Author's note: Sorry for the delay in new material. Real life bites
sometimes
Disclaimer: Do I look like I own anything?
Chapter One
The thin, pale man shot a nervous look toward the door. It hadn't been fully closed, and he steamed inwardly at that. He'd specifically asked for privacy . . . complete privacy - the door was to have been shut and locked - he wanted to keep the wind and prying eyes out. But it wasn't. This deal was already getting off to a bad start.
His mouth twisted into a grimace as he gazed through the slight aperture and saw the foot of one of his companion's guards. Merrill had brought his hired guns - two of them, at least - probably more. And Merrill himself was no doubt armed. The bony man stifled a groan; why all the cowboys-and- Indians nonsense? This was a business venture, not a video game. But he knew that it wasn't in Chaise Merrill's nature to do anything without fanfare. He knew that and accepted it. But would it have killed him to close the frigging door?
"So, Jeremy, do we have a deal?"
Jeremy Wittinger forced his eyes away from the door and onto his companion, hoping that the annoyance didn't show too plainly in his face. Merrill was annoying, but Wittinger knew he needed this score. He was tired of living on the state's charity; he wanted, no, he needed to strike out on his own. And this alliance with Merrill, temporary as it would be, would allow him to do that.
"I believe we have reached an understanding, Mr. Merrill," Wittinger nodded, "as long as my payment request is met."
"Oh sure," Merrill smiled a wide, toothy grin. "No problem. And you're sure about the effects of this little mixture of yours?"
"Quite," Wittinger looked grave. "Both the catalyst and neutralizing agents have been tested. They are absolutely -''
"Tested?" the shorter, stockier man looked puzzled. "You tested this stuff? On humans?"
Wittinger fought the impulse to roll his eyes. Of course I tested it on humans, you ninny. What else would I use? Geraniums? "Yes, Mr. Merrill," he said aloud. "On humans. I did several tests."
Merrill looked skeptical. "I find it hard to believe you found willing participants."
"You'd be surprised at what people will do for money," he rummaged through a pocket on his sports jacket and plucked out a shiny disc. "I recorded the entire experimentation process so that you can see for yourself."
"Hmmmm, perhaps I will," Merrill took the disc, looking at it thoughtfully before tucking it into his inside suit pocket. "But there probably is no need. I trust you, Jeremy. You're brilliant. You're loyal. I can trust you." He paused. "Though, of course, you won't see a single credit until I see the results firsthand. Nothing personal, of course. Just good business."
"Of course," Jeremy's eyes shifted to the door again. It was still open, the foot was still there, and from the sound of it, it had begun to rain. Good. Wittinger bit back a smile. He willed the rain to pour in torrents . . . all the better to soak Merrill's rented thugs and ruin their expensive suits. "But it won't be long. I've already lain in a store of the neutralizing agent. One the catalyst compound hits Gotham, you'll be running through the neutralizer like . . .well, like water."
Merrill laughed heartily, slapping the thinner man soundly across the back, nearly sending him flying in the process.
"Like water! Oh, I like that, Jeremy. I like that," his guffaws echoed around the small space. "Now who ever said you didn't have a sense of humor?"
Wittinger didn't crack a smile. "I did."
Merrill continued to laugh. "Well, you were wrong about yourself, Jeremy. Hoo wee . . . you were wrong." He chuckled a moment longer before resuming his serious demeanor, the stern expression looking out of place on the cherubic face. "Now . . . you said you had a sample for me?"
Wittinger nodded and drew out a tiny vial from the depths of his sports jacket. Offering it to the shorter man, he watched with smug pride as Chaise eyed the pinkish liquid in the vial. Unstopping the cork, he smelled it. His eyebrows raised, he sniffed again.
"Odorless," Wittinger intoned. "And even more important, it won't react with the proteins in the product, so there will be no risk at all of detection."
"I suppose it doesn't have any taste, either?"
"That is correct. The neutralizer also has no taste or smell. Trust me, Mr. Merrill-'' he broke off, noticing the forlorn look on his companion's face. "What? What's wrong?"
"Well, I can understand not wanting it to smell, but no taste, either? That's kinda boring, don't you think? Couldn't you have spiced it up some with some pepper? Maybe a nice jalapeno flavor? Or -''
"Mr. Merrill," Jeremy's tone was icy. "I'm a scientist, not a chef. Trust me. This is what you want. Besides, it wouldn't do to have the antidote tasting of pepper . . . or anything else . . . would it?"
"Yeah, I suppose you're right. Speaking of the antidote, any chance I could get a sample of that, too?"
Wittinger pulled another vial from his pocket. This tube contained a clear liquid, and Merrill's eyes shone.
"Excellent work. Your time away hasn't dulled your skills a wit."
My time away . . . how quaint. He says it as if I was on a lovely tropical vacation and not a festering jail cell. And all of it . . . all of it. . . was his fault. Wittinger's eyes narrowed. "Well, I must admit, I wasn't exactly idle during my period of incarceration." He hesitated. "The warden found myriad uses for my . . . talents."
"I'll bet," Merrill nodded. "I'll just bet. Well," he straightened, "I think we're done here. For now, anyway. You do have the delivery instructions?"
"I do. The canisters will be at the appointed place at the appointed time - day after tomorrow. Your men will know what to do?"
"Oh, yes indeed," Merrill gazed transfixed at the two vials in his hands. "They'll know." He sighed dreamily, continuing to stare into his palms. "They'll all know. Soon, this city will know how wrong it was to cross me . . . and how wrong it was to write me off as if I didn't matter." Merrill looked up with a grin that made Wittinger's blood run cold.
"Yes, soon they'll know," Merrill said softly. "I lived out my nightmare. Now it is time for the people of Gotham to live out theirs."
*
Max Gibson entered BaliBurgers and was immediately met with a wall of sound as confused and varied as the people who were jammed into the little restaurant. She glanced to her left and saw Nelson Nash, surrounded by his entourage, holding court at a large corner booth. Across from that group sat a bunch of kids that she recognized from her advanced astrochemical class. They were hard at work on . . . something, four heads bent over laptops and plates of burgers.
Hell of a place to try to study. She shook her head as she snaked through the press of the crowd. I wonder what's up . . . I didn't think anybody even knew about this place. Winding her way to the other side of the restaurant, her eyes swept over the booths at the far wall, each of them seemingly filled with yammering, snacking people. Her eyes narrowed and then widened as she peered toward a table in the rear and caught sight of a well-worn leather jacket hanging from a chair, one sleeve dangling close to the floor.
Max reached the table, and stopped for a moment, dead. Shock colored her features as her brain processed the almost incomprehensible sight. There was Terry McGinnis, all right. He was in the booth alone, oddly enough considering the crowd. Even more incredible, though, considering the music wailing from the speakers and the decibel level in general, he was fast asleep, his forehead pressed against the table.
She stared for a moment, a small smile on her lips. If any one could sleep through this din, it'd be him. She'd seen him earlier that day, and though he seemed to be okay, she could tell that he was on the verge of crashing. It seemed almost a shame to wake him - he looked so innocent and peaceful. But ...
"Ter," she gently shook his shoulder. "Hey, McGinnis ... rise and shine!"
He shifted slightly, grunting a little, but not lifting his head. Max sighed. This wasn't going to be pretty.
"Terry? Terry! Come on, wake up!" she shook him harder. "Up and at 'em ... let's go!"
No response. She frowned. She'd tried to do it easy, but now it was time to take the kid gloves off. Lifting the books she'd picked up for her 20th Century lit project to eye level, she waited a beat before letting the books fall just inches from Terry's head.
The ensuing clatter had the desired result as Terry started up in alarm, wincing as he banged his knee on the table. "Wha-, what?" he looked up, blinking in confusion. "Oh, hey, Max," he ran a hand tiredly over his hair. "Sorry about that. I was just resting my eyes ..."
"I guess I don't have to ask what you were up to last night."
He yawned expansively. "Do you ever?"
"Nope. Anyway, it was all over the Web this morning - Batman vs. a gang of arms smugglers. Twenty of them! How'd you pull that one off?"
"Beats me. I didn't know there were that many until they all came piling out of the hoverjet they'd stole. It was like the old days in the circus -- you know, with all the clowns coming out of a tiny car?" Terry stopped as a harried waitress dropped off his order. "Want something, Max? They're running a special on Beefy Burgers."
"No, thanks. Late lunch. So, what kinda firepower were they trying to bring in?"
"Well, they weren't pop guns. The suit got a major workout. It's going to be out of commission at least a day."
"Humph. Well, you could have called me. You said I'd be able to help sometimes," she glared at him.
"Max ... what exactly would you have been able to do against twenty very angry men with very big guns?"
