I've always denied."

"What is that, sir?"

"That the two of us are a lot alike. More than I've ever been willing to admit."

"No, sir. You are both...unique, that is true. But the Joker is sick, a monster." Alfred cleared his throat. "While I am not qualified to discuss the pathology of your... nocturnal obsession, I do know that you are a good man. You do good things. You must not allow the Joker to twist your thinking with such absurd comparisons. That is the only weapon he has against you, Master Bruce." Only Wayne, who had known this man for most of his life, would have been able to detect the depth of earnestness in Alfred's habitually reserved tone of voice. "The only way he can fight is to plant seeds of self-doubt, to attempt to corrupt others as he himself is corrupted."

Bruce Wayne looked at his butler, his oldest friend, and produced one of his rare genuine smiles. "Alfred... What would I ever have done without you?"

The other man stiffened. "Undoubtedly, you would have become a sociopathic serial murderer, sir. And one with very poor eating habits. If you would consider turning your attention to the tray I have brought you, I will finish committing my federal crime for the evening and provide you with the information you asked for earlier."

BLACKGATE PRISON
7:15 p.m.

Eddie Nigma was back in a grey, 10-by-8-foot prison cell. They always put him in the isolation wing when he got back from one of his treatment sessions at Arkham. Which was fine with Eddie, because he preferred his own company to that of the collection of thugs, gang-bangers and killers who made up the rest of the population. He wasn't one of them. He was a genius. He was different.

He lay back on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. He felt a little calmer. It was more comfortable at Arkham, in a physical sense. The bunks were softer, the food was better. And the company was a little more high-caliber. The place was full of psychos, but hadn't someone once said that there was a thin line between genius and madness? At least you could get a decent conversation out of Harvey Dent-- when he was being Harvey Dent and not that other thing that lived inside his head. And Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow, was an absolutely brilliant man. On the downside, however, some of the others, like Mr. Zsasz and Cornelius Stirk, were downright frightening.

And then there was the Joker.

There was something about that clown that Eddie did not like at all. The Joker made his skin crawl. Eddie had been around all kids of people, the lowest of the low, but he had never met anyone as creepy and sick and just plain WRONG as that grinning, white-faced freak.

Cornelius Stirk was a cannibal, for God's sake, but Eddie would much rather be locked in a room with him than with the Joker. A feeling of-- Eddie couldn't describe it as anything but "wrongness"-- seemed to come from the clown in waves that you could FEEL. Like he wasn't human or something.

And his attitude. He didn't care that he was locked up. And, in spite of the efforts of Dr. Arkham and the staff, the Joker seemed to be able to come and go almost at will. When he was there, it was like he WANTED to be there. When he got tired of it, he split. There was something weird going on.

Like that man in there last night. Eddie knew he hadn't dreamed that. There had been a man in the Joker's cell, talking with him. An older man with a lined, weathered face, wearing a cheap business suit and smoking a cigarette. The guy had spook written all over him. He had to be from some kind of agency. FBI, CIA, something. Eddie had been busted by feds before, and they all had the same mark. Nothing you could point to specifically, but something you could never miss. Eddie had pretended to be asleep, but watched through slitted eyes. The man had talked to the Joker for a minute or two. The Joker had responded, jotting down a few things on a small slip of paper which he had handed to the man. Then the man leaned close to the Joker and said something. That was when the Joker had started laughing, that wild, creepy laugh of his, gale after gale of it. Eddie had shut his eyes tight, until the laughter stopped. When he had opened them again, the other man had been gone.

Eddie twisted over onto his side. What did the smoking man say to the clown? What was that grinning son of a bitch up to now? Eddie didn't like the things the Joker did, all the killing. It wasn't necessary, it wasn't right. The Joker did whatever the Joker wanted to do-- and he got away with it. Arkham wasn't punishment. The Joker ought to be fried or gassed or shot or flayed alive...

What's green and white and should be dead all over?

A shadow fell across Eddie as someone stepped between him and the dim light from the hallway outside. He looked over at the cell door.

A man wearing the uniform of an orderly from the prison infirmary stood there, inserting a key into the lock.

"What's this?" Eddie asked, sitting up on the bunk.

"Got a shot for you," the man said. His voice was cold and strange. He was big and odd-looking in some way Eddie couldn't define.

"What shot? The doc didn't say anything about shots. And who are you? I've never seen you before."

The man looked at Eddie coldly. "So who the fuck are you, the warden? Look, Nigma, I got a job to do. The docs ordered a shot for you and you're gonna get it." He had a hypodermic syringe in one hand which he was filling from a small bottle. "Now roll up your goddamn sleeve and shut your goddamn mouth."

Eddie shrugged and unbuttoned the cuff of his grey prison shirt.

One thing about Arkham, they were a whole lot more polite.

When Eddie had his sleeve up the other man took hold of his arm and jabbed the needle in without a word. Eddie winced but didn't make any noise. The man pushed the plunger down and removed the hypo.

"There, all done big shot. That'll help you sleep. I hear you've been having trouble. That'll fix you up good."

"Yeah," mumbled Eddie, stretching back out on the cot. "What do you get when you cross a baboon and a prison orderly?"

"Oh, that's funny," said the other man. "Real wiseass, huh? Well, pleasant dreams, smart guy." The orderly left the cell, locking the door behind him.

Eddie rubbed the spot on his arm where the shot had gone in. It stung like hell. That idiot hadn't even swabbed it with alcohol. The quality of service in this place! He was going to have to start planning another breakout, real soon.

He lay on his back, staring up, thinking. He had about 50 grand stashed away in a bank in Central City. That would be enough to get out of the country, maybe try and lay low for a while.
All of a sudden, his head started to hurt. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He tried to sit up, but found that he didn't have the strength to push himself erect.

"What the hell..."

It hit him all at once, what was going on. The "orderly." The needle. The Fed. The Joker. Oh, shit. Oh, God. Oh, no. This can't be the end... Not like this... The fucking Joker...

Eddie's head was swimming. Hell, it was swirling like a hurricane. He couldn't think at all. He was blacking out.

His head fell back on the thin pillow, eyes wide open. His arms and legs twitched convulsively and then were still. His skin was pale in the wan light from the hallway. Dark blotches began to form on his forearms, tracing the lines of his veins. His eyes were rolled back in his head, pupils invisible. Very slowly, like a cloud of India ink spreading through a pool of water, the whites of his eyes darkened until they were completely black...

KANE-CARTER HOTEL
DOWNTOWN GOTHAM
8:03 p.m.

Scully had taken a longer, hotter shower than usual and she still felt grimy and sour. She knew it was because of the Joker, and she didn't like that. She had let him get to her, disturb her. It was hard not to. He was creepy enough on his own, but the little hints and suggestions he'd dropped-- and his possible relationship with the Cancer Man... She felt soiled, she felt uneasy, she even felt a little frightened.

She had tried without success to get in touch with James Gordon, Gotham's police commissioner. She needed to go through him to get approval to visit the Riddler in Blackgate. But Gordon was apparently more of a hands-on administrator than most she had met. The switchboard operator at police headquarters had informed her that Gordon was out in West Gotham, where someone or something called "Killer Moth" had taken a couple of hostages. But he'd get back to her as soon as he could. Scully had thanked the operator and given her cell phone number.

Now there wasn't much to do but wait. She had read the Joker's file nine ways from Sunday; there was nothing new to be gained there. She was fidgety and not the least bit tired, but didn't particularly want to go out. She was unfamiliar with Gotham, and frankly found the city a little weird and intimidating. Even the architecture was bizarre.

A perfect place for the likes of the Joker and Two-Face, but Scully preferred the clean, classical look of Washington D.C. And while it was true that the Capitol was one of the most crime-ridden cities in America, Gotham had it beat by a wide margin. Dope dealers and gang-bangers Scully could deal with; mutated clowns and scarred ex-district attorneys with multiple personalities were something else altogether. And "Killer Moths." Scully didn't even want to KNOW about that one...

So now she sat in an armchair, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, a towel wrapped around her wet hair, flipping through TV channels. Friday wasn't as good a TV night as it used to be. She couldn't find anything of interest.

The telephone on the nightstand rang. Scully was inclined to let it go. Anyone who really needed to get in touch with her had her cell phone number. Still, it could be something important. She got up from the chair, walked across the room and lifted the receiver.

Instead of her usual "Scully," she simply said, "Hello?"

"Agent Scully? I hope I'm not bothering you. This is Bruce Wayne. We met earlier, at Arkham Asylum?"

What was this all about? Wayne had a reputation as a playboy, but phoning FBI agents he'd met a couple hours earlier? That was a little raw for anyone. "Yes, Mr. Wayne, I remember you. Can I help you?"

"Actually, I was hoping I could help you. I understand you've never been to Gotham before. I've lived here most of my life. I thought we might meet for dinner somewhere, I could answer any questions you might have. If you aren't busy, of course."

"Well, Mr. Wayne, I appreciate the offer, but..."

"I assure you, Agent Scully, this isn't an attempt at a pickup.

"I know you're here to investigate the Joker. I understand that the details of your assignment are confidential. But I have always taken an interest in the crime problem in Gotham. That's why I was at Arkham tonight, working out ways to help Jeremiah with his security. All I have in mind is a little dinner and conversation. If I can help you in any way, I'd be glad to."

Scully thought for a moment. Wayne certainly sounded sincere. And the impression of the man she'd gained earlier in the evening didn't seem to fit the irresponsible playboy image Wayne seemed saddled with in the media. And there was something else she remembered about him. About his parents... They had been gunned down, years ago, during a robbery attempt. No, Bruce Wayne was not an idle, air-headed rich boy, no matter how he was portrayed in public.
And, Scully had to admit, the man was handsome and seemed to have real depth-- which, for some reason, he tried to hide. There was something fascinating about him... There was really no practical reason to refuse. She could bring her cell phone along in case Commissioner Gordon tried to call her.

Not to mention the fact that she'd love to see Mulder's face when she told him about her "date" with one of America's richest, most eligible bachelors.

"All right," she said. "That would be... nice. Where and when would you like to meet?"

"How about the Chez Mattheson? It's on the top floor of the hotel you're staying in. Excellent food, and the view can't be beat."

Scully grimaced. The Gotham City skyline was about as appealing to her as a mouthful of rotten teeth. But she made her voice cheerful. "That would be fine. Nine o'clock sound okay to you?"
"I'll be there. Thank you, Agent Scully. I look forward to meeting you again."

"Same here," said Scully. And she meant it.

GO TO PART TWO

GOTHAM X Part Two

2009-10-13T23:09:00.000-07:00

SOMEWHERE IN WASHINGTON D.C.
8:15 p.m.

A man sat behind a large desk in a darkened room. Feeble light came through the partially-curtained window from a streetlamp outside. The man lit a cigarette, the glare from his lighter illuminating his long, deeply-lined face. He exhaled smoke, watched it drift toward the ceiling.
There was a small cassette recorder on the desk in front of him.

He hesitated a moment, finger hovering above the record button. Finally, he pressed it and the reels on the tiny cassette began to turn.

"I am making this recording," the man said in a flat, even voice, "for my son. In the event of my death, I want him to know the truth.

"Some of it you have guessed. Some of it you have discovered on your own. Some has been given to you. But you do not have it all, and some of what you think you have is not truth. You have no reason to trust me, but I am telling you the truth now. All I can give you is my word, and I know you place little value on that. Nevertheless...

"I have been, for many years, involved in... work, the exact nature of which I am still reluctant to detail. Suffice it to say that I have been involved with a group of individuals who are pursuing a certain agenda. They believe that I, too, pursue that same agenda. In fact, I do not. These are extremely dangerous men. I do not fear them, as men, but I do fear the consequences of the things they are attempting to do." He sighed deeply, took another drag from his cigarette. Even now, he couldn't bring himself to be too specific. Secrecy and obfuscation had seeped into his soul to the point where he doubted he was constitutionally capable of real openness.

"Recent events have brought this... project to a crisis point. My 'superiors' in the group wish to introduce certain... unwelcome organisms into our environment. These organisms have recently become much more aggressive and difficult to contain. My colleagues feel that a compromise can be reached with them. This is a goal which must be defeated. By any means necessary.

"I have been conducting experiments of my own with these organisms. Thus far, I have found no way to check their growth and maturation process. We recently lost an important installation in the Antarctic in which experimentation was taking place. I don't have to detail the circumstances of that loss for you. Meanwhile, my 'colleagues' are proceeding with their plans to welcome these... things to our planet. In my view, this will mean the end of human life here. The others are convinced that by cooperating with these... things, they can at least save their own skins. They are fools.

"Last night, I visited, by clandestine means, a certain individual with whom I have had dealings in the past. This individual-- who is now known as the "Joker"-- is not what he seems to be.

"Fifteen years ago, I worked with this man on a project which was ancillary to, but separate from, the project I referred to earlier. This man was a biochemist, one of the most brilliant in his field. He was also the most ruthless, amoral son of a bitch I have ever met." The man allowed himself a thin, sour approximation of a smile. "And that's saying something. His real name is... Well, you probably wouldn't believe me if I told you. I'm stretching credibility enough as it is. Anyhow...

"He was recruited into our program from a university where he was teaching and conducting research. Certain scandals had begun to collect around him and he was on the verge of being let go. In fact, he was in serious danger of arrest. We offered him employment and he accepted. In retrospect, this was probably a mistake.

"He did nothing to compromise our research, but he used our time and equipment to pursue an agenda of his own. For reasons of his own, he radically altered his own body chemistry. He managed to slightly reconfigure his own DNA. His reasons for doing this are obscure. Shortly after he accomplished this... transformation, he disappeared. Nothing was heard from him for several months, until he emerged in Gotham City in his current persona and began his criminal activities.

"Since that time, I and certain of my associates have kept tabs on him. We have been able, from time to time, to persuade him to provide us with help in some of our activities. Usually as a consultant in scientific, particularly biochemical, matters.

"When he isn't on the loose, he spends his time at Arkham Asylum. The director of the Asylum is unaware that we have compromised his security setup. This situation has existed for several years. We have found Arkham Asylum to be a valuable source of new and exotic forms of weaponry. Not only the Joker, but also Jonathan Crane, Victor Fries, Pamela Isley and other inmates have provided us with many useful items. In return, we facilitate their periodic escapes.

This gives them the opportunity to develop and field test new weapons."

The man stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray and immediately lit another.

"In my personal opinion," he continued, "the Joker is too dangerous and unpredictable. I would prefer that he be terminated, but there are others who disagree, for whatever reasons. I do not trust the man. I do not like him. However, in the current situation, I find myself forced to deal with him. To make a pact with the Devil, if you will. He is the only man available to me who might possess the skill and knowledge to develop a toxic agent capable of dealing with these... organisms.

"Early this morning, at his insistence, I visited him personally. We had already been in contact regarding this operation.

The Joker had been informed of the problem and provided with certain technical details. I had hoped that the operation could be carried out with no physical contact. However, the Joker delights in making people do what he wants them to do. He was adamant that I come to him personally to receive a list of substances which he would need. A few hours later, these substances, many of which are extremely scarce, dangerous and closely monitored, were stolen from a government facility three miles from where I sit. There was no way to obtain these specimens without drawing attention. Therefore, the decision was made to use so-called "Joker Venom" on the guards at the storage facility. In fact, the Joker himself insisted upon this. Which, I must admit, could work to our advantage. The trail will lead away from Washington and to Gotham City. Any repercussions can be laid at the feet of a...'lone nut.' The Joker's past history makes his apparent involvement in almost anything credible.

"Unfortunately, the rest of the operation cannot be carried out without the Joker's direct involvement. The substances have been taken to a location in Gotham and, as I speak, other arrangements are being made to continue the operation. Arrangements have been made to obtain a test subject."

The man glanced at his watch, holding his arm at an angle so the watch face caught some of the light from the street. He'd have to wrap this up. It would soon be time to leave.

"I hope," he said slowly, "that my decisions in this matter have been wise ones. There is a lot at stake here. More than you have even imagined or surmised. When you learn the full truth, as I am sure you someday will, I hope you can..." He stopped, drawing on his cigarette. What was he going to say next? "Forgive me?" That didn't seem likely... He shook his head, stopped the tape, wound it back a bit. He pressed play, found the spot he wanted, and pressed record. "I hope you will understand. I will leave this tape in a safe place with instructions that it be delivered to you if this operation... goes awry. In addition to the tape, you will be given a number of computer disks containing full details of the project."

He stopped the machine, stubbed out his cigarette, and popped out the cassette. He placed it in a small manila envelope and wrote a name across the front. Then he placed the envelope in his breast pocket and stood. He lit yet another cigarette, then prepared to exit the room.

It was time to go back to work. Back to Gotham.

Back to the Devil.

CHEZ MATTHESON RESTAURANT
9:03 p.m.

Scully hadn't brought along much in the way of clothes, so she was relieved to see that Wayne had dressed casually, in slacks, a dark turtleneck and blazer. She herself wore one of her customary businesslike pant suits. This was her first time to dinner with a billionaire; she had been a little concerned about protocol.

Wayne greeted her warmly. The headwaiter fawned over him and showed them to what he assured them was one of their best tables. The place was much fancier than what Scully was used to. It made her a little uncomfortable. Wayne, too, appeared to be ill at ease here. For a billionaire playboy, he seemed out of place in the haunts of the rich.

Once they were settled in, had placed their order, and were working on small salads, Wayne said, "I hope you're enjoying your visit to Gotham."

She looked at him. "I imagine you said that just to make conversation," she replied, humor in her voice. "I came here to investigate the Joker. For a clown, he isn't much fun."

Wayne returned her gaze. "No, he isn't. He's caused a lot of suffering in this city. Too much."

Wayne shook his head, took a sip of water. "As I said before, anything I can do to assist you, just ask."

"I appreciate that. And if anything comes up, I'll remember your offer. Right now, though, there isn't much to be done." Scully wished she could be more open with Wayne, confide in him as to the nature of her visit. She had a feeling he might understand. There weren't many people in
the world she could trust at this point, and she sensed that Wayne might just be one of them.
"I understand you're a doctor, Agent Scully?"

"That's right."

"I don't know of many physicians who go into the FBI. It's
rather unusual."

"Yes," Scully said. "My father said the same thing. In much stronger terms."

"So what motivated you? If you don't mind my asking."

Scully shrugged a little. "I'm not totally sure. It all has to do with making a difference. In the world, I mean. I've always wanted to do that. Make a difference, make things a little better."

"As a physician, I would think you'd have more than enough opportunities to do that."

"Yes, but..." She sighed. "I don't know, it's not the same thing. The kind of difference I want to make... Well, let me put it this way. A disease organism doesn't deliberately and with malice aforethought set out to infect and kill a human being. Correct?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"I'm not saying that I think disease should be allowed to spread
unchecked just because it isn't aware of the suffering it causes, but...
I just realized that I'd rather spend my time trying to stop the deliberate predators. Human beings who know exactly what they're doing, how much pain and death they cause, and do it anyway. Does that make any sense to you?" She looked at him, her eyes wide.

Wayne nodded slowly. "Yes, Agent. It does... It makes a great deal of sense." He fell silent, glancing around the room. Looking anywhere but at Scully, in fact. She was an interesting woman. If circumstances were different, he might find himself very interested indeed. She made him feel uncomfortable, distracted. So he was staring out the window at the night sky when he saw the signal. A beam of yellow light projected against a low cloud, a dark bat-shaped silhouette in the center. Scully, her back to the window, couldn't see it. A couple of other diners glanced at it, one of them even pointed it out to his companion. But there was no commotion. It was a familiar sight to Gothamites.

He sighed. The bat, always the bat. Bruce Wayne could never enjoy a simple dinner with an attractive woman. Sometimes he doubted that there actually WAS a Bruce Wayne. It often seemed that he, too, had died in that alley all those years ago when his parents were murdered.
Self-pity faded as his instincts took over. He was about to make an excuse to Scully when he heard a muted chirping sound. "Oh, excuse me," she said, reaching into her purse for her cell phone. "Agent Scully here.... Yes, Commissioner... what? Yes, I can come over right away. I know where the building is... yes, thank you, I'll be there soon."

She looked up at Wayne, honest regret in her eyes. "I'm sorry, that was Commissioner Gordon. There has been a development in this thing. he'd like to see me in his office. Can I get a raincheck?"

"Of course, I understand. Duty always comes first, right?" It always had and it always would. And there was no room for regret.

"I'm afraid so. Maybe I'll see you later." She closed the phone and stuck it back in her purse as the stood up. Wayne reached into his jacket pocket and gingerly grasped one of his 'ladybugs.'

"I hope so," said Wayne. Scully thought his voice sounded strange. A little deeper, a little colder. He shook her hand and touched her on the elbow, sticking the little tracer onto the fabric of her jacket, and they left the restaurant. Scully headed toward the bank of elevators. She glanced behind her, thinking that Wayne might accompany her to the parking garage.

But he was gone.

GOTHAM POLICE HEADQUARTERS
COMMISSIONER JAMES GORDON'S OFFICE 9:59 p.m.

"Pleased to meet you, Agent Scully," said Commissioner Gordon, shaking her hand. Gordon was an older man, in his mid-sixties perhaps. His hair and moustache were white and he wore horn-rimmed glasses. But he was robust, active and appeared to be in excellent shape. He motioned for her to sit in the chair in front of his desk and waited until she was settled before taking his own seat. A gentleman, too.

He rubbed a hand across his forehead and got down to business.

"We've got some problems out at Blackgate. With Eddie Nigma."

"What kind of problems?"

"They aren't sure. Something's wrong with him. He's in a coma
right now. They have him in the prison infirmary, but they don't know what to do with him. The doctor out there has never seen anything like it. You're a physician, aren't you?" Scully nodded. Gordon described Nigma's symptoms. Scully felt a cold knot form in her stomach as he described the dark blotches on the skin and the blackening of the eyeballs.

"Have you ever heard of anything like that?" Gordon asked.

"I'm not sure," Scully replied cautiously. She shifted in her chair. "I wonder if it would be possible for me to examine him?"

"I don't see why not. They're talking about transferring him to Gotham General, where the facilities are better. That won't happen for another hour at least. I could send someone over there with you to look at him before he's moved."
"Thank you, Commissioner. You've been very cooperative." Unusually so. Local law enforcement often turned recalcitrant in the face of what they regarded as "interference" by the feds. It was a situation Scully had encountered more times than she could count.
Gordon gave her a thin smile. "You have a very good reputation, Agent Scully. I have to admit, I did some checking on you when I found out you were coming to Gotham. It happens I know your supervisor, Assistant Director Skinner. We attended a forensics seminar together a few years ago. I got to know the man. I respect him and I respect his opinion. He told me you were one of the best."
"Skinner said that?"

"Yes." Gordon leaned back in his chair. "Agent Scully. I know that whatever is going on here involves the Joker. I also understand that there may be national security issues involved that you can't discuss with me. But I want to tell you something." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, looking her in the eyes. "I have some personal issues with the Joker. He has been a blight on this city for years. Even more than that, my own life has been touched by his actions. A few years ago, he shot and crippled my daughter."

"I'm sorry, Commissioner."

Gordon nodded. "So am I. But Barbara was lucky. Most of the
Joker's victims wind up in a box instead of a wheelchair. I'd like to see him put away for good. I'd like to see him dealt with. Frankly, I wouldn't mind seeing him dead. I don't know why you're interested in the Joker, but I'll do anything I can to help you. If the Joker is involved in terrorism or breaches of national security or whatever, I'd like nothing better than to have him taken out of Arkham Asylum and put in a federal prison where they might be able to hold onto him."

Scully sighed. "I'll level with you, Commissioner. I don't know exactly what's going on, but I think the Joker is involved in something very dark, very deep and very bad. Most of it I can't discuss with you. A lot of it I don't even know myself. But I don't like the Joker or his kind any more than you do. If there's any way I can bring him down, I'll do it."

Gordon looked at Scully for a few moments. She reminded him a little of Barbara. Not just the hair, which was almost the same shade, or her age, but the quiet determination. He liked her.
"Okay, Agent Scully, I'll get a detective in here to take you over to Blackgate." He was reaching for his phone when it rang. He picked up the receiver.

"Gordon... What? Oh, Jesus Christ. When? Well, what DOES he know? Damn it... Okay, I'll be out there as soon as I can."

He replaced the receiver and looked at Scully. "I think this thing, whatever it is, just went up a notch. The Joker is missing from Arkham."

"Oh my God," Scully said. Her head jerked to the right. She thought she had heard a slight noise from the partly-opened window. Like a sharp intake of breath. But there was only darkness outside. She was getting jumpy and that wouldn't do.

"I'm going out to Arkham," Gordon said. "I'd still like to you to go take a look at Nigma." He picked up the phone and punched in a few numbers. "Bullock? I need you to accompany Agent Scully out to Blackgate Prison. Yes. And Bullock? Be careful out there. The Joker's on the loose again and there may be some connection with him and whatever's happening to the Riddler." He was looking at Scully as he spoke, and he raised his eyebrows, seeking her confirmation. She nodded. "Yes. I know. I'll send her down to you and you head out. I'll let you know what happens. Okay."

He hung up.

"Agent Scully, Detective Bullock will be taking you over to Blackgate. You'll find him down in the squadroom. You can hardly miss him. Look for a rumpled fellow in a cheap suit with a box of donuts on his desk. I'll talk with you later."

"All right, Commissioner. And good luck."

"Thanks. I'll need it. And the same to you." Scully hurried out
of the office.

After he was sure she was out of earshot, Gordon turned to the window. "You heard all that?"
A black-gloved hand emerged from the gloom outside and grasped the sash, pushing the window all the way up. The Batman slid nimbly over the sill. "Yes," he said, his voice harder and colder than usual. "Something very odd is going on, Jim." He stood in a shadow by the window, looking at Gordon with those slitted white eyes of his. That still gave the Commissioner the creeps, even after all these years. He knew they must be two-way lenses or something, but there was still something... unearthly about it. The whole outfit made Gordon a little uneasy. The black bodysuit, the cowl, the long, flowing cape. It should have looked ridiculous, and probably would have on anyone else. But not on this man. Somehow, he made it work.

"I've learned some things about the Joker," Batman continued, "that have raised a number of questions in my mind." He quickly repeated for Gordon the conversation he'd tapped into between Scully and her partner.

"Jesus," Gordon said. "I never thought much about it, but you're right. What is that son of a bitch into? What IS he?"

"I don't know, Jim," Batman replied, shaking his head. "Beyond the obvious, that he's a conscienceless monster, I just don't know... And who is this 'Cancer Man' they referred to?"
"Who knows? We've got Calendar Man, Cat Man... why not Cancer Man? Well, I'm heading out to Arkham. Will you be meeting me there?"

The Batman pursed his lips into a thin line. "I don't think so. Since when have any of us been able to trace him from there when he gets loose? I'm going to follow Bullock and Scully. I have a really bad feeling about that business with Nigma."

"Okay. I'm still going to Arkham. You never know what..." He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. "Yeah, Gordon here. What!?!

Oh, god damn it! Are they sure? Shit. Yes, I'm on my way." He slammed down the receiver.

"What is it, Jim?"

"Just when you think things can't get any worse... Not only is the Joker out, but so is Harvey Dent! Do they even lock the goddamn doors over there? Jeremiah Arkham doesn't know shit, as usual. He can't even tell me how long they've been gone." He turned to get his hat and coat from the rack behind his desk. "Do you think..." He stopped automatically, before he even turned around. He knew no one was listening any more, knew from long and exasperating experience what he'd see when he looked back at the window.

Which was nothing. The Batman was gone. He had even closed the window, without a sound.
One of these days, I'm going to at least SEE him slip out, Gordon silently vowed.

BLACKGATE PRISON INFIRMARY
10:39 p.m.

No doubt about it. The Riddler had the Black Virus. Scully finished her brief examination, peeled off her rubber gloves and facemask, and stepped out from behind the curtain which had been placed around Nigma's hospital bed.

"This man is in bad shape," she announced to Detective Bullock and Dr. McGavin, the prison physician. "He's still alive, but only just.

I don't believe he's contagious. This thing isn't airborne. But he needs to be moved to a better facility." After what she and Mulder had witnessed over the past couple months, she didn't want to take any chances. At the same time, she didn't want to cause a panic. When she had a few moments alone, she would need to call Mulder and make arrangements to have the Riddler taken to a more secure location. In the meantime, Gotham General would have to do. There would at least be some decent diagnostic equipment she could use.

In fact, they were prepared to take him there. Blackgate Prison was located on a rocky island in Gotham Harbor. The ferry which had brought them over had also carried an ambulance to transport Nigma into the city. Scully would give him the once-over there, then try and get him someplace more secure before the virus could mutate any further. She hadn't even bothered to contact the local Bureau office; Mulder had warned her against it, and she had to agree. If the Cancer Man was involved in this, the old "trust no one" rule was in effect. She'd learned a lesson about that with Agent Michaud in Dallas.

God, it felt awful to be so on your own in these situations. She was grateful she had Mulder. Of course, if she'd never met Mulder, she never would have wound up IN any of these situations...
But she had to admit to herself that she wouldn't trade knowing him for anything in the world.
She wondered if they might be able to turn to Bruce Wayne for help. The man had money and resources, and he seemed to be on the up-and-up. Still, there was something a little odd about him. She couldn't pinpoint it, but she'd been around cloak-and-dagger types too long not to be able to recognize some of the symptoms.

She spoke briefly with the doctor and then made arrangements for the orderlies who had come along from Gotham General to load Eddie on a wheeled stretcher and take him out to the ambulance. "Be careful," she warned them. "Don't break the skin anywhere." They nodded and continued with their work.

"Well, Detective Bullock, are you ready to transport Eddie Nigma back into town?" Scully had found herself liking the detective sergeant almost immediately. They had hit it off quite nicely in a short time. Bullock was a slob, there was no other way to put it, and he was gruff to the point of ill-manneredness, but he struck Scully as being honest, straightforward and loyal. Those were qualities she was seldom exposed to in her normal theater of operations. She was beginning to revise her opinion of Gotham City a little-- or at least of some of its citizens. Gordon and Bullock seemed to be genuinely good men. And then there was Bruce Wayne...

