Black Canary and Wildcat:

Wicked
A tale of Gotham City Before the batman
By Christopher W. Blaine
Darth_yoshi@yahoo.com

All characters and situations copyright 2006 by dc comics inc with the exception of “ben tinsley” and other origi-
nal characters created for this tale. Used without permission.
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Chapter 1

The boy stood, as he did every night, looking down at the headstones. While there
were several markers he could have studied, some of them dating back to the time of Gotham
City’s founding, he always remained intent on the newest. Two marble monuments, testifying
to the spot where the parents of Bruce Wayne lay in eternal slumber.
Some nights he cried, but not so many now. In the two odd years since the murder of
his parents, he had learned to internalize his tears. He had nothing to hide; Alfred had seen
him sob and bawl since the time he had been born. Instead it was an exercise in control; first
he would master his emotions and then, God willing, he would master the city.
So it was on this night that he was not crying, but instead found himself reflecting on
how empty his life seemed without the love of his parents. Alfred was a good man and even
in his ten-year-old mind Bruce understood how deeply the man cared for him. But it wasn’t
enough. He was tired of the social workers calling him the “poor, sweet boy” who had
suffered such great tragedy. He wanted to be known as the son of Thomas and Martha. The
only time he was ever given that moniker was when someone did their annual story on the
murder of the Wayne parents.
It was required reading in the city now. Once a year the Gotham Gazette would
publish an article about the murders and the current progress of the investigation. There were
few leads being leaked out and many felt that the case would never be solved. Bruce could not
afford to look at it that way; he had to believe that there would be justice for his parents.
Often he would pay more attention to the grave of his mother than that of his father.
Thomas Wayne had died fighting to protect his family and in a way Bruce’s heart filled with
pride when he thought about it. True, he missed his father greatly, but the man had died for a
cause, protecting those who could not protect themselves. In a way, his father had become
Zorro, defender of the innocent and a favorite heroic character of Bruce’s in the times before
the murders. In fact, it had been leaving a theater after having watched a special Zorro film
showing that the events had transpired.

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But when it came to Bruce’s mother, he found himself fighting harder to keep back the
tears. He had stood in front of her, but not completely, as she had pushed him to the side to
protect him. Had he been faster, or taller or older…
Or braver…
And that was the thorn that constantly dug into his soul. He remembered so clearly the
fear he had felt and it shamed him. Yes, his father was gone, but his ten-year-old mind could
balance that. Brave men sometimes died doing brave things. But his mother had been
innocent, had not attacked and had complied.
Bruce should have protected her he told himself. He lacked the maturity and the
experience necessary to logically reason that there was really nothing he could have done.
Instead he blamed himself, trying to even control his grief.
“Ahem,” a voice said softly behind him.
Bruce closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip. It was time for his punishment and he
refused to be afraid. He turned to regard the gaunt form of Alfred, dressed in pajamas,
slippers and a robe that had been a present from Thomas Wayne. “I’m sorry, Alfred,” Bruce
said.
Both of them knew the apology was more for form than substance. He wasn’t sorry at
all for what he had done and they both knew it. If he was apologetic about anything, it was
mostly because Alfred was still awake and had a full day ahead of him. Not only was he
Bruce’s caretaker along with Dr. Leslie Thompkins, but he was also responsible for
maintaining the Wayne Estate until Bruce reached the ripe old age of 18.
“If you were truly sorry, Master Bruce, then you would not have done this again,”
Alfred said, his British accent predominant. Even a scolding sounded like Shakespeare when
Alfred spoke. “You promised me last year it would not occur again, yet here we are, one year
to the minute, having the very same discussion.”
“I don’t know what to say, Alfred; I hoped I wouldn’t get caught,” he replied.
His guardian shook his head. “Getting caught is not the point. You made a promise to

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me and I expected you to keep it.”

Bruce turned back to the window. “I made a promise to them first, Alfred. I don’t
want to choose…”
Alfred sighed and shoved his hands into the warm pockets of his robe. The boy spoke
with a wisdom that he should not have possessed. Ten-year-old boys were not supposed to
have knowledge of irony or be forced to weigh the moral implications of vows broken. Bruce
should have been worrying more about breaking toys or getting on the basketball team at the
local elementary school. Well, private elementary school at least.
Instead he saw a grieving man inside the body of a child; a wounded tiger waiting to
lash out at the hunters who pursued it. “Master Bruce, it is simply inconceivable for a child of
your age to be out roaming the streets of the city at this time of night unchecked.”
“Would you have taken me?” he asked, not turning away from the window. “If I had
asked you, would you have helped me, Alfred?” There was a tremor to the boy’s voice and
Alfred could not begin to even guess at the horrid thoughts that now ran through the young
boy’s mind. Did he relive the moment every day…every night? When he closed his eyes, did
he smell the gunpowder? Taste the coppery bouquet of blood in the air? Did he feel the hot
tears running down his face from that night?
“No, I would not. Leslie agrees with me that it is not healthy for you to revisit that
place. Sneaking out to do it certainly is worse!” Alfred took in a deep breath and relaxed. He
wanted to go to Bruce and hug him, tell him how happy he was that he had made it home, but
that would not do.
He knew Bruce loved him, but not as a father. Alfred was something else entirely,
something that could not be readily be explained in terms like “father”, “brother” or “uncle”.
Perhaps favored cousin? Bruce was uncomfortable showing his emotions around Alfred, the
softer ones at least, though he tended to lighten up around Leslie.
“Are you going to punish me?” Bruce asked.
Alfred started to say “yes”, but then caught himself. What could he do to the boy that