She frowned a moment, thinking. "I could have created a diversion or something. Kept them occupied while you dumped the cargo. That way, you wouldn't have had to worry about getting plugged."
"Kept them occupied?" Terry shook his head. "Max, I don't even want to tell you how that sounds." Tall, pink-haired and mahogany-skinned, she no doubt would have attracted the smugglers' attention, Terry knew. But with so many, she'd more than likely would have been overpowered very quickly, and he shuddered to think how they would then want to be kept "occupied."
"Look, can you be mad at me next week or something? The pissed-at-Terry card is kinda full today."
"Uh-oh ... what'd you do to slag off you-know-who this time?" she leaned close.
"Amazingly enough, Wayne hasn't chewed me out in," he checked his watch, "almost eight hours. Of course, he's been asleep for the past seven-and-a- half . . ."
"Your mom, then? She catch you sneaking through the window at daybreak again?"
"Nope," Terry's expression hardened. "Dana's ticked at me ... as usual."
"What is it now? I thought you were off the hook this week - she's going on that debate-a-thon with Chelsea and the rest of the debate team. Weren't they leaving today? Chicago's the first stop, right?"
"Yeah ... but today at lunch, right before she left, we took one of those compatibility tests that they have on the Web..." he rested his chin in his hands, shutting his eyes wearily. "You know, the one where you put in your names and it's supposed to tell you how perfect you are for each other?"
"Oh boy. What happened?"
"Let's just say we failed ... big time," he took a vicious bite out of his burger. "I didn't even know you could get a negative score."
"Those things are scams," Max shook her head. "There's no way you can rate compatibility using just names. Why'd you two even bother?"
"Blade was talking it up in biochem -- said it was 100 percent accurate for her and Nelson."
"Like that proves anything. Those two are more on-again, off-again than a vid-link switch."
"Mmm. Well, anyway, we took the stupid thing and it said that we would make perfect acquaintances. We didn't even score high enough for friendship."
"Glacial," Max studied him with inquisitive eyes. "But why would she be mad at you? You couldn't help what you were named ..."
"She didn't think I got outraged enough about it," he looked bewildered. "She said I just shrugged it off, like I didn't care."
"What did you say?"
"I told her not worry about it. I just didn't think it was worth getting worked up over it," he sighed. "And since the other results were pretty weird, too -''
"What other results?"
"Well, Dana wanted to see if the thing was busted or something, so we punched in other names, paired ourselves with other people . . . just for fun," he grinned slightly. "Dana and Nelson have almost zilch compatibility, but she and Corey would be perfect for each other, according to the computer."
"Dana and Corey Cavalleri?" Max smiled, too. "Yeah, right. Could you imagine him trying to get her to go to a Sentry convention? She'd have a spaz."
"Uh-huh. I'm not compatible with Blade, sorta compatible with Chelsea, not very with Jamie, pretty compatible with you, not at all compatible with Ms. Pinto -''
"Hold it," she looked surprised. "You put in my name?"
"Yeah. We scored an 82 percent ... the highest on my side. Dana and Corey were 85 percent. Wild, huh?"
"Hmmm ..." she seemed lost in thought a moment. "What name did you try?"
He looked up, confused. "What?"
"Did you use your full name or what? It makes a difference, you know. Maybe Terry and Dana work better than Terrance and Dana."
"It said use full name. Whatever. It's stupid. I think Dana was just looking to pick a fight. And that's her problem, not mine," he stared down at his plate, toying with the last remaining fries.
"True," she knew that tone - it meant change the subject, quickly. "So, with the suit down, what are you doing tonight?"
"Taking Matt to the mall. Mom's birthday is coming up, and this is the only chance me and the twip will have to snag a gift for her," he drained his glass. "You up for some shopping? You could be the tiebreaker."
"Sure. Cheezy Dan's afterward?"
"You and Matt would frag me if I said no, right?"
"You are a fast learner, McGinnis," she grinned.
*
Sam Jenks wiped the sweat coursing down his face, wondering for the millionth time how he could be warm in a meat locker.
Temperature controls must be on the fritz, he thought sourly, watching his group of "aides." They puttered around the dimness of the warehouse, guided only by the smallest of flashlights and the slice of moonlight coming in from the warehouse's plate-glass windows, prying open containers of meat, dousing the contents with a pinkish liquid and resealing the crates with a laser-powered soldering gun. Jenks' mouth twisted in disgust. He didn't know and didn't want to know what it was his guys were pouring on the meat. Didn't matter; they'd been paid, and he was a vegetarian. The guys who weren't were given a list of places to avoid buying meat from.
The stocky man mopped his brow again, irritably. It was really hot in there. The stuff probably would've gone bad without their help. Shoddy operation. Bad way to run a business.
"That's it, boss," a man in a black turtleneck drew near, careful not to shine his light in Jenks' face. "We're all done, finally. Everything's tight as a drum."
"Good. You got the stuff out back?"
"Yes, sir. John's getting the fire started."
"Great," Jenks nodded. "Let's get this over with. It stinks in here and it's too slagging hot."
"Hot sir? But we're in a meat locker ..."
Jenks glowered. "Forget it. Let's just get it done."
"Yes sir. The fire should get rid of everything in about -'' the man trailed off as a thump was heard outside. Close by.
"What was that?" Jenks growled. "I thought you said everyone had gone to the place."
"They did, Mr. J. They were putting the wood in the pit."
"Then what the ..." Jenks went to the window and looked out. All seemed still and quiet.
"I don't see nothin'," his voice was nonchalant, but he felt uneasy. This whole setup seemed weird. But then, the guy who set up the thing was pretty weird, himself. But that didn't matter, either. Money was money whether it came from a perfectly sane crook or a crazy one.
"It was probably just a dog or something knocking over stuff," Jenks inhaled deeply, instantly regretting it as the sharp smell of freshly slaughtered meat hit his nostrils. "Let's get outside. I need some air -''
His sentence was punctuated by the shattering of glass followed by a streak of black. Jenks and his man hit the floor as the glass flew, covering their ears and faces as the shards scattered around them.
"A little late for a barbecue, isn't it?"
Jenks looked up sharply, his mouth dropping open in dismay as he saw the dark figure crouched in the window. He struggled to rise to his feet, feeling for the gun in his waistband.
"I would've brought chips or something, but I was in a hurry," Batman hopped lightly into the room. "But I didn't come completely empty-handed," a batarang sang through the air, knocking Jenks' weapon and his aide's flashlight to the floor.
"Damn!" Jenks rushed behind the still-dazed guard, who had recovered just enough to draw a blaster. "Slag him!"
Firing wildly, the guard swore in frustration, noting the near- impossibility of getting a clear shot on the shadowy figure. "Come on, Bat freak!" Jenks yelled, backing up. "Come out and fight like a man!"
"You've been watching too much television." The voice came from behind him, and Jenks whirled around just in time to receive a kick in the gut. He went to his knees in pain as Batman shimmered into view over him, deftly tying Jenks' arms and legs with a length of cord. As a finishing touch, he tore a bit of Jenks' shirt, using the bit of cloth as a gag. "I hope you're wearing your long johns, because you'll be here for awhile."
Batman stood and stretched, relaxing slowly and languidly before drawing in his arm and delivering a sharp elbow to the belly of the guard who thought he was being quiet in sneaking up behind him. Taking hold of the groaning man's sweater, Batman flipped him over his shoulder, letting fly a bola, which tied the guard up in mid-air. The man fell to the ground with a resounding thump and was still.
"Snug as a bug," Batman nudged the unconscious man with the toe of his boot before striding over to the still-struggling Jenks. He kneeled close to Jenks' head, grabbing the struggling man by the shirt and pulling him up.
"All right, listen: I'm insulated - you're not. So the sooner you tell me what's going on here, the sooner you can get out of this icebox and into a nice, warm jail cell," he lowered the gag. "Sound good?"
Jenks drew a ragged breath and spit squarely into the Bat's face. He recoiled slightly, wiping the spittle off his cowl in measured disgust.
"And I just had that cleaned. I'm sending you the bill."
~Forget him, McGinnis,~ Bruce Wayne's voice came through loud, clear and impatient through the cowl's receiver. ~I'm picking up something hot in the vicinity of the warehouse. About 20 feet from the rear. Someone's burning something.~
"I hope it's hot dogs. I haven't eaten all day." Batman stood, cautiously making his way to the back of the warehouse. Canisters were piled everywhere, prompting Terry to stay on his guard. He adjusted the infrared sensors on his visor, scanning for heat signatures. "The place looks pretty empty. Maybe these guys were just hungry . . . decided that the burgers are always overcooked at Cheezy Dan's - which is true - and just decided to do their own."