"Yeah. Why not," the detective replied around the stub of a cigar he held between his teeth. "I've hauled this sack of sh... crap downtown more times than I can remember. At least this time I won't have to listen to any of his fu... freaking riddles."

Scully suppressed a giggle at Bullock's efforts to control his language in her presence. Just for fun, she popped off, "Well, let's get the motherfucker loaded up and shipped out."

Bullock almost swallowed his cigar. Then he smiled. "Fuckin' A, Agent. Come on, you two," he snarled at the orderlies. "We ain't got all night here."

Scully and Bullock followed the orderlies and the stretcher out of the infirmary and down a long, bleak, stone-walled corridor. The squeaky wheels echoed off the walls, making a sound like dozens of tiny rats. "So, Miss Special Agent," Bullock said as they walked, "is there anything you can tell me about any of this?"

"Not much," Scully admitted. "If you want to ask any questions, I'll answer what I can."

"Fair enough. You think the Joker did this to Eddie?"

"Possibly. Probably. At least, I think he was involved."

"Any idea why?"

"I can't say."

"Can't or won't?"

"A little of both."

Bullock nodded. "I getcha." He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Jesus, I hate that bastard. Not Nigma. He's just a pain in the ass. I mean the Joker. I have never in my life encountered such a hard-down evil son of a bitch."

"Yes. We've met," Scully said drily.

"You know what he did to the Commissioner's daughter?"

"Yeah."

Bullock snorted. "And all they ever do with him is lock him up in that cracker box asylum. Let me tell you something, Agent. If they were to leave me alone in a room with that bastard for five minutes, only one of us would come out. I wouldn't care if they busted my ass down to meter maid or threw me in this place." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, back at the prison proper. "It'd be worth it to get rid of that piece of garbage. I've often wondered why the Bat's never done him..."

"The Bat? Sergeant Bullock, are you talking about the..." She was interrupted when the stretcher hit a crack in the concrete floor and almost toppled over. One of the orderlies just managed to catch it and put it right.

"Be careful!" Bullock shouted. Scully gave an inward sigh of relief. God knows what might have happened if Eddie had hit that hard floor. They continued to a barred door which a guard on the other side unlocked to let them pass. Two more such doors and they were outside.

It was cold and dark and quiet. Out on the harbor an occasional boat whistle tooted forlornly. The little group moved out to the jetty where the ferry was moored and got Eddie into the ambulance. Scully and Bullock stood on the deck, looking out at the dark water. Scully lit a cigarette and Bullock lit up the stub of a cigar. Neither of them noticed the dark figure which emerged from the water and crawled silently onto the ferry, slipping to a place of concealment behind the ambulance. They were both silent, thinking their respective thoughts.

"Well," Scully said, tossing her cigarette into the water, "I'd better get in there and keep an eye on Eddie while we cross."

"Okay. I'll stay out here. Just in case there's any trouble."

"You're expecting trouble?"

"When the Joker is in the picture, I expect any and everything."

Scully nodded and boarded the ambulance. The ferry pushed off
into the harbor. Bullock stood there for a while, feeling the cold wind move over him, then he said, "You can come on out. No sense hiding back there."

Batman emerged from the shadows behind the ambulance. "How did you know I was here?"

Bullock smiled a little. "I didn't. But I figured you might be. You're generally where the action is, or might be. Couldn't resist trying to get the drop on you for a change, just in case."

Batman moved over to join Bullock at the railing. "You do yourself harm by explaining. You had me going for a second. You get a better effect if you stay mysterious."

"Like you? No thanks." Bullock had had an uneasy relationship with Gotham's resident vigilante over the years, which had evolved into grudging respect and cautious trust. You couldn't call the two of them friends, but they were allies.

"Anyhow," Bullock continued, "there's enough mysterious shit going on around here as it is. This is some kinda spook show, I don't know what's going on. The feds are involved. I like that Agent Scully, I think she's on the up-and-up, but there's lots of stuff she isn't telling us."

"I agree."

"This crap with the Riddler, and that white-faced ghoul on the
loose again..."

"Not just him. Didn't Gordon get a chance to tell you? Dent escaped, too."

Bullock pounded his fist on the railing. "Oh, that's just GREAT! Fucking TWO-FACE! How much more screwed-up can this thing GET?"

Batman held up a finger for silence and cocked his head, listening to something Bullock couldn't hear. After a moment he said, "You ever hear that old expression about being careful what you ask for?"

All Bullock had a chance to say was, "Huh?" before the other boat was upon them.

It was dark and sleek and almost silent. About half the size of the ferry, it slid into position next to them and began to pace them. Batman crouched down, a hand moving to his belt. Bullock drew his service revolver from its shoulder holster. The deck of the ferry was illuminated by a large lamp on a pole above the pilot's cabin, while the other craft was totally dark. That was bad.

Batman's gloved hand shot out in the direction of the lamp, something flashed through the intervening space, and the bulb shattered, plunging the ferry into darkness. "Even the odds a little," he whispered to Bullock, who was crouched behind the rail, watching the other boat.
Batman touched a spot on the side of his cowl and a pair of night-vision lenses slid into place over the white slits in his mask.

"Stay still, Bullock," he said as he scanned the other boat. The small bridge appeared to be sealed up and he couldn't see anyone moving around. The other craft maintained a position relative to the ferry. Batman was sure someone was watching. Were they equipped with night-vision gear as well? Best to assume they were. He reached to his belt and removed a small cannister. He pulled a pin from the device and tossed it onto the deck of the other boat. It erupted into billowing clouds of thick, black smoke which quickly engulfed the smaller craft. No way they could see through THAT. Of course, there was no way he could see IN, either... He needed to do something quick. The wind would clear that smoke away before too long. He hopped up onto the railing, saying to Bullock, "You stay here. Keep that ambulance secure."

"Well, I shit-sure ain't gonna try and follow you!" the detective exclaimed. "'Stay here' he says...'"
Batman quickly got his bearings and launched himself across the gulf between the two boats, toward where he judged the other deck to be...

Inside the ambulance, Scully checked Eddie's vital signs. They weren't good. She sighed and got her cell phone out of her purse, punched in Mulder's number. The two orderlies were in the front of the truck, so she could have some privacy. He answered on the second ring.

"Mulder. That you, Scully?"

"None other. What are you up to?"

"Well, I took a nap earlier. Then I went back down to the chemical warehouse to look around some more. In fact, I'm there right now. Nothing to be found here. You come up with anything?"

"Oh yeah." She told him about the Riddler's condition and the Joker's escape.

"Holy shit," he said. "I'm on my way, Scully. It sounds like it might get hairy up there."

"It's already hairy. I'm afraid it's going to turn into a full-fledged Wookie. And I would sure appreciate your presence. I think we need to...wait a second, Mulder..." Scully took the phone from her ear and pressed the side of her face against the ambulance wall. She had heard something that sounded too much like a gunshot. She listened for a moment, then heard another one. Then several more. She put the phone back to her ear. "Mulder? I think something's going on here. Let me get back to you."

"Scully? What's..."

She closed the phone and dropped it into her purse, trading it for her 9-mm Beretta. She hefted the slim pistol in her hand, checked it to make sure it was loaded and clicked off the safety. Then she moved to the rear doors and waited, pressed into the little corner beside one of the sets of hinges. She almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of her cell phone chirping from inside her purse. Mulder. "Shit," she whispered, kicking the purse further away to muffle the noise. She could hear what sounded like a scuffle going on right outside the ambulance, and a couple more shots. Then silence. The soft lapping of water. Footsteps. Muffled voices.

Someone tried the handle on the ambulance door. Scully pressed tighter against the wall, gun at the ready. Fortunately, she had bothered to lock it.

Which wouldn't prevent someone from shooting out the lock. Which someone did.

Both doors jerked open abruptly and Scully leveled her pistol. But she was disoriented and had no idea where to aim. It didn't help that an extremely bright light was shining right in her face. She wasn't a bit surprised when the gun was knocked from her hand and went skidding off across the ferry deck. She stood and watched the silhouetted figures standing between her and the light. Than a voice, a familiar voice, said, "Cut that light, please." The glare was immediately doused.

Scully was confronted by two men carrying flashlights. This pair flanked a third man, the one who had spoken. All three were shrouded in gloom. She looked around for Bullock, but couldn't see any trace of the detective in the darkness.

"What's going on here? Who are you?"

"Sorry," came the voice. The cultured, polite voice she had
heard once before, earlier that evening. "Boys, let Miss Scully see who she's talking to."

The other men trained their flashlights on the face of their leader. Scully winced.

"Hello Mr. Dent," she said calmly. "I wasn't expecting to run into you this evening."

****

Bullock came awake slowly and painfully. Someone was prodding him in the shoulder. He didn't like that. "Cudditout," he mumbled. Then a sharp ammonia smell exploded in his nostrils and filled his head and he sprang upright, coughing and cursing.

"What the hell," he said, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Just a mild stimulant," Batman said, tossing the remains of a broken glass vial over the side of the boat. "Old-fashioned smelling salts, actually."

Bullock rubbed his head, looking for bumps or cuts. "What happened? I just blacked out."

"They didn't hit you. It was gas. It almost got me, too. I got my nose filters in in time, but I still let myself get overpowered. They jumped me as soon as I hit the deck on that other boat. Stupid of me. I got a nice crack in the skull and tossed overboard. I must be slipping, Bullock."

"You? I doubt it. And cut the self-reproach routine. It ain't dignified. Everybody gets taken by surprise sometimes. Even you. They got me, too; you don't hear me whining. You're only human..." He studied the man standing before him, the black suit, bat-eared cowl, long cloak.
"-- aren't you?"

Batman smiled. "Yeah, Bullock." He sighed. "It was Two-Face. I'm afraid he got Scully and Nigma."

"Jeezus," Bullock said. "That's fantastic. So what do we got here? Is he working with the clown?"
"It doesn't seem likely. They've never gotten along too well in the past. But this is too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence. They must be working together on this for some reason. Who knows? Harvey is as unpredictable as the Joker."

"That fucking coin of his. He has a serious screw loose."

"He's a ... troubled man."

"He's a freak-job."

"Is that a clinical term, Detective?"

"It's the goddamn truth."

Batman was fiddling with one of his little gadgets, a small box about the size of a pocket calculator. The thing was beeping and squawking and the Batman was squinting at it, punching buttons.

"What are you doin'?" Bullock asked, pulling himself to his feet. "Scanning for lifeforms?"

"In a way, yes," Batman replied distractedly, studying his little gadget. "I managed to place a tracer on Agent Scully earlier. I'm trying to get a fix now."

"A tracer... How did you do that? You didn't come within ten feet of her, that I know of."

Batman glanced at Bullock, giving him what might have been a smile. "Unlike you, I don't give my secrets away. Better to leave them guessing." He returned his attention to the device for a few moments, then clipped it onto his belt. He got down on his hands and knees and crawled around the deck, shining a small flashlight over the surface.

"Whatever you say." Bullock stretched and leaned against the rail of the ferry. "How 'bout the ferry pilot? He okay?"

"Yes. So are the orderlies. They didn't get any of the gas. Two-Face's men simply held guns on them while they transferred Scully and the Riddler to their boat." He stopped for a moment and scraped something from the surface of the deck with a small knife and transferred it into a small plastic envelope, which he placed into his belt. "They're in the pilot's cabin now. I radioed police headquarters. Someone will be on the other side to meet you when you dock."

"'When YOU dock.' Not 'when WE dock.' You planning on getting out in the middle of the harbor? You into walking on water now?"

"Not quite. My ride should be here any minute."

Bullock looked out over the water, saw a couple of red lights coming their way. "That must be it now," he said. A small, sleek black boat, somewhat similar to the craft Two-Face had used, hove into position next to the ferry. The cockpit canopy slid back and someone stuck his head out and started waving.

"The bird boy," Bullock said, waving back. "How's it hanging, kid!"

"Not bad Bullock," Robin shouted back. "You still keeping the donut shop in business?"

"Smart aleck," Bullock said, smiling. He turned to speak to the Batman, but all he saw was something dark sailing over his head. He turned back around in time to see the Bat slide into the cockpit of the small boat. He waved a black-gloved hand, the canopy slid shut and the little boat took off. Bullock shook his head. He respected the Bat but he'd never understand him. Bullock had heard all the stories that circulated in the underworld, about how the Bat wasn't human, he was a ghost or a monster of some kind. And he was capable of coming across that way when he wanted to. But Bullock knew that the man was very human indeed. Maybe too human. The work he did could be grim and lonely. Why did he do it? Bullock understood the passion for justice, the desire to see wrongs righted. Why hadn't the Bat just become a cop instead of... doing what he did? What had happened to the man to make him what he was?

"Ah, screw it," Bullock muttered. "He's a freak. A stand-up guy, but a freak." He'd never understand. He walked over to the pilot's cabin to check on the three men inside.

Batman took the pilot's seat and Robin shifted over into the passenger space.
"You okay?" Robin asked, watching as Batman placed his tracer device on the dashboard of the boat cockpit. Batman was grim tonight, moreso than usual.

"I'll do," Batman replied. "Did you and Alfred get anything on that incident in Washington?"
"Yeah. It took us a while, but we finally managed to get into the FBI's system. There was a break-in at a government chemical storage facility. We couldn't find out what was taken, but we do know that the Joker must have been involved. The guards were killed with Joker Venom."
Batman was about to say something when a soft beeping sound from a device on the dash interrupted him. He reached over and flipped a switch.

"That you, Dick?"

"Yeah," came a muffled voice from the radio speaker. "I'm out at the old Ace Chemical plant. I found it. In a pipe leading from one of the old chemical sluice tanks. It was under about three feet of water, but I don't see how anyone could have missed it when they were shutting the plant down. Unless they didn't bother combing them, which is possible."

"No real reason to," replied Batman. "So?"

"Not much left. Some bones, fragments of what looks to have been a tuxedo... and a metal helmet, shaped like a hood. There are still a few flecks of red paint adhering to the surface."

Batman nodded, his mouth a grim line. "The Red Hood. Damn. Scully was right. Dick, can you bring that out of there, get it to the cave?"

"Sure. So this is the Red Hood, huh? Then who is the Joker?"

"That's the question. I'll see you later."

"Okay. Be careful." Batman cut the connection.

Robin was silent, chewing on his lower lip. "Something freaky is going on, huh?" he said finally.

"That's an understatement, Tim." He steered the boat, taking a course out of the harbor and up the coast. There was a hidden cove a few miles away where they stashed the craft. From there they could make it to Wayne Manor in a few minutes. "We're going back to the cave and I'm going to try and get a fix on Agent Scully's location. According to my tracker, they've gone inland, so we'll need the car. Two-Face has her and the Riddler. I don't know what he plans on doing with them, but whatever it is, it can't be good. The Joker is in this somewhere."

"Nice," said Tim. "The Joker, Two-Face, the Riddler... I wonder what ELSE..."

"DON'T say it, Tim," Batman said, his voice sharp. He stared straight ahead as he piloted the little boat into the cove.

Dana Scully sat in the passenger seat of an old panel truck. She was unarmed and minus her purse, but had not been restrained or mistreated in any way. Two-Face was doing the driving. He had a pistol in his left hand, steering with his right. His two goons were in the back with Eddie Nigma. Fortunately, Scully was on Dent's "good" side. She couldn't see the scarred half of his face. That made things seem a little more... normal.

"So you're working for the Joker now?" she said.

"WE do not work FOR anyone, Agent Scully," came Harvey Dent's strong, rather pleasant voice. "We made a bargain with the clown. He offered us our freedom. In return, he asked us to obtain you and Eddie Nigma. We believe in paying our debts. Thus balance is maintained."

Scully sighed. Harvey Dent was long gone. She glanced out the window of the truck. They had left the city limits some time ago, after Two-Face and his men had transferred them from the small boat into this vehicle, and seemed to be entering an almost rural area. There were few buildings to be seen, and most of them appeared derelict.

"I suppose the Joker intends to kill me?" she said after a time.

"We don't know what the clown has planned. We would imagine so, though. The Joker intends to kill everyone."

"Lovely, just lovely. How can you stand dealing with a man like that? You used to be a prosecutor, for God's sake!"

In fact, Harvey Dent had been one of the country's most up-and-coming young DAs before the incident that had scarred his face and his mind. It was common knowledge in those days that he was on the fast track to the Justice Department-- maybe even the office of Attorney General eventually. My God, this madman sitting here with a gun in his hand could have been Scully's BOSS if things had gone a little differently...

"Things change, Agent Scully," said Dent. "Life goes in cycles. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. We merely go with the flow, as it were. Frankly, I'd just as soon dispose of the clown. Perhaps that day will come. Today, however..." Dent's voice dropped, became low, cold and threatening. "...just keep your fucking mouth shut, bitch, or I'll finish you off myself."

Jesus Christ, thought Scully, and turned to gaze out the window once again.

POLICE COMMISSIONER GORDON'S OFFICE
12:33 a.m.

Special Agent Fox Mulder yawned and rubbed his eyes, taking another sip of the strong, terrible-tasting coffee Gordon had given him.

He was feeling tired after the quick red-eye flight into Gotham. He was also worried about his partner. He had tried several times to call Scully on her cell phone, without success. Once he got into Gotham and made his way to Gordon's office, he found out why.

"Two-Face has her," Gordon informed him bluntly. "He and his men abducted Agent Scully and Edward Nigma from a ferry which was carrying them into Gotham from Blackgate Prison."

"Two-Face," Mulder said. "Harvey Dent? The ex-district attorney?"

Gordon nodded. "He was a good man once, but..."

"I know," Mulder said. "I'm a criminal psychologist, Commissioner. I did a paper on Dent when I was in the Academy. He's got a lot going on in that duplex of a head of his. Schizophrenia, multiple personality disorder, post-traumatic stress syndrome..."

"He's a tragic figure," Gordon replied, "but extremely dangerous, make no mistake. Your partner may be in a great deal of danger. We think Dent may be working with the Joker. Dent doesn't mind killing, but he doesn't revel in it like the Joker does. Have you ever studied the Joker?"

"Yes, Commissioner, and I have my own ideas on him. But," he squirmed in his chair and leaned forward, "what I'm really interested in right now is what is being done to locate Agent Scully."

Gordon sighed. "Agent Mulder, when dealing with individuals like Two-Face and the Joker, normal investigative methods are nearly useless."

Mulder banged his coffee cup onto the Commissioner's desk, slopping a little coffee over the rim. "So what are you saying? We're just going to sit here with our..."

Gordon held up a hand. "Calm down Agent Mulder. All I said was that normal investigative methods didn't tend to work. Fortunately, we have some... irregular methods we can take advantage of."

Mulder, somewhat mollified, had taken a handkerchief from his pocket and was mopping up the spilled coffee. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Officially, I'm not saying anything, Agent Mulder. Officially, we are just sitting here with our thumbs up our asses, as I believe you were about to say." Gordon stood up. "Normally, I would be hesitant to let a federal agent-- or anyone from outside Gotham-- in on this. But, as I mentioned to Agent Scully earlier, I know Assistant Director Skinner, and I spoke with him earlier today-- yesterday-- about the two of you. He was circumspect, but he let me know that most of the cases you deal with are somewhat-- out of the ordinary."

"You could say that," Mulder nodded.

Gordon was pulling on an overcoat. "I'd like you to come up to the roof with me, Mr. Mulder. I have something to show you."

Mulder stood. "I assume we're not going to do a star chart and try to locate Scully by astrology?"

"You assume right. There's someone I'd like you to meet. He's a... specialist in cases like this. He may already be on the trail, but we can try..."

"Paging him?" Mulder offered. He was actually grinning. Concerned as he was over Scully, tense as he was over the whole situation, he could not repress the thrill of excitement he felt.

"Exactly," Gordon said. "Come on." He led the way out of his office and up a short flight of steps to the roof. He walked over to a large object concealed by a dark tarpaulin. Mulder buttoned up his own dark overcoat against the chill wind.

"That's the pager, huh?" Mulder said as Gordon pulled the tarp away. Underneath was what appeared to be a large searchlight.

"This is it," Gordon confirmed.

"He might want to invest in a cell phone," Mulder suggested.

Gordon made no reply. He pulled a switch on the base of the light assembly. The thing began to hum as it warmed up. Mulder moved a little closer. Then stepped back suddenly as the light came to brilliant life, dazzling him.

"Wow," he whispered, staring at the beam. It shone on the underside of a low-hanging cloud, a circle of yellow light with a black bat-shaped silhouette in the center. It may have been impractical, but Mulder had to admit it was impressive as hell.

"So what happens now?" he asked, stepping closer to Gordon.

"Now we wait. If he isn't on something else, or in some kind of trouble, he'll be here."

They didn't have long. Mulder stood tensely next to Gordon, listening for anything in the silence of the night, when a low, cold voice came from behind him. "What is it Jim?"

Mulder whirled around, instinctively going for his gun. He was tense as a spring, and his academy training had taken over automatically. But before he could even focus on a target, he found himself disarmed, staring at a patch of blackness a couple feet in front of him which may or may not have been a human figure. He looked down at his empty hand, then back at the mass of shadow. A gloved hand extended from the blackness, holding Mulder's pistol by the barrel.

The eerie voice came again, "Be careful with this thing, Agent Mulder. You could get hurt."

Mulder accepted his pistol and returned it to its holster. He should have been pissed off-- and he WAS a little perturbed over the ease with which he had been disarmed-- but considering who had done the disarming, he didn't feel too bad. FBI Academy training was good, but Mulder had the feeling that this guy knew some things the Academy had never dreamed of.

"It's you," Mulder said, feeling stupid. "I mean, you're him. Right?"

The figure moved closer, out of the deeper shadows and into the dim backlight cast by the signal. Mulder could make out the black bodysuit, the insignia on the chest, the cowl which obscured all but the man's mouth and chin.

"Wow," Mulder said again. "There really IS a Batman."

"Yes, Virginia," said Gordon, shutting down the signal.

"I was joking with Scully earlier, but I wasn't sure... I mean, I always thought it was POSSIBLE, but..."

"I try to keep a low profile," Batman said softly.

Gordon stepped forward. "This is Special Agent Fox Mulder. He's Agent Scully's partner."

"Yes," Batman replied, in a tone which made it plain that the information was not news to him. "Fox William Mulder, currently assigned to the so-called 'X-Files.' You and your partner are working on a burglary which took place in Washington yesterday morning in which the Joker appears to be involved."

If he had done that to impress Mulder, it worked. "Yeah, right," he replied as evenly and calmly as possible. "And if you know all that, I guess you know Scully's in trouble."

The Batman nodded. "I was on that ferry when Two-Face took her. I should have been able to prevent it. I'm sorry. But I was able to place a tracer on Agent Scully's person before she was taken. Unfortunately, I'm not getting much of a signal from it. I can't pinpoint a location, just a general direction."

"Which leaves us where?" Mulder wanted to know.

"Not as far up the creek as you might think," Batman replied.

"The signal seems to be coming from the northwest, eight or nine miles past the city limits. There isn't much out there in the way of buildings. And the reason I'm getting such a poor signal could be because of some electromagnetic interference. If someone is out there using heavy equipment, they ought to be fairly easy to locate.

"And finally, I got some soil samples from the deck of the ferry after Two-Face and his men had gone. That ought to help. There were some trace chemicals that I think might point to a specific location."

Mulder shook his head. "You're part Dracula, part Sherlock Holmes."

Batman ignored the remark and continued, "Ace Chemicals had an old storage facility out there which is still standing. I want to check that out first. As you know, Jim, there is a connection of some kind between the Joker and Ace Chemicals."

"The Red Hood thing," Gordon said.

"Yes. By the way, I had Nightwing check out the old Ace factory. He found a skeleton out there. Wearing a metal helmet that had once been painted red."

Gordon smacked a fist into an open palm. "Damn! So the Joker really ISN'T..."

"No. But we'll go into that later. I have the body back at my... place. Robin is doing some tests to see if we can make an ID."

Gordon shook his head. "You should have notified me. Bodies like that need to be brought to the morgue and..."

"Jim. We both know about proper procedure. And we both know I step outside of that at times. I promise you, the body will be delivered to you when we're through with it."

"Well, I haven't got time to argue, and neither do you. You need to get out there and find Agent Scully."

"WE need to get out there," Mulder interjected. He looked Batman in the eyes. Or the white slits where he presumed the eyes were. "I'm going with you."

"Of course you are," Batman said evenly.

Mulder was momentarily taken aback. He'd expected to have to put up an argument. All he could think of to say was, "I am?"

"Yes. Scully is your partner. I know how I'd feel if MY partner were in danger. I wouldn't take no for an answer. Besides, there are some questions I need to ask you and we don't have time to sit down and do it over coffee here."

"Okay," Mulder said. "So... What do we do? I don't have any ropes for swinging across the rooftops."

Batman looked at him. Mulder couldn't tell what was going on behind those slits. "Meet me down on the street. We'll take my car." Before Mulder could speak, he continued, "You'll know which one it is."

GO TO PART THREE

GOTHAM X part 3 black centipede creeping dawn CREEPING+DAWN2+copy.jpg theblackcentipede.blogspot.com

2009-10-13T22:56:00.000-07:00

ACE CHEMICALS STORAGE FACILITY
12:45 a.m.

Two-Face guided the truck off the main road onto a rutted drive, through a gap in a rusted old chain link fence, and on up to a huge, dark building which waited in the middle of a weed-choked lot. Two cars were parked in front of the building.

Two-Face parked between the cars. He motioned with his gun. "Get out, please, Agent," he said. He was being Harvey again, civil and polite. "Please don't try to run away. We will shoot you if you do." She had no doubt that he would and could. She stepped out of the truck and stood beside it, weighing her options. As of right now, they were lighter than helium.

Dent moved around to the back of the truck, banging on the door, keeping Scully in sight. "Come on, jerk-offs," he growled in his "bad" voice. "Get that piece of shit out of there and let's get moving."

Scully shuddered. Not just because it was cold, though it was. She didn't know what she was about to be dropped into the middle of, and she didn't like the feeling one bit.

Dent's men hauled the stretcher containing the Riddler out of the truck and carried it toward the front of the old building. Scully winced as she watched them jostle it around carelessly. They stopped in front of a rusted iron door. The whole front of the place was shabby, weather-beaten and dingy. But, incongruously, there was a shiny new intercom speaker set into the wall next to the door. Two-Face thumbed a button.

"Yes?" came a chillingly familiar voice, one Scully had hoped never to hear again. "Is that the pizza I ordered? It took you more than 30 minutes, I should get a discount."

"Fuck you," said "bad" Harvey. "We've got your merchandise. Let us drop it off and get the hell out of here."

"Oh, Harvey, it's you. And you. Nice to have you both. You have Mr. Nigma?"

"Yes, yes."

"And the beautiful, mysterious Agent Scully? You didn't forget her, I hope."

"We have everything we promised." This time it was "good" Harvey speaking. Spending time around this guy could make your head spin. He was worse than that shape-shifting character she and Mulder had busted a couple years ago.

"Very good. You're a couple of really reliable guys, Harv. That's why I luv ya so much. Though I'm partial to the one on the left."

The door buzzed and Two-Face pushed it open. "C'mon," he muttered, motioning to Scully and the stretcher-bearing goons. "Let's get this over with."

They walked down a dark corridor until they came to another metal door. This one was shiny and looked brand new. Two-Face swore and punched another button.

"Yes? Who is it?" came the Joker's voice from another small speaker.

"God damn it, open the door!"

"Oh, Harvey. How silly of me. Come in, come in." The second door buzzed and Two-Face opened it, gesturing for Scully and the two thugs to precede him through.

Scully found herself in a large, clean, well-lighted room. The walls were lined with scientific equipment, the purpose of which Scully couldn't even guess at. From somewhere beyond the walls she could hear the humming of a transformer. In the middle of the room, arms spread wide, looking even more bizarre than usual in a white lab coat, stood the Joker.

"Welcome to my house," he said, the macabre grin plastered across his face. "Enter freely and of your own will. Or, in your case, Agent Scully, at the point of a gun."

"How much did this thing cost?" Mulder asked. He was in the passenger seat next to Batman, looking around at the array of equipment visible in the -- "cockpit" was the best word-- of the Batmobile.

"I don't know," Batman said flatly, steering the car along a dark downtown street. "I've added to it over the years. I don't keep financial records on it."

"What do you do at tax time?" Mulder asked.

Batman glanced over at him coldly.

"Don't worry," Mulder said. "I'm FBI, not IRS. I don't like those guys any better than anyone else does. But remember what happened to Al Capone."

Batman was silent, apparently concentrating on his driving. The sound of the engine was like the muffled roar of a jet. Mulder wondered how many miles to the gallon it got. Or gallons to the mile. When Batman spoke again, abruptly, Mulder was startled.

"Who is the 'Cancer Man?'"

Mulder looked at him. "You know about him?"

"I've... heard him mentioned. Who is he?"

Mulder sighed. "That's a good question. I don't know his name. I don't know who he works for. I do know that he's an evil son of a bitch and that he's into some really sick stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

"I shouldn't discuss it with you."

"And you always do just as you're told, Agent Mulder?"

"Hm. Okay, you got me there. And, hell, if I can't trust an anonymous man in a bat costume, who CAN I trust? Okay, this is what I know:

"Something very big and very weird is going on. I don't want to sound crazy..." He glanced over at his companion, looked the man up and down, gazed around the interior of the vehicle. "Hell, sitting here with you, it seems a little mundane. Okay, I believe that our planet is in imminent danger of invasion by... colonists of some kind, from somewhere..." He waved a hand in the direction of the sky. "...out there. Okay? You with me so far?"

"Go on."

"This 'Cancer Man' is a spook of some kind. CIA, DIA, DOD, WTF... I don't know. He's working with a group-- I don't know who they are exactly, but they have ties to the government-- they're involved in this somehow. My theory is that they want to facilitate this invasion, hopefully earn the colonists' gratitude, and save their own asses.

"Sometimes it seems like this Cancer Man is working with them. Sometimes he seems to be working against them. I don't know. I've been dealing with this shit for five or six years now, and sometimes I don't know which end is up."

Batman said nothing. Just continued to drive. They were passing through the outskirts of Gotham now, the buildings were getting smaller and fewer.

"Well," said Mulder. "That's what I know. You want to say anything? Tell me how crazy I am? Tell me I need to get a grip? Come on!

Give me something to work with. Tell me I'm nuts so I can come back with a remark about how at least I'm not the one dressed up like a flying rodent!"

"Bats aren't rodents. They were reclassified as primates."

"I see. I'm familiar with the silent treatment, too. But listen to me. Don't you believe," he said earnestly, "don't you think it's even possible that this planet has been visited by beings from other worlds, with abilities beyond what we have?"

Batman was silent for a moment. "No," he said at last. "No, I don't." His lips twitched a bit. Was he smiling? "But I have a friend who does. You ought to talk with him sometime. He lives in Metropolis."

Mulder gaped at him. "That was a joke! You made a joke!"

"I never joke."

Mulder sat back in his seat and kept quiet for a while. Then he said, "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"As long as you don't count on an answer."

"Fair enough. I'm talking generalities, anyhow. You don't need to be specific." He shifted uneasily. "Why do you do it?"

Batman was silent. Mulder went on, "I mean, why do you..."

"I know what you mean. Sometimes I don't know the answer myself.

"But something... bad happened to me, a long time ago. I never forgot it, never let go of it. I let it shape my thinking, my philosophy... my entire life. Sometimes it seems like I've been... chasing that demon that traumatized me when I was... younger. Trying to get rid of it. Or to understand it. Or to just do SOMETHING with it. Does that make sense to you?"

Mulder thought for a moment-- about his sister, about his career in the Bureau, about all the things that had happened to him over the past few years. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, it makes sense. Believe it or not, my story's similar... Wow. I can't believe it. I'm bonding with the Batman!"

Batman glanced over at Mulder. "I'm not going to hug you," he said dryly.

Mulder snapped his fingers. "Ha! There! You did it again!"

Batman pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator, gunning the engine to drown out further conversation.

The Joker had Scully tied in a chair. He had instructed Two-Face's men to remove Eddie Nigma from the stretcher and place him in what looked like a curved glass coffin. Scully had seen something similar not too long before. In fact, she had been inside one.

"Well, well," he said, clapping his hands together. "We'll be ready to get started real soon now."
"Okay clown," growled Two-Face. "Can we get out of here now?"

"Oh, I don't think so, Harvey." The Joker produced a small automatic from beneath his lab coast and pointed it at him. Two-Face had stuck his own gun in his belt and couldn't get at it before the Joker would have a chance to fire.

"What the hell is this, clown?"

"Just something I've always wanted to try. Your coin, Harv. Toss it here."

Harvey grumbled but removed the coin from his pocket and tossed it to the Joker. The clown caught it deftly and held it up to the light, admiring it. "Pretty, pretty," he said. "Okay, here goes." He flipped it high into the air and caught it in the palm of his hand, squeezing his fingers tightly over it.

"Which side, Harvey? Good or bad? Do I kill you or let you walk out? I can see why you get off on this! It's like playing the lottery!" He opened his palm and looked at it. "Oh my. The scarred side. See?" He held the coin up. Sure enough, the damaged face was uppermost. The Joker sighed. "I guess that means..." He leveled the automatic at Two-Face and squeezed the trigger. A little cloth flag popped out of the barrel, the word "BANG!" emblazoned on it.

"... I let you live! The worst possible thing I could inflict upon society. Here ya go" he tossed the coin back to Two-Face who grabbed it out of the air. "Scat. Be on your way. I want you out of here in TWO shakes of a lamb's tail. Hahahahahahah!"

"Goddamn freak," muttered Dent. He and his henchmen left the room.

The Joker turned his attention to Scully. "Those boys will eventually come to a bad end, don't you think? They oughtta be locked up. Problem is, how do you put them in solitary confinement? Hahahahaha!"

Scully was frightened but forced her voice to remain calm. "So," she said as nonchalantly as she could, "What have you got going on in here? I thought you were just a garden-variety psycho. When did you branch out into the mad scientist business?"

"Oh, I was a mad scientist long before I became a thug. I got tired of it. But when my government calls, I must respond. For God and country and all that. Not to mention five million bucks and a ticket out of Arkham!"

"Your government?"

"Well... Somebody's government. Not the duly elected one. The one that works under the surface. Yhe REAL power. You know about that one, don't you Dana?" He reached out and touched her cheek. She turned her head.

"Keep your hands off me," she said through gritted teeth.

The Joker sighed. "Don't worry, honey. I'm not after your virtue. Assuming you have any. I just want to..."

He was interrupted by a loud voice from the other side of the room. "Joker! What is going on here?"

Scully and the Joker both looked over at the source of the voice. Scully's heart sank. It was him.

The Cancer Man.

The Joker clapped his hands. "My benefactor! How nice to see you!"

"Never mind all that," said the other man, advancing into the room. As usual, he had a cigarette in his mouth. "What's she doing here?

I told you to leave her alone."

"And I ALWAYS do just as I'm told, don't I?" the Joker responded sweetly. "What can I say? A lonely girl, new in town, no friends... I couldn't resist inviting her over!"

"Damn you," the other man said. "You may think you're indispensable, but you aren't. The only reason you're still alive is because some of my associates want you that way."

"And you don't?"

"I'd like to see you in hell."

"And I'm sure we'll meet there some day, in the great by-and-by. It'll be old home week: you, me, Hitler, Rasputin, Nixon.... I can hardly wait!"

"You may not have to. Right now, my associates aren't present. It's just you and me."

"And Agent Scully. Don't forget Agent Scully."

The Cancer Man looked at Scully. She thought she saw genuine regret and pain in his eyes. Just a hint of it; his face was almost as mask-like as usual. But there was something there, something... almost human.

He took a drag from his cigarette, blew smoke. "I wish you hadn't brought her here. We'll discuss it later. Are you ready to proceed?"

"Oh, yes. Eddie looks nice and ripe. I've been working like a little beaver over those lovely chemicals you had sent. I just need to get a sample of Eddie's blood-- or whatever's sloshing around in his veins now-- and make a few adjustments. Then we'll be ready for the acid test."
"And you believe your formula will kill these things?"

"Believe me, Smokey old pal, if I know anything, I know killing.

Whether it's human beings or invaders from Mars. I studied everything you've been sending me for the past year. I think I have a pretty good idea what makes these things tick. I'd like to know what caused them to mutate all of a sudden, but that's really neither here nor there. They have a nice little quirk in their DNA which will make them especially vulnerable to.... But I see I'm losing you. You get a little out of your depth when it gets past 'lock and load,' don't you?"

Scully was amazed. For a moment there, while he was talking about his "work," the Joker had sounded almost sane. He really did know what he was talking about.

"Well, never mind. Let's get this show on the road. I'll get my sample from Eddie, then we'll be ready for action. Hahahahahahahahaha!" He took a hypodermic needle from his jacket pocket and moved over to Eddie's "coffin."

The Smoking Man gave Scully what seemed to be a sad look, then followed the Joker.

Mulder and Batman were jolting along a rutted dirt road in the Batmobile. According to Batman they were almost at their destination. "It's pretty desolate out here," Mulder observed.

"Yes," Batman agreed. "So what are they doing out here?"

Mulder looked ahead of them. A pair of headlights approached
from down the road.

"Sightseers?" Mulder suggested.

"I'll bet," Batman replied. He gunned the engine and aimed the
Batmobile directly toward the oncoming headlights.

Mulder squirmed. "Uh, I don't mean to tell you your business or anything..."

"Then don't," said Batman through gritted teeth. The headlights swerved to the left and Batman steered along to stay with them. They swerved back to the right and so did the Batmobile. Just as it seemed a collision was unavoidable, Batman slammed on the brakes. The Batmobile slewed to the left and came to a stop, blocking the road. Mulder could hear the flying gravel and squealing brakes as the other driver brought his vehicle to a halt. The truck tottered in a cloud of dust, looking as though it might overturn. It didn't, but rocked violently back and forth on its springs.
"What do you..." Mulder began. Then he realized he was talking to himself. The canopy covering the car's cockpit had slid open and the Batman was gone.

Mulder squinted through the windshield at the truck. Something dark had covered the windshield. Mulder heard the sound of breaking glass and thick white smoke billowed out of the cab of the truck. There was a single gunshot and what sounded like the impact of a fist on a jaw. A sharp cry, then silence.

Mulder watched Batman hop off of the hood and open the driver's side door. The smoke was dissipating, drifting lazily out through the shattered windshield. Batman crawled into the cab, stayed there for a moment, then hopped back out. he sprinted around to the rear and opened the doors. Then he dashed back over and vaulted into the seat next to Mulder.

"It was Two-Face and a couple of his goons," Batman informed him. "I trussed them up and disabled the truck. They won't be going anywhere. No sign of Scully, but we know we're on the right track." He flipped a switch on the dash. There was a burst of static, then a voice:

"Gordon here." The voice was audible, but there was plenty of static.

"It's me. I just took care of Two-Face." He gave Gordon the location. "We're on the right track. You hear all that interference?"

"Yes," Gordon responded. "I'm reading you, but you're faint."

"Someone's using some kind of electromagnetic equipment around here. We're almost at the Ace facility. Send some people out here. Equip them for... anything. I'll be in touch. Batman out." He switched off the radio.

"Do you have any idea what we're going into?" Mulder asked.

"None whatsoever. Why? Do you want to get out?"

"Hell no!"

This time Batman did smile. "I didn't think so. Hang on." he gunned the engine, swerved around the disabled truck, and roared off down the dark road.

The Joker, having obtained a sample of Eddie's blood, was studying a drop of it under a microscope. "Dear, dear," he muttered. "This is some wicked shit, man. This stuff is mutating like... crazy. Ahahahahaha! I'd better get my little formula together and pump some into poor old Eddie or we'll soon have a bouncing baby space monster on our hands. And I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies."

"This toxin of yours," the Cancer Man said, "does it merely eradicate the intrusive organism, or does it kill the human host as well?"

The Joker looked at him, grinning as always. "Does it really matter?"

The other man sighed. "I suppose not."

"That's the spirit, old man," the Joker said, clapping him on the shoulder. "We'll make a homicidal psychopath out of you yet."

"Don't touch me," he said coldly.

"That's the second time today someone's told me that." He raised his arm and sniffed at his armpit. "What's the matter? Do I offend? Hahahahahahahahaha!" He moved over to a piece of equipment set against the wall. it looked like a huge centrifuge, made of porcelain and steel. Heavy electrical cables snaked into it from the walls.

"My little recipe has been cooking for long enough now. Have to bathe the stuff in EM radiation, you know... give it that added little zing!" He flipped a switch on the device and the humming gradually faded into silence. Once it had stopped completely, he opened a circular hatch and took out a small metal vial.

"Here it is! Uncle Joker's Guaranteed Alien Killer! Hits 'em where they live!" he moved to a table, unscrewed the lid from the vial and poured it into a glass test tube which he immediately plugged with a black rubber cork. he held it up to the light to examine it. It was a pale green liquid which seemed to glow ever so slightly. "Bee-yoo-tiful!" he exclaimed. "Let's change the oil." He selected another hypo from the table, thrust the needle through the rubber cork, and filled it with the green liquid. He carefully placed the tube with the remainder of the fluid on the table and walked over to the "coffin" where the Riddler lay. The Joker lifted the lid. Eddie looked awful. His skin was almost entirely black. "Poor Eddie," the Joker whispered. "We hardly knew ye!" Then he jabbed the needle into Eddie's arm and pushed down the plunger.

"This must be the place," said Mulder, as the Batmobile roared through the gap in the fence. He pointed at the dark old building. A faded sign over the door announced that this was the "Ace Chemical Corp., Northwest Gotham Facility." Batman cut the engine and lights and let the car glide silently to a stop a few yards from the building.

"Undoubtedly," he replied. He switched on the radio and got Gordon. The transmission was clear, not a trace of static. "We're here," he said.

"I'm on my way," Gordon replied, "with as many units as I could scrape together. We'll be there in no more than 20 minutes."

"Okay." Batman cut the transmission and turned to Mulder. "Hear that? Static's gone. Whatever equipment was being used has been shut off. I don't know if that's good or bad."

"Me either," Mulder said. "So, do we go in?"

"I can't think of anything else at this point." Batman released a latch and the canopy slid back. He and Mulder climbed out of the car.

"How do we get in?" Mulder whispered.

"I like the direct approach," Batman replied, removing something from his belt. He sprinted over to the front door and attached the device to the doorknob, then dashed back to Mulder. "Get on the ground," he said, flattening himself in the dirt. He flipped a switch on his belt and a small but violent explosion took the door out of its frame.

Batman stood up. "Let's go," he said.

He and Mulder passed through the ruined doorway. "Steel door in a wooden frame," Batman said. "Real smart. The Joker would know better. Someone else must have outfitted this place." They continued down the corridor to the second door. Batman pressed himself against the corridor wall and motioned for Mulder to do the same on the other side. "Be careful," he whispered. "They'll know we're here by now."

Mulder nodded, drew his pistol from his shoulder holster. Batman gave him a sour look. At least Mulder thought he did; it was hard to tell in the gloom. It was obvious that this man didn't care much for guns.

They advanced slowly toward the door. Mulder strained his ears but could hear nothing. He looked over at his companion, who also seemed to be listening intently. Batman held up a hand, cocked his head, touched the side of his cowl. Mulder was about to whisper a question when he heard it.

From the other side of the door came a sound like tearing metal, accompanied by a low, unearthly growl. Mulder had heard a growl like that once before, not too long ago. In the Antarctic. Deep below the ground in a secret installation he had penetrated to rescue Scully. His heart started racing. "We have to get in there," he said.

Batman nodded. He moved over to the door, examined the frame. "Metal door, metal frame. Security's getting better." He took several small objects from his belt, attached them to the doorknob and both sets of hinges. "Get back down the corridor. Get outside. And be ready to get back in quick when this goes."

Mulder raced down the corridor, back into the cool night air. Batman was right behind him. "Okay," Batman said, touching something on his belt. A huge explosion rocked the building. Smoke billowed out through the door they had just run through. Batman might not like guns, but he was hell with explosives. "Let's go," Batman shouted, grabbing Mulder's sleeve, leading him at a run down the corridor. He was blinded by the smoke and stumbled a couple of times, but the Batman pulled him along.

Once they were through the second doorway, the smoke had cleared away. Mulder glanced around him, pistol at the ready. In a couple of seconds, he took in a bizarre tableau.

They were in some kind of a makeshift laboratory. Some of the equipment looked vaguely familiar, like the stuff he had seen in the Antarctic installation. His attention was drawn to the middle of the room, where the Joker, outfitted in a lab coat, was jumping up and down, clapping his hands like an overjoyed child. To the Joker's left Mulder saw one of the transparent "coffins" he had come to know and loathe. The box had apparently been ripped open from the inside, no doubt by the thing which stood next to it, moving its oversized head from side to side. He leveled his pistol at the thing. But the creature wasn't moving. It stood in place, trembling slightly, growling in a manner that was more pitiful than threatening.

And then it started to laugh.

Mulder, somewhat dazed, suddenly remembered his partner.

"Scully!" he shouted.

"She's over here," came the Batman's voice. Mulder glanced quickly to his side, still holding his gun on the creature. Scully was tied into a chair, which had toppled over on its side. She appeared to be unconscious. Batman bent over her, touching her face and wrist. "She'll be okay. She's just been knocked out." He stood and turned to face the Joker.

"Joker! What is going on here?"

The Joker turned his head to smile at his old nemesis. "Why, Batman. I'm so glad you could be here for this joyous occasion! I've just become a father! Hahahahahahahahaha! Meet Junior-- the monster formerly known as Eddie Nigma!"

Batman and Mulder looked at the thing. It was about six feet tall and hairless. Its pale skin was mottled with dark blotches and covered in a translucent, slimy substance. It didn't look quite like the things Mulder had encountered in the Antarctic. It retained a more human shape. The face was even recognizable as that of Edward Nigma. Almost. The eyes were solid black, and the mouth...

The mouth seemed to stretch from ear to ear in a hideous grin that was a slightly more awful duplicate of the Joker's. The creature swayed from side to side, laughing uncontrollably, its voice raw and terrible. It managed to stop laughing, holding its sides with its misshapen hands, trembling and swaying.

Then it spoke.

"Bat...man?" The voice was no more than a croak, brittle and
painful to hear.

"Nigma?" Batman said sharply. "Is that you?"

The creature looked down at its twisted body, its mouth twitching, the occasional giggle slipping out.

"I..hahaha... think it..hahaha...USED to be..hahahahHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!"

Batman approached the thing cautiously. "Mulder," he said. "Cover the Joker. DON'T let him get away. Not this time." Mulder moved his arm to comply. The Joker waved at him. "Hello there! You must be Dana's friend."

"Shut up, freak," Mulder growled.

"You FBI people certainly don't have much in the way of manners. Why, I..."

A soft groan and a rusting sound came from a spot a couple feet behind the Joker. A man, who had been lying on the floor, pulled himself slowly to his feet. It was a man Mulder recognized. The Cancer Man.

"So you ARE involved in this," Mulder said.

The man looked sharply in Mulder's direction. He wiped a little blood away from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Mulder," he said calmly, "what are you..." Then he saw the creature. It was still laughing, holding itself. Batman was approaching slowly and carefully. He turned to the Joker.

"What is this?" he shouted. "What have you done?"

"Wellll," the Joker said, placing an index finger against his chin. "I thought about doing like you said, cooking up a potion to kill those things? But then I thought, wouldn't it be a lot more fun if I could sort of... alter them. Make them a little more like ME! So I modified the toxin I was working on, tossed in a dash of my handy Joker Venom, and voila..." He indicated the creature with a sweep of his hand.

"The Laughing Extraterrestrial!"

"You god damned bastard," said the Cancer Man in a low, dangerous voice. He took a pistol from his jacket and pointed it at the Joker. "Why? You know what's at stake here! WHY did you do this?"

The Joker gave him a blank look. "Why...just for jolly. Wouldn't you?"

"This is it for you, freak," said the Cancer Man, moving his gun into position for a killing shot.

"BOTH of you keep still," Mulder shouted, moving his gun back and forth to cover both men.

"Don't make a move, Smokey. I'd just as soon shoot you as look at you, and you know that. Give me an excuse and see what happens."

The other man lowered his arm, but did not drop the pistol. The Joker laughed softly, his eyes blissfully closed.

Meanwhile, the Batman had reached the creature that had once been Eddie Nigma. He stood two feet in front of the thing and spoke.

"Nigma. Eddie. How do you feel?"

"Well...hahahaha... I've felt.....hahahaha... better....

"I'm...hahahaha... having trouble thinking...."

"We'll get you some help. Can you control yourself?"

"I...hahahaha... don't think I can...hahahaha... oh, God, I know
what I ...hahahahaAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! KILL YOU!!! KILL YOU!!!"

The thing gave a tremendous roar and leapt at the Batman, who dropped into a crouch and sent the thing sailing over his head, to crash into a bank of machinery on the opposite wall. The monster laughed and laughed as it pulled itself upright and moved its head around until it located its foe.

"HAHAHAHAHA!!! KILL!!! KILL!!! HAHAHAHA!!!!" It jumped at the Batman again, clawed hands held out in front of it. It dived straight at him, laughing and slobbering.
This time Batman jumped over the thing. It slid across the floor and smacked into the wall. Batman hit the ground and twirled around to face the monster. He grabbed something from his belt.

"Did I mention," the Joker remarked matter-of-factly, "that I put in a dash of a certain hormonal concoction of mine that produces homicidal rage? Ooops! A great chef never reveals his secret ingredient..."

"SHUT UP!" said Mulder and the Cancer Man in unison.

The monster was on its feet again, moving from side to side, seeking on opportunity to jump the Batman once more. For a second, Mulder thought Batman was pointing a pistol at the thing. But the device in Batman's hands looked more like a small harpoon gun. Batman jerked a trigger on the device, it kicked sharply and gave a loud, metallic twanging sound. What appeared to be a large coiled spring snapped out, wrapping itself tightly around the erstwhile Riddler. The creature fell to the floor, struggling against the coils of metal that bound it, but could not free itself. It laughed and screamed and threatened.

"HHAHAHAHAHA!!! KILL YOU, KILL YOU, KILL YOU!!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

Batman walked calmly over to the thrashing monster and applied what appeared to be a vaccination gun to its shoulder. There was a hissing noise and the creature eventually fell silent.

"Animal tranquilizer," Batman explained. "Enough to put down an elephant. A small elephant. I hope it wasn't too much." He knelt down beside the thing. "It's... HE'S still breathing." Batman touched Eddie's neck. "Pulse is very high, but steady." He stood up and turned to face the Joker. His mouth was a grim line. The white eye-slits narrowed. His body language broadcast his barely-controlled rage.

"This time you've outdone yourself," he said in a tone which made the hair stand up on the back of Mulder's neck. THIS was the Batman of legend, the frightening Dark Knight of Gotham City. Mulder decided he would not like to find himself at odds with this man.

Batman approached the Joker, who stood nonchalantly, smiling as always. "Well, thanks for the compliment, but I think I could..." The Joker was silenced by the open-handed slap Batman delivered to the side of his head. He almost lost his balance, but righted himself, rubbing the side of his face. A thin trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his grinning mouth.
Mulder divided his attention between the confrontation between Batman and his enemy and the Cancer Man, who stood rooted to the spot, silent, pistol at his side. Mulder kept his gun trained on his old nemesis, now that Batman had the Joker in hand.

Batman had grabbed the Joker by the lapels of his lab coat and pulled the clown's face to within a couple inches of his own. "Is there any way to reverse what you've done to him?"

The Joker squinted, pretending to search his memory. "Wellll.... Maybe, maybe not. There IS an antidote to my Joker Venom. You know that.

I'll bet you've got some in that darling little belt of yours. And there IS an antidote to the Black Virus. Ask Smokey about that-- of course that stuff only works if the process isn't too far along. But maybe my little... treatment arrested the mutation process in poor Eddie's system to where a combination of the two could return him to... normal. If you can call him normal. Now, the rage thing, that's another story... assuming we clear all the other little bugs out of his system, he's still gonna be one mighty pissed-off fellow, for a good long while."

Batman stared at his old enemy for several seconds. Then he hit him again, twirled him around and cuffed his hands behind him. He knocked the Joker to the floor with a short kick to the chest. "Stay there," Batman said dryly.

"Rodney King! Rodney King!" the Joker squawked. "Where is a concerned citizen with a camcorder when you need one? I ASK you!"

Batman had indeed brought along a supply of Joker Venom antidote, and he gave Eddie a shot of it. He examined the creature's face. The jaw muscles did seem to be relaxing a bit. That was something.

Batman stood and approached the Cancer Man.

"You," he said. "I don't know who you are and I don't care. Drop that gun. Now." To Mulder's surprise, the Cancer Man did as he was told.

He had never seen anyone intimidate the man until now.

"You've been working with him," Batman continued, his face inches from the Cancer Man's. "That makes you scum. You're going to go down. But first, you're going to tell me about this Black Virus antidote. Is there such a thing?"

Cancer Man nodded.

"Where is it? Is there any here?"

The other man pointed to one of the lab tables. "It's in the blue tube there. The Joker was right. it should work if the virus has not yet mutated. I don't think..."

But Batman was no longer listening. He had moved over to the table and picked up the tube. He looked back at the Cancer Man.

"This better work. If you're lying to me..."

"No, I swear," the other man said. Mulder was puzzled. The man was acting...odd. He didn't seem to be afraid. Mulder knew that this man seemed to be virtually fearless. But the Batman was producing some kind of weird emotional response. It seemed as though... Mulder considered it for a moment. Yes, it seemed as though the Cancer Man desperately wanted the Batman's respect. That was something to think about...

Batman filled a hypodermic from the tube and gave Eddie a shot of the antidote. "The reaction won't be immediate," Cancer Man piped up, like a school kid shouting out an answer in class, seeking favor from a teacher. "Give it a few hours. Then we'll know something."

Batman paid him no attention. He moved to the Joker, pulled the clown to his feet and held him by his lab coat.

Mulder had moved a little closer to the Cancer Man, still covering him with his pistol. "What's going on here?" he demanded. "I want some answers from you, you son of a bitch."

"Agent Mulder, I know you have no reason to trust me..."

"THAT'S an understatement."

"You wouldn't believe me, I suppose, if I told you I was doing what I think is right?"

"That's what Hitler said."

The other man sighed. "Do you mind if I have a cigarette?"

"Yes, I do," Mulder said. "You're not going to move."

"Now," Batman said coldly, "suppose you tell me some things. Who are you? We know you aren't the Red Hood. We found what was left of him."

"Do tell?" the Joker replied. "Why, I never thought you bought that silly story in the first place. You disappoint me, Bats. That idiot was just a hired hand, a dupe I used to obtain some chemicals I needed. TRY to obtain. He screwed it up royally... with some help from you. At the time, I was still working on my... new look."

"You did this to yourself? Deliberately?"

"Sure! You don't get a masterpiece like me overnight. You idiot, did you fall into a barrel of bat shit one day and climb out with that costume and that belt full of gadgets and that anti-social attitude of yours? Yes, I did it to myself!"

"Why? Why would you turn yourself into... this?"

"Because THIS IS WHAT I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN! Ever since I was BORN! Don't you get it? I always thought YOU of all people might UNDERSTAND!"

Batman shook his head. "I'll never understand..."

There was a low groan from the other side of the room. Agent Scully's voice came, weakly, "Mulder?"

Mulder turned his head for a moment. That was all the opportunity the Cancer Man needed. He swiftly reached into his jacket and produced a second pistol. He took aim and squeezed off four quick shots. Two caught Batman in the chest, the other two hit the Joker.

Both of them went down.

Mulder whirled and fired, but missed. The Cancer Man had sprinted away into the gloom of a narrow corridor. Mulder wasn't sure, but he thought he had heard the man say, "I'm sorry," before he was gone.

For half a second, Mulder stood, torn between his desire to try to catch his old enemy and the need to check on Scully and Batman. But there was really no choice. He went first to the Batman, who was already stirring. Mulder saw two dark streaks on the front of the black costume, but no holes.

"You're okay?" he said, helping Batman to his feet.

"Yes," Batman said, taking deep breaths. "I'm pretty well armored. Knocked the wind out of me, though." He glanced over at the Joker. The clown lay motionless, the front of his white jacket soaked in blood. Batman looked back at Mulder. "Which way did that man go?" Mulder pointed down the corridor. "I'll try to catch him," Batman said. "You take care of Agent Scully... and see if anything can be done for him." He jerked a thumb at the still form of the Joker and was gone.
Mulder looked at the clown. It didn't look good. He didn't appear to be breathing and his eyes were wide open, pupils dilated. The horrible grin was still in place, blood trickling from between the large, yellowed teeth.

He turned his attention to Scully, whose eyes were fluttering open. He quickly cut the ropes that held her to the chair and helped her to her feet.

"Mulder," she said, focusing her eyes on him, smiling. "You made it. How do you like Gotham City?"

He said nothing, just hugged her tightly for a moment. She returned the hug, then stepped back. They looked each other up and down.

For a second or two there was an uncomfortable silence.

"So, what happened?" she asked. "The Cancer Man was here. The Joker did something to Eddie Nigma... something happened to that chamber he was in... then there was an explosion. I guess it knocked me out."

"I'm not sure what happened myself, Scully," he replied. "We'll figure it out later. The police should be here soon." He led her over to the thing that had been Eddie Nigma. Eddie was looking a bit more human, actually. His skin tone was better and the black blotches seemed to be fading. "Well," said Mulder. "He might come out of this okay." He stood up. "But I don't think we'll have to worry about the Joker any more."

Scully went over and knelt by the prone figure of the clown, performing a rapid examination. Mulder stood behind her. "If anything good has come of this, at least the world is rid of ONE monster."

Scully looked up at him, her eyes wide. "Not so fast, Mulder."

She looked back at the Joker, then to Mulder again. "This man is alive. And he's going to live."
They stared at each other for a few seconds, until their attention was drawn by the sound of approaching sirens.

EPILOGUE:
THREE MONTHS LATER
WASHINGTON D.C. 12:42 p.m.

Fox Mulder sat in the hallway outside the hearing room. Scully was inside, testifying before a Justice Department panel. Again. Mulder had the feeling they were going to pull the plug on the X-Files. Again.

He sat fidgeting on the hard bench, then he stood up and paced around in the hallway. What was taking so long? What was going on in there? His cellular phone chirped from inside his jacket pocket.

"Mulder here."

"Agent Mulder. How are things going?"

For a moment, Mulder didn't recognize the voice. He was about to ask for identification when it dawned on him.

"You! I... wasn't expecting to hear from you. How did you get my number?"
Silence from the other end. Then, "Anything I say might tend to incriminate me..."

"Well, I'm glad to see you still have your budding sense of humor." He sighed. "As for how things are going, not so hot. I think the X-Files are about to be shut down. But it's happened before. Anyhow, we're still having trouble with our...friend you met a few months ago."

"The one that got away. I'm sorry I couldn't catch him."

"Don't be. He may not look like much, but he's slippery. What about YOUR friend?"

"He's still in the hospital. At Blackgate this time instead of Arkham. He's recovering slowly. He should be dead, but... He's always had a way of bouncing back from what seemed like certain death..."

"I know the type."

"Yes. Of course, we didn't get anything useful out of the storage facility. I guess you heard what happened. About an hour after the police took you, Scully and Nigma out, the place went up. He'd had it rigged-- basement full of explosives. Four cops died. Four more marks on the Joker's scoreboard."

"And the Cancer Man's. They both have a lot to answer for."

"Yes. I hope, someday, they will have to. As for Nigma, he's slowly returning to normal, physically. But whatever the Joker gave him has done a real number on his mind. He's currently under heavy sedation and restraint at Arkham. The doctors don't know if he'll ever pull out of it. So. How is Agent Scully?"

"She's fine. You never got to meet her, did you?"

"Ah... no. No, I didn't."