~You ~are~ hungry, aren't you?~
"One sec," Terry turned at the sound of footfalls coming from the direction in which he was moving. A door opened, admitting a warm gust of air and a tangle of voices.
"Boss? Mr. Jenks? You okay?" The voices were close. "Mr. Jenks?"
"More of the same on the way," Batman muttered into the receiver. "Good thing I'm dressed for company." He shifted behind a stack of crates just as a group of men, all in black, burst into the space with their guns drawn.
"Mr. Jenks? Mr. Jenks? Dammit, where's the freakin' lights?"
A flashlight was clicked on then, and the pale glowing circle swept across the room, coming to rest, eventually, on the form of the knocked-out guard.
"Slagit! Don's down!" There was a rush of footsteps.
"He all right?"
Silence. Then, "Yeah . . . he's breathin', but he's out cold. Where the hell is Jenks?"
"Hey . . . listen . . ." the room grew quiet, and in the silence, a frenzied tapping and what appeared to be muffled groans could be heard. "It's coming from over there! Get the light over near the door!"
The light swung around, and shone directly in Jenks face, causing him to squint against the glare. Panicked, his men ran toward him, and all gathered around as two of the men worked on Jenks' bonds. "What the hell happened in here, Mr. J?"
Jenks wriggled wildly, his words muffled by the gag.
"What's he saying?"
"Dunno. Steve, get the gag." There was another scuffling sound as the cloth was unwound. "There we go. Now again, boss, what was you saying?"
Jenks' eyes widened as he glanced over Steve's shoulder. "Look out!"
The guard had no time to react as Batman, having launched himself from the stack of crates, plowed into him, knocking him and Jenks to the floor. The others, stunned momentarily, recovered and began to fire wildly, narrowly missing each other in their haste. The Bat rocketed upward and out of the line of gunfire.
Landing on a beam far above the crowd, he crouched in wait. He had the advantage, he knew . . . it was dark, and though his visor allowed him to get direct locations on the men, they, in turn could not see him. He grinned. Wouldn't even need to go into camouflage for this one.
A bullet zipped close - uncomfortably so - by his ear, and Batman flinched, eyes narrowing. Time to wrap up.
He eased to the edge of the beam, getting a fix on the location of the largest group of sentries. Letting fly a quartet of batarangs, he smiled in satisfaction when he heard yelling and the sound of firearms being knocked from hands and onto the floor.
"Dammit, where is he? Doesn't this place have any lights?"
"Screw it," Jenks ran toward the door. "We're done here. Let's blow this joint."
"Bruce . . . please tell me he's not being literal," Terry murmured.
~I'm not detecting any explosives, but be careful.~
"Aren't I always?" He soared down from his perch, knocking a fleeing man to the ground, struggling as the man tried to rise. Dodging his captive's wild swings, Batman went to pin the man's arms behind his back, but was stunned momentarily by a blow to the head. He swept around and took the assailant down with a kick to the leg.
The sound of an engine's firing drew the Bat' s attention, and he looked up in time to see a hover transport fire up and away at top speed. "I think I ruined their appetites. Guess I should go after them and try to make amends."
Let them go for now, Wayne replied. I've got a tracer on the vehicle. The fire I was picking up seems to have died out on its own. I wonder . . .
"Yeah, me, too," Batman strode over to the man whom he'd swept off his feet and grabbed him roughly by the short. "All right. As much as I love talking, I'd like to give someone else a turn tonight. Namely you. So why don't you start by telling me what you were doing here, who your friends are and what they were burning up out there. Don't jerk me around, and we'll all be alright."
"Please! Please, it wasn't me! None of us knew anything!" the man's voice was shrill with terror. "Honest! We just stood around and kept watch. That's what they paid us to do. . . just stand and keep watch."
"They who? And just what were you keeping watch on?"
"I don't know; I swear it! I'd never seen the guys before."
"Let me get this straight . . . you come out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, break into a meat-packing plant and start a nice, big bonfire all for a bunch of guys you'd never seen before? Sorry, but I'm on a strict no-B.S. diet. You're going to have to feed me something else."
"It's the truth, I'm telling you!" he gulped. "Me and a buddy - Harry - we work security for Gotham Cryogenics. Well, least we did 'til about a week back when we got laid off. Couple days ago, Harry calls and says an old friend has a job and needs a couple of people who know how to handle a blaster. Said he was paying well . . . real well. I got a family. A wife . . . kids . . . I needed the creds."
"Uh huh. This old friend of Harry's got a name?"
"Jersey. Harry called him Jersey, I think. Maybe it was Jerry. I. . . I don't remember!"
"What's this Jersey guy look like?"
"I don't know. Never met the guy . . . he's Harry's friend, not mine . . ."
"So you don't know if he was here tonight."
"No . . . I don't . . . know. We was working for a guy named Jenks. He pulled up in a big hoverjet and said he was in charge. Told us to stay out and shoot anything that moved. And we did . . . 'til we heard scuffling and came in here."
"What were they doing in here?"
"I tell you, I don't know! We was paid to stay out and we stayed out," the man looked wildly around. "Where's Harry? He was right behind me 'til you decked me. What'd you do to him?"
"Your pals took their magic carpet outta here . . . and unless Harry's the guy on the floor over there, he went with them."
"What?! No . . . no! They wouldn't leave me here . . . Harry wouldn't have left me! He promised. He . .. he . . . he . . ." the man began to sob, the tears running down his face. "He promised. I got a wife, kids. He promised."
"Looks like you were expendable," Batman let him go, and the man crumpled on the floor into a heap, still bawling. "No friends, no creds, and jail. Not your lucky day."
~Terry . . . get back here immediately,~ Wayne's sounded agitated. ~The police are on their way; let them handle the cleanup.~
"What? What happened?" Terry hissed. "Wayne? What's wrong?"
~The burglars' transport just exploded over Gotham Harbor. I'm scanning the debris field, but so far, it doesn't look like anything could've come out alive from that.~
Batman's jaw set, his eye falling on the hysterical guard, who'd crawled into a corner next to his unconscious friend and settled into a sobbing heap.
"I stand corrected," he murmured.
*
"Wow . . . talk about getting burned," Max scooted to the edge of her bed, transfixed. "What were they doing there, anyway?"
Terry, listlessly thumbing through her vid-disc collection, shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."
"What'd the cops find?"
"Bruce says they didn't get anything. Ask me, they weren't looking too hard. Nothing was stolen and most of the guys who broke in went kaboom in that transport blast," Terry stared up at the ceiling. "So, you got any?"
"Any what?"
"Guesses. I'm fresh out."
"Really?" a smile spread across her face. "You're letting me in on this one?"
"When did you hear me say that?"
Her smile grew. "Just now."
"I'm just making conversation . . . but if you happen to have any thoughts..."
"Well, give me a little more. Did you see anything there?"
"Not really. A couple of crates had been opened; there was that fire in the back," he sighed. "Guy I collared didn't seem to know much."
"Open crates . . . you check that out? Guys could've been sneaking in the genetically altered stuff. Remember that whole mess a couple years ago?"
"Yep . . . first and last time I considered giving up Beefy Burgers. But I didn't see anything, and Bruce said the cops ran through the place with a fine-tooth comb. Zilch."
"Hmmm . . . maybe they were bringing something in. Drugs or guns or chemicals, maybe. Stashed them in the crates and went to pick it up."
"Wayne thought of that, but the police didn't find anything in the transport except a lot of twisted metal and burnt-up bad guys. Guy I caught swore no one went in or out after his buddies got there, so there wasn't anybody to hand off any product to."
"And then there's the explosion . . ."
"Yeah. That's the weirdest part. Cops did find where the bomb had been stashed. On the hoverjet's engine. And - this is the really whacked-out part -- it worked on a remote detonator."
Her eyes widened. "So somebody had the controls . . . and a finger on the button."
"Yup. But nobody knows who that somebody is or why he'd burn his own guys. It could've been a rival gang who just happened to rig up the bomb and decided to wait until they'd finished the job before they pressed the button. Or not. It just doesn't make any sense."
"You know, it could have been a blind."
He blinked. "A blind?"
"Sure. A runaround. Something to keep you busy while they did some real dirt somewhere else," Max looked thoughtful. "After all that food-tampering trouble the city had a few years ago, they had to figure that a break-in at Gotham's biggest meat-processing plant would bring out the troops."
"Hmmm . . . maybe. But what could they have been doing to want to set up something so elaborate?"
"The zillion-dollar question. So, I guess we'd better get started. I'll start checking into this Jenks guy and work my way down."