Mulder chuckled. "She doesn't believe in you, you know. You're an 'urban legend.' She says that you are 'totally improbable, unlikely and impossible.'"

A brief chuckle came through the phone. "Maybe she's right. Well, you take care of her, Agent Mulder. She's a very special... agent."

"Yes. Yes, she is. But how do you..." Mulder realized he was talking to himself. The other party had cut the connection. He shrugged, folded up his phone and stuck it back into his pocket.
At that moment, Scully emerged from the hearing room. She looked as downbeat as Mulder had ever seen her.

"They've shut us down again, Mulder," she said shortly.

Mulder nodded. "Not too unexpected. Cheer up. It's happened before. Why, I was just saying to Batman..."

Scully gave him a look and a crooked half-smile. "Batman? Nice try, Mulder, but it'll take more than lame jokes to cheer me up today."

"He asked about you."

"Very nice. I'm flattered. Did you happen to talk to the Easter Bunny today, too?"

"No. But Santa Claus sends his regards."

"You're really something, Mulder."

"So are you, Scully."

They walked down the corridor together in silence.

THE END

AND I SHALL SHED MY LIGHT...

2009-09-25T13:21:00.000-07:00

An Untold Tale of Bruce Wayne
By Chuck Miller
CHARACTER COPYRIGHTS OWNED BY DC COMICS, NOT ME.
THIS WORK IS NOT FOR PROFIT.

MASSIVELY HUGE AND ENORMOUS THANKS
to Andrew "Captain Comics" Smith for running this the first time!!!

"In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. 'Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.' " -- from The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald

"Bruce Wayne believed in the green light ..."

SCENE: NIGHT, a short ways outside of Gotham City. Wayne Manor. All is in shadows. There is one lighted window in an upper story, and in it, a young boy, his face a white blur: "DAD! LOOK! IT'S HIM!"

Now we are inside the room. Young Bruce Wayne is sitting up in bed, pointing at a small, green light in the sky. "IT'S HIM." Thomas Wayne, standing beside his son's bed, smiling indulgently. "HMMMM. NO, SON, I THINK THAT'S JUST AN AIRPLANE. SORRY."

Bruce slumps back on the bed, smiling. "NO, I'LL BET IT WAS HIM. ON PATROL." We see now that there are a number of small items of Green Lantern memorabilia in the room. An action figure stands crookedly on the night stand.

Bruce picks up the figure. 'HE'S PROBABLY AFTER THE SHADE OR THE GAMBLER OR ONE OF THOSE GUYS."

Thomas Wayne leans over to kiss his son goodnight. "YOU MAY BE RIGHT, BRUCE. GOOD NIGHT."

Bruce, still holding the figure: "NIGHT, DAD."

In Smallville, Kansas, a young boy about Bruce's age sleeps and dreams a recurring dream of crystal spires beneath a hazy green sky.

In Memphis, Tennessee, a sick and dispirited King takes shaky aim at a television screen with a gleaming silver .44-caliber revolver and squeezes the trigger.

In Central City, a boy named Barry, up late in defiance of parental injunction, carefully places an inverted colander with paper wings taped to the sides on top of his head, in homage to his favorite hero.

In Washington, DC, the most powerful man in the world decides that it is time, once again, to tell the world that it won't have him to kick around any more.

On the West Coast, a boy named Hal sees a green light in the sky and knows it is an airplane and dreams of the day he will fly one himself. Green Lantern never enters his mind.

In a middle-class suburb of Gotham City, a man named Joe finishes off a pint of inexpensive bourbon and tells himself that the thing he is planning to do will turn out okay, and then he will go straight forever after...

Thomas and Martha Wayne prepare for bed. Thomas is a large man, almost beefy, with incongruously slim and sensitive-looking hands. He is a wealthy man, and he wears light blue silk pajamas carefully laid out for him by his gentleman's gentleman. His wife wears an elegant white nightgown, trimmed in expensive lace.

Thomas Wayne yawns and stretches and says to his wife, "Bruce thought he saw the Green Lantern tonight. It was an airplane landing light or something. He was as excited as I've ever seen him. I wish he'd show as much enthusiasm for his schoolwork."

"He's a boy, Thomas," Martha tells him. She is not beautiful, but her face is good and strong and kind. "That's what boys DO."

"I know, I know ... But I don't want him thinking that flashy super-powers are the answer to life's problems." Wayne is a pragmatic man, a self-made doctor, a believer in self-reliance. He was born to wealth, lots of wealth, but never coasted on it. He put himself through med school and established a small practice in Metropolis, where he met his wife, before returning to Gotham and Wayne Manor.

"Oh, it's a phase," his wife tells him. "I'll bet you went through the same thing. Unless that old Hourman costume Alfred found in the attic belonged to your sister."

"I know that, too. I just don't want Bruce growing up with wild ideas. Sure, I loved the Justice Society. Every kid did. But they disappeared. Copped out. They did some good, yes, but in the end they were unreliable. Everybody has to grow up sometime. You can't go through life expecting Green Lantern or the Flash to come save the day."

"Do you think it was ever really that simple? For THEM, I mean? They must have had their share of problems, and I'm sure they didn't win ALL the time."

"Maybe. But Bruce doesn't see any of that. All he knows about Green Lantern is what he sees on that ridiculous television program."

Thomas refers to The Adventures of Green Lantern, a show popular in the 1960s, known for its appalling special effects and even worse scripts. Produced locally by the Gotham Broadcasting Corporation, it starred a young Canadian actor named William Shatner, whose career never managed to crawl out from beneath the weight of his most famous role.

"Well, we've plenty of time. You're a good Father, Thomas. You'll guide him the right way. He'll be fine as long as he has you -- us."

"Yes ... Yes, I suppose you're right." He kisses his wife and they settle in for sleep.

Joseph Leslie Chileskewicsz, known as "Joey Chill" back in the day when he ran with the sad old remnants of Boss Moxie's gang in Metropolis, a green and stupid kid among a bunch of aging, also-ran gangsters. Stupid Joey Chill, who did eight of a 20-year sentence on Stryker's Island on a robbery conviction, who never ratted out the men behind him, who learned things in the joint he never wanted to know. When he got out he promised himself that was it, he'd go straight. And he did. He changed his name legally, shortened it to Chill, left Metropolis, moved to Gotham where he knew no one. He got a job and he got a wife and they had a kid but the kid died before it was a year old. It was a boy and they called him Joseph Leslie Chill, Jr., and they buried him in City Cemetery in the rain in a coffin no bigger than a shoebox. Now the wife was pregnant again. The doctor said the baby looked fine, everything would be okay. Then Joey lost his job. The company he was working for sold out and the buyer closed up the operation. Bills kept coming in, though. You can't just go out and get a job like snapping your fingers when you got a record, especially when you did hard time.

When times are hard, you go back to what you know. Joe Chill talked to a guy who talked to a guy and he gave a hundred of his last $250 for a snub-nosed .32 with the numbers filed off and he would do this thing one last time, just to get enough to tide his little family over until he found someone who would hire him, and no one would be hurt by it.

SCENE: Thomas Wayne is seated in the comfortable private office of his old family friend, Alan Scott, owner of the Gotham Broadcasting Corporation. The two sit in comfortable plush chairs on either side of a small wooden table, sipping drinks.

WAYNE: I've been a little worried about the boy. I suppose it's really nothing. He's going through one of those "hero-worship" phases. All I hear is Green Lantern this and Green Lantern that.

SCOTT: You don't say.

WAYNE: Yeah. I know I worry too much, but ... All that was a long time ago. Those costumed heroes had their place, sure, and I'm not saying they didn't do a lot of good. But they're gone now. A man has to be able to rely on himself. I don't want Bruce growing up thinking magic rings and super-powers are the answer to everything.

SCOTT: I suppose you're right. In my day -- prehistoric times, Thomas, when your father and I were boys -- We idolized the old movie heroes. Tom Mix, Douglas Fairbanks ...

WAYNE: I know. That's normal. At least those guys were ... well, HUMAN. They had to rely on their wits and their own strengths.

SCOTT (a little smile touching his lips): And the JSA weren't human?

WAYNE: Well, who knows? That was the point, wasn't it? We didn't know anything about them, not really. And then they were gone! Anyhow, that's not why I came today. I wanted to ask you for a little help. You've done so well with Gotham Broadcasting, you've diversified into other areas ... I'd like a little financial advice, actually. I want to set up a foundation, something to help people, scholarships, grants, that sort of thing. I need some assistance with my capital. I invest, of course, and my accountants are good -- but I've seen what you've done with GBC and your other projects in just the last 10 years. That's the kind of return I want to see. Wayne Enterprises is doing well, and I want to put a portion of the profits into this foundation. Truth, Alan, I hope someday Bruce will take it over.

SCOTT: You aren't jumping the gun? Bruce is eight years old, Thomas. You want to start mapping out his future already?

WAYNE: Of course not. But I want him to have something worthwhile to do, if he wants it. I wouldn't dream of forcing him into it.

SCOTT: Oh, of course not.

WAYNE: I don't like the way you said that. You think I'm --?

SCOTT: Thomas, I know you wouldn't try to force your boy into anything. Just like your father didn't try to FORCE you into real estate. But he wanted that for you and he let you know it. Even though he never stood in your way, you knew he was disappointed. He would have happily paid your way through medical school, but you would have known he'd rather be paying for something else. That's why you did it yourself, isn't it?

WAYNE: Hm. Alan, am I turning into my father?

SCOTT (laughs): No, but I think he is still very much with you. You want him to be proud of you. You miss him. I miss mine, too, and he's been gone for more than 35 years now. Every boy wants to make his father proud of him. I hope mine is. You know, he hoped I would go into the ministry like him. But I wanted to be an engineer. And he let me know that I had done well, before he died. "Never be cruel, Alan." I don't know how many times he told me that. "Never hurt anyone on purpose, and try to do something good every day." I don't know that I've succeeded 100 percent, but I like to think ... I like to think I've done some good. One thing I hope you will do, which your father didn't quite succeed in doing for you is -- whatever Bruce winds up doing with his life, I hope you'll let him know it's good enough.

WAYNE: Well, you've given me something to think about. And I promise you, I honestly will. But I still want to look into setting up and financing this foundation.

SCOTT: Oh, that's an excellent idea. In fact, I have just the man for you. Name's Lucius Fox. I'll give him a call this afternoon.

WAYNE: That's great!

SCOTT: No problem. Say, listen ... about what we were discussing earlier? The old movie heroes? Well, you know, GBC recently bought the old Gotham Grand Movie Palace. We're going to close it down at the end of the year, turn it into a television studio. But from now until December, we're showing a double-feature every Saturday night. This week it's Fairbanks in The Mark of Zorro. Why don't you bring Martha and Bruce? On the house.

WAYNE: Hm. Yeah, we just might. The Mark of Zorro, huh? I remember that one ... What's the other one?

SCOTT: Beg pardon?

WAYNE: You said it was a double feature. What else is showing?

SCOTT: Oh... One of Bela Lugosi's old B-pictures. I think it's called The Bat or something. I wanted to get Dracula, but we couldn't find a decent print.

Gotham City, Park Row, night. Joe chill huddles in the doorway of a small tea shop. He is on a side street around the corner from the Gotham Grand Theater. He has his eye on a silver Rolls Royce parked in front of the tea shop. Checks his watch. The movie lets out in five minutes. Just wait. It will turn out fine. He fingers the gun in his pocket. He won't have to use it, other than for show, but it is loaded just the same. There's absolutely no sense carrying an unloaded gun. A lesson from his misspent youth.

The Waynes exit the theater. It is a nice, warm summer evening. They decide to cut back through the alley to where the Rolls is parked on a side street.

"So, what did you think of Zorro, son?"

"Oh, he was OKAY ... But he was kinda boring, you know? I mean, all's he has is that sword. It's not as good as a power ring. And that black costume! You can't hardly even SEE him. I still like Green Lantern better."

Thomas Wayne sighs. He is about to speak when a figure steps out of the shadows, brandishing a pistol.

"Okay," says the man. "This is a stickup. I'll take that necklace you're wearing, lady."

Thomas steps forward. "Leave my wife alone, you --Wait? Why, is that ... Joe? Yes, by God, that's you. It's me, Doctor Wayne. You remember me, don't you?" Doctor Wayne prides himself on his formidable memory for faces. Tonight, it will cost him.

Oh, no, no, no, no, no. Of all the people to run into. This guy was an assistant to the prison doc at Stryker's for two months. Helped fix young Joey up when he got a little ... damaged one time.

"Why, man, you don't have to resort to this! Here, let me ..." He reaches into his jacket, a gesture that hits Joe Chill in the viscera. For a moment, thought suspends itself and something like instinct takes over.

Joe's first shot clips the upper edge of Thomas Wayne's left eye socket, the impact pulping the eyeball, then takes a downward trajectory through his brain and exits through the back of his neck. His hand, clutching a billfold, not a pistol, jerks out of his jacket as he falls. Martha, meanwhile, has lunged at Joe, arms outstretched. He crouches down quickly, moves the hot muzzle her way and squeezes the trigger again. The bullet punches its way between two ribs, tears a hole in the side of her heart, goes through a lung, and leaves her body below her left armpit. Thomas has hit the ground by now, dead already though his heart will beat a dozen more times, pumping blood out through the hole in the back of his neck. And Martha goes to her knees, lung filling with blood, blood spurting from her mouth and nose as she tries to say something. This all takes less than three seconds, and it is done before the two surviving human beings in the alley fully realize what has happened. Martha tumbles onto her back, eyes gone cold, her head only a foot from her husband's, and lies still. The echoes of the shots and the smell of cordite fill the ears and nostrils of the man and the boy and their vision is identically blurred by afterimages of the muzzle flashes.

Bruce has watched the whole thing, unable to move, unaware for the moment that he has a body that can be moved. He looks up at the gunman. Fear all over the man's face. Bruce is afraid, too, but there is something else, something being born, and it scares the gunman.

"Stop ... Stop looking at me like that, kid." He considers, for less than a second, shooting the kid. The only witness left. But he can't do it. Joe, Jr. ... He can't do it. he turns and runs.

SCENE: NIGHT, a dark alley, seen from above. A young boy stands staring at the ground, the bodies of his mother and father on either side of him.

Suddenly, Bruce sees a green glow from around the corner of the alley. Thinks it's his hero come to save the day. He shouts for help as the mugger runs off. Bruce runs toward the green light. "GREEN LANTERN! HELP! YOU GOT TO HELP MY FOLKS!"

Before he reaches the end of the alley, the green light turns red. Stunned, he steps out into the street and stares at the traffic signal. He face goes from anguish and surprise to anger and finally to dead, cold calm.

Green Lantern drops from the sky, ring glowing green, to land silently in the dark alley. He hears and sees the yellow police tape flapping in the wind, sees the chalk outlines of his two friends. When he read about the Waynes' murder in the paper this morning, he took the Ring from his office safe, and for the first time in six months, touched it to the Power Battery and recited his oath:

"... And I shall shed my light over dark evil, "For the dark things cannot stand the light, "The light of the Green Lantern!"

Now, in the alley, he sets his jaw and orders his ring to show him what happened the night before.

Alan Scott is unaware of the exact mechanism by which the ring does this. Long ago, he stopped wondering about such things and learned to accept. In fact, it the ring emits a small storm of tachyons, subatomic particles that move backward through time. They envelop him and the patch of ground he stands on, bending time, allowing him to view the past.

He witnesses the shooting in fuzzy, shadow form, like a bad TV broadcast. Sees the mugger run. Follows him. Watches the man make his way to the suburbs, where he takes the gun into a garage behind a small house and smashes it to fragments with a sledge hammer. The Green Lantern, a ghost moving in this gray changeless world of the past, notes the man's address.
Fully in the present again, he prepares to pay a visit.

Joe Chill's little suburban cottage. A dark figure with green fire on its hand drops from the sky and lights on the street in front, walks around to the kitchen door. Joe is seated at the table, drinking bourbon from a pint bottle.

The Green Lantern tells his ring to open the door, and not to be gentle about it.

The green fire lashes out at the door, bounces away harmlessly.

Of course. The door is wooden. His ring doesn't work against anything made of wood. He doesn't know why. Green Lantern steps forward and opens it himself, with his foot. Chill turns his head.

"You," says Alan Scott, the Green Lantern, his voice as cold as the cold green fire on his finger, "You killed them."

Chill stands up, knocking the kitchen chair over. "I -- No, I didn't -- I ..."

"Yes," says the Green Lantern, stalking slowly toward the frightened man. "I know. I know." He holds up his hand, the ring's terrible power throbbing there. "THIS told me. It never lies. You can't lie."

Chill is perspiring freely. His eyes are wide and moist. "I didn't -- I didn't MEAN to.... I only wanted to ..."

The Green Lantern grabs Joe Chill by his shirtfront, popping off a button. "I don't care what you meant or what you wanted. You killed two people."

Chill finds a small spark of defiance somewhere in his soul. "You -- You can't PROVE anything. The gun was cold, and it's gone now. It doesn't exist any more. No one saw me but the kid and he's just a kid. You got nothing to take to the cops."

The Green Lantern laughs and Joe Chill almost empties his bladder. "Cops? No, no cops," he says in a conversational tone. "Just me and you." He tightens his grip on the shirt, raises his other hand, his ring hand, to Chill's eyes. "And this." The little kitchen is painted green with the light.

"I can do anything I want to," he continues, releasing his hold on Chill's shirt. "But first, I'll show you how I did it in the old days, before I learned what this ring could really do."

The Green Lantern hits Joe Chill in the face. Only moderately hard to begin with, but enough to knock him off his feet.

"Get up," says the Lantern. Chill does, slowly, blood and small fragments of broken tooth dripping onto the linoleum from his puffed-out lower lip. The Lantern hits him again, a bit harder this time, blood splatters in an arc over the floor and table. The rest of the broken tooth goes. Chill goes down again.

"Get UP!" says the Green Lantern, hauling Chill to his feet once again. He holds the man by the shoulders, stares into his eyes. "Now, you son of a bitch, you're going to tell me WHY. WHY did you shoot them?"

Chill's jaw moves, he spits blood onto the floor between the Lantern's feet.

"Got scared. Th' guy, he KNEW me, knew my name. Seen him in Metropolis, YEARS ago. Lost m' head, pulled th' damn trigger. Goddammit, I wish I didn't do it!"

"That doesn't answer my question. WHY?"

"MONEY, goddammit," Chill says through terribly swollen lips. "The hell you THINK? Wife's havin' a kid, and I lost m' damn JOB!"

"Lost your JOB!" grits the Lantern. "That's your excuse? You lost your JOB?"

"YES!" screams Chill, defiant again, "I lost m' JOB! What does that mean to YOU? Guy with a damn magic ring. Drove a truck f'r five damn YEARS f'r Ajax an' I lost my JOB 'cause the company sold out and nobody'll hire me."

"Truck ..." The Green Lantern loosens his grip on Chill's shoulders, allows him to stand by himself. "Who ... bought the company?" Silence. "TELL me! WHO bought out the company?"

Chill wipes blood from his face with the back of a hand. "Goddamn outfit called Kinestra Investments. Bought Ajax then turned around and closed up, gonna sell the trucks an' th' warehouse to someone else."

Now the Green Lantern is silent. Alan Scott is silent, and he can hear his own heart beating in his chest, beneath the red shirt he wears, the red shirt that won't show the blood of Joe Chill spattered on it.

Kinestra Investments. A wholly owned subsidiary of the Gotham Broadcasting Corporation.

"No," says Alan Scott, eyes narrowing behind his purple mask, "NO, this isn't MY fault, you can't turn it around on ME like this."

Joe Chill, squinting into the angry face, puzzled. "Th' hell you TALKING about?"

Alan Scott grabs Joe's shirtfront again, pulls him close. "You're SCUM. You're GARBAGE. Killing people -- " The ring flares, illuminating the little kitchen. "I'm going to ..."

From the kitchen doorway, a woman's voice, frightened but strong. "Joe? Honey? What -- ?"

POV: We are peeking over BARBARA CHILL'S shoulder, looking at the scene in the kitchen, seeing what she sees. Her husband in the grip of a fiend. Green light, green fire. A terrible thing clutching at Joe's chest, killing him. She SCREAMS, takes a step forward.

In this moment, the ring does something its wearer has not willed it do to -- it takes from Barbara Chill's mind the image of him as she sees him now and shows it to him: a cold, arrogant monster, as terrible and bloody-minded as Solomon Grundy, the Shade or Per Degaton ever were.

Still reeling from what he has just seen, Green Lantern turns his head just in time to see a short and very pregnant young woman slip on a little puddle of blood, lose her footing and land hard on her buttocks. She flops over onto her back, head striking the floor, crying like a small child.

Scott releases her husband and sprints over to Barbara's side, using his ring to check her vital signs and those of her baby.

"You're okay," he tells her, "and your baby's fine, too. But you should still ..."

"GET OUT!" The ring is supposed to automatically protect him from harm, but Barbara Chill's small white hand catches him hard across the jaw, almost knocking him over.

"Ma'am," he says, righting himself, "I don't ...You -- "

"JOE! CALL THE POLICE! GET THIS THING OUT OF OUR HOUSE!!!"

"Please, ma'am, I can help you. I can ..."

Joe Chill's hand on his shoulder. He speaks softly to his recent tormentor. "Please, man," he says. "Just go now. I'll take care of her. You can come back later, do whatever you want. You can take me to the cops or ... whatever. I won't run and I won't fight you. But let me take care of my wife. PLEASE."

The Green Lantern just nods dumbly and takes his leave.

Joe Chill will spend every day of the rest of his life wondering if today is the day the Green Lantern will come back for him.

In spite of the summer heat, young Bruce Wayne has built a large fire in the main drawing room at Wayne Manor. He is now master of this house, and may do as he wishes. The smell of burning plastic fills the room as the boy, still dressed in the suit he wore to his parents' funeral, feeds his toys to the fire. Green Lantern burns in effigy time and again.

"My word!" exclaims Alfred, rushing into the room. "Whatever are you doing, Master Bruce?"

"Getting rid of some things I don't need," the boy says blandly.

Alfred wrings his hands, afraid for the boy's sanity.

Alan Scott's ringless fingers, working quickly, solder shut the small metal container. Later on today, he will take it to his bank and place it in his safe deposit box, until ... Well, just until.

For the time being, at least, he intends to stop playing with fire. He needs to keep a closer eye on what his companies are doing. It's the only proper role for a man of his age.

And he has still other concerns. He has learned that Thomas Wayne, in a very recent codicil to his will, has made Alan Scott one of the administrators in charge of his estate. Plans for the Wayne Foundation will proceed.

He stands up from behind his desk, walks to the ornate fireplace on one wall, and, in spite of the summer heat, builds a fire. Once it is sufficient to the task, he feeds it from a brown grocery bag. A red shirt, a purple cape, green leotards, a purple mask.
His secretary, drawn by the aroma of burning cloth, enters.

"Mister Scott! What -- What are you doing?"

"Getting rid of some things I don't need," the man says blandly. "That will be all, Miss Needham."

"Yes sir ..."

GOTHAM CITY 20 years later

"Is this really, ABSOLUTELY necessary, sir?"

Bruce Wayne pulls the cowl over his head. When he speaks his voice is hard and cold. His true voice, Alfred realizes with a shudder. The voice, the persona of Bruce Wayne are the disguise, not this hideous mask. "Yes," he says shortly.

"There must be something else, sir," Alfred Pennyworth implores. "This is ... It is madness, sir. There, I've said it. Your father, your mother, they don't blame you for what happened. No one does except for yourself, sir."

"This isn't about blame, Alfred. This is about keeping other people safe. This is the best thing I know to do."

Alfred shakes his head. "Your father would not want this for you, sir. Bruce. Please."

"I'm sorry, Alfred. Thank you for your concern." Pulling on the black gauntlets. "I don't know what my father would want. Whatever I do ... Whatever I do, it will never be good enough."

Alfred sighs. "Thomas Wayne died many years ago, sir. And, forgive me for saying it, I sometimes feel that BRUCE Wayne did so that night as well."

A moment of silence from the inhuman figure. Then he -- IT turns to regard its factotum with blank eyes.

"No, Alfred," says the Bat slowly, "that was the night I was born."

"That," says Alfred without flinching, "is precisely what I mean, sir."

The Bat may or may not nod slightly before it gets into the absurd, supercharged automobile and tears out of the underground cave. Alfred turns and ascends the steps to Wayne Manor.

"He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
"Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter -- tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. ... and one fine morning -- So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." -- from The Great Gatsby

THE END

Kolchak Meets the Spectre

2009-09-22T20:14:00.000-07:00

By Chuck Miller
CARL KOLCHAK MEETS THE GHOSTLY GUARDIAN

(Based upon characters and situations created by Jeff Rice, Jerry Seigel and Bernard Bailey and Michael Fleischer and Jim Aparo. )

Normally I am a big fan of irony, and the situation I found myself in during the autumn of 1975 was nothing if not that. I found myself sympathizing, albeit momentarily, with an editor named Tony Vincenzo.

My name's Carl Kolchak. I'm a reporter. And I've lost count of the times I've stood across a cluttered desk from Vincenzo, my editor, and argued 'til I was blue in the face in favor of a story that even I in my calmer moments would have to admit was ... let's just say a little far-fetched.

Now, courtesy of an old friend named Earl Crawford, I was at last on the other side of the desk, so to speak.

It was the autumn of 1975. Ninteen-seventy-four had been a pretty hectic year for me. So much so that I wound up using my medical insurance for the first time -- to take what used to be quaintly referred to as a "rest cure."

In short, I cracked up.

To this day I do not recall my admission to Vestavia Hills Sanitarium in Cicero, Illinois, but from what I've heard, I made quite an impression on the staff.

I'd been awake for something like a week. I'd been drinking -- a LOT. I had given up the sauce after Seattle, but started back shortly after a little encounter I'd had deep in the ground beneath the Merrymount Archives building in Chicago. An encounter with a thing that had looked like a man in a cheap Halloween costume, but had been very, very real. I knew it. The authorities knew it. And we were the only ones who ever would. They killed my story and would have liked to have done the same to its author. I came within an inch of being either arrested or committed. Of course, the latter would soon happen, but not courtesy of the Chicago PD.

My boss, Tony Vincenzo, had driven me to Vestavia Hills himself on the memorable (to all but me) morning I showed up in the offices of the Independent News Service, VERY intoxicated, my white seersucker more stained and rumpled than ever before, raving about man-sized lizards, killer robots, headless motorcycle riders ... and a waitress named Gail Foster.

There were a lot of things I'd never gotten over.

I remained in Vestavia Hills for almost a month. Upon my release, the INS assigned me to one of their small bureaus in upstate New York. I was a copy editor and I was making almost twice as much as I had when I was a reporter. I detected the fine hand of Vincenzo in my new assignment. Truth to tell, I had expected to be jobless once I returned to the world of the clinically sane. I've said some -- well, rather unkind things about Vincenzo over the years, but he proved to me then that he really cared.

He may have been the best friend I ever had.

But he was still an unimaginative man, even for an editor, and his solution to the Kolchak Problem was to tuck me safely away in a place where I wouldn't -- couldn't -- cause trouble.
And at the time, that suited me just fine.

I was broken. I admit it. Riding a desk and collecting a nice fat paycheck was all I wanted. Taking copy from young, inexperienced reporters and reworking it into good and holy AP style was good enough for me. In spite of the medication I was on, I still had bad dreams and woke up with night sweats.

And I had lost my hat.

The old "bird feeder," as Vincenzo once called it, had been a casualty of my Lost Week. It was the last thing my father gave me before he died, and I'd planned on wearing it to my grave, no matter what anyone else thought of it.

Its loss was symbolic for me. I was finished. As a reporter, as a voice crying out unheeded in the wilderness, I was finished. Stick a fork in Kolchak, he's done. I'd lost every battle I'd ever fought. Time to stop the war.

And that, dear reader, was my frame of mind when Earl Crawford came busting into my little office that crisp October afternoon.

I'd known Earl for more than 20 years, since before I'd been run out of New York City on a rail (as a result of a story I may tell some day, but not today). He'd always been level headed, at least compared to me, and the progress of his career reflected that. While I had bounced around like a Super Ball, he had enjoyed a steady rise. He had left the newspaper game of his own accord, and was now a very successful freelance magazine writer. And the story he had to tell me was the last thing I wanted to hear.

"WHAT did you say?" I asked incredulously, unaware of the echo of Vincenzo in my voice. "A GHOST turned a man into a block of wood, then sawed him to pieces? I heard that correctly?"

"I know how it sounds," he replied, "but I SAW it, Carl, with my own EYES." At the time, I also failed to take note of the distinct Kolchak flavor of his answer.

"Okay," said. "But why me? What can I do to help you?"

"Carl, none of the magazines I write for will touch this! When I found out that you were up here, in the same area I was tracing Barber, it was like ... fate, I guess, because --"

"Because I'm a crackpot? Because 'Spooky' Kolchak will believe anything? I'm a nut?"

Crawford shook his head. "No, no. Carl, if you're a nut, so am I. I'll admit, I didn't believe you in New York, and I'm sorry. The things I've seen since then ... This ghost ... he calls himself The Spectre ... he's ... I don't know, some kind of vengeful spirit. He's been racking up a body count for a year now. Murderers. He goes after murders and ... DOES things to them." He sighed, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes.

Then he switched gears on me, so abruptly I was disoriented for a second.

"Have you heard of Joe Lee Barber?" he asked.

I thought. Didn't have to think long, as the name had been on my mind for days. "Yeah," I said.

"THAT, I know about. Serial killer. Escaped from Sing Sing earlier this week. Killed two guards and a delivery man, bringing his grand total to either 48 or 54, depending on which version of his story you believe. What about him?"

"I've been trying to find him," Crawford said matter-of-factly.

I laughed. "You and every other reporter and law-enforcement agent on the East Coast." I shook my head. "Earl, what has this got to do with what you were telling me to begin with? First you're chasing a vengeful ghost, now it's Joe Lee Barber? Are you starting to have trouble focusing?"

"No, Carl. There's a connection. I believe The Spectre is going to go after Barber. I want to find him before the ghost does. I've been talking to some of Barber's old associates and family members. It still amazes me how some people will open up to a reporter when they won't tell a cop anything. I have some good, solid leads on his whereabouts."

"Then you need to let the police have them, Earl. You know that." My God, was that really Carl Kolchak talking? I was becoming Tony Vincenzo! I rubbed a hand over my stomach, which had expanded noticeably in the weeks I'd been behind the desk.

Crawford was shaking his head. "No. Absolutely not. I have to get to him first. The police can't protect him from The Spectre."

"And you can?"

Crawford sighed heavily. "I don't know. But I've talked with the ghost. I think there's something human in him, something that can be reached. And I think I have a better chance of doing that than the cops. If Barber is taken into custody, he's as good as dead."

I started to remark that, based on what I knew about Barber's life and crimes, that might not be such a bad thing. But I was interrupted by the unshaven man with wild eyes and a dirty, torn prison jumpsuit who kicked in my office door and brandished a .38 revolver at my visitor and myself.

"Ain't nothing," the newcomer said in a nasal Arkansas twang, "as good as dead. I tell you, boys, killing is better than screwing!"

Crawford was stunned into silence. I was feeling pretty calm. Could have been the Valium, could have been the fact that this man, gun and all, was a lot less scary than some of the things I'd seen in the past year -- supernatural menaces, apoplectic editors and recalcitrant police officers. I was careful not to move, but I spoke to him, very gently.

"I'll have to take your word on that, sir. Mister Barber? I'm Carl Kolchak. Would you like to sit down?"

"No thank you, sir," he replied. Oddly, I sensed that his politeness was genuine. "I come here to see your friend." He pointed at Crawford with the muzzle of the gun. "I heard he's been looking for me. I don't like people looking for me, I don't even know 'em. I want to find out what his trouble is."

Crawford stammered for a moment. Understandable, considering that Barber had the gun pointed right at the bridge of his nose. He got himself under control pretty quickly, though, and said, "Mister Barber. My name's Earl Crawford. I have to warn you. You are in terrible danger."
Barber laughed. What teeth he had left were a nasty shade of brown.

"Is that right, Sherlock? Every cop in America looking for me with orders to shoot to kill, and you think I'm in terrible danger? That's a good one, man."

With his free hand he grabbed a wooden chair from against the wall, twirled it around so the back was facing us, and straddled it, his pistol never wavering from Earl's face. "Now, you want to tell me what you really want, man." It wasn't a question. "I got enough trouble without some magazine reporter trying to poke into my bidness. That's how I come to turn the tables. I followed you."

And that's when the going got weird. A greenish vapor seeped into my office from under the door, whirled up into a small funnel the size of a man and solidified.

It was Crawford's ghost.

The ghost was tall, maybe six-and-a-half feet, maybe fifteen or a hundred feet. It was hard to judge accurately since his feet weren't touching the ground. But he had presence. His skin was white as chalk and he wore a green hood, cloak, boots, gloves and trunks. The temperature in the room dropped at least 15 degrees.

Then the ghost spoke. I've made my living with words since I was a teenager, but I draw a blank whenever I try to describe that voice. Let's just say it was scary.

"Joe Lee Barber," he said. "Your time has come. You have escaped man's justice. You will not escape mine."

Crawford was staring slack-jawed at the apparition, and I probably was, too. Barber, however, seemed to be unimpressed.

There are some advantages to being criminally insane, I suppose.

"Hoo-boy!" he whooped, grinning broadly. "What are YOU? Casper the ghost? You that ghost this fellow here said was coming for me, Casper?"

"I have come for you," The Spectre said flatly. I prayed to God that he would never say those words to me.

Barber stood up. "Well, you got me! Here I am, Casper." Abruptly, he jerked around and grabbed the speechless Crawford by the collar, dragged him up from his seat, pressed the muzzle of the gun to his temple. "You can kill me, I don't too much care about that, but I'm gonna do one more 'fore I go, if that's okay with you."

"It is not," the Spectre said. His sense of humor was as sharp as Vincenzo's. "You have killed without conscience or remorse. Now you will pay for that. Do you remember Annie Lang?"
Barber thought for a moment, then shook his head no.

"Number four. You chopped off her hands."

"Oh yeah!" Barber said, his face brightening. "That was a good one. And that wasn't all. I also -- EEEEEEAAAA!!!" The scream took me by surprise until I realized what had happened. The Spectre had gestured with a forefinger and Barber's hands had come off. The hands, including the one still gripping the .38, fell to the floor. Blood spouted from the stumps. Crawford slumped. I moved around the desk, helped him up and led him into a corner of the room.

"Amy Brill," the Spectre said. His voice seemed quiet, but it drowned out Barber's screams. "You cut her throat." Another small movement of the finger, a red line drew itself across Barber's neck. Blood poured from the new wound. Barber fell to his knees.

"Marsha Jean Whiddon and her two children. You disemboweled them." I had a feeling I didn't want to see what was going to happen next, so I closed my eyes. The noise was enough, though, to give me new nightmares for some time to come.

I had my arm around Crawford's shoulder. We were both trembling. I felt Earl go limp. A finger on his neck assured me that his heart was still beating.

The poor bastard had fainted!

"Leander Cross," the voice of doom continued. "You doused him with gasoline and set him alight." I heard a whooshing sound, felt heat against my cheeks. Barber screamed for a while, then stopped.

When I finally opened my eyes, there was no sign of Barber, no blood, no smoke, nothing.
Except the Spectre.

"Karel Ivan Kolchak," he said. That knocked me for a loop, even more so than what had happened to Barber. No one had called me by that name since my grandfather died. "I know of you."

I stammered a bit and finally managed to say, "I hope you're not, uh, angry at me ... about anything."

"No. You have been a great force for good in this world. But your spirit is broken. Not, I think, beyond repair."

"Listen ... Spectre, is it?" He nodded. "I'm getting old. I did what I could do and I lost out every time. I'm tired of it. I give up, see? You can only beat your head against the wall for so long."

He shook his head. "No. Karel, you see only your failures. The stories that never got published. What of the evil that you have dispatched from your world? That does not matter to you?"

I thought for a moment. "I don't know," I said, truthfully. "I don't know. I'm.. I WAS a reporter. I wanted to tell people the truth. And I failed to do that. Dispatching evil, as you call it -- that was just the right thing to do under the circumstances. I'd have done that anyhow. But my primary responsibility was to report the news. I didn't."

The Spectre was silent for a moment. I think he might have been smiling, very slightly. Maybe not. Emboldened by something I could not name, then or now, I asked him, "Are you... some kind of an, uh, angel or something. Or..." I swallowed hard. "Or someone from... you know, the other team?"

At that, he did smile, unequivocally. It was such a non-threatening, comforting gesture that it was almost scary. Given the circumstances, I mean.

He spoke. "I have been called God's Judgment by some. I am afraid that, for now, my nature must remain an open question. However, I will tell you a small secret, if you'd care to hear it."

I just nodded, aware that my mouth was hanging open but unable to do anything about it. Well, what would you have done?

His voice was as strangely comforting as his smile as he leaned forward a fraction of an inch and said, "It is not God's Judgment that sends one to heaven or to hell. The only judgment that may do that to a person is his own. "

The Spectre looked at me and into me and through me and I wasn't afraid and I knew he spoke the truth.

"Joe Lee Barber was the sole author of his own life and of his own death. As are you.

"I have something for you," he said, reaching into the folds of his swirling green cape. He brought forth an object. It took me a moment to realize what it was. When I did, I came closer to fainting than I had all day.

"My --" I had to clear my throat. "My hat!"

The Spectre nodded, handed me the old "bird feeder." I turned it around in my hands, marveling at it. Such a simple thing. Ugly thing, really, but .... "I -- don't know what to say."

"Say nothing," replied my ghostly friend. "Do. Do what you know in your heart is the right thing. Do it always." And then he was gone. I mean just gone. No theatrics, no pyrotechnics. Just empty air and a memory that was already fading. I might have believed iut had been a dream or a delusion if not for the thing I held in my hand.

I put my hat on. It felt good. It felt like home.

Earl was snoring. I decided to let him be for the moment. He needed the rest. As for me, I had business. I picked up my phone and dialed a number I knew by heart.

Three rings and then a voice that was, for once, music to my ears. "Tony? This is Carl. Listen, I'm getting a little tired of languishing out here in the sticks. And have I got a story for you! Tell me, have you ever heard of The Spectre?"

THE END

TRUTHS AND CONSEQUENCES PART ONE

2009-07-09T21:51:00.000-07:00

TRUTHS AND CONSEQUENCES

By Chuck Miller
Story copyright 2009 by Chuck Miller
Characters and situations copyright by Jeff Rice
Background info may be found here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kolchak:_The_Night_Stalker

BASED UPON the ABC TV series "Kolchak: The Night Stalker" (1974-75), starring Darren McGavin, Simon Oakland, Ruth McDevitt and Jack Grinnage; and the TV movies "The Night Stalker" (1972) and "The Night Stranger" (1973)

Janos Skorzeny- "The Night Stalker" (1972)
Dr. Richard Malcolm- "The Night Strangler" (1973)
The Ripper- "Kolchak: The Night Stalker" premiere episode (1974)
Francois Edmonds ("The Zombie") - "Kolchak: The Night Stalker" second
episode (1974)
Catherine Rawlins ("The Vampire") - "Kolchak: The Night Stalker"
fourth episode (1974)

(Author's note: The two Kolchak TV movies and each episode of the series were self-contained stories. There was no continuity between episodes, and no subplot to connect any of them. All connections between and relationships among the characters are my own invention, so if it sucks you can blame me and not the original screenwriters. I do not make much use of anything past the first four episodes because, sadly, the quality of the scripts dropped off sharply after that point. All the characters in the story likewise come from the original productions, with one major exception.)

I didn’t know it at the time, of course, but my stint with the Independent News Service in Chicago was engineered from start to finish. I was duped and I was played. And I never even caught on.

I uncovered the truth about many strange things in those days. But there was one major truth that remained hidden for a very long time. I found that truth recently. Actually, it's more accurate to say that it found me. And it was the mother of all truths, the answer to all the questions I never asked.

And when all was said and done, I knew the identity of the person who had thoughtlessly set the whole thing in motion...

My name is Carl Kolchak. I was once, in the words of my managing editor, Anthony Vincenzo, “one hell of a reporter.” In fact, I was even better than that. (False modesty has never been one of my virtues. Neither has genuine modesty, come to that.) I was a crime reporter, back in the days when that meant getting your hands extremely dirty, and often taking your very life into those grimy hands.
Chances are good that you've heard my name, and you may even have read some of my work. But nothing you have ever read by me will do you any good here. This is completely different territory. As they used to warn travelers on old maritime maps back when the world was largely unexplored, "Here there be monsters."

The first thing you need to know is that what you probably think of as the “supernatural’ does in fact exist. Do you believe that? Does the sentence I just typed convince you of that truth? I’m betting not. If you already believed it—and I frequently find myself preaching to the choir, such as it is—then I have accomplished nothing. If you didn’t and still don’t, the result is the same. Of course, a single sentence isn’t much of a persuader, but you’re not meant to take this exercise literally. That sentence is the representation—the distillation—of all the stories I wrote that no one ever read. You are the one who should have read those truths. You might not have believed them. You probably wouldn't have. But the fact is, they never stood a chance of seeing print in any newspaper you would take seriously. And my stories were, if anything, too mundane for the supermarket rags. Once you got past the fact that the perp in the article was a zombie or a werewolf, that is. Swallow the premise, and you had a pretty standard crime piece, really. Contrary to any rumors you may have heard, truth really isn't stranger than fiction. Never has been. The true story of Janos Skorzeny is pedestrian and seedy compared to Bram Stoker's "Dracula."

You may have heard the name Skorzeny before. He was a footnote in a few true crime books about Las Vegas and its environs. He was a serial killer, right? A sick freak who drained his victims’ blood. I suppose, technically, he was a serial killer. If only that were all he had been.
Janos Skorzeny was a vampire. A far cry from the charismatic, cursed nobleman of fiction, Skorzeny was more like the Richard Speck of the undead set, and I killed him with my little stake and mallet.

Yes, I found a real live dead vampire in Las Vegas, late in the third quarter of the twentieth century. That should have been a once-in-a-lifetime deal. It should have been a never-in-a-lifetime deal. But it happened. I accepted it. The cops didn’t. I was right. They were wrong. I solved it—and stopped it—on my own, with no help from the law. At least six women had died. There was a single survivor, one Shelley Forbes, and I couldn't begin to imagine the scars she must have carried away from the experience. The pressure was on law enforcement and city government. Vegas is a tourist town and nothing but. Some would argue with that, but it is, for most practical purposes, true. The authorities needed not only to bring the murder spree to a halt, they needed to do it in a way that would provide a feather for everyone's cap. They needed to demonstrate that Vegas was safe, and any aberrations that might pop up, like the psychotic Mr. Skorzeny, would be dealt with quickly and effectively. Also, those were the days when the good fellows and their thing held sway, and though I never confirmed it, I take it for granted that they, too, were applying pressure of their own. The cops needed a clear victory.

I upstaged them. I made them look and feel silly. And they’ll forgive you for anything but that.
The story of Janos Skorzeny was my first book. You never read it because it was never published. I’m not entirely sure how I managed to write the damn thing, considering the fact that while I was working on it I was drinking myself into lengthy blackouts once or twice a week. I typed it up myself on some nice vellum paper and tied a red ribbon around it. I called it “The Night Stalker,” and the night I finished it I took it with me on a long walk, right to the end of the proverbial short pier somewhere on the West Coast of America. There, I screamed at the manuscript, slashed it with a knife, wadded up the bits that the wind didn’t blow away, doused those in lighter fluid, put a match to it and tossed it into the goddamn Pacific.

Anyhow, when the powers that were cast me out of their dubious paradise for the crime of knowing more than they did, I bounced a couple times and landed in Seattle. I had received word that Tony Vincenzo was there, and that he just might have enough guilt or sympathy left to give me a job. He did. Within a week I found myself bumping up against Richard Malcolm. And it just so happened that I arrived in town during a very narrow window of opportunity. He wasn’t a glutton like Skorzeny. He wasn't a vampire. Richard Malcolm killed five women every 21 years, and that was all he needed to keep himself alive for the next 21. Malcolm was an alchemist who had lived and murdered for 144 years before I sent him to his long-overdue grave. Had I shown up two weeks later than I did, he would have gone underground again for another fifth of a century.

Two weeks.

Things were quiet, more or less, for a year after Malcolm. I got fired again, of course. Same basic plot as the Skorzeny thing, really. And this time I took Vincenzo with me. We both wound up in Chicago, working for the Independent News Service, which is to the Associated Press what nothing at all is to something.

And that, dear friends, is when it started getting weird.

Here’s how the game always worked:

I’m on a story. It’s usually crime, but it could be anything. Something strange happens. Then something even stranger happens. Then something absolutely impossible happens. People stop talking to me. I pry. It’s what I do. I start to see a pattern that only makes sense if you have a certain perspective. That being a near-pathological willingness to consider possibilities that are utterly impossible. An infinite capacity for spotting the square pegs and knowing they have to fit SOMEWHERE. Most cops—and editors—drop out well before that. But I don’t. I’m stupid that way.

I think my ability in this regard owes a great deal to my lack of imagination. Yep, that’s what I said. Sound strange? Think about it. I am reminded of the case of Catherine Rawlins, a vampire I knew briefly—VERY briefly—out in L.A. (Poor Catherine had made the acquaintance of Mr. Skorzeny not long before I did.) There was a series of murders with odd common denominators. The bodies had been drained of blood, and each had a pair of small puncture wounds in the neck. The cops thought the killings were the work of a satanic cult performing unholy rites, and that the blood was removed from the victims’ bodies by means of some sort of unknown and completely efficient suction pump device. I thought they were the work of a vampire. Of the two theories, which requires more imagination? All I have is a talent for stating the obvious.

The cops busted a couple of drug-addled amateur Satanists, but the murders did not stop. I hammered a stake into Catherine Rawlins’ heart, and they did. The authorities, of course, gave me a ticker-tape parade and the key to the city, that’s how grateful they were. (Not really, but they did kindly buy me a plane ticket back to Chicago after they dropped the murder charge they were holding me on. My understanding was that, during the Rawlins autopsy, the pathologist found some astonishing irregularities that would have been made public had I gone to trial. Chief among those was the fact that she had already been dead for three years by the time I killed her.)

It wasn’t rocket science. I once encountered a seven-foot-tall Native American who could change into a wolf or a crow. That’s a pretty narrow field. There aren't a whole hell of a lot of things he could be. I did my research, found a knowledgeable source, learned about the Diablero (that’s what it was) and how it could be killed (there was always a way to kill them), and killed it. And then, a week or two later, it happened again.

That, with minor variations, is what I did to a doppelganger, a rakshassa, a succubus, and other assorted walking nightmares. Jack the Ripper… I never found out his real name or what kind of a creature he actually was, but I killed him too, in 1974, an hour after he murdered his final victim, eighty-six years after his first. Francois Edmonds, a Haitian numbers runner, murdered in a gang war, walked the earth executing his own killers for several days after he went to his grave for the first time. I put him back in the ground to stay because I knew what he was—a zombie—and how to stop him.

I did it twenty times, more or less, from the summer of ’74 through the spring of ’75, usually in Chicago. In a way, it was nothing more than common courtesy. If you saw a plank with nails through it in the middle of a residential street, you’d move it out of the way so it wouldn’t flatten anyone’s tires. It’s an ingrained response, part of the unwritten social contract. Well, if I saw a nightmare creature of any sort meandering around in the world causing multiple fatalities, I felt compelled to remove it. It’s just a matter of degree. I never set out to find a monster. The only time I ever looked for a supernatural agent from the very beginning was the case of the aforementioned Catherine Rawlins, and she could actually be considered a continuation of Skorzeny. A postscript or a coda. Apart from that-- not once.

And then, in the spring of 1975, it all ended. After my odd experiences at the Merrymount Archives, my life returned to what had been normal before Skorzeny. I had no further encounters with ghosties or ghoulies or long-legged beasties, and the only thing that went bump in the night was me, stumbling to bed after a night of liquid excess. Of which there were many. There were many, many things, many nights, that I couldn’t stop thinking about. And wondering. It started to bug me. It started to frighten me. Why? How? I wondered about the fact that I had never wondered about any of it until now.

When the booze started causing more problems than it blurred, I quit that and threw myself into my work. I gave myself little time to ponder and no time to pursue any explanation, even if I’d had the slightest notion where to begin. I stuffed everything away for what I thought was the sake of my sanity. Life went on. I learned not to think. I padlocked my memory. The stories I covered became mundane by comparison. But "mundane" is a very relative term. Some of my stories were big. Others were huge.

Much of my life since then is a matter of public record. The transformation was, for me, profound and sweeping and just gradual enough that I did not fully appreciate what was happening. I don't want to include or exclude too much. So, for the purposes of this narrative, I will treat it as though you, the reader, were a friend or acquaintance of mine up until the middle of 1975, after which we lost touch. You have enough of the basics to play the role. So, old pal, let's get caught up, shall we?

My involvement was instrumental in the arrest of a now- famous Chicago area serial killer who proved to be neither a vampire nor a werewolf. He was just a very sick human being who killed more than a score of young men and hid their bodies in the crawlspaces of his attractive suburban bungalow. The police were uncharacteristically grateful for my input. (The killer, many years later, sent me a portrait he’d painted of himself in clown makeup, with a note assuring me there were “no hard feelings.” Even so, I breathed an audible sigh of relief when he was finally executed. A collector offered me $40,000 for the painting, but that was two months after I burned the ugly goddamned thing.)

From then on my relationship with law enforcement improved dramatically, as did my relationship with Vincenzo. My “crazy” stories were forgotten in the glare of a string of successes. The Kolchak stock, personal and professional, hit unprecedented highs. Many of my fondly cherished dreams actually DID come true during those salad days, and I did it on my own. I earned respect and even admiration. And I stopped talking about vampires. Later still, I stopped even thinking about them. Well, that's not entirely true. Once you've actually met one, you can't. But I stopped brooding over them.

Until one week ago.

One week ago, I got a package. It was waiting for me on the desk I used when I, for one reason or another, actually dropped by the newsroom to do some of my work.

I don’t go out on assignments the way I used to. In fact, I am not technically a working reporter. I hold the utterly meaningless title “writer in residence” at a nice paper in the middle of America, where I more or less write my own ticket. I gained that wonderful ability on the strength of a book I did about my involvement with the crawlspace killer. The name Carl Kolchak hovered for several heady months near the top of the New York Times non-fiction bestseller list. Three more lesser but still impressive successes followed that one, and now I get checks every month for things I wrote a decade or more ago. My books were filled with truth, though it was leftover truth, served up to you long after the urgency behind it had died. The human monsters I wrote about had been de-clawed and tucked away where they would never again share the air of freedom with you. I still feel like a failure, but at least I’m a successful failure…

So I slipped, somewhat uneasily but eagerly, into the role of eminence grise, and I wrote whatever I wanted to write about, within reason. Mostly features with some angle or other that made them tasty.

I wandered in, nodding and speaking to various staffers. I gathered from snatches of overheard conversation that the president had said something stupid earlier in the day. Everyone was far too tickled over his gaffe to notice that he had also committed three or four violations of the Constitution at the same time.

It was a manila envelope. It looked quite new. As an inveterate re-user of manila envelopes, I noticed that. It was addressed to me in care of the paper. No return address, of course. The handwriting was big and loopy. Girlish, almost but not quite to the point of dotting the "i"s with little circles containing smiley faces. Somehow it seemed off-kilter, discordant, in a way I can't really describe. I'm looking at it now, but I can't put a name to how it makes me feel. Sadness is part of it. Like I lost something I can't even remember. I don't know.

The contents were the main attraction. Not much to it, but for me it might as well have been a letter bomb. I think I must have cried out just a little because I was peripherally aware of a couple heads turning in my direction. But my eyes were glued to the two news clippings I had slipped from the envelope.

Two stories. Two deaths. Not regular obituaries, though, these were stories with bylines, and it looked as though they had appeared on the front page.

Two deaths. Three days apart. The dates had been jotted onto the margins in the same loopy hand. Two names I had avoided thinking of for many, many years. Two men I hated, but not exactly personally. I hated them the way you might hate a fire or a tornado or some other force that ripped through your life and scattered everything you had far and wide, wrecking much of it beyond repair.

Former Las Vegas District Attorney Thomas Paine Jr. and retired Sheriff Warren A. Butcher were dead. Foul play was strongly suspected, but the authorities had very pointedly not released any details apart from the fact that homicide detectives in both the city and county departments were investigating the deaths.

Paine and Butcher. The last time I had seen the two of them was the morning of the day I left Las Vegas for good. In fact, my abrupt departure was at their "suggestion," a "geographical cure" for the ills that they were threatening to heap on my head if I didn't comply. The incentives they offered started with a murder warrant with my name on it, and went downhill from there.

I might at one time have wished such a fate on both of them. I probably had. Even now, my heart wasn't exactly breaking for them. Payne had been a politician of the very worst sort, the kind of a guy who would have been tossed out of Tammany Hall for going too far. Butcher had managed to polish himself up a bit for public consumption, but underneath that, and not very far underneath, he was a bully and a thug.

Each story carried a file photo of the victim. They were older than when I knew them, of course, and Payne seemed to me to have the slightly vacuous expression of a person in the early days of senility. Butcher, who had once looked stupid, now looked old and stupid.

I told myself there was any number of reasons the details were being withheld. The men were public figures, or had been at one time. They had been in law enforcement in a notoriously corrupt town, and they hadn't exactly been sweethearts in their approaches. That's a recipe for making enemies, and I couldn't imagine them acquiring any less than the maximum possible number.

So there was that. But there was also the fact that they had both been involved in a multiple murder case characterized by the withholding of information on the victims. And I was one of a very small group-- now smaller by two-- that knew exactly why those details had been suppressed. Further, there was the fact that someone had taken the time to send me the clippings anonymously. And whoever had done that obviously knew that I would be very interested, which very likely meant that the sender, too, knew why.

That was disturbing. Very. So few people had known the entire story. A couple dozen, perhaps, had known bits and pieces that would never have added up to anything sensible. I sat and thought for quite some time, examining my memories of the whole nasty business. And when I finished, I was certain that the number of people who knew everything was four. There was me. There was Payne and there was Butcher, and they no longer were. The former Vegas police chief, whose name I do not even recall, had died more than 20 years ago. That left just one unaccounted for.

I would have to find Bernie Jenks.

Bernie had been the SAC in the Las Vegas office of the FBI during Skorzeny. I'd known him for years. He was reputed to be a friend of mine, a tale I believed up until the morning he stood and watched Payne and Butcher drop the axe on me barely an hour after I had removed 170 pounds of angry vampire from his neck. His hands were tied, he told me, and there was nothing he could do. Bernie was very near tears that morning, and I was very near the kind of rage that can impel you to murder an FBI agent right in front of a sheriff and a district attorney.

I’m not one to hold a grudge, but after what had happened in Vegas, I had never felt any particular urge to renew our friendship. On the one hand, I really couldn’t blame him for how things had turned out. On the other hand, screw him. I knew he felt awful about the whole business, and I didn’t have a problem with that. I was being unfair to him and I knew it, but sometimes you just don’t care. I had no desire for revenge. I would almost certainly have pissed on him had he been on fire. But beyond that…

Hell, maybe I do hold grudges.

Tracking him down wasn’t easy, but I had a lot of experience finding hard-to-find people. I started getting shooting pains in my conscience when I learned that he had left the F.B.I. very shortly after the Skorzeny affair. I didn’t imagine that was a coincidence, and it wasn’t. I gathered that he had left under something of a cloud, which had been prettied up by his superiors and christened “health reasons.” Bernie Jenks, I learned, had taken wholeheartedly to drink following our little shindig in Skorzeny’s house. It was a perfectly natural response to the events of that night. I did it myself for a while.

As it happened, though, I had fared much better in the wake of that debacle than he had. Bernie had either resigned or been fired from the Bureau—probably a little of both. The vampire’s death had been a grade-A traumatic event, comparable to anything one might find on a battlefield. We called it “shellshock” or “combat fatigue” once upon a time. Now it goes by the name Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and civilians can get it in any number of ways. Like, for example, witnessing the brutal destruction of a malevolent, walking corpse.

It may seem odd that the seasoned law enforcement officer was scarred more deeply than the somewhat cowardly reporter who, after all, had actually done the bloody deed. It struck me that way too. All I can figure is that Bernie, a tough veteran who had never encountered a situation he couldn’t handle, felt disoriented and helpless when confronted with an enemy who was bulletproof and strong as an undead ox. I, on the other hand, who had never before been in a hand-to-hand life-or-death situation, knew exactly what Skorzeny was and how to deal with him.

What I did not know firsthand—and Bernie did—was what, exactly, had happened during the mopping up phase of the Skorzeny affair. What had the officials who knew the truth done in the aftermath? None of them ever admitted in my presence to believing that the killer was a genuine vampire. But they had his body. Had they disposed of the remains properly? I had heard that Skorzeny and all of his victims had been cremated, but that came from a source in the sheriff’s department who had a soft spot for me and another one for rye whiskey, so his reliability wasn't a given.

And it occurred to me then, speaking of whiskey, that there was actually a fifth individual who had possessed all the facts.

What if they hadn’t burned Skorzeny after all?

God only knows what the pathologist found during the autopsy. Surely there would have been enough anomalies to warrant further study. Could a vampire that had been staked somehow return to life? Or undeath. Or whatever. Christopher Lee did it several times. If the body had been carelessly handled… Could he possibly be back?

I was prepared for any sort of a reaction from Bernie, or so I thought. I had already steeled myself to weather any verbal assault. Another one of my specialties. But I wasn’t prepared for what I actually heard in his voice.

He sounded pathetically glad to hear from me. He sounded as though a phone call from me was the very thing he’d been waiting for all his life. My conscience stabbed me right in the solar plexus. The guilt felt as physical as cold steel. You know that imaginary place inside your chest where you feel strong emotion? Bernie’s voice sliced across it like a very thin razor. Far subtler than a blow from an axe, it was the kind of cut that looks superficial at first until the edges pull apart and you start bleeding a river.

I taped the conversation. I did not inform Bernie or request his permission. But that sort of thing is par for the course these days.

“Carl, buddy,” he said. “You’ve… How have you…Carl. Jesus.” I heard him swallow a sob, which had never happened before.

“Bernie,” replied, cool but not cold. I didn’t know how the hell I felt. “How are you?”

“Um… I’m good, Carl. I’ve been doing okay. I’ve… I’m not with the Bureau any more, I don’t know if you know that. I’ve got a… I do some consulting. Security company, you know. International. It's real busy, you know, lotsa business, what with… everything the way it is. You know, terrorism and so forth. It's been… I don't know. Some of it is questionable, but… The government isn't what it once was…”

“That’s great, Bernie,” I said, plowing over any opportunity he might take to start a rambling monologue. He sounded bad. He sounded broken and diminished. I didn't want to give myself a chance to care. "You seem to be doing okay then."

“Yeah. You’ve been doing good, Carl? I read your book. All of them, I mean, but the first one was… I was glad that… You know, after… Vegas, that you could sort of… you know, get a…Well, you did good, and I'm glad. I am. I was sorry to hear about Kathie, I almost called or… or sent you a…” I could feel a breakdown coming, and I wasn’t disappointed. “Ah, God, I’m sorry, Carl!" His voice was very, very low, but somehow it sounded like a howl. "I let them… I let the wolves have you. I did. Sheriff Butcher and… that Payne. God, I…”

“Bernie,” I said soothingly but without much warmth. “We don’t have to go into that, okay? That was… long, long ago. Actually, it’s the reason I’m calling, but not for recriminations. I got past all that. Bernie, I need to know something. I have to ask you. You mentioned Butcher and Payne. You know what happened to them?”