"Way ahead of you. Bruce ran all the guys through Interpol. I've got the records. Haven't found much, but-''
"It's not so much where you look, Ter, but how," she lifted an eyebrow. "Interpol's got a way of muddling even the simplest thing. You should know that by now."
"Yeah, yeah," he groused. "You can lecture me all you want tonight. Mom's taking the squirt out to commune with his fellow brats. Come over, bring the laptop, I'll make popcorn. We'll make a night of it."
"Tonight?" Max looked chagrined. "Much as I'd like to, I can't. My biogenetics-interfacing group's meeting in about an hour. We've got a project due and a lot of ground to cover."
"So come over after. I'll order cheesy squares. After hours of talking about gene-lacing, you'll need 'em."
"I know," she smiled slightly. "That's why Jared and I are heading out after the group splits. We're going to that new place downtown with the anti-grav dance floor. Schway, huh?"
"The Linderhop? Very schway. They did a whole piece about it on Entertainment Last Night."
"Yeah. Might be a good place for you to take Dana."
"Maybe. So this thing with Jared . . . it's getting serious?"
"Maybe," she smiled slightly. "Did you know his stepdad's getting out soon? Turns out some bigwig appellate judge was Mr. Tate's frat buddy. Jared and his mom are jazzed."
"Cool," Terry nodded, remembering Jim Tate's brief spin as "Armory," a masked character who'd gone around Gotham with an arsenal of high-tech, highly destructive weapons. "I'm glad for you two. At least somebody I know is having a social life."
"Poor Ter," she patted his shoulder. "I'd offer to trade with you, but those tights, my friend, would have to go."
"Maybe you could tell Wayne that. He sure hasn't listened to me when I've said it."
*
"I just wish you hadn't done it, that's all. It complicates things."
Though his voice was calm, Wittinger had to fight the effort to smash his fist through Merrill's smarmy image on the vid-link. It wouldn't do much good in actuality, but it would so soothe his soul. "You said damages would be kept to a minimum."
"It couldn't be helped," Merrill's face and voice were serene. "The Bat showed up. And we agreed that all of the evidence would have to be . . . disposed of."
"I know. But a bomb, Chaise? Thirteen men dead means thirteen families that are going to press Gotham police department to probe for answers. This is not what I bargained for, and you know it."
"Relax, Jeremy. I did my own investigation. The police have apparently finished theirs, and the product has been let go. It's out on the market as we speak; that is what's important. All is under way. You needn't worry. The plan is fully in motion."
"Killing was not in the plan."
Merrill sighed deeply. "Jeremy, even the most seamless plans benefit from a little . . . tweaking. Don't worry about families . . . those individuals lived very shifty lives. I doubt seriously they will be missed. Now get some sleep. We will be up late the next few nights, I believe . . . just like everyone else," he chuckled. "Good night."
Wittinger severed the link with a scowl, staring for a long time at the screen after it had gone blank. Merrill hadn't changed. Hadn't changed a whit. And as such, what he had coming, he deserved, in Wittinger's opinion. Oh, it would be marvelous to see Merrill's face then, when all of his careful plans blew up in his face.
It would be marvelous. Wittinger allowed himself a tiny smile. But not yet. Not yet.
*
"Chelsea knows just about every store on the Magnificent Mile," Dana's voice crackled through the receiver of Terry's cell phone. "And we hit almost every one. . . it really takes the pressure off."
"Uh huh," Terry cradled the phone between ear and shoulder, studying the names, dates and places that scrolled down the screen of his laptop. He grimaced in annoyance. Nothing. He'd spent the better part of the night poring over the information Bruce had gathered on the men who'd broken into the warehouse. None of them could be called career criminals; in fact, some of them didn't even have prior records. None except the two former guards at Gotham Cryogenics had any connection to the others. A motley bunch all thrown together to do . . . what? Four hours of looking though the files, and Terry still hadn't a clue. It was all starting to look extraordinarily bad.
"Terry? Terry, have you been listening to a word I've been saying?" Dana's annoyed tone jolted him out of his thoughts. "Hello?"
"Yeah, I'm here. Sorry ... you kinda caught me in the middle of something. What were you saying?"
Her exasperated sigh made him cringe. "Never mind. What are you doing that's keeping your attention better than I seem to be?"
"Sorry, Dana. It's just that I'm working on this project -''
"Something for school?"
"Yeah. Um . . . civics."
"Oh." There was a pause. "Is Max there? Put her on if she is. I found this schway dress I want to tell her about."
"Max has got better things to do than watch me work," Terry squinted at the screen. "She and Jared went to this new swanked-out place downtown. They're probably eating squab or something as we speak." He tapped a button, and the face of a weary, heavyset man filled the screen. Harold "Harry" Tomalison -- the friend of the man he'd interrogated at the factory. His fact sheet was short. He'd been on probation for a firearms charge. Was divorced with a kid in college. The end. Terry rubbed the bridge of his nose. There went that lead.
"They are so cute together," Dana went on. "Maybe the four of us could double sometime. I always felt kind of bad saddling her with Howard when we'd go out. He's sweet, but he's no Jared."
"Never a truer word said," he sighed, as the next set of files scrolled down the screen. "I think I hear my mom and Matt coming in. I'd better get going."
"Okay. Don't study too hard."
"I never do."
"Night, Terry. I love you."
"Yeah. Me, too. Night."
Clicking his cell closed, he stared blankly at the computer screen, the words and pictures turning into incomprehensible characters and shapes before his tired eyes. Everything was a jumble - nothing was clicking. It was probably as clear as day, but he couldn't see it. Maybe all the cheesy squares he'd eaten were dulling his senses.
"Terry? Honey, are you here?"
Terry looked up as his mother and younger brother entered the kitchen, the latter clutching a bag spotted with grease.
"We didn't think you'd be home," Mary McGinnis planted a kiss on the top of his head. "Are you feeling okay?"
"Yeah, twip. You said you had plaaaaaans," Matt danced around his brother's chair.
"I did. I have a killer project due soon, and this is the first weekend Mr. Wayne hasn't . . . needed me."
"Booooooring. You should've come with us! There's this new arcade that opened up next to Cheezy Dan's. They have this new Batman VR game . . . it's like you're really driving the Batmobile," Matt enthused. "It's so schway. You can't even imagine."
"Guess not," Terry said dryly. "What's that?" he indicated the bag.
"A club sandwich and some freaky fries," Mary wrinkled her nose in distaste. "With extra cheese. We weren't sure if you'd eaten. I know you love the Beefy Burgers, but I'm afraid they ran out."
"Yeah . . . they were real good today. I had three," Matt craned his neck to look at the screen of Terry's computer. "Who's that guy?"
"Nobody," Terry snapped the console shut. "Stop snooping."
"He looked like a twip. Like you."
"Careful . . . I wouldn't go insulting the guy who has an advance copy of DoomTrakker5000Z."
Matt's eyes widened. "No way you have that!"
Terry waved a small disc. "Max was able to score a copy. She wanted me to give it to you, but -'' Matt was off and running with the prize before his older sibling could blink. Terry grinned. If only he could get rid of other pests so easily.
"Finally, a chance to get some rest," Mrs. McGinnis said wearily. "Your brother and his friends were a handful tonight. Next time, I'll let one of the other mothers have the pleasure of being driven crazy," she ruffled Terry's dark hair. "It's good to see you being so industrious. Good night, sweetie."
"Night, Mom," he waited for her to leave before resuming his work. Settling back in, he attempted to put everything out of his mind and focus on the task at hand. Two hours later, he'd finished the entire file - and had gleaned very little information. Sighing, he folded up his laptop and stretched, ignoring the throbbing in his head as he switched off the lights in the kitchen and headed for bed. Passing Matt's room, where their mother was engaged in disengaging the boy from his new game, Terry entered his own room and went to the window.
Staring out into the darkness, he was conscious of a feeling of discontent. It was night . . . and he had nowhere to go, nothing to do. It was a strange sensation - one he didn't like at all. He'd wasted a perfectly good evening looking at useless junk when he could have been doing something else. Anything else.
He checked the clock and dialed Max's number. Four rings, and then her voice: "This is the Gibson residence . . ." Terry waited a moment and then pressed a button.
"Hey, Max. It's Terry. I spent all night looking over the stuff we talked about earlier, but I still didn't see anything unusual. I still want your take on it, though. Could be I'm missing something. Anyway, I'll see you at school tomorrow. Later."
He hung up, feeling vaguely unsettled. It was after eleven, Max wasn't home and there was school the next day. She and Jared must be having a real good time, he thought, his eyes straying to the distant, twinkling lights of the city's center. Minutes later, he turned off the lights and hopped into bed. Staring at the ceiling, he let his mind wander until he was able to drift off to sleep.