“Ah, no,” he said, regaining a sliver of a shade of his composure. “I don’t keep up… That is, I haven’t lived there in years, and of course…”

I had a line of bullshit ready in case Bernie knew what had happened, but I didn't need it. The poor bastard was clueless. “They’re dead, Bernie,” I said. I wanted a clean conversation so I spoke surgically, every word completely sterilized. “Both of them. They died last week.”
There was a silence that needed filling, so I turned over my bucket and dumped it all out. “They were both murdered. I cannot corroborate this, but I have information I consider reliable that both bodies had been drained of blood."

The reliable source was, of course, my own imagination. I just wanted to toss that into the well and see if it made a splash. I waited for a couple of beats, but the thing never did hit bottom. Bernie's silence was ear-splitting.

"Bernie," I said slowly and calmly. "I have to ask you something. About Skorzeny. After I left. Bernie, hang on. This isn't about you and me. I didn't call for that. This is something else. I have to ask you. Do you know-- can you tell me beyond any doubt-- that Skorzeny was destroyed?"
Silence. Not quite silence, because I could hear Bernie breathing in an odd way that I could not characterize. I said nothing further, sensing that the whole thing had suddenly become unbearably fragile. And then, so suddenly that I jerked back in my seat, Bernie yelled, "He's dead! He's dead! That goddamn Skorzeny is dead!" He sounded vehement, but not exactly angry. There was more fear in it than anything.

Gently, I prodded. "You're certain of that? There's no way he might have gotten… misplaced, or…"

"No, no, they burned him Carl. I know. I saw it. I watched it. I did it, I helped. I looked at… You see, Butcher and Payne, they… The victims too. We got them… They were exhumed, every one. Those poor girls. No court orders or anything, they just… we just… we got them and took them… there was an old, old crematorium all the way over in Barstow, and we took them there, and him too. He was in a black bag, you know, body bag. The women, the victims, they were in these sort of crates, wooden boxes. We had left the actual caskets in the graves and covered them over, because… you know, they’re heavy, and also there was the volume of dirt we had to put back in the holes…

"We went out there in a van. One van. More like a panel truck. It was pretty large. They were waiting for us at the crematorium. I don’t know how that was arranged, Payne did that. The furnace was going, it was so hot. Well, it has to be, of course, but I… Well, there's a big metal drawer, with no sides on it, just sort of a screen, that they put the casket on in a normal cremation. It just shoots right into the furnace, you know, the chamber.

Skorzeny went in first. We took the bag off him first, so we could see… And it was him, Carl. I couldn’t forget him. So we had him on the sliding drawer and we pushed him on in… You know, it takes a long time to cremate a body. Maybe two hours, that’s what they told us. But Skor… he just went up like a… I don’t know… it was just “Whoomph!” Totally gone in a few seconds. Well, there were some… a few bones, and they were like chalk… they were just… You know, normally they will rake the remains out of the chamber and sort of crush everything up into a powder, pulverize it for the urn. But those bones, they were just… They crumbled at the slightest touch.

“The rest of them… They took longer. Hours. Load one onto the drawer, box and all, and slide her in. It was late in the afternoon before we finally…” His voice wobbled and I heard him take two or three deep breaths. “Hold a minute, Carl? I’ll be back.”

“Sure Bernie.”

He was gone for almost three minutes. When he once again picked up the receiver, I heard what I took to be ice cubes clinking around in a glass of something. My old friend Bernie Jenks, resorting to Dutch courage at nine in the morning just to finish telling a story. I felt sadder but, strangely, no more sympathetic-- and not a whole hell of a lot wiser.

He dove right in, speaking rapidly, getting it over with. The only interruptions were for quick slugs of whatever.

“It was just at sundown when we got to the last one, which was the first victim. Cheryl Ann Hughes. We hoisted her crate up onto the drawer. We didn’t look inside. The boxes had been sealed before we left the cemeteries. We slid her on in. And then…” The rush of words abruptly cut off. “And then… and then… Something hit the side of the crate.”

“What?” I asked. “Something fell from somewhere?”

“No, something hit the side of the box. From the inside. It sounded like a… It was like a fist, Carl. Someone knocking. It happened again. Like knuckles rapping on a wooden door. ‘Let me in!’” he laughed, and it was the most miserably barren excuse for merriment I had ever heard. “The guy… the mortician, the one who was actually operating the machinery, he said sometimes… Y’know, muscles can draw up or gases in the bodies can do things, especially when there’s a rapid increase in temperature. It happened a lot, he said. So the box went ahead into the chamber, right into the middle of the flames, and, uhhh….” He trailed off again.
“What, Bernie?” I prompted.

He gave me that awful little laugh again. “Well, put it this way, Carl. The mortician said he had seen all kinds of odd things that dead people did while being burned. But he had never in his life, before that day… He had never heard one scream.”

It was indeed a hell of a punch line, and since he seemed to derive some grim sort of satisfaction from delivering it, I responded dutifully with a stunned silence followed by a whispered, "My God." I toyed with the idea of telling him about Catherine Rawlins, but decided that there was nothing to be gained by trumping him in such a way. But the thought gave me an idea, which was actually more like one of those queasy hunches I used to get way back when. Once I got off the phone with Bernie, which I did quickly and bloodlessly. More or less. I could tell he wanted to stay on the line, that there were Things Unsaid, but I wasn't interested. I would come to regret that later.

I dialed directory assistance and got the main information number for the Los Angeles Police Department. I asked for Lieutenant Jack Matteo, the LAPD official who had played the Paine/Butcher role opposite Carl Kolchak as himself and Catherine Rawlins as Janos Skorzeny in my California vampire sequel in 1974. After a long pause dripping with icy disapproval I was informed that former Assistant Commissioner Jack Matteo had retired many years ago, and I evidently had not heard the news that he had passed away very recently. I got a cold knot in my gut at that, the first of its kind in many, many years, but I guess it's like riding a bicycle. I identified myself as author/journalist Carl Kolchak, a former friend and associate (the first one was an outright lie, but a purely technical argument could be made for the second) of Mr. Matteo's, and gingerly inquired about the cause of death.

The cold knot warmed and loosened a bit when the operator told me he had died in the hospital after a brief illness, but froze and cinched up again when she told me he had been the victim of a sudden case of pernicious anemia. Anemia. Loss of blood. Vampire. Rawlins, Catherine. And so on. No way there could be any connection. Total coincidence. Get a grip, Kolchak. There's nothing here.

Like hell.

There's always something here.

My informant, who had recognized the Kolchak name and warmed up immediately (I still find it hard to swallow the fact that I now have cachet), confided that it had seemed rather strange, but of course poor Mr. Matteo had been getting on in years (he was four years younger than I am…) and his health had not been good since '74, when he had pushed himself to the limit on the Dark Star Coven killings, which I might have read about, as the case made the national news. I told her I was indeed quite familiar it.

After I hung up, I sat back in my swivel chair and thought. I won't even try and chronicle the chaotic stampede of the memories, hunches and ideas inside my head, but I did wonder if the following day would bring another package. I tried calling Bernie back, but I got no answer. Nor would I ever. I found out later that Bernie, at some point during the two or three days after my call, had died. There had been a massive loss of blood, but no need for crucifixes and crematoriums. The blood had left his body by way of a hole he had blown in his left temple with his old FBI service revolver. I considered him Skorzeny's final victim, albeit one who had taken a couple decades to stop breathing.

What would have been the official word, had any officials released anything officially was that Bernie Jenks had been suffering from depression for quite some time. The security contractor he had been working for had gotten mired hip-deep in charges of fraud and impropriety in connection with work they were doing in a certain oil-rich Middle Eastern nation our armed forces had recently "liberated." This bit of drama was "leaked" by somebody somewhere in the maze of government and private entities that meandered from the corridors of power in Washington to the dirty, bloody streets of Baghdad. And it was done in such a way as to very strongly imply that the alleged corruption was probably the sole responsibility of the late Mr. Jenks. This is how our current administration takes care of its little PR problems.

I did not, and have not yet, stopped to consider the role played by an old hack journalist who had gotten lucky. Nor have I pondered the idea that the noise I thought was ice in a glass might actually have been made by a box of shells.

Yet.

Butcher and Payne. I brooded over them that night. I reflected on the goofy irony of their names, how each had the surname the other should have had. The sheriff had been stupid and crude, but not smart enough to be truly lethal. He was merely a major irritant. The DA, on the other hand, was the one who had wielded the blade that eviscerated what passed for my career in 1970.

At home, propped up in bed, I was poring through my old Las Vegas scrapbook. I stared hard at the artist's rendition of Skorzeny accompanying one of my page-one pieces that had run before the clampdown. At that stage of the drama, I had still believed Skorzeny was a man. The portrait was a good one, skillfully done by an artist I had recommended, a truly remarkable piece of work based on witness' descriptions. But it wasn't Skorzeny. I overlaid it in my mind's eye with the memory of Skorzeny's face as I had seen it the morning I killed him.

The details meshed perfectly, but something very vital was missing. Not from the portrait, but from Skorzeny. The sketch artist had imbued his creation with a certain warmth and humanity that the creature himself had not possessed. The counterfeit was more alive than the subject had been.

I laughed at myself and wondered if my next literary rebirth would be as a poet, and a bad one at that. Is there any other kind? I gathered up the yellowing scraps of the past, stuffed them into their cardboard box, turned out the light and went to sleep. If I had dreams, they were too vague and too bizarre to be remembered.

The following day did indeed bring a second manila envelope addressed in the same hand. It contained two clippings, one of which was a standard obit for Jack Matteo, formerly of the LAPD, who had died following a "brief illness." I lay it to the side and picked up the other, expecting more of the same. And that's what I got. More of the same. Only it wasn't the same man.

It was from Seattle. Seattle was where Doctor Richard Malcolm (or Malcolm Richards, depending on what century it was) had lived for a very, very, very long time, in his ghastly hidey-hole beneath the streets. He had emerged from his moldering lair every 21 years to kill the five women whose blood he needed to see him through the next 21. This had been happening for around a hundred years, and might have continued ad infinitum had I not blundered across his path and performed a bit of immortalis interruptus .

Seattle had, in many ways, been a replay of Vegas. And for some reason, that had not seemed to me at all unusual. Oh, it was unusual enough, don't get me wrong. It was only the fact that it was happening again that didn't strike me as particularly odd. Having swallowed a camel named Skorzeny, I did not strain at a gnat named Malcolm. The Seattle cast of characters had included what would become the obligatory police department foil, an officious and skeptical adversary whose like I would encounter too many more times in the years ahead. This one had been a Captain Schubert. I had neither known him as well as I had Payne and Butcher, nor loathed him as much, though the terms we parted on could not have been called even remotely friendly.

Schubert had retired from the Seattle PD after 30 years of service. He went into politics and won a seat in the state legislature and lost one in the U.S. Congress. He was still an active and vigorous man up until the moment he died, it said. He had choked to death in an upscale Seattle eatery. Surely that was an accident.

Then it occurred to me. Choking is basically the same thing as strangulation. And Richard Malcolm had strangled his victims. But it was such a feeble connection. Paranoid, actually. It would never even have occurred to me had the clipping not come to me in the same way and from the same hand as the others. Somehow, I knew that made it murder. Jack Matteo's "anemia" had been murder too. Neither of the two conclusions made any logical sense, of course. But I suddenly found myself operating once again in a mental arena where the connections between certain events were crystal clear to me and logic was just an annoyance. Logic as commonly defined, I mean. Sherlock Holmes once said that "once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." And he had a point. The only problem is, damn near nothing is impossible. And anything that is possible will someday become the truth, given time.

As for murder, the dictionary defines it as "The unlawful killing of one human by another human, especially with premeditated malice." I define it that way too; it's just that I don't insist on the "by another human" part.

And then, in my brain, there came a ping! I pulled open a desk drawer and got out the first envelope, the one with the Vegas stories. It was postmarked Los Angeles and had been mailed the day Jack Matteo died. The new envelope, with the Matteo and Schubert obituaries, was postmarked the day after Schubert had died, which was interesting, but not as interesting as the city from which it had been mailed.

Chicago.

Strangely, I felt no frisson, no chill up my spine, no sinking feeling in my torso. What I felt, at least immediately, wasn't even technically a feeling. I was going to Chicago. I sort of knew why, though I had not of course considered any details. But I felt certain that if this clipping sender was doing a Kolchak monster tour, and possibly generating the clippings he or she was sending, then the only possible place to end up was Chicago. And there was some urgency if the sender was killing cops with whom I had crossed swords during an investigation.

There were at least 20 of them up there.

I could sit at the phone all day, calling the PD and getting nowhere. Or calling the newspapers, which would be even less productive, since if nothing had happened yet, what kind of info could they possibly have? I had once had a few contacts there, but I couldn't be sure that any of them would be available, and if they were, it would be better if I could handle them in person. The Kolchak charm doesn't always manifest itself properly through phone wires.

So there was nothing else for it but to go. And this presented a problem. Oh, hopping a plane at short notice and arranging a hotel room and rental car would be as nothing. I did not have to bamboozle an editor to send me where I wanted to go under some desperate pretext. And even if I had, it would be falling off a log compared to the single obstacle I knew I'd have to face.

I would have to somehow get around my daughter.

Yes, daughter. Click HERE for PART TWO

Truths and Consequences Part Two

2009-07-09T21:50:00.000-07:00

Yes, my daughter. I forgot that you hypothetically know nothing about my life since 1975. Well, a lot happened. Obviously. I have a daughter and at the moment I was making my snap decision, she was back at my apartment. Home for spring break. I crept into the house, hoping that a casual remark to the effect that I needed to make a quick trip to Chicago because (mumbling something incoherent that sounds like meaningful dialogue), and she could have the run of the place while I was gone-- as though she didn't already-- and don't forget to put the chain on the door at night.

She was hunched over her laptop, which was actually in her lap of all places, reminding me oddly of the three witches from Macbeth. Not all three of them, of course, but maybe a sort of composite. It could be that I hit on that particular simile because I had a feeling that I, like Macbeth, was about to hear from her lips tidings that would bode me ill.

She gave me an odd look that I might have interpreted as incipient panic, had Janie ever in her life panicked over anything. Then she twitched her head, tossing the strange expression away and said, "Okay," with her customary fire. "I'm gonna just sit here, then, and let my geriatric father get on a plane to Chicago with no idea what the hell he's doing. You must have a fine opinion of my daughtering skills." She was mounting her assault on me with part of herself, while the rest stayed busy with her laptop computer. I believe this is called "multitasking."

Submitted for your approval-- one Janie Marie Kolchak, age 21 going on ageless.

Janie currently attends a college in the Midwest where she majors in music. She's quite a good cellist, and a dab hand with almost any other stringed instrument, though she has always been hopeless with woodwinds. She's minoring in political science. How the two fit together in her head I have no idea. She belongs to no political party, and in fact avoids dogma of any kind. If you had to pin her down, you could say she's a radical socialist with an uncanny feel for Bach, and serious doubts over whether or not she's an agnostic.

My father was Polish and my mother Irish, which makes me 100 percent Irish, because that's how Irish blood works. Janie's mother Kathie, who passed on three years ago, and whom I don't miss any more than I would, say, both arms and legs, was Eastern European by way of Hoboken, which made Janie 200 percent Irish. She never quite hit five feet, but she didn't need to. She glared at me with blue eyes set in a perfectly round face, topped by hair she had recently cropped short so that it looked like tightly curled strands of copper wire.

"Geriatric?"

"To anybody living in a reality-based community, yeah! You're what, about two hundred? You'll wander off somewhere and get killed, and then it'll be on my conscience and people will look at me funny. This is what you want for me? Branded as a patricide? I am utterly culpable if I allow a senile relative to wander off out of my sight."

"Where do you get this I don't know what I'm doing? And I am not senile."

"Today you aren't. Who knows what tomorrow might bring? You are of an age, Dad. And do you? Know what you're doing, I mean? Or…" She was silent for a moment, looking at me, then the little flashbulb went off in her head and she smiled skeptically. If there is such a thing as a skeptical smile. I've never seen one on anybody else, but Janie can do it. Sort of knowingly, I guess you could call it. It somehow conveys two interlocking messages at once. The first one is, "Waaaait a minute, I know what you're up to." The second is, "You are so full of shit."

"Waaaait a minute," she said, "I know what you're up to. This is weird stuff! Isn't it? It's weird stuff!"

"No, it's nothing weird."

"I knew it! You are going there to get involved in a weird thing! And you presume to think I'm not going with you! Hubris, thy name is Kolchak. You are so full…"

"Janie, I just told you…"

"Yes, yes. I heard you tell it, I was right here. I'm not Uncle Tony, you know. You can't befuddle me. I am the fruit of your loins and a force to be reckoned with."

Yes she is.

Janie knows a great deal about the "weird stuff." More than I ever wanted her to. But what other people want Janie to do has never been much of a factor. It was my fault, though. It was only a couple of years ago that I learned how much she really knew.

"You remember all those stories, Dad," she had said to me one day when she was home for Christmas. "The bedtime stories. I always thought you had the best bedtime stories of any father. I mean, my friends all got 'Goldilocks and the Seven Dwarfs' and crap like that. Good God. But with you! The one about the headless motorcycle guy with the sword! Sweet! And the guy whose dreams created a swamp monster in the sewers! Classic! Oh, and my very favorite was Jack the Ripper! I loved the end where the Brave Reporter lured the Ripper into that little pond and ZAPPED him with electricity.

"How come you never told me that really happened?"

That was when my jaw dropped.

"No, don't say anything. I know all about it now, because, you see, my roommate Missy is from Chicago, and one night we were sitting up really late studying. Well, actually we were drinking more than we were studying. Okay, to be perfectly candid, we weren't studying at all. Which is not at all germane to the point I'm trying to make. Somehow or other we got on the topic of fables or folktales or whatever, and I told her a couple of yours. And we were screaming, laughing our asses off because they seemed so funny. Not that they are intrinsically all that humorous, but if you insist on the truth, better you hear it from me instead of someone on the street, we were pretty stoned as well. But I haven't done that in four months come this Friday, so I'm not like a dope addict, so don't worry.

"So I told her the Jack the Ripper story and she got really quiet and when I was done she was like, 'Goddamn, Janie, that really happened! At which point I informed her that the needle on her shit level gauge was pointing right at 'F.' And she goes, 'No, I swear to God,' even though she's not the slightest bit religious that I've ever seen, she's even worse than I am, one time she found one of those Jesus fish things somebody had left in her closet and she made me get it and throw it away, she didn't even want to touch it.

"Well, one day after that she took me right to the place where it happened. We went up there for a week, to Chicago, that being her point of origin. She showed me some news clippings about the Chicago Ripper of 1974. None of them were by you, interestingly. They didn't really say much of anything. There was a whole big thing about massage parlors and how tacky they are, which was written by your pal Ron Updike. There were a few by a reporter named Jane Plum and those were totally kickass. Then there was one that claimed the Ripper had been killed by the police in a 'pitched gun battle,' though they never explained why Jack the Ripper, or anyhow some guy that thought he was Jack the Ripper, would be packing heat, but whatever. And somehow his house got burned down in the process. It was a huge deal at the time, at least in Chicago. It has become folkloric in Wilton Park. Ab-so-goddamn-lutely.

"So we went to where the house had been. It was a big lot. Right there in the middle of this old residential neighborhood. And it wasn't, you know, an empty lot. It was a lot where nothing was. If that makes any sense to you. I'm not sure it does to me, but… There was the lot, and a big space where there was no house. And next to that was a big spot where there wasn't any pond, and that's how I knew it was the right place. Missy said all the kids around there said the place was haunted, even though there wasn't much of anything to really haunt. It was before her time, obviously.

"Anyhow, we went and looked up a few other things, names and places and events from some of your stories, and goddamn if we didn't find a treasure trove! I saw where Francois Edmonds was buried-- and it looks like he stayed put this time, Pop-- But I mean, goddamn!"

"Honey, do you have to say 'goddamn' all the time?"

"Yes, I goddamn do. I love it. It's the most fantastic goddamn word ever invented. The best I can do would be to replace it with 'fucking,' and that one's way harder to get by with in polite society. Not that you are, mind."

Well, what could I say to that? I pled guilty to all charges and told her everything she wanted to know. To her credit, or maybe mine, I don't think it ever occurred to her to doubt a goddamn word of it.

Here endeth the flashback.

"I don't know that I'm all that thrilled," I said, back in the present, "with you talking about my loins."

"Then I guess you need to get over yourself in that regard."

"Don't try to obfuscate. The point here is, I am going to Chicago and you aren't. I won't tell you it isn't weird stuff because I am an excellent liar when it comes to anyone but you. I seem to feel some quaint, old-world compunction against lying to my child. But I don't know that it actually is "weird stuff" per se. It may just be stuff. But I'm not going to let…"

"Don't even, Dad, don't even! I have not yet begun to obfuscate, whatever the hell that means. In me you have sown the wind. Don't start bitching when you have to reap some whirlwind." She pounded the keyboard some more-- I marveled that the flimsy plastic keys were not sent flying all over the room-- and said, without looking back at me, "What I have just done is I have sent an email to my friend in Chicago telling her to expect me, so it's really all settled."
I sighed. "You know perfectly well what obfuscate means."

"Yeah, but it was a funny line. I'm all about the material."

"People will think you're uneducated."

"Good. I like being underestimated. One should never underestimate the value of being underestimated."

That's what it's like talking to my daughter. Where I rely more on guile, Janie has a fondness for making herself into a blunt instrument. She can exude an aura of self-confidence powerful enough to repel the Spanish Armada. On the surface she is brash, abrasive, cocksure, and somewhere in the neighborhood of arrogant. But deep down, she is brash, abrasive, cocksure, and somewhere in the neighborhood of arrogant. She's also smart as hell. And if she has ever been afraid of anything, I'd like to see what it was. Do I need to mention that the purest joy I have ever known comes when we have our little verbal jousts?

And so it came to pass that we boarded American Airlines Flight 18 for Chicago. Janie treated all the security personnel to her hateful glare, the one she uses on people she thinks are "stupid government drones." I never argue with her judgment, but I find it safer to play the indulgent, befuddled, but ultimately well-meaning father whenever she attracts the wrong kind of attention.

She glared at a pair of airport security types who were coldly reciting some kind of spiel to a man who appeared Middle Eastern. He seemed to be almost in tears, and was trying to interject a word here and there in heavily accented English. I put my hand on her shoulder and we moved on through the line. Evidently neither of us was carrying anything lethal and we were shunted on through to boarding. Janie was boiling just a little, and I was none too thrilled myself with the current state of the Land of the Free.

We didn't talk much on the flight. I had things on my mind, of course, and Janie seemed to be in a world of her own. Which, actually, she almost always was, but she generally pulled whomever else might be present into it with her. Not today. She had a book open in her lap, but I noticed she had not turned the page in over an hour. Just to be saying something, I said, "So you're going to see your friend Missy then? That's good. I wondered about her. You never mention her any more."

Janie shrugged. "She moved. Went away, bye-bye. It happens. The peripatetic life of the co-ed. We're in touch, though. Electronics. Telephones. The occasional atavistic paper and ink letter with a stamp."

"Well, I wondered because you used to talk about her all the time, up until a year or so ago. It seems like you two were inseparable before that."

"'As if,' Dad," she said, never taking her eyes from her book.

"Huh? You didn't like her?"

Janie sighed. "No, I was not using contemporary teenage argot. I was correcting your grammar, Mister Bestseller List. It doesn't seem like we were inseparable, it seems as if we were. Which evidently we weren't. Any further questions you have, you may submit in writing at some future time."

I was silent for a moment. I remembered back to when I was a kid-- In the old Wonder Woman comics, the super-heroine could use her metal bracelets to deflect bullets fired at her. Janie often did the same thing with a word or an attitude. So I went ahead and closed the routine with, "Actually, 'grammar' is the name given to the linguistic system itself. When you're talking about someone's use or misuse of it, the word 'diction' is appropriate."

Janie replied with a pun I just can't bring myself to repeat here.

We disembarked and wandered into the concourse. The place was positively gothic, in a sort of sterile, Bauhaus sort of way. I don't know if that makes any sense, but it's what popped into my head. The place was way too big. I had gotten used to things on a smaller scale in my semi-retirement. I overheard a couple of people talking about a UFO that had been spotted near Gate C17, and damn if I didn't almost cut and run off in that direction. Old habits don't die hard. They don't die at all. Janie had perked up a bit. She grabbed me by the hand and led me to a table with some chairs around it. We sat.

"As a matter of fact, Dad, I've got another friend up here, and I called him too." She was smirking. I knew that she had done something she would regard as infinitely clever and startling. "He said he'd meet us at the airport. He is really looking forward to meeting you!"

"Not your friend Missy?"

Janie rolled her eyes. "Yes, Dad, I'm talking about Missy. Missy is a he. She is also two different people, that's why I said 'another friend' just now."

I gave her a scowl that bounced right off. "Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor," I told her.

"Actually, I think that's puns, but have it your way. Were you under the impression that I'm Oscar Wilde? I am of a crude and backward disposition, owing probably to my lackadaisical home training. There's virtually nothing too low for me. I also probably have some hereditary mental disorder. So, whether by nature or nurture, it's your doing-- don't point fingers at me."

I groaned, but only inside my head. I hoped it wasn't a journalism student. The last thing I needed was one of those to haul around. I wasn't much of a mentor. I had been saddled for a time with a young intern named Monique Marmelstein around about the time of the Edmonds affair. That had not gone well. At other times, I had made shameless use of students and amateurs as unpaid research staff or smokescreens for my own duplicitous activities. But never without a lofty purpose! Still…

Before I could speculate further, I saw her eyes brighten at something she saw behind me in the crowded concourse. She raised a hand and waved frantically. "Here he is! Hey! We're over here!" her hand windmilled at the end of her wrist, beckoning. I turned to look, and drew a blank for a moment. I couldn't see who she was waving to. Then a single figure separated itself from the throng, plainly headed straight for us. A fellow about my age, it seemed. He was a few inches shorter than me, several pounds heavier, and had a lot less hair. I silently thanked my Irish genes for all of that. As the man got closer I thought, hey, that guy looks just like… And then I thought, oh my god, it is…

"Gordie!" I called out, rising from my seat. "Gordie the Ghoul!"

"Carl," he replied in a voice that was just a hair this side of squeaky, "Carl Kolchak! I do not believe my eyes!"

I had given Gordie any number of tightly folded 20-dollar bills during my time in Chicago, but I never imagined myself giving him a hug. Today, however, I not only imagined it, I did it.
Gordon Spangler, universally known as "Gordie the Ghoul," had been an attendant at the Cook County Morgue before, during and after my stint in Chicago.

The Cook County Morgue has, since at least 1842, been the home of official inquiry into all suspicious deaths in the Chicago area. In 1864, the elected office of coroner was established, and from then until 1976 this official was responsible for all such inquiries. Coroners conducted the actual inquests, but staff pathologists actually performed the autopsies. The Morgue became fertile ground for the development of the budding science of forensics, medical research, and training of medical students. As early as 1900, Chicago was recognized as a world center of pathology research, owing to the quality of the work performed at the Morgue by Christian Fenger and his protégés.

However, Chicago being Chicago, other indigenous species also flourished-- Patronage, graft and corruption. The office of coroner was ultimately abolished in the 1970s, amidst charges of gross improprieties (among them, persistent rumors of a certain hack journalist being granted extraordinary access to case files, and even the corpses themselves, in return for financial consideration), and replaced with a credentialed medical examiner that would be hired rather than elected, eliminating or at least redirecting the graft. (The joke at the time was that so many dead people had been known to vote in city elections, surely they had the inside track on who would make the best coroner.)

During the waning years of the old system, Gordie had enjoyed enough free rein to operate several profitable sidelines, including a lottery based on the birth dates of the corpses that came into his temporary care. But the handwriting had been on the wall for some time, and Gordie's entrepreneurial activities withered and died one by one as the very prudent Mr. Spangler gradually dismantled them, always one step ahead of the investigators.

"So by what process is Gordie your friend?" I asked my daughter.

"I looked him up when Missy and I were researching your old bedtime stories. He's in almost every one of them, you know. I figured if there was a real 'Gordie the Ghoul,' that would prove everything. He provided a wealth of information."

Gordie and I chatted about this and that as Janie craned her neck, sweeping her eyes over the sea of humanity before us.

"Ah!" She burst out. "There she is!" Janie hopped to her feet, both arms doing a wild semaphore in the air above her head. "Hey!"

I looked in the direction in which Janie was waving and saw a figure break from the river of people. I had never actually met the storied Missy, but I'd seen photos. They had all been of a uniformly poor quality. All of them had been taken with Janie's little digital camera, which seemed to produce worse pictures than the junky old instamatic I used to haul around with me to take snapshots of whatever nightmare creature happened to be trying to kill me at a given time.

Missy was rather petite, which surprised me because she had looked a lot more substantial in the photos. But then, almost anybody standing next to Janie would look like a hulk by contrast. She was a bit shorter than me, and she wore a simple white sundress, straw hat with a wide brim, and sunglasses with very small rectangular lenses.

She and Janie hugged, but it seemed a little stiff. Both were smiling, though, and the expressions didn't appear to be any more than 15 or 20 percent forced. Definitely something uncomfortable stuck in between these two, I deduced.

"Dad," Janie said, subdued but smiling, "This is Missy Kennedy. Missy, this is my old hack journalist father, Carl Kolchak. His actual name is Karel, but he prefers Carl, for obvious reasons."

Missy smiled at me. I think she was trying to beam at me. It came across a bit watery, but sincere.

"Mister Kolchak," she said, taking my hand. I noticed she wore quite a bit of makeup, another contrast with Janie, who never wore any at all. "I've heard a very great deal about you. I hope we can spend some time together while you're here. I was so thrilled when Janie told me you wanted to come with her!"

"So was I," I told her, the very model of disingenuousness. "This is actually sort of a business trip for me. Janie wanted to see you again, though, and she decided to come too."

Missy frowned just the tiniest bit. "Oh." She glanced over at Janie. "Well then," she continued, "everything has turned out wonderfully." Her smile came back. "If you two want to grab your bags, we can head out to my place and you can rest a little."

"That sound great," I said. "We'll get our stuff and load up. But you two go on ahead without me. I need to do a few things with my friend, here." I introduced her to Gordie. "After that, I'll get a ride out to your place. Just write down the address for me." I was telling the truth, I did want to get started right away. But I also sensed that there was something between her and Janie that needed to be hashed out, and I figured they might be more inclined to do so if I were not hovering nearby.

Both girls seemed vaguely ill at ease, but nowhere near distraught, so my plan was adopted. Missy scribbled her address and phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to me. After loading Missy's car, we parted company. Missy solicitously handed me her cell phone "just in case."

Gordie had a house on Riverside Drive. As we had chatted at the airport, I learned that he was in a unique position to aid me in my mission. People can surprise you. Gordie, it seems, had made the jump from dead humans to "living" machines. He was, to hear him tell it, something of a computer genius. I had no cause to doubt him. For some reason, it seemed to fit. I was not all that startled to learn that he was now an expert hacker. He would be.

Stepping into the living room I beheld enough computers and accessories to run a NASA space mission. Gordie sat down at one of them, booted it up, taped my handwritten list of names to the bottom of the monitor and started typing.

"How long have you been doing this?" I asked, amazed.

"Oh, quite a few years now. In fact, I've been in it almost since the beginning. I left my morgue job a few years after the 'Crawlspace the Clown' deal. Carl, you should have seen all those bodies they pulled out of there! Oh, that's right, you did. And it only cost you fifty bucks. I must have been feeling philanthropic. But that whole thing was just too much for me. Things had been pretty calm for a couple of years. God, we had that rash of weird killings in '74 and '75… Bodies coming through in all sorts of ungodly conditions. Decapitated, burned to a crisp, bone marrow drained out. Remember that black guy that came through three times in a single week? Then things settled down. For a while everything was political. I rode all that out, and after the shakeup in '76, when they replaced the coroner, had slipped from the public mind, things started slowly getting back to Chicago normal. I even started some of my enterprises back up. But that serial killer case threw cold water on everything. It was high profile, and it attracted city officials and politicians in droves. Things were just never the same after that.

"Well, I had started tinkering with home computers in 1975. I bought one of those old MITS Altairs-- the thing had 256 bytes of memory! Bytes, Carl! It cost me 400 bucks, a tab which you, by the way, picked up. Thanks! By 1981 I was pretty heavily into it. I already owned some stock in IBM in '81 when they started marketing their new home PCs, the ones based on the old Intel 8088 processor."

"Gordie, you might as well be speaking Greek. Literally. I actually know a couple of Greek words."

"Sorry, Carl. I forgot you're a technophobe. But I'll bet you've heard of money and the stock market and a company called Microsoft. Add all of those together and you get Gordon Spangler bidding a bittersweet farewell to the land of the dead.

"Most of them are long gone," Gordie told me as he peered at his screen. Dead or retired and moved to Florida or wherever the cops' graveyard is. In fact… Hmmm, yeah, I can only find two of the names that are both alive and in Chicago. We're looking at Captain Warren and Captain Winwood. And… Well, this is freaky! As whatever it is that has these things would have it, they both live at the same nursing home-- excuse me, I mean 'healthcare facility.' Political correctness is so tricky these days.

"Anything else? Say, how would you like me to make all the traffic violations on your record go away? You used to get a lot of tickets, I recall."

"Don't be ridiculous, Gordie," I said, thinking about how I couldn't think of anything to think about. I had no kind of a plan, but my next stop seemed pretty clear.

"Could you jot down the address for me, Gordie? On a slip of paper? With a pen?"

Looking disgusted by my primitive ways, Gordie did as I asked and handed me the paper. You'd think I had suggested he chisel the info into a stone tablet. I thanked him and was on my way to the door when I stopped and looked back.

"How much?" I said. "For the traffic ticket thing."

"For you?" Gordy grinned. "Fifty bucks! And I'm taking a loss."

"Gordie! You're a dot-com millionaire, and you'd still hustle fifty bucks out of an old, struggling hack reporter?"

He just shrugged.

I reached for my wallet.

Captain Warren had been my foil during the Ripper case. Winwood had been up to his ass in the cesspool of lies, murder and corruption surrounding the death(s) of Francois Edmonds. Winwood had been a very dirty cop. Warren had just been a pain.
I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address Gordie had given me.

The home was called "The Hills of Lethe." It stood on an interesting piece of land. Until 1974, it had been a cemetery, one of the older ones, established when Chicago had been much, much smaller. What had been a patch of meadowland miles from downtown had at last been overtaken by urban sprawl. It had become a suburb, and what was once basically a potter's field was now a prime bit of real estate. It was purchased, deconsecrated, evacuated, eviscerated, plowed over, paved, and transformed into a smart condominium complex. For some perverse reason, the condo owners had kept the original name, one that was very familiar to me. It had figured into one of my more interesting unpublished works, the story of Harold "Sword Man" Baker, a biker who had been "accidentally" decapitated by members of a rival gang back in 1956. He rested peacefully, I would assume, until the developers dug him up a mere twenty years into his dirt nap-- all for the sake of gracious living.

But Sword Man was neither of those. His disconnected head, which had been buried in the casket with the rest of him, had bounced away during the eviction process. This apparently upset him so much that he ambled out of the warehouse where the dead were stored pending permanent arrangements-- with absolutely nothing on top of his neck-- stole a motorcycle, acquired a sword, and hunted down the surviving members of the gang that had killed him. I probably don't even need to tell you what he did with the sword.

Even more perversely, once the condos had been closed down and condemned a few years later-- in the wake of some very disturbing occurrences which curiously seemed to have nothing to do with Baker, whom I had tucked back into eternity-- the new tenant also kept the name. I say perversely because the new resident was and is a nursing home catering mainly to clientele suffering from Alzheimer's. The name Lethe comes from Greek mythology. According to The New Dictionary of Cultural Literacy, it is "a river flowing through Hades. The souls of the dead were forced to drink of its waters, which made them forget what they had done, said, and suffered when they were alive."

That could be taken any number of ways, I suppose.

Many of the original condo buildings were still standing. Some appeared to be in regular use, others looked derelict. A large, low "L" shaped building, obviously newer than all the rest, occupied the middle of the space. The whole place seemed to be in the doldrums. I swear, the second I set foot on the property, I started getting depressed. The empty buildings with their boarded-up windows created a sad and menacing ambience. Behind the windows I imagined there were rooms filled with stale time, days from long ago that nobody alive remembered, decomposing slowly into meaningless and depressing mush.

I presented myself at the reception desk and was given directions to the wing where both Warren and Winwood resided. It was a beautiful facility, almost as cheery as the mental hospital in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Every hallway looked and smelled exactly the same. I became disoriented-- a sensation not unlike snow blindness-- and lost my way for a minute or two. Everything smelled like rubbing alcohol and hospital air freshener, and underneath that was an odor I call "death waiting around to happen and getting impatient." Kind of a sour tang-- not actual decay, but it has aspirations.

I looked in on Winwood. He was asleep. I moved on down to the end of the corridor, where I found Warren's room. I quietly pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped inside.
By a fascinating coincidence (If there are such things as coincidences), my old sparring partner on the Ripper case, Captain Warren, shared a surname with the man who was the head of the London Metropolitan Police in 1888, the year Jack made his European debut. Sir Charles Warren was by most accounts an intolerant, authoritarian ass, a career army officer specializing in colonial intrigue, who was grossly miscast as leader of an urban police force. Sir Charles had achieved his greatest notoriety on November 31, 1887, when he attempted to break up a more or less peaceful demonstration in Trafalgar Square by proponents of Irish Home Rule by injecting 2,000 police officers and 400 regular army troops into the mix. The results were what just about anyone but Warren himself might have predicted, and the ensuing injuries (several hundred) and fatalities (three) became an albatross known as "Bloody Sunday" that would hang around Warren's neck for the rest of his life.

His spectacular lack of success in the Ripper case the following year was more than enough to put paid to his career as Commissioner of Police. Pressured and vigorously criticized by both the newspapers and the Home Office, Warren gathered up his toys and went back home to the Army, coincidentally (see parenthetical caveat above) resigning from the force just days before the last of the Ripper killings (officially, at least), that of Mary Kelley, on November 9.

"My" Captain Warren hadn't been quite as bad, but it was probably only for lack of opportunity. He hadn't fared much better in the wake of "his" Ripper. Official word was that the killer had, as Janie had pointed out earlier, been fatally wounded in a gun battle with the police. But there were many unanswered questions. Internal Affairs had become involved. For one thing, there was no corpse. That's because when I electrocuted him, the Ripper completely dissolved. It was the damnedest thing. I didn't much trust the evidence of my own senses on that night, but it looked to me as though he had phased out from a solid into a vapor, which was then sucked rapidly away as if by some kind of vacuum effect. His house had caught fire thanks to my wiring job and everything was destroyed. The story the police gave to the public said the killer's body had been consumed in the inferno. Privately, they didn't know what the hell had happened. There was no ID on the suspect, no explanation or resolution for any of the odd things that had happened during the manhunt. There were five dead women (at least) and nobody had any decent answers as to what exactly had transpired. A head had to roll, and Warren's was chosen by default.

And apparently it had finally stopped rolling here. The figure in the bed was about half the size of the Warren I remembered. He reminded me of one of those dolls you occasionally see with the heads made of dried-up apples. His arms and legs looked as sturdy as toothpicks. Poor bastard. Upon my entrance, his head lolled a little in my direction and he tried grabbing me with his gaze, but he was a few feet wide.

"Take off… take off your hat," he croaked.

I wasn't wearing one, but I mimed taking one off and tossing it onto a nearby non-existent hat rack.

I talked with Warren-- more or less-- for a while. I asked him if he'd had any visitors recently, and he launched into a tale about how his mother had dropped in that day, bringing "the new baby" with her. I asked him if he remembered Jack the Ripper and he told the same story again, in precisely the same words. Next he began to talk about how much he would like a Coke, and I offered to get him one. I remembered seeing a machine in the lobby. I had the same directional trouble going back to the room as I'd had before. I was gone for no more than three minutes. I saw no one in the halls, but did not remark upon it at the time because why should I?
I pushed the door open again, stepped inside, and saw the thing I saw. It didn't register for a second; I had no idea just what I was looking at. I took a very, very deep breath. I was frightened, then angry, then frightened and angry. I swallowed hard.

I hope I don't sound callous, but I have developed an automatic coping mechanism when it comes to violent death. I haven't used it much over the last 20 years, but it's not the kind of thing you lose. What went through my head was the fact that, judging by the way he looked on the outside, I would have expected Warren's insides to be kind of dry and papery, something like excelsior perhaps, wispy and insubstantial. I was surprised-- shocked-- to observe that they were in fact very wet, very red, and very plentiful. They appeared to have been dragged quite forcefully out through a huge rip in his abdomen and slung up against the wall behind his bed. Bits of intestine hung there against a Jackson Pollack red splatter background. In another bit or irreverence, I noted that he didn't smell much worse than he had when all that stuff was still on the inside. He'd been ripped.

Then it occurred to me. I was on my way to push the button to summon a nurse when it hit. I whirled immediately and took off up the hallway. I had never liked Winwood. And I believed he had never gotten the punishment he deserved for his role in the life and death and live and death (ad infinitum) of Francois Edmonds.

As I neared Winwood's door I heard a noise from inside the room. I knew right away was being made by something it would probably be best to avoid.

It was a figure wearing a dark hooded robe. It held Winwood's broken frame at arm's length above its head, giving no indication that the least bit of strain was involved. I automatically reached for the camera I had stopped using years ago. Funny how quickly a person can revert to type, no matter how long it's been. So, with nothing to occupy my hands, I stood there, gaping. The robed figure had its back to me, but I did not imagine it was unaware of my presence. Winwood, dead of course, looked as heavy as a bag of air, and it was plain to see that he had been broken in half somewhere between the pelvis and the bottom of the ribcage. Just like Francois Edmonds had done to his victims back in '74. It had taken thirty years, but Winwood finally had to ante up for his role in the death of the abominable Edmonds. It was either a mercy or a swindle that he had not had the presence of mind to appreciate that fact.

The robed figure tossed the scarecrow remains into the corner, where it slipped from sight behind the hospital bed, rustling like a bundle of straw. Then it turned to face me. I say "face," but no face was visible in the shadows of the hood. I noted that the figure seemed smaller and slimmer now than it had when it was holding the corpse aloft.

Something occurred to me. It did not seem possible, but it fit the picture I had. Who could have known I was coming here at this precise time? Only one person. Who had the organizational skill and the street smarts-- coupled with the financial resources-- to do the things that had already been done? It was crazy. Totally insane. But…

"Are you…" I began, but my voice faltered and I had to start over. "Is that you, Gor…?"

That was as far as I got before the figure, in a flash, moved to fill my field of vision. There was a bright flash of light, which I suppose was the way my brain translated the pain of the impact to my left temple. Then all the lights went out.

I got up slowly, clutching my head. This, I reflected, is a real oldie. I hadn't been knocked unconscious by a supernatural creature in 30 years. It hadn't changed much, apart from the fact that my skull seemed thinner.

And there was a note. It was pinned to my shirt, in fact.It said, "Mr. Kolchak, you can find me at the place where it usually ended for you, where you took your stories to tell them goodbye." The handwriting was familiar, and somehow I was not surprised. It had been a very short time indeed since I had seen it last.

The staff, such as it was, had apparently been rendered unconscious without violence. They were all alive, slumped over tables and chairs or splayed out in the hallways, but none bleeding and all breathing. I slipped away, and hoped that when the police finally got there, as they would once I made an anonymous call on the cell phone, no one would recall my name or description.

The note may have sounded on the face of it like a cryptic conundrum, something the Riddler might have sent to Batman in the old TV show. But it couldn't have been any plainer to me. Good God, how many nights had I dragged myself up those stairs, through those doors, to that old desk and that old typewriter and hammered out yet another story of the century that I knew would never, ever see print? It was almost a ritual. But it was the only closure I'd ever get, and I needed it. At least I had done what I was paid to do. The employer might not use it, might not like it-- but I wasn't working for commissions. By feeding this relatively mild, and strangely utilitarian, bit of psychopathology, I kept far worse things at bay.

I got out my cell phone and punched in Missy's number. This time I got no answer at all, not even her voice mail prompt. I hoped she and Janie were enjoying themselves and that the morning would not find them at the Cook County Morgue identifying whatever was left of Old Man Kolchak. I wondered idly if some spiritual descendent of Gordie the Ghoul might make a few bucks showing my mutilated remains to some reporter with sketchy ethics.

I took a city bus. Riding along through downtown, I remembered the night I followed the late Francois Edmonds to his post-mortem crash pad in an automobile graveyard. Somehow or other-- I never figured it out-- he managed to board a bus and attract virtually no attention from anyone else, despite the fact that he looked like death warmed over. No… scratch that. Not even warmed over. He looked like half-eaten death someone had left out on the kitchen counter for a few days. Which is basically what he was, and his aroma was in full accord with his appearance.

And people say New Yorkers are jaded…

I got off the bus at the correct stop and walked a path that had once been so familiar as to be unnoticeable. Into the building and up the stairs, and I found myself standing at the door of the former office of the Independent News Service. The lock had been twisted off. The wood around the knob was practically shredded and it was fresh. I pushed open the door and stepped gingerly inside.

It was chilly in there and smelled like old places that were once alive but had gradually stopped living and turned into inert space. Much of the furniture was still there, including my old desk. Shadows were everywhere. The old teletype machines were long gone, probably sitting at the bottom of a scrap heap somewhere. The INS had gone belly-up two years previously. Always a struggling little fish in a sea full of larger ones, the great whale that was the Internet had finally skewered her for good.

I glanced around. I saw what I had come expecting to see.

There was the robed figure. It turned in my direction. Something glinted in the depths of the dark hood. A fang? An eye?

Two hands reached up-- slender, pale hands-- and began to slowly pull the hood away. What went through my mind was the scene in "The Phantom of the Opera" where Mary Philbin reaches around from behind Lon Chaney and yanks off his mask. But what I saw when the hood came away was not a cadaverous, desiccated death's-head.

Nor was it Gordon Spangler.

It was a woman. More of a girl. A pretty young girl with porcelain skin and bright pale eyes. I knew I had seen her before.

I looked at her face, into her eyes, for what seemed a very, very long time until it dawned on me that I knew perfectly well who she was. I recalled the first time I had seen her. The moment and the place seemed to be right there in the room with me. It was Skorzeny's house. I had broken in, several steps ahead of the police. Because I had tracked him down. I had sniffed out his hiding place. I had to see it first; I had to be there first. I left word, arranging that it wouldn't be received until I had had at least a few minutes to be there and see what there was to see. It was arrogance, I now saw. It was incredible hubris, a pride so blinded and diseased as to defy reason. I experienced the smell of the place, musty, coppery, rank. I felt the chill again and the eyes before me now were the same ones (and yet not the same) I had looked into so briefly before I heard the key in the lock and knew that the vampire had returned to his house.
She had been stretched out, prone on an old bed, wrists and ankles bound to the bedstead, a gag stuffed into her mouth. And I remembered the thing I had forgotten. No… not a thing. A girl. A person. A living victim of Skorzeny's rampage. The one he didn't kill, the one he brought home with him to use as a milk cow.

And I had… Oh Jesus, it suddenly dawned on me-- After killing Skorzeny and jousting with the police… I had forgotten she was up there!

Shelley Forbes.

Shelley Forbes, as young as she had been thirty years ago, and almost luminous, somehow more wraithlike than she had been when I found her tied to that bed, drained of all but the minimum amount of blood needed to keep her alive.

"I want to tell you some things, Mr. Kolchak. May I? I don't intend to harm you. I just want to talk. I want to say all of this before… Well, will you listen? More, will you write it down later on? I don't care what you do with it. I just want you to know it and to write it so you can end your own story after so many years."

She smiled and reached into her robe. She produced a small tape recorder, and old one very similar to the kind I had used years ago.

And I listened to her. I owed her that and more. In fact, I sensed that I would have one more payment to make before the end of the night and I was not looking forward to it. I sat down behind my old desk, the place where I had finished so many stories that never saw print, and thought how fitting, or at least symmetrical, it was that it should be the scene of my last one. I turned on the little tape recorder, gave Shelley a nod, and she began:

ALMOST DONE! Click HERE to go to the egress...

Truths and Consequences- Part Three

2009-01-13T16:47:00.000-08:00

TRUTHS AND CONSEQUENCES

By Chuck Miller
Story copyright 2007 by Chuck Miller
Characters and situations copyright 2007 by Jeff Rice
Background info may be found here: http://en. Skorzeny- "The Night Stalker" (1972)
Dr. Richard Malcolm- "The Night Strangler" (1973)
The Ripper- "Kolchak: The Night Stalker" premiere episode (1974)
Francois Edmonds ("The Zombie") - "Kolchak: The Night Stalker" second episode (1974)
Catherine Rawlins ("The Vampire") - "Kolchak: The Night Stalker" fourth episode (1974)

Shelley Forbes' Story

I was so happy; at least I thought that's what it was. I was so twisted by that time, so full of fear and other things, I wasn't sure I could really be happy any longer… I thought maybe happiness was one of those things that was never really real to begin with, you know, and I was just now learning that. But I had some hope, yes, when you came in. I would at least get out. It would go no further.

Then. Remember? You heard him coming in. You poked the gag back into my mouth and shushed me. You didn't say anything, but I thought I had a promise that you would return.
And you left me. All alone you left me. I didn't mean much. That's what it felt like.

I was up there for hours, Mr. Kolchak. It felt like weeks. They did not find me right away. The house was sealed off. They didn’t search upstairs until much later. And I couldn’t move or make any sound or anything. You didn’t tell them! You just left me there when you heard him coming back, and later on you forgot! So I lay there for a while longer, and it already seemed to me that I’d been there my whole life. I remembered school like it was a hundred years ago, or just a movie I saw at some point.

I had started dreaming things, even though I was awake. These dreams, which were more like memories-- only they weren’t my memories-- kind of superimposed themselves over the room and the bed and everything else. Most of them felt very old. Like they really were a hundred years old, but they felt brand new to me. After a while, I could tell that they came from different lives. I had never lived any of them, but they had somehow gotten into me and they wanted me to pay attention to them. One of them I thought was the Civil War. The uniforms looked right, going by what I’ve seen in movies. Later I found out I was right.

There was blood everywhere, more than you could imagine, and a smell that was almost solid, I swear. It did something to my eyes, but it wasn't stinging them. It was more like they were saturated. In some of the visions I had a saw in my hand and I was cutting, cutting, cutting through something and someone was splashing alcohol on whatever it was I was cutting and there was a lot of screaming. And then I noticed the thoughts going through my head that weren't my own, and they kept repeating, "I must rise above this. I must live forever."

Another group of the dreams happened in a big city, but there were no cars and very few lights compared to cities today. I don’t think they had electricity. And I was in a sort of slum, with all these gray buildings pile up and shoved in together all crazy, this way and that. And there were these women, five different women I'd learned to recognize from seeing them time and again in this dream. And I was cutting in this dream too, but it was different. I was… Well, I was cutting these women is what I was doing, Mr. Kolchak.

And I had tools like a doctor would have, but I wasn’t helping these women, I was just cutting them up and removing things from inside them. I didn’t want to hurry, but I had to on all but the last one. She was different because she was younger and kind of pretty but she had bad teeth. I remember that. And we were inside a room, her room. This girl… I cut on her for a long, long time. I took everything out of her, everything I could find, and I threw some of it into the fireplace, and other parts I wrapped up in this heavy brown paper and tied up with twine. And there were a couple of things I just left on a little table beside her bed. I worked and worked until I had stripped most of her down to the bone, and I noticed through a little chink at the top of the door that the sun had come up. I was covered in sweat and I had blood on me too and I felt really cold. And I got ready to leave the room and go home, and I took the brown paper package with me and I think I was going to eat what was in it. I did not know it at the time, but her name was Mary Kelley and she was 25 years old.

Other dreams I had were more confused, more chaotic, and always dark. And of course there was blood, lots and lots of blood. It seemed to me that I could taste it.

I was like this for a while, drifting in and out, and eventually, suddenly, they found me. The police. They started shouting and a radio was pulled out and a bunch of squawking was coming from it. Someone took the gag out of my mouth but I couldn't think of anything to say. I didn't know where I was. I thought I was still in the room with Mary Kelley, you see, and I thought perhaps I had been caught doing what I did, and maybe they were taking me out to hang me. People were feeling parts of me and asking me questions I could not even decipher. I tried to look around to the fireplace where I had thrown Mary Kelley's insides, but it wasn't there. Then there was a lot of jolting, and springs squeaking, and some straps went across my chest.

After the hospital I went to another hospital, one run by the state, and I was there for two months I think. I was discharged into my parents' care and they took me home. But home wasn't home. I still had my dreams and visions, though I had mentioned nothing about them to any of the doctors. My mom and dad knew something was wrong. Beyond the obvious, I mean. As far as Skorzeny went, they believed the official story. A mass murderer had abducted me.

For a while I was at my parents' house, and at some point they got a letter from Doctor Richard Malcolm. Or Malcolm Richards, I forget which. He presented himself as a prominent psychiatrist specializing in acute trauma. Having read about my case in the newspaper, Doctor Richard Malcolm, eminent West Coast psychiatrist, took an interest in the poor traumatized Vegas girl and offered his help, free of charge. Soon, I was packed and bundled up and sent off with the doctor to his "research hospital."

And how!

You know, of course, who and what Malcolm really was. He took me back to Seattle and installed me in his little "resort" beneath the streets. And he told me things. He loved to talk.
Here are a few of the things he told me:

FACT: The individual you knew as Janos Skorzeny was not Janos Skorzeny. At least not the one you thought he was. He was much older. I'll get to that. By 1863 he had been a vampire for some years. He came to America during the Civil War and soon found employment as a mercenary-- working for both the North and the South at various times-- specializing in nighttime raids on enemy encampments.

FACT: Skorzeny, Malcolm and the Ripper were not isolated cases. They knew one another. In a sense, they created one another.

It was at Gettysburg that the three came together.

July 1st, 2nd and 3rd, 1863. The battle was a veritable orgy for creatures like them. Blood literally hung in the air like a mist. Malcolm, the quintessential mad scientist, could at last gorge himself on a limitless supply of raw material for his experiments. The future Jack the Ripper could indulge his one true passion openly, with no fear of sanctions or consequences.

Skorzeny was the only one with a complaint, as he could not immerse himself in the daytime slaughter. He made up for it by night, though, and on the second night he let himself get a bit carried away. When dawn came he was pinned down far from his coffin full of earth. He was wearing Union colors at the time, though on this occasion, he was working for neither side. He was merely enjoying himself. A Union patrol found him, immobilized, and carried him back to the field hospital where Richard Malcolm had been working feverishly for two score hours or more.

One of the Union men who had found Skorzeny sensed something odd and intriguing, and he remained there in the hospital-- that's really too generous a word-- with him, listening, watching, examining. When a minister came around, the vampire went into convulsions, and his Union rescuer, no fan of the clergy himself, took the opportunity to deliver a quick beating.

Soon the cleric was unconscious on the ground next to Skorzeny's cot. The vampire, weakened and disoriented though he was, looked upon this spectacle and could not restrain a smile. The smile revealed not only a gleeful appreciation of cruelty, but a pair of unnaturally long and sharp canine teeth.

Presently, the doctor made his way around to where Skorzeny lay. A quick examination was enough to tell him that here was something remarkable. He formed an alliance with Skorzeny and Jack, who demanded to be cut in (and even Malcolm could see that this was not a young man to be toyed with or ignored), and the rest was history. Well, sort of. Just not recorded history. Until now. In the months ahead, Malcolm studied Skorzeny carefully.

Malcolm was working on his own immortality. Skorzeny had found his. The Ripper wanted his own, and was prepared to do anything at all to get it. He had been a monster for a long time before he found his way there. During his years of ordinary life, murder had been an easy way to achieve whatever goals he had, large or small. Early on, it had been a slightly regrettable necessity. Later, he came to enjoy it, and then to revel in it. Finally, he needed it to live, like air or water. Had killing not served this purpose, he would still have sought it as an end in itself. To do what you love and make a living at it! Who could ask for more? Well, Jack could. He asked that he be allowed to do it forever.

Malcolm "perfected" a version of his elixir with Skorzeny's blood as an ingredient.
Skorzeny, who was fascinated by the miraculous technological advances of the 19th Century, saw an opportunity. He cared nothing for what science might do for humanity, of course. But he saw that faith in science might slowly replace faith in God, and so… He was the Serpent, you see. He was the devil who would taint the new "religion" with his own ancient evil. He alone, he thought, would breach that barrier and then seal it again. He would be a brand new Antichrist for the post-Industrial Revolution world order. If Malcolm represented the future of science, the future would be steeped in Skorzeny's blood. He was mind-bogglingly melodramatic. He had very little in the way of emotional nuance, and saw the world, I believe, in the same way a young child sees a cartoon.

The elixir was administered to Jack first. The effect on his system was not quite the same as it would be on Malcolm's. It has a lot to do with individual body chemistry. Or maybe "soul chemistry." After all, it was half magical, so who can say?

The Ripper had strength, speed, and agility like a vampire's. And he was nocturnal. Sunlight would not kill him, but he preferred the dark. He was stronger at night. And, like Malcolm, he needed the blood of women who had just been murdered-- it would be flooded with adrenaline and other things, concentrated in the major organs. It wasn't the blood itself he required. It was the substances the blood carried. He merely ate the raw material, there was no need for him to mix it and refine it in a laboratory.

Malcolm was the thinker, the scientist. Skorzeny was the strategist. Jack was the muscle. The other two needed him, you see, because Skorzeny could do nothing in the daytime, and Malcolm's grip on reality was so feeble even by this time that he was virtually useless outside of his laboratory. You saw what he was like at the end. Well, he was showing signs of what would now be recognized as paranoid schizophrenia before he even began his "treatments." The elixir froze him in place, physically and mentally. He got no worse, except for those 18-day periods every 21 years when the effects began to wear off and his body began to decompose, along with his reason and self-control. The three had eventually gone their separate ways, but maintained contact.

In fact, Skorzeny had been sending blood to Malcolm for years. Every 21 years, to be exact. But 1973 rolled around, Malcolm needed more of the blood, and none was forthcoming because Skorzeny was gone. Somehow, though, he had heard about me, and correctly deduced that Skorzeny had been slowly turning me. Which mean not just a draining of blood, but a mingling. Skorzeny had fed me some of his. Absolutely nauseating, I assure you.

His elixir would soon begin to break down again. He needed me. But he did not intend to use me in the way he normally used women. He thought that my blood-- tainted as it now was by Skorzeny's-- might hold some sort of key. After a few preliminary tests, he summoned the Ripper and prepared to begin his work in earnest. I was a woman. My body constantly produced the substances his formula required. Could it be stabilized using me as a growth medium?

Because the other ingredient Malcolm needed was the blood of a vampire.

Skorzeny had supplied him with it, but Skorzeny was gone now. But I had vampire blood in me, and I had the elixir too. Just like the Ripper. But I had something the Ripper did not. Female hormones. That was the key to everything. To life. In order to continuously renew life, you had to have aspects of both male and female. It makes sense, don't you think? Prolonging life is really the same as reproducing it. It's all about immortality. And so, to further that end, he administered a dose of the elixir to me. He did not need the fresh female blood to add to it, for obvious reasons.

Now we get back to 1973. The time of the madness came. He had to do what he always did. He locked me away. But it was to protect me during those 18 days when the desperation came over him and he could not guarantee that he wouldn't attack me. Before that, though, when we were in the early days of his research on me, I had been given the run of the place. He had no reason not to trust me. And if he had, I fear he was too unbalanced to realize it. I could come and go. I stayed, returning every evening on the days I spent outside. Because he was not an unpleasant man, and I was curious about what happened to me and to him and to his friends.
I felt the need to do something, but I did not know what. For some reason, you came to mind. I tried to find you, but you had left Las Vegas. I made more inquiries-- my intellect, my inner resources, had expanded considerably since my experiences in Skorzeny's house. I found I could be very persuasive. I found out where you were. I made the acquaintance of some people at the newspaper in Seattle. I thought it best if I first obtained your friend Mr. Vincenzo. He was hired away from the Las Vegas Daily News at my "suggestion." Then you. I got word to you that you might find employment in Seattle and you came.