Disclaimer: Do I look like I own anything?
Chapter One
The thin, pale man shot a nervous look toward the door. It hadn't been fully closed, and he steamed inwardly at that. He'd specifically asked for privacy . . . complete privacy - the door was to have been shut and locked - he wanted to keep the wind and prying eyes out. But it wasn't. This deal was already getting off to a bad start.
His mouth twisted into a grimace as he gazed through the slight aperture and saw the foot of one of his companion's guards. Merrill had brought his hired guns - two of them, at least - probably more. And Merrill himself was no doubt armed. The bony man stifled a groan; why all the cowboys-and- Indians nonsense? This was a business venture, not a video game. But he knew that it wasn't in Chaise Merrill's nature to do anything without fanfare. He knew that and accepted it. But would it have killed him to close the frigging door?
"So, Jeremy, do we have a deal?"
Jeremy Wittinger forced his eyes away from the door and onto his companion, hoping that the annoyance didn't show too plainly in his face. Merrill was annoying, but Wittinger knew he needed this score. He was tired of living on the state's charity; he wanted, no, he needed to strike out on his own. And this alliance with Merrill, temporary as it would be, would allow him to do that.
"I believe we have reached an understanding, Mr. Merrill," Wittinger nodded, "as long as my payment request is met."
"Oh sure," Merrill smiled a wide, toothy grin. "No problem. And you're sure about the effects of this little mixture of yours?"
"Quite," Wittinger looked grave. "Both the catalyst and neutralizing agents have been tested. They are absolutely -''
"Tested?" the shorter, stockier man looked puzzled. "You tested this stuff? On humans?"
Wittinger fought the impulse to roll his eyes. Of course I tested it on humans, you ninny. What else would I use? Geraniums? "Yes, Mr. Merrill," he said aloud. "On humans. I did several tests."
Merrill looked skeptical. "I find it hard to believe you found willing participants."
"You'd be surprised at what people will do for money," he rummaged through a pocket on his sports jacket and plucked out a shiny disc. "I recorded the entire experimentation process so that you can see for yourself."
"Hmmmm, perhaps I will," Merrill took the disc, looking at it thoughtfully before tucking it into his inside suit pocket. "But there probably is no need. I trust you, Jeremy. You're brilliant. You're loyal. I can trust you." He paused. "Though, of course, you won't see a single credit until I see the results firsthand. Nothing personal, of course. Just good business."
"Of course," Jeremy's eyes shifted to the door again. It was still open, the foot was still there, and from the sound of it, it had begun to rain. Good. Wittinger bit back a smile. He willed the rain to pour in torrents . . . all the better to soak Merrill's rented thugs and ruin their expensive suits. "But it won't be long. I've already lain in a store of the neutralizing agent. One the catalyst compound hits Gotham, you'll be running through the neutralizer like . . .well, like water."
Merrill laughed heartily, slapping the thinner man soundly across the back, nearly sending him flying in the process.
"Like water! Oh, I like that, Jeremy. I like that," his guffaws echoed around the small space. "Now who ever said you didn't have a sense of humor?"
Wittinger didn't crack a smile. "I did."
Merrill continued to laugh. "Well, you were wrong about yourself, Jeremy. Hoo wee . . . you were wrong." He chuckled a moment longer before resuming his serious demeanor, the stern expression looking out of place on the cherubic face. "Now . . . you said you had a sample for me?"
Wittinger nodded and drew out a tiny vial from the depths of his sports jacket. Offering it to the shorter man, he watched with smug pride as Chaise eyed the pinkish liquid in the vial. Unstopping the cork, he smelled it. His eyebrows raised, he sniffed again.
"Odorless," Wittinger intoned. "And even more important, it won't react with the proteins in the product, so there will be no risk at all of detection."
"I suppose it doesn't have any taste, either?"
"That is correct. The neutralizer also has no taste or smell. Trust me, Mr. Merrill-'' he broke off, noticing the forlorn look on his companion's face. "What? What's wrong?"
"Well, I can understand not wanting it to smell, but no taste, either? That's kinda boring, don't you think? Couldn't you have spiced it up some with some pepper? Maybe a nice jalapeno flavor? Or -''
"Mr. Merrill," Jeremy's tone was icy. "I'm a scientist, not a chef. Trust me. This is what you want. Besides, it wouldn't do to have the antidote tasting of pepper . . . or anything else . . . would it?"
"Yeah, I suppose you're right. Speaking of the antidote, any chance I could get a sample of that, too?"
Wittinger pulled another vial from his pocket. This tube contained a clear liquid, and Merrill's eyes shone.
"Excellent work. Your time away hasn't dulled your skills a wit."
My time away . . . how quaint. He says it as if I was on a lovely tropical vacation and not a festering jail cell. And all of it . . . all of it. . . was his fault. Wittinger's eyes narrowed. "Well, I must admit, I wasn't exactly idle during my period of incarceration." He hesitated. "The warden found myriad uses for my . . . talents."
"I'll bet," Merrill nodded. "I'll just bet. Well," he straightened, "I think we're done here. For now, anyway. You do have the delivery instructions?"
"I do. The canisters will be at the appointed place at the appointed time - day after tomorrow. Your men will know what to do?"
"Oh, yes indeed," Merrill gazed transfixed at the two vials in his hands. "They'll know." He sighed dreamily, continuing to stare into his palms. "They'll all know. Soon, this city will know how wrong it was to cross me . . . and how wrong it was to write me off as if I didn't matter." Merrill looked up with a grin that made Wittinger's blood run cold.
"Yes, soon they'll know," Merrill said softly. "I lived out my nightmare. Now it is time for the people of Gotham to live out theirs."
*
Max Gibson entered BaliBurgers and was immediately met with a wall of sound as confused and varied as the people who were jammed into the little restaurant. She glanced to her left and saw Nelson Nash, surrounded by his entourage, holding court at a large corner booth. Across from that group sat a bunch of kids that she recognized from her advanced astrochemical class. They were hard at work on . . . something, four heads bent over laptops and plates of burgers.
Hell of a place to try to study. She shook her head as she snaked through the press of the crowd. I wonder what's up . . . I didn't think anybody even knew about this place. Winding her way to the other side of the restaurant, her eyes swept over the booths at the far wall, each of them seemingly filled with yammering, snacking people. Her eyes narrowed and then widened as she peered toward a table in the rear and caught sight of a well-worn leather jacket hanging from a chair, one sleeve dangling close to the floor.
Max reached the table, and stopped for a moment, dead. Shock colored her features as her brain processed the almost incomprehensible sight. There was Terry McGinnis, all right. He was in the booth alone, oddly enough considering the crowd. Even more incredible, though, considering the music wailing from the speakers and the decibel level in general, he was fast asleep, his forehead pressed against the table.
She stared for a moment, a small smile on her lips. If any one could sleep through this din, it'd be him. She'd seen him earlier that day, and though he seemed to be okay, she could tell that he was on the verge of crashing. It seemed almost a shame to wake him - he looked so innocent and peaceful. But ...
"Ter," she gently shook his shoulder. "Hey, McGinnis ... rise and shine!"
He shifted slightly, grunting a little, but not lifting his head. Max sighed. This wasn't going to be pretty.
"Terry? Terry! Come on, wake up!" she shook him harder. "Up and at 'em ... let's go!"
No response. She frowned. She'd tried to do it easy, but now it was time to take the kid gloves off. Lifting the books she'd picked up for her 20th Century lit project to eye level, she waited a beat before letting the books fall just inches from Terry's head.
The ensuing clatter had the desired result as Terry started up in alarm, wincing as he banged his knee on the table. "Wha-, what?" he looked up, blinking in confusion. "Oh, hey, Max," he ran a hand tiredly over his hair. "Sorry about that. I was just resting my eyes ..."
"I guess I don't have to ask what you were up to last night."
He yawned expansively. "Do you ever?"
"Nope. Anyway, it was all over the Web this morning - Batman vs. a gang of arms smugglers. Twenty of them! How'd you pull that one off?"
"Beats me. I didn't know there were that many until they all came piling out of the hoverjet they'd stole. It was like the old days in the circus -- you know, with all the clowns coming out of a tiny car?" Terry stopped as a harried waitress dropped off his order. "Want something, Max? They're running a special on Beefy Burgers."
"No, thanks. Late lunch. So, what kinda firepower were they trying to bring in?"
"Well, they weren't pop guns. The suit got a major workout. It's going to be out of commission at least a day."
"Humph. Well, you could have called me. You said I'd be able to help sometimes," she glared at him.
"Max ... what exactly would you have been able to do against twenty very angry men with very big guns?"
She frowned a moment, thinking. "I could have created a diversion or something. Kept them occupied while you dumped the cargo. That way, you wouldn't have had to worry about getting plugged."
"Kept them occupied?" Terry shook his head. "Max, I don't even want to tell you how that sounds." Tall, pink-haired and mahogany-skinned, she no doubt would have attracted the smugglers' attention, Terry knew. But with so many, she'd more than likely would have been overpowered very quickly, and he shuddered to think how they would then want to be kept "occupied."
"Look, can you be mad at me next week or something? The pissed-at-Terry card is kinda full today."
"Uh-oh ... what'd you do to slag off you-know-who this time?" she leaned close.
"Amazingly enough, Wayne hasn't chewed me out in," he checked his watch, "almost eight hours. Of course, he's been asleep for the past seven-and-a- half . . ."
"Your mom, then? She catch you sneaking through the window at daybreak again?"
"Nope," Terry's expression hardened. "Dana's ticked at me ... as usual."
"What is it now? I thought you were off the hook this week - she's going on that debate-a-thon with Chelsea and the rest of the debate team. Weren't they leaving today? Chicago's the first stop, right?"
"Yeah ... but today at lunch, right before she left, we took one of those compatibility tests that they have on the Web..." he rested his chin in his hands, shutting his eyes wearily. "You know, the one where you put in your names and it's supposed to tell you how perfect you are for each other?"
"Oh boy. What happened?"
"Let's just say we failed ... big time," he took a vicious bite out of his burger. "I didn't even know you could get a negative score."
"Those things are scams," Max shook her head. "There's no way you can rate compatibility using just names. Why'd you two even bother?"
"Blade was talking it up in biochem -- said it was 100 percent accurate for her and Nelson."
"Like that proves anything. Those two are more on-again, off-again than a vid-link switch."
"Mmm. Well, anyway, we took the stupid thing and it said that we would make perfect acquaintances. We didn't even score high enough for friendship."
"Glacial," Max studied him with inquisitive eyes. "But why would she be mad at you? You couldn't help what you were named ..."
"She didn't think I got outraged enough about it," he looked bewildered. "She said I just shrugged it off, like I didn't care."
"What did you say?"
"I told her not worry about it. I just didn't think it was worth getting worked up over it," he sighed. "And since the other results were pretty weird, too -''
"What other results?"
"Well, Dana wanted to see if the thing was busted or something, so we punched in other names, paired ourselves with other people . . . just for fun," he grinned slightly. "Dana and Nelson have almost zilch compatibility, but she and Corey would be perfect for each other, according to the computer."
"Dana and Corey Cavalleri?" Max smiled, too. "Yeah, right. Could you imagine him trying to get her to go to a Sentry convention? She'd have a spaz."
"Uh-huh. I'm not compatible with Blade, sorta compatible with Chelsea, not very with Jamie, pretty compatible with you, not at all compatible with Ms. Pinto -''
"Hold it," she looked surprised. "You put in my name?"
"Yeah. We scored an 82 percent ... the highest on my side. Dana and Corey were 85 percent. Wild, huh?"
"Hmmm ..." she seemed lost in thought a moment. "What name did you try?"
He looked up, confused. "What?"
"Did you use your full name or what? It makes a difference, you know. Maybe Terry and Dana work better than Terrance and Dana."
"It said use full name. Whatever. It's stupid. I think Dana was just looking to pick a fight. And that's her problem, not mine," he stared down at his plate, toying with the last remaining fries.
"True," she knew that tone - it meant change the subject, quickly. "So, with the suit down, what are you doing tonight?"
"Taking Matt to the mall. Mom's birthday is coming up, and this is the only chance me and the twip will have to snag a gift for her," he drained his glass. "You up for some shopping? You could be the tiebreaker."
"Sure. Cheezy Dan's afterward?"
"You and Matt would frag me if I said no, right?"
"You are a fast learner, McGinnis," she grinned.
*
Sam Jenks wiped the sweat coursing down his face, wondering for the millionth time how he could be warm in a meat locker.
Temperature controls must be on the fritz, he thought sourly, watching his group of "aides." They puttered around the dimness of the warehouse, guided only by the smallest of flashlights and the slice of moonlight coming in from the warehouse's plate-glass windows, prying open containers of meat, dousing the contents with a pinkish liquid and resealing the crates with a laser-powered soldering gun. Jenks' mouth twisted in disgust. He didn't know and didn't want to know what it was his guys were pouring on the meat. Didn't matter; they'd been paid, and he was a vegetarian. The guys who weren't were given a list of places to avoid buying meat from.
The stocky man mopped his brow again, irritably. It was really hot in there. The stuff probably would've gone bad without their help. Shoddy operation. Bad way to run a business.
"That's it, boss," a man in a black turtleneck drew near, careful not to shine his light in Jenks' face. "We're all done, finally. Everything's tight as a drum."
"Good. You got the stuff out back?"
"Yes, sir. John's getting the fire started."
"Great," Jenks nodded. "Let's get this over with. It stinks in here and it's too slagging hot."
"Hot sir? But we're in a meat locker ..."
Jenks glowered. "Forget it. Let's just get it done."
"Yes sir. The fire should get rid of everything in about -'' the man trailed off as a thump was heard outside. Close by.
"What was that?" Jenks growled. "I thought you said everyone had gone to the place."
"They did, Mr. J. They were putting the wood in the pit."
"Then what the ..." Jenks went to the window and looked out. All seemed still and quiet.
"I don't see nothin'," his voice was nonchalant, but he felt uneasy. This whole setup seemed weird. But then, the guy who set up the thing was pretty weird, himself. But that didn't matter, either. Money was money whether it came from a perfectly sane crook or a crazy one.
"It was probably just a dog or something knocking over stuff," Jenks inhaled deeply, instantly regretting it as the sharp smell of freshly slaughtered meat hit his nostrils. "Let's get outside. I need some air -''
His sentence was punctuated by the shattering of glass followed by a streak of black. Jenks and his man hit the floor as the glass flew, covering their ears and faces as the shards scattered around them.
"A little late for a barbecue, isn't it?"
Jenks looked up sharply, his mouth dropping open in dismay as he saw the dark figure crouched in the window. He struggled to rise to his feet, feeling for the gun in his waistband.
"I would've brought chips or something, but I was in a hurry," Batman hopped lightly into the room. "But I didn't come completely empty-handed," a batarang sang through the air, knocking Jenks' weapon and his aide's flashlight to the floor.
"Damn!" Jenks rushed behind the still-dazed guard, who had recovered just enough to draw a blaster. "Slag him!"
Firing wildly, the guard swore in frustration, noting the near- impossibility of getting a clear shot on the shadowy figure. "Come on, Bat freak!" Jenks yelled, backing up. "Come out and fight like a man!"
"You've been watching too much television." The voice came from behind him, and Jenks whirled around just in time to receive a kick in the gut. He went to his knees in pain as Batman shimmered into view over him, deftly tying Jenks' arms and legs with a length of cord. As a finishing touch, he tore a bit of Jenks' shirt, using the bit of cloth as a gag. "I hope you're wearing your long johns, because you'll be here for awhile."
Batman stood and stretched, relaxing slowly and languidly before drawing in his arm and delivering a sharp elbow to the belly of the guard who thought he was being quiet in sneaking up behind him. Taking hold of the groaning man's sweater, Batman flipped him over his shoulder, letting fly a bola, which tied the guard up in mid-air. The man fell to the ground with a resounding thump and was still.
"Snug as a bug," Batman nudged the unconscious man with the toe of his boot before striding over to the still-struggling Jenks. He kneeled close to Jenks' head, grabbing the struggling man by the shirt and pulling him up.
"All right, listen: I'm insulated - you're not. So the sooner you tell me what's going on here, the sooner you can get out of this icebox and into a nice, warm jail cell," he lowered the gag. "Sound good?"
Jenks drew a ragged breath and spit squarely into the Bat's face. He recoiled slightly, wiping the spittle off his cowl in measured disgust.
"And I just had that cleaned. I'm sending you the bill."
~Forget him, McGinnis,~ Bruce Wayne's voice came through loud, clear and impatient through the cowl's receiver. ~I'm picking up something hot in the vicinity of the warehouse. About 20 feet from the rear. Someone's burning something.~
"I hope it's hot dogs. I haven't eaten all day." Batman stood, cautiously making his way to the back of the warehouse. Canisters were piled everywhere, prompting Terry to stay on his guard. He adjusted the infrared sensors on his visor, scanning for heat signatures. "The place looks pretty empty. Maybe these guys were just hungry . . . decided that the burgers are always overcooked at Cheezy Dan's - which is true - and just decided to do their own."