You look skeptical. Is it so hard to believe I arranged it? Is it easier to believe that first your editor and then you wound up in the same place at precisely the time that another near-immortal killer emerged from his seclusion by sheer chance?

And why did I do it? I don't know. I wanted you near. For revenge? For protection? I cannot say. I think I was already becoming a bit unbalanced myself by then.

But you came. Just in time for Malcolm's killing spree. Then you got mixed in and you put an end to Malcolm, and there I was again, Mr. Kolchak! Forgotten once again.

But I was found, and not so very long afterward, though once again it seemed like years. I sank deeper into the alien memories.

But I was "rescued" from that place. By the third member of the dark trinity. Malcolm had sent word, remember, asking him to come and participate in the new research. One day-- or night-- a man in a black suit and a black hat and a black cape lined with red descended into Malcolm's all but totally dead world and ripped the iron door off of my cage.

He told me his name was Jack the Ripper.

For a time, I belonged to him.

I've read so many books about him, so much speculation. Nobody ever came close. He was never what anyone thought he was. Strange. He was open to so many interpretations, like a figure from religion or mythology. He had these… meanings that were nothing to do with him, with what he really was. I was with him for a year, but it didn't seem like a year. I don't know if it seemed like more or if it seemed like less. It seemed like something else. Something that wasn't made of time at all. Time is not what most people think it is, Mr. Kolchak. It's… roomier. It must be infinite, I think, and if so, it is infinite in all directions, not just forward and backward. You can stick your arms out (which she did by way of illustration, at right angles from her body, and wiggled her long fingers), and never touch a wall, so to speak. And it is indestructible." She sighed and dropped her arms. "Some things can only be understood as metaphor, and even then…not really understood at all."

But he didn't want to kill me. He didn't need me for my blood, but he needed… I can't say he needed a friend, exactly, but… Some kind of a constant. Somebody who knew what he was, every bit of it. Not approved, just knew. Someone who would… be there I suppose. He certainly wasn't in love with me. That kind of thing was not in him. I think I was supposed to be like a… a pet maybe. Or a treasured knickknack that you take with you wherever you go and put up on a shelf so you can see it every day.

Apart from that, and his "sport…" He wanted you. You had murdered his "brothers," and he would have revenge. That's why we went to Chicago. That's why he paraded himself in public. To draw your attention. And it worked, didn't it? However, he found he had bitten off far more than he could chew.

You are formidable, Mr. Kolchak. I don't know what it is that you have. For more than a hundred years, Jack the Ripper had lived and killed and nobody could stop him. Nobody but you. I think I knew you would. I never foresaw it coming out any other way. I really had nothing against him, you know. He was never cruel to me. But absence of cruelty is not kindness, and it certainly isn't love.

I was there when you killed him. I saw it. And then something extraordinary happened.

I absorbed him. Something of his essence. Not his personality. Not his soul, if he even had one. I don't know what happened to that. But the power he had cultivated for so long. It came to me.
After that night, things were very different. I don't know what it was I absorbed when you killed the Ripper. I don't know if the electricity "boosted" whatever it was. But I had something brand new, and another set of senses opened in me. I could feel things. I knew there were many other anomalous creatures and forces in the word. If I concentrated, I could find them. Not only that-- but they could find me.

Not overtly. They didn't know why they came, or even that it was not their own idea. With the Ripper gone and his energy added to mine, I became open to these others, aware of them. The first one I sought out was your old friend Mama Loa. She was a voodoo practitioner, and a pretty ordinary one as those things go. Voodoo is mostly psychological. A houngan, or adept, serves his community as a sort of priest/doctor/judge.

She was grieving for her grandson, Francois. She wanted revenge for his death, but the spells she cast were feeble. She had been weakened by her years in America, far from the seat of belief in her religion. And in any case, she was not Bokor-- literally, 'the priest who serves with his left hand,' one who trafficks with the darker and more powerful of the Loa. When I met her, I could sense the Loa-- spirits-- all around her. They wanted to help, but her magicks were not enough to grant them access to this plane. They cannot act unilaterally, you see. But my power was of another order entirely. I brought the Loa over and I helped her raise her Francois up from the ground. Mama took me for Baron Samedi, the lord of the dead in her belief system, and I never bothered to correct her.

You never knew him in life, Mr. Kolchak, but I can assure you that Francois Edmonds was very thoroughly a monster before he died. I had no compunctions about using him as I did. The old lady was far from a saint herself. After the deed had been done, I found a way to nudge you in that direction. Because I knew what you would do. You wouldn't be able to stay away once you knew. I was there in that junkyard when you snuffed out his life, such as it was-- or should I say, forced it out of his body-- and I absorbed it. That was reassuring, since I now knew that the Ripper hadn't been a fluke. I never meant for him to kill you, and would have prevented it if he had tried.

Why you? Mr. Kolchak, you are more special than you have ever realized. Had I not brought them across your path, they would have manifested elsewhere, and nobody would have stopped them. You are still an enigma. I don't sense anything otherworldly about you, though. Maybe that's part of it… Perhaps you are so unremarkable you pass with impunity beneath anyone's radar. A vampire of any experience and standing is prepared for an onslaught by a fearless vampire hunter. He expects it. There is a certain type that gravitates to that kind of work, and they are easily identifiable, thus understandable and beatable. But a reporter with no innate magical ability, no discernible psychic ability, no history of involvement with paranormal issues…

Well, anyhow, I 'broadcast' an appeal, and they came. Catherine Rawlins 'heard' me, perhaps because I have some of Skorzeny in me, and it was enough to resurrect her. But she was terrified that Skorzeny might be waiting for her in the direction she felt compelled to travel, so she went the other way instead.

I took all the energy. Every time you killed one of them, there was a release, and I caught it. For some reason, it had to be you. I could not do it myself. It was enough to keep me going for a long while. It was my "elixir." And the monsters, Mr. Kolchak! Purging this plane of some of its nightmares and feeding me at the same time. This is an irony I believe you will like once I point it out. They were killers; they victimized anyone who crossed their path, all for the sake of their worthless power. And then you turned the tables. We turned the tables, you and I. I was always with you but you never knew. You became my stalker in the night. You did to them the very same thing they did to so many others. And you didn't know it, of course, but you were doing it for me. If-- and I say if-- you owed me anything for leaving me hanging twice, you paid me back in full and more.

After the final time-- that bizarre business with Helen of Troy-- I felt I had "turned a corner." My mind was clear and I thought my soul was too. I released you that night. As for that lizard thing a couple weeks later, I don't know what that was all about. Not one of mine. Neither was the robot. I do believe, however, that I somehow attracted those invisible aliens. By the way, they weren't invisible. You and everyone else involved saw them quite clearly. However, if your minds had actually acknowledged what you were looking at, they'd have had to shut down. That's what happens when you cram eight-dimensional creatures into three-dimensional space. They weren't from outer space… exactly. And the "saucer" you found was not a vehicle in the sense that we understand the term. The best way to express it in English would be a "temporary psuedo-Euclidian multi-point shallow interface enabler."

Be that as it may, once I had absorbed a certain amount of whatever it was I was absorbing from your kills, I felt wonderful. I didn't kill anyone after that. Until recently, that is. My appearance froze, just as Malcolm's had. I began to believe that, in most ways, I was normal. I had no desire to return to my parents or indeed anything I had known before. Shelley Forbes was dead. Whatever I was as I passed through the hands of that succession of monsters had no name, and she was gone too. I traveled for a long while. I saw most of the world. Then I had a desire to return… not home, I wouldn't call it that. To the country of my birth, then. And once there I would start a brand new life.

I wanted to go to college. So I did. It was wonderful. I met a lot of people. Friends. One in particular. After a time, though, I realized the possibility that I might never change. I could look young for… How long? Decades? Centuries? Most of the free radicals had been purged from my system. Mechanisms that produce visible signs of aging had been suppressed. But I got older in years. Unlike other people, however, it didn't leave any marks. Twenty-five years after I was taken by Skorzeny, I was 19 years old on the outside. There was every reason to believe that in another 25 years, the same would hold true. I believed, you see, that a great many biological processes had come to a halt, or had slowed down to a level that was all but imperceptible. Not so. But I didn't work that out until much later.

I now shared Skorzeny's old dilemma. Now and then he would let his old identity "die" and assume a new one in a different place. He was actually the great-grandfather of the Janos Skorzeny you thought you found in Vegas. He killed his great-grandson as though by divine right, and "became" him. Well, I didn't want undue attention either. And if I stayed in one place long enough, I'd receive it.

I didn't want to drag anyone else into whatever my life had become. Or would become. I didn't "die," but I left. I stayed in touch, but I gave flimsy reasons for doing what I had done. This was a year ago. And, in the event, it was a very good thing I had acted in this way, because I soon started to feel different. I became angry more often. I lost track of what I was thinking or saying. The other lives in my head got louder and more intrusive. For a week at a time I might think I was in Whitechapel in 1888, and I knew what it felt like to want so desperately to spill blood, then lap it up. And along with the blood, and just as sweet, the terror. I ached to slip from the chains of conscience and reason. I did not need blood and death, but I WANTED them. Very badly.

What was it that sounded the knell? It was menopause, Mr. Kolchak. Of all things. That was when I knew my eternal youth was just a façade. I might live a hundred more years, or a thousand, but my body would break down like any human being. But it would do it very slowly. I would I look the same on the outside, but that's just cosmetic. My skin is still supple, my muscles are still toned, but on the inside, things are shutting down. I'm in my 50s now. During menopause, a woman's body slowly produces less of the hormones estrogen and progesterone. And those are the very things that keep the vampire blood and the Malcolm elixir balanced. The elixir in my system was destabilizing after twenty-some-odd years. Perhaps I could keep the changes at bay if I could receive further treatments, but I have no idea how to do that. All of Malcolm's papers and equipment were confiscated while I was still locked in my room. If they were not all destroyed, they are someplace I was never able to find.

The thing is… Did you know that women produce testosterone too? It's true. Not as much as men of course. And the level drops during menopause just as the other hormones do. But it doesn't drop off quickly enough, at least for my purposes. Testosterone is the volatile factor, the monkey wrench in the works of the Malcolm elixir. And it doesn't take much. Adding the vampire blood to the elixir did not produce any of the changes that would have been a red flag to Malcolm. He observed and tested the mix for weeks before trying it. It remained chemically stable. It should have worked.

Vampires, being dead and all, produce no hormones of any kind. There was no testosterone present in the compound to alert Malcolm to the danger. Another flaw of Malcolm's was that he saw the vampire as some sort of human aberration, an organic condition or disorder that could be understood and explained by science, given time. That is simply not the case. Call it magic if you like. Vampirism isn't a virus or a mutation or anything that can be explained in human terms. What possible biological base could there be for a lethal allergy to Christian iconography?

Crosses started bothering me. Stars of David too, oddly enough. I was raised a WASP, but… Anything that… stank of God-- that's the only way I can describe it-- put me off terribly. The sight of a Koran made me ill. I started thinking about things. Awful things. The kind of things from my dreams. But these were not dreams, and the thoughts did not come from anybody else. They were mine. My thoughts, my desires, my obsessions. I knew there was no hope. I was lucid most of the time-- I'm lucid now, but it's taking a lot of effort-- I knew I would have to be… dealt with… put down. Like the rest of them. My body chemistry has destabilized to the point that I am vulnerable to the sort of madness they all knew, to one degree or another.

I wanted it to be you. When I knew there was no way I could… come back. I knew I was going to get worse, much worse. I had to kill. I wanted to kill. I want to kill right now. Not necessarily you, just anybody. NOT you. I wouldn't. But it is now at the point where it can fairly be said that there is more than one of me; and the part of me that doesn't want to be a monster is outgunned, three to one. How can you get four whole lifetimes into one mind? Especially when three of them are unnaturally long? They outweigh me, you see. And all the while, without me noticing it, I was becoming what they were. There was no more dividing line.

I thought of you so often. Of your courage and how I had used you. And I had to do it again. I fought-- fought with myself--my selves-- over how to do it, or if I would even do it at all. I found an effective carrot, though. I offered myself the chance to murder. I made it all right because I would only murder those who had harmed you. The ones who stood in your way and refused to believe in you. I left a little trail I knew you would follow. It was the only way I could persuade myself to reach out to you. I'm ashamed of it. And I will do it again if I am allowed to leave this place alive tonight.

The tape ended and the little recorder clicked off. I started from force of habit to flip it over, but Shelley shook her head no.

"There's not much left," she said, "And the rest is better left unrecorded.

"What's left for me now is death. My own death. It's really the only way. And I cannot kill myself. I've tried. So…

"Someone who loves me should do it. It's… better that way I think. I don't know that it's necessary. But my believing it makes it necessary, if you follow. I didn't… I couldn't… There was someone, but I couldn't possibly… And I thought of you and what you had done for me before, even though you didn't know…Do you love me? Not romantically. Agape, not Eros. Even just a little, maybe? Because I love you. You were… almost like a father to me…Could you love me enough, do you think?"

My heart was breaking right then and there. I thought I knew what heartbreak felt like, thought I had experienced it, but I hadn't. Not until that very moment did I know what the phrase really meant. Oh God, this poor girl. I had been the center of her life, and I never even knew it. Like a father... Too sad to think about for very long. And I knew she was right about everything. I could see what was happening to her. During her monologue, I had noticed that her conversational style had changed three or four times. She was coming undone.

She walked up to me and pressed into my hands a long, sharp wooden stake and a heavy mallet. "Could you love me enough to kill me?"

That was some question. I thought about it. No, I didn't. I couldn't think anything. I felt dizzy. I don't know how long I might have stood there or how blank my mind would have gotten. But then…

"Well, if he doesn't, I goddamn sure do. Missy, what in the hell???"

From somewhere miles above me, several tons of pennies dropped, and other shoes hit floors for miles around. That voice went right through my head and made my scalp and everything else tingle. I turned ever so slowly to watch the shadowy figure emerging from what was, an age ago, Tony Vincenzo's office.

As she stepped into the light, I saw that Janie's face was blank. No expression. She looked at me like she knew me but didn't know me. At the moment, I felt the same way about her. She kept my eyes fixed with hers so I could not look down or to the side or anywhere else. The force of her personality was displaying itself in a way I had never before seen, and I was in awe of her, my little girl. This was not magic and it was not science. It was her.

There was another oddity about her appearance which didn't quite register at that moment, and which I will address later.

"Missy," she said, looking away from me, "You could have told me, you know." She was angry, but not for what would seem to be the obvious reason. "I am so pissed at you right now. You could have told me this and you should have."

"Janie," she said. "Janie, I never meant to deceive you. I never wanted to hurt you."

"Then you have some serious disconnect when it comes to pursuing your avowed goals," Janie snapped. "But never mind that. That isn't the point. You haven't got much time left, so please don't fritter it away spouting clichés. It really and truly almost never matters what a person did or didn't mean to do. That isn't why I'm pissed. I've always known who you are. You never could have faked that. I love you, and it isn't about me. I'm not a thin-skinned little buttercup, Missy. I know who you are, and what you are could never be of more than secondary importance. I'm not in love with the idea that you're a killer and a half-vampire or whatever the hell you are, but goddamn! What you must think of me! What did you think I'd do if you told me? Dump you? Kill you? Hate you? You just left. You went away."

"I didn't. I… I didn't disappear entirely. I stayed in touch, Janie."

"Oh, well then, yeah, I forgot. You wrote a couple letters. Okay, never mind then, I'm overreacting. Letters and phone calls where you said nothing, didn't answer anything, and certainly didn't continue anything. You know better than that. Do not try to present that shit as exculpatory evidence."

"Well, I…" Missy was stumped. Janie did that to people a lot. "I was afraid… When I started… changing… getting crazy… I was afraid I might do something to you. Kill you, or…"
Janie laughed. "Oh, honey, I'm not that much of a romantic. You try killing me and I'll make you forget all about Jack the goddamn Ripper. Why does everybody underestimate me? I guess it's my little wholesome pixie poppet looks or my effing sweet personality.

"And then, out of the blue, you invite me to come up and visit you, and while I'm reeling from that, in comes my father announcing that he's on his way to Chicago. I didn't tell him you were the one that made the suggestion because he's good at adding things up, as long as it's two and two. But I knew it was hinky. I mean I certainly didn't foresee anything like this shit. I didn't foresee anything. I could not begin to puzzle out how you inviting me here on the spur of the moment could have any possible connection with my dad wanting to come stampeding up here, on an equally spurious moment of his own. But there just aren't any coincidences that big, in my experience. I wanted to find out for myself and by myself what the fuck.

"So now I know. It's fucked up, but it makes sense, I guess. From a certain point of view. But I don't understand why you got me to come. Did you want something to hold over Dad's head, just in case? Tell me that is not why you invited me. And tell me even more persuasively that our whole relationship wasn't some kind of a Trojan horse."

Shelley's face was a perfect mask of anguish. "You must think… oh, I hope you don't think my whole… our whole… I didn't seek you out because of your father. That's the one thing in this that really was a coincidence. Mostly. I just happened to pick the same college you went to. I noticed your name on the bulletin board, looking for a roommate. I thought, there couldn't be very many Kolchaks in the world. I was so curious, I couldn't let it go. I called you. I met you. I moved in. Soon after that, I forgot everything else. You were… You were something I had never imagined having. I thought it might be okay. Somehow. I knew what I would very likely face eventually, but I… I let myself get caught up. I wanted to. I wanted not to think about later."

"Okay. But why did you want me here now? In Chicago, I mean. You had no intention of bringing me to this office for this... whatever. You would have succeeded in keeping me away, in fact, if I weren't so goddamn clever. So why?"

Missy raised her eyebrows. "Why? Janie. Please. Why do you think I would want you here? Why now, knowing that I am soon to die? I wanted to see you. I had to see you again before… this. I couldn't stand to leave the world without seeing your face and saying goodbye to you first."

"Oh," Janie replied, and fell into an uncharacteristic silence. Whatever was clawing at her insides right now had to be worse than any number of ghosts or zombies. Her eyes were dry, but her lips twitched and her chin dimpled up.

"You idiot" Janie said, her voice huskier than I had ever heard it. She had just swallowed a very bitter pill indeed, and was fighting to keep it down. "There's every chance I could have helped you before you let it go this far. And if I were you, I wouldn't even try telling me that there was nothing I could have done. You knew very well that I knew more about the world, the hidden stuff, than most people. You knew my dad was a bona-goddamn-fide monster-killer! And that really eats my lunch. Because now I have to do this! And if I've got the guts for it, which you're about to find out I do, then I'd have been able to come up with something before you dragged all of us here." And then my daughter whirled on me and held out her hand.

"Give, Dad."

I shook my head. "Janie, you can't…" And I just stopped talking because I knew it was not true. Whether she could or not, she would.

She held out her other hand. Slowly, I placed the stake in her left hand, the mallet in her right. I can do it, she told me, without saying a word. No telepathy or anything like that. I just knew what I was seeing in her eyes, and she knew I knew, and we agreed. She nodded and turned her gaze away from mine. My eyes felt as though some kind of physical restraint had been removed from them, and I actually swayed back and forth a little, blinking rapidly. Janie's gaze had kept my eyes cool and dry, and the release allowed dammed-up tears to suddenly spill, and my vision blurred immediately so that I could not clearly see what was happening. I was kind of grateful for that.

There wasn't much talk. No big scene. No declarations or recriminations, no laments, no screams, no crying. I heard Janie say, "What do you think, right here?"

Missy replied, "Uh-huh, that’s right. Between these two ribs."

"Okay, then. Here we go. You ready?" I could not know what it was costing my daughter to maintain her calm, but I had a feeling that when the check arrived it would probably break the bank.

"I think I am, Janie. I'm sorry. I wish I had trusted you. I do love you, you know. I always have. It wasn't about you. I mean, you were about you, but the rest was…"

"I know. I never doubted you. Or me. I knew whatever was wrong was something else. It's very fortunate that self-esteem is something I have never lacked. I don't know how the rest of you get along with so little… I hate to part on bad terms, but I'm still royally pissed at you, young lady. If you do find yourself in an afterlife, I want you to ruminate on the fact that you're going to be in for an eternal ass whipping when I get there... And we…" Her breath caught. "Oh… Missy, your eyes are turning red."

"Yes. My brain is too, on the inside. I think something's happening to my soul, as well. This is it. You have to do it now. Don't wait any more. Please, let me die without ever wanting to kill you! Okay? It's okay. I'll always…"

"Shut up," Janie whispered. "I will too."

Having done the thing myself twice I knew the drill, and even though Shelley Forbes was compliant and did not scream, the sounds and the smells immediately called up horribly vivid recollections of both Skorzeny and Catherine Rawlins. I swayed on my feet again, and this time I fell over, not even feeling the floor when I hit it. My head started ringing again and I squeezed my eyes shut. I did not even attempt to see what was happening, I just listened and I heard Shelley cough and whisper "Thank you," almost inaudible over the three or four sharp pops as the mallet in my daughter's hand pounded a wooden stake into her friend's heart. When Shelly got quiet, Janie didn't make a sound for several seconds. Then she sighed. I wiped my eyes on the sleeve of my jacket in time to see Janie lean down over Shelley and kiss her on the lips. Then, softly and sweetly, like a prayer or a blessing or a declaration of love she said, "God damn it to hell, Missy."

All things considered, it was an appropriate epitaph.

Missy's body dissolved. That's it. Were you expecting maybe an agonizing spectacle of blood and fire and screaming, a harrowing, climactic coda, the kind that is absolutely de rigueur in the final scene of a horror story? There wasn't one. She dissolved. First into a sort of gelatinous liquid, then something like fine sand, then vapor, and finally nothing at all. For a few seconds the air seemed to be saturated with static electricity, and I had the damnedest sensation that it was saying something I couldn't decipher.

So. All my questions were answered at last. But they left a brand new one in their place. Was it finally over? Had my daughter and I finally closed out the account that had started, for me and for Shelley, in Las Vegas so many years ago? Or… Or, had I just passed a torch that I had never asked or wanted to carry?

Janie and I stood there for a while, looking at the spot where nothing but a coarse brown robe now lay. The stake had dissolved too. I have no idea how or why. An elevated train rumbled by right outside the office windows and when it had passed I reached over and touched my girl under the chin with my forefinger, tilting her head up so I could see her eyes. They were dry, but that's about it.

"You'll be okay," I said. It wasn't a question.

She nodded. "Someday, I probably will. More or less. That was… I don't know what that was. Goddamn."

I smiled a little and asked her about the oddity I had just gotten around to noticing. "Where did you get that hat?"

On top of her head was an old straw hat with a narrow brim and a blue and red band. It looked as though someone had stomped on it repeatedly. Someone had. It looked as though it had once been saturated with sewage when its owner had gone down beneath the streets in search of a phantom swamp thing. It had. There was a small, ragged nick in the brim that an expert might recognize as having been made by the claw of a werewolf. A lot of things had happened to that hat before I lost track of it. One day it had just seemed to disappear. I had it in the morning; in the evening it was gone. Tony Vincenzo had referred to it as a "bird feeder" and an "eyesore," and he hadn't been wrong. But it was mine. I had raged and threatened dire consequences to anyone who might have taken it. Like King Lear, I promised to unleash "the terrors of the earth" upon the guilty party. But nothing had ever come of it. It was yet another unsolved mystery.

Janie motioned with her head in the direction of Vincenzo's office. "In there. It was stuck in the top drawer of an old desk. I was looking for something to hit someone with. I'd been here five minutes or so when… you know who came in. I had picked the lock. She just tore the goddamn knob out. With one hand! In that robe, I didn't know who it was. I was freaking out. Very quietly, of course. One of those things where if it were a movie, I'd have had to sneeze. I just kinda crouched down. Then you came in… But this hat…I just… I dunno, I liked the hat. The way it looked or something. I just stuck it on my head without thinking about it."

I scowled. "A desk drawer, eh? I knew it. Vincenzo. Why that…" Then I smiled. Thinking of Lear again, I was thankful that my only daughter was a Cordelia.

"Wait," I said. "How did you get in?"

She gave me a look reserved for small children who ask outrageously
obvious questions, and said, "Picked the lock. How else?"

I had to laugh. "Of course. Come on," I said. "Let's go somewhere."

As my little girl and I walked arm in arm along the street, I thought Janie suddenly looked much older. But no, that wasn't it… Not suddenly. I just suddenly noticed it. She had always looked older, and she did it in a way that made her look impossibly young and vulnerable. And if that doesn't make any sense to you, I'm sorry, but it's the best I can do.

We did not talk because it was time to be silent and just walk together because we could.
Were the monsters all gone now? Would any of them come back? Would there be new ones? We walked past an appliance store with a big screen TV in the window. One of the all-news networks with all the extraneous crawlers and photo insets and clocks cluttering the screen. They could make you take your eyes away from whatever was actually being reported on. Or let you. The center of the screen was a window on a war halfway around the world. A tiny girl, maybe six or seven, tottering along a littered street, one arm just dangling, blood all over the sleeve of her dress. The greatest hope she could reasonably entertain for her future was to make it to the end of that street without being shot or blown up. But her skin was dark. She didn't look like us or talk like us. Cut to the President of the United States, standing behind a podium, looking vacant as he no doubt spun another web of lethal lies. His bland face reminded me of the reality of Janos Skorzeny, his presence defined more by absences than by anything that was actually there. People mistook this vacuum behind his eyes for stupidity, but I knew what it really was. Or rather what it wasn't.

Below him, the death tolls scrolled by in their thousands, with hundreds more every day, and I thought of Jack the Ripper and the 75 women he killed in 86 years. His final victim had been my friend Jane Plum, and I thought of how wonderful she had been and how much poorer the world was for her leaving it. And she was only one.

I thought of the Ripper himself, who killed because he had to, because he wanted to, not as a smokescreen for some other, even sicker, agenda. He admitted his depravity; indeed he reveled in it in his letters to the police and newspapers. "I am down on whores," he wrote back in 1888, "and I shan't quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games." No justification, no attempts to blame, not a word about imaginary threats and phantom weapons programs. And I got to thinking that maybe I would miss him and his like in a strange way. The world Janie was inheriting might just be worse.

Janie spoke to me very softly. "I'm going to cry," she informed me in a businesslike tone. "In fact, I am going to have a complete goddamn nervous fucking breakdown, and I may very well wind up in an institution so I'll need for you to bring me magazines and stuff, and candy bars of course. I don't know the details right now; we'll just have to play it by ear. But I can't do it till at least next Friday, or maybe even after the weekend, depending on how busy I am."

"Of course," I replied, feeling something so bright and pure that there wasn't a word for it. "There is so much to consider with a thing like that. Give some thought to becoming delusional. You can probably get better drugs that way."

"You are such a help! It never would have occurred to me. This is why I need you, for things like this. You may lack imagination, but you're a fabulous detail man. I'm not kidding, you know. I really am gonna fall apart."

"I know, honey. Look who you're talking to. Been there, done that, as you young people say."
"I never say that. It's stupid. Way overused. It was funny maybe once. And if you had said 'got the t-shirt' at the end, I'd have killed you too."

"I'd have had it coming." There was one thing that bothered me, though. It had not struck me until that moment. "Janie," I said, "why did you go down to the old INS office? How did you figure it out? How did you know we would be there?"

She shoved her hands into the front pockets of her jeans and studied the sidewalk beneath her feet. "Because I'm clever, Dad. I'm Sherlock Holmes with tits. Not an overabundance of tits, it's true," she said, plucking at the front of her t-shirt, "but you get the picture." She chuckled. She looked up at me with a little cockeyed grin.

"You want to know the truth? I have absolutely no idea. Not a clue. I had gone to bed while Missy was out doing 'errands.' I was just drifting off when-- out of nowhere-- I knew I had to go to your old office. And I did."

"Oh. I don't know what to make of that. You had a weird thing, huh? Well, Shelley… That is, Missy did seem to have some kind of a telepathic deal going on. Or you might have subconsciously…"

"Dad. Shush. Let me have my magic, okay?"

"Sure, honey. Sorry. All I can say is thank God it never seems to occur to you to doubt yourself. You didn't save her, but it was much too late for that anyway. You didn't save me, because she wouldn't have killed me. Probably. But I think you needed to be there for your own sake, somehow. It's rough. It's horrible. Worse on you by far than on me. But you'll be okay. You're a survivor."

"Yeah," she said. A sigh. Silence for several paces. She was looking down at her feet, seemingly fascinated by the spectacle of her sneakers moving along the sidewalk. "You know why it never occurs to me to doubt myself?" She looked up at me, just a glance, less than a second. There was a smile there, though it was invisible. Then she looked back down and said, "Because you never did. You never doubted yourself, and you never doubted me. You never forgot me, Dad. You never let me down. And that's how I'm gonna survive what happened back there."

I think it was the greatest moment of my life.

What could I say to that? What would you have said? You'd have broken down and cried, which is what I knew I would do if I attempted to respond. Here was my Janie who would never back down from anyone or anything any more than I ever had. I knew it was pointless to worry over her. Not only could she never be controlled, she couldn't even be protected. It would be as pointless to try taming her as it had been trying to tame me so long ago. I wasn't Tony Vincenzo. I knew when I was outgunned. I loved her too much to insult her by thinking I would even stand a chance. Truth is, I admired and respected the living hell out of my girl. And it was mutual. I was so proud of her at that moment. And as her words sunk into my heart I was a little proud of myself, too. How could I call myself a failure now?

I grunted and jerked my head in the direction of a saloon we were passing. I looked a question and she smiled an answer. Without a word, she plucked her old straw hat from her head and plopped it onto mine. We walked into the cool dark of the bar, and that night my little girl and I got drunk together and talked as we had never talked before.

This may well be the last story I write about the weird stuff. Odds are you will never read it. You'll probably sleep better for that fact. But there will be other things for me, other stories, other experiences. I am nowhere near dead yet, and I hope I won't have to leave any time soon.

THE END