~You ~are~ hungry, aren't you?~
"One sec," Terry turned at the sound of footfalls coming from the direction in which he was moving. A door opened, admitting a warm gust of air and a tangle of voices.
"Boss? Mr. Jenks? You okay?" The voices were close. "Mr. Jenks?"
"More of the same on the way," Batman muttered into the receiver. "Good thing I'm dressed for company." He shifted behind a stack of crates just as a group of men, all in black, burst into the space with their guns drawn.
"Mr. Jenks? Mr. Jenks? Dammit, where's the freakin' lights?"
A flashlight was clicked on then, and the pale glowing circle swept across the room, coming to rest, eventually, on the form of the knocked-out guard.
"Slagit! Don's down!" There was a rush of footsteps.
"He all right?"
Silence. Then, "Yeah . . . he's breathin', but he's out cold. Where the hell is Jenks?"
"Hey . . . listen . . ." the room grew quiet, and in the silence, a frenzied tapping and what appeared to be muffled groans could be heard. "It's coming from over there! Get the light over near the door!"
The light swung around, and shone directly in Jenks face, causing him to squint against the glare. Panicked, his men ran toward him, and all gathered around as two of the men worked on Jenks' bonds. "What the hell happened in here, Mr. J?"
Jenks wriggled wildly, his words muffled by the gag.
"What's he saying?"
"Dunno. Steve, get the gag." There was another scuffling sound as the cloth was unwound. "There we go. Now again, boss, what was you saying?"
Jenks' eyes widened as he glanced over Steve's shoulder. "Look out!"
The guard had no time to react as Batman, having launched himself from the stack of crates, plowed into him, knocking him and Jenks to the floor. The others, stunned momentarily, recovered and began to fire wildly, narrowly missing each other in their haste. The Bat rocketed upward and out of the line of gunfire.
Landing on a beam far above the crowd, he crouched in wait. He had the advantage, he knew . . . it was dark, and though his visor allowed him to get direct locations on the men, they, in turn could not see him. He grinned. Wouldn't even need to go into camouflage for this one.
A bullet zipped close - uncomfortably so - by his ear, and Batman flinched, eyes narrowing. Time to wrap up.
He eased to the edge of the beam, getting a fix on the location of the largest group of sentries. Letting fly a quartet of batarangs, he smiled in satisfaction when he heard yelling and the sound of firearms being knocked from hands and onto the floor.
"Dammit, where is he? Doesn't this place have any lights?"
"Screw it," Jenks ran toward the door. "We're done here. Let's blow this joint."
"Bruce . . . please tell me he's not being literal," Terry murmured.
~I'm not detecting any explosives, but be careful.~
"Aren't I always?" He soared down from his perch, knocking a fleeing man to the ground, struggling as the man tried to rise. Dodging his captive's wild swings, Batman went to pin the man's arms behind his back, but was stunned momentarily by a blow to the head. He swept around and took the assailant down with a kick to the leg.
The sound of an engine's firing drew the Bat' s attention, and he looked up in time to see a hover transport fire up and away at top speed. "I think I ruined their appetites. Guess I should go after them and try to make amends."
Let them go for now, Wayne replied. I've got a tracer on the vehicle. The fire I was picking up seems to have died out on its own. I wonder . . .
"Yeah, me, too," Batman strode over to the man whom he'd swept off his feet and grabbed him roughly by the short. "All right. As much as I love talking, I'd like to give someone else a turn tonight. Namely you. So why don't you start by telling me what you were doing here, who your friends are and what they were burning up out there. Don't jerk me around, and we'll all be alright."
"Please! Please, it wasn't me! None of us knew anything!" the man's voice was shrill with terror. "Honest! We just stood around and kept watch. That's what they paid us to do. . . just stand and keep watch."
"They who? And just what were you keeping watch on?"
"I don't know; I swear it! I'd never seen the guys before."
"Let me get this straight . . . you come out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, break into a meat-packing plant and start a nice, big bonfire all for a bunch of guys you'd never seen before? Sorry, but I'm on a strict no-B.S. diet. You're going to have to feed me something else."
"It's the truth, I'm telling you!" he gulped. "Me and a buddy - Harry - we work security for Gotham Cryogenics. Well, least we did 'til about a week back when we got laid off. Couple days ago, Harry calls and says an old friend has a job and needs a couple of people who know how to handle a blaster. Said he was paying well . . . real well. I got a family. A wife . . . kids . . . I needed the creds."
"Uh huh. This old friend of Harry's got a name?"
"Jersey. Harry called him Jersey, I think. Maybe it was Jerry. I. . . I don't remember!"
"What's this Jersey guy look like?"
"I don't know. Never met the guy . . . he's Harry's friend, not mine . . ."
"So you don't know if he was here tonight."
"No . . . I don't . . . know. We was working for a guy named Jenks. He pulled up in a big hoverjet and said he was in charge. Told us to stay out and shoot anything that moved. And we did . . . 'til we heard scuffling and came in here."
"What were they doing in here?"
"I tell you, I don't know! We was paid to stay out and we stayed out," the man looked wildly around. "Where's Harry? He was right behind me 'til you decked me. What'd you do to him?"
"Your pals took their magic carpet outta here . . . and unless Harry's the guy on the floor over there, he went with them."
"What?! No . . . no! They wouldn't leave me here . . . Harry wouldn't have left me! He promised. He . .. he . . . he . . ." the man began to sob, the tears running down his face. "He promised. I got a wife, kids. He promised."
"Looks like you were expendable," Batman let him go, and the man crumpled on the floor into a heap, still bawling. "No friends, no creds, and jail. Not your lucky day."
~Terry . . . get back here immediately,~ Wayne's sounded agitated. ~The police are on their way; let them handle the cleanup.~
"What? What happened?" Terry hissed. "Wayne? What's wrong?"
~The burglars' transport just exploded over Gotham Harbor. I'm scanning the debris field, but so far, it doesn't look like anything could've come out alive from that.~
Batman's jaw set, his eye falling on the hysterical guard, who'd crawled into a corner next to his unconscious friend and settled into a sobbing heap.
"I stand corrected," he murmured.
*
"Wow . . . talk about getting burned," Max scooted to the edge of her bed, transfixed. "What were they doing there, anyway?"
Terry, listlessly thumbing through her vid-disc collection, shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."
"What'd the cops find?"
"Bruce says they didn't get anything. Ask me, they weren't looking too hard. Nothing was stolen and most of the guys who broke in went kaboom in that transport blast," Terry stared up at the ceiling. "So, you got any?"
"Any what?"
"Guesses. I'm fresh out."
"Really?" a smile spread across her face. "You're letting me in on this one?"
"When did you hear me say that?"
Her smile grew. "Just now."
"I'm just making conversation . . . but if you happen to have any thoughts..."
"Well, give me a little more. Did you see anything there?"
"Not really. A couple of crates had been opened; there was that fire in the back," he sighed. "Guy I collared didn't seem to know much."
"Open crates . . . you check that out? Guys could've been sneaking in the genetically altered stuff. Remember that whole mess a couple years ago?"
"Yep . . . first and last time I considered giving up Beefy Burgers. But I didn't see anything, and Bruce said the cops ran through the place with a fine-tooth comb. Zilch."
"Hmmm . . . maybe they were bringing something in. Drugs or guns or chemicals, maybe. Stashed them in the crates and went to pick it up."
"Wayne thought of that, but the police didn't find anything in the transport except a lot of twisted metal and burnt-up bad guys. Guy I caught swore no one went in or out after his buddies got there, so there wasn't anybody to hand off any product to."
"And then there's the explosion . . ."
"Yeah. That's the weirdest part. Cops did find where the bomb had been stashed. On the hoverjet's engine. And - this is the really whacked-out part -- it worked on a remote detonator."
Her eyes widened. "So somebody had the controls . . . and a finger on the button."
"Yup. But nobody knows who that somebody is or why he'd burn his own guys. It could've been a rival gang who just happened to rig up the bomb and decided to wait until they'd finished the job before they pressed the button. Or not. It just doesn't make any sense."
"You know, it could have been a blind."
He blinked. "A blind?"
"Sure. A runaround. Something to keep you busy while they did some real dirt somewhere else," Max looked thoughtful. "After all that food-tampering trouble the city had a few years ago, they had to figure that a break-in at Gotham's biggest meat-processing plant would bring out the troops."
"Hmmm . . . maybe. But what could they have been doing to want to set up something so elaborate?"
"The zillion-dollar question. So, I guess we'd better get started. I'll start checking into this Jenks guy and work my way down."
"Way ahead of you. Bruce ran all the guys through Interpol. I've got the records. Haven't found much, but-''
"It's not so much where you look, Ter, but how," she lifted an eyebrow. "Interpol's got a way of muddling even the simplest thing. You should know that by now."
"Yeah, yeah," he groused. "You can lecture me all you want tonight. Mom's taking the squirt out to commune with his fellow brats. Come over, bring the laptop, I'll make popcorn. We'll make a night of it."
"Tonight?" Max looked chagrined. "Much as I'd like to, I can't. My biogenetics-interfacing group's meeting in about an hour. We've got a project due and a lot of ground to cover."
"So come over after. I'll order cheesy squares. After hours of talking about gene-lacing, you'll need 'em."
"I know," she smiled slightly. "That's why Jared and I are heading out after the group splits. We're going to that new place downtown with the anti-grav dance floor. Schway, huh?"
"The Linderhop? Very schway. They did a whole piece about it on Entertainment Last Night."
"Yeah. Might be a good place for you to take Dana."
"Maybe. So this thing with Jared . . . it's getting serious?"
"Maybe," she smiled slightly. "Did you know his stepdad's getting out soon? Turns out some bigwig appellate judge was Mr. Tate's frat buddy. Jared and his mom are jazzed."
"Cool," Terry nodded, remembering Jim Tate's brief spin as "Armory," a masked character who'd gone around Gotham with an arsenal of high-tech, highly destructive weapons. "I'm glad for you two. At least somebody I know is having a social life."
"Poor Ter," she patted his shoulder. "I'd offer to trade with you, but those tights, my friend, would have to go."
"Maybe you could tell Wayne that. He sure hasn't listened to me when I've said it."
*
"I just wish you hadn't done it, that's all. It complicates things."
Though his voice was calm, Wittinger had to fight the effort to smash his fist through Merrill's smarmy image on the vid-link. It wouldn't do much good in actuality, but it would so soothe his soul. "You said damages would be kept to a minimum."
"It couldn't be helped," Merrill's face and voice were serene. "The Bat showed up. And we agreed that all of the evidence would have to be . . . disposed of."
"I know. But a bomb, Chaise? Thirteen men dead means thirteen families that are going to press Gotham police department to probe for answers. This is not what I bargained for, and you know it."
"Relax, Jeremy. I did my own investigation. The police have apparently finished theirs, and the product has been let go. It's out on the market as we speak; that is what's important. All is under way. You needn't worry. The plan is fully in motion."
"Killing was not in the plan."
Merrill sighed deeply. "Jeremy, even the most seamless plans benefit from a little . . . tweaking. Don't worry about families . . . those individuals lived very shifty lives. I doubt seriously they will be missed. Now get some sleep. We will be up late the next few nights, I believe . . . just like everyone else," he chuckled. "Good night."
Wittinger severed the link with a scowl, staring for a long time at the screen after it had gone blank. Merrill hadn't changed. Hadn't changed a whit. And as such, what he had coming, he deserved, in Wittinger's opinion. Oh, it would be marvelous to see Merrill's face then, when all of his careful plans blew up in his face.
It would be marvelous. Wittinger allowed himself a tiny smile. But not yet. Not yet.
*
"Chelsea knows just about every store on the Magnificent Mile," Dana's voice crackled through the receiver of Terry's cell phone. "And we hit almost every one. . . it really takes the pressure off."
"Uh huh," Terry cradled the phone between ear and shoulder, studying the names, dates and places that scrolled down the screen of his laptop. He grimaced in annoyance. Nothing. He'd spent the better part of the night poring over the information Bruce had gathered on the men who'd broken into the warehouse. None of them could be called career criminals; in fact, some of them didn't even have prior records. None except the two former guards at Gotham Cryogenics had any connection to the others. A motley bunch all thrown together to do . . . what? Four hours of looking though the files, and Terry still hadn't a clue. It was all starting to look extraordinarily bad.
"Terry? Terry, have you been listening to a word I've been saying?" Dana's annoyed tone jolted him out of his thoughts. "Hello?"
"Yeah, I'm here. Sorry ... you kinda caught me in the middle of something. What were you saying?"
Her exasperated sigh made him cringe. "Never mind. What are you doing that's keeping your attention better than I seem to be?"
"Sorry, Dana. It's just that I'm working on this project -''
"Something for school?"
"Yeah. Um . . . civics."
"Oh." There was a pause. "Is Max there? Put her on if she is. I found this schway dress I want to tell her about."
"Max has got better things to do than watch me work," Terry squinted at the screen. "She and Jared went to this new swanked-out place downtown. They're probably eating squab or something as we speak." He tapped a button, and the face of a weary, heavyset man filled the screen. Harold "Harry" Tomalison -- the friend of the man he'd interrogated at the factory. His fact sheet was short. He'd been on probation for a firearms charge. Was divorced with a kid in college. The end. Terry rubbed the bridge of his nose. There went that lead.
"They are so cute together," Dana went on. "Maybe the four of us could double sometime. I always felt kind of bad saddling her with Howard when we'd go out. He's sweet, but he's no Jared."
"Never a truer word said," he sighed, as the next set of files scrolled down the screen. "I think I hear my mom and Matt coming in. I'd better get going."
"Okay. Don't study too hard."
"I never do."
"Night, Terry. I love you."
"Yeah. Me, too. Night."
Clicking his cell closed, he stared blankly at the computer screen, the words and pictures turning into incomprehensible characters and shapes before his tired eyes. Everything was a jumble - nothing was clicking. It was probably as clear as day, but he couldn't see it. Maybe all the cheesy squares he'd eaten were dulling his senses.
"Terry? Honey, are you here?"
Terry looked up as his mother and younger brother entered the kitchen, the latter clutching a bag spotted with grease.
"We didn't think you'd be home," Mary McGinnis planted a kiss on the top of his head. "Are you feeling okay?"
"Yeah, twip. You said you had plaaaaaans," Matt danced around his brother's chair.
"I did. I have a killer project due soon, and this is the first weekend Mr. Wayne hasn't . . . needed me."
"Booooooring. You should've come with us! There's this new arcade that opened up next to Cheezy Dan's. They have this new Batman VR game . . . it's like you're really driving the Batmobile," Matt enthused. "It's so schway. You can't even imagine."
"Guess not," Terry said dryly. "What's that?" he indicated the bag.
"A club sandwich and some freaky fries," Mary wrinkled her nose in distaste. "With extra cheese. We weren't sure if you'd eaten. I know you love the Beefy Burgers, but I'm afraid they ran out."
"Yeah . . . they were real good today. I had three," Matt craned his neck to look at the screen of Terry's computer. "Who's that guy?"
"Nobody," Terry snapped the console shut. "Stop snooping."
"He looked like a twip. Like you."
"Careful . . . I wouldn't go insulting the guy who has an advance copy of DoomTrakker5000Z."
Matt's eyes widened. "No way you have that!"
Terry waved a small disc. "Max was able to score a copy. She wanted me to give it to you, but -'' Matt was off and running with the prize before his older sibling could blink. Terry grinned. If only he could get rid of other pests so easily.
"Finally, a chance to get some rest," Mrs. McGinnis said wearily. "Your brother and his friends were a handful tonight. Next time, I'll let one of the other mothers have the pleasure of being driven crazy," she ruffled Terry's dark hair. "It's good to see you being so industrious. Good night, sweetie."
"Night, Mom," he waited for her to leave before resuming his work. Settling back in, he attempted to put everything out of his mind and focus on the task at hand. Two hours later, he'd finished the entire file - and had gleaned very little information. Sighing, he folded up his laptop and stretched, ignoring the throbbing in his head as he switched off the lights in the kitchen and headed for bed. Passing Matt's room, where their mother was engaged in disengaging the boy from his new game, Terry entered his own room and went to the window.
Staring out into the darkness, he was conscious of a feeling of discontent. It was night . . . and he had nowhere to go, nothing to do. It was a strange sensation - one he didn't like at all. He'd wasted a perfectly good evening looking at useless junk when he could have been doing something else. Anything else.
He checked the clock and dialed Max's number. Four rings, and then her voice: "This is the Gibson residence . . ." Terry waited a moment and then pressed a button.
"Hey, Max. It's Terry. I spent all night looking over the stuff we talked about earlier, but I still didn't see anything unusual. I still want your take on it, though. Could be I'm missing something. Anyway, I'll see you at school tomorrow. Later."
He hung up, feeling vaguely unsettled. It was after eleven, Max wasn't home and there was school the next day. She and Jared must be having a real good time, he thought, his eyes straying to the distant, twinkling lights of the city's center. Minutes later, he turned off the lights and hopped into bed. Staring at the ceiling, he let his mind wander until he was able to drift off to sleep.