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wasn’t already being done by the demons that tormented his every waking moment? He had
no friends. He played no games. He had given all of his toys to charity. All he did was read,
watch the news and practice his martial arts.
He supposed he could lock him in his room, take away his television and
encyclopedias, but the martial arts training was about the only exercise he got. It was nothing
serious, just a few hours every other day, training in the basics of Japanese-style fighting,
mainly ninjutsu.
“I would think disappointing me is proving to be punishment enough, but it is so hard
to tell with you. I swear there are times when I think your antics shall cause my untimely
demise…”
Bruce’s head shot around and immediately Alfred was shamed by his casual, off-the-
cuff remark. The young man’s eyes were watered up and in order to save his master from
making an emotional display in front of him, Alfred lowered his head and coughed. “What I
meant to say is that I worry about you.”
“I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, Alfred,” came the weak reply. “Never. That I
truly promise.”
Alfred nodded and continued looking at the floor. “I try to believe that I am raising
you in the same spirit of parentage that your father would have applied. Unfortunately I am
afraid I do a very poor job of it.” He brought his head up to look at the boy who had become
the center of his universe. There was true sadness radiating from Bruce. “I cannot punish you,
young sir, for keeping a promise to them, for my own task of raising you is the completion of
a similar oath.”
“I think that means I’m not grounded?” Bruce asked.
Alfred smiled. “Indeed.” Then another thought came to him. “No dessert for a month
and I want your promise that this will not happen again, at least not until you reach an age
where you can drive yourself and not bother with a car service.”
Bruce’s expression visibly relaxed. He would miss the desserts but he was happy not

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to be grounded. Every week he made a trip to the public library where he picked up books
that he would devour on the weekend. He had already exhausted the books he could
understand in his father’s personal collection and he had never been a fan of comic books. “I
promise you will not be bothered by this again, Alfred,” Bruce said as he turned to close his
curtains.
Alfred made to comment; that particular assurance was not good enough. By not being
bothered, the scamp was indicating he would try harder not to get caught again next year. But
a whole year to plan a way to thwart young Bruce was an advantage Alfred was not about to
surrender. “Very well, Master Bruce, I accept that,” he said as he ushered his charge to his
bed. As Bruce hopped in and got under the covers, he turned to look at the photograph on his
nightstand. It was a picture of Bruce with his parents, faithful Alfred in the background. It
was his family.
“I miss them,” Bruce said as he put his head to his pillow.
“As do I, Master Bruce, as do I?”
Minutes later, Alfred leaned against the closed to door to Bruce’s room and took stock
of his situation. He was alive and Bruce was alive, though two years before he had not been
so sure. When Leslie had called about his employer’s murder, he had been shaken to his core.
When she had told him Bruce had survived, for a moment instead of being relieved, he had
been angry, ready to rage against his Creator for putting the boy through such hell.
But he had spent years learning to control his emotions, a skill he was uncomfortable
to admit his charge was learning very quickly, and after several acts of contrition over the
next few weeks, he assumed that things were right between him and God. But between him
and Bruce it was another story.
This night marked the second anniversary of the murder and like the year before,
Bruce had escaped from the manor, called for transportation, paid for it in cash (Alfred was
still searching for where Bruce was hiding his weekly allowance) and had gone back to the
very spot where his parents had fallen. It was as if every year he needed to baptize himself in

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misery and pain to purify his soul.

Ten-year-old boys should not feel that way! He wanted to scream in rage and at the
same time wanting to get down on his knees and pray for help. “Oh, Master Thomas, this is
becoming much more difficult than I had imagined,” he whispered before getting his
composure back. He pushed off from the door and made his way down the stairway to the
first floor and moved immediately into the library.
Of all of the rooms in stately Wayne Manor, this was the one Bruce seemed to enjoy
the most, most likely because this was the place the significant family gatherings had taken
place. Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries and the like, all of them attended to studiously by
Alfred. This was also the most private of rooms, specifically designed to reduce noise and so
it was that Alfred came here to make a very important phone call.
From an original copy of Moby Dick, Alfred pulled a small slip of paper. On it was a
name and number given to him by a detective that Thomas Wayne had made contact with on
a case several years back before Bruce had been born. His aid in helping the detective solve
the case had made them fast friends and Alfred had used that connection to get the
information on the paper.
His initial request had been simple enough: put him in contact with someone who had
the ability to bodyguard anyone. Many people in the personal protection business specialized
in a certain type of client, but Alfred understood that trying to put Bruce into any sort of
classification was a lesson in futility.
He punched in the number, not caring what the time was; the person he was calling
had to be used to odd hours. Finally the line picked up. “What the hell do you want?” an
angry voice, thick with a Brooklyn accent growled.
Alfred remained nonplused. “Good evening…”
“Evening my ass! Alan? Is that you? No wait, that accent…Justin? Justin, you old son
of a bitch!” the voice replied back.
“My name is Alfred Pennyworth and I represent the estate of Thomas Wayne in

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Gotham City,” Alfred said, ignoring the previous outburst. “I assume I am talking to
Theodore Grant?”
“What the hell? Listen fancy-pants, nobody calls me Theodore unless they have a big
set of knockers and are laying underneath me, catch my drift?” the voice said with obvious
ire. “Wayne? Wasn’t that the doctor that got killed?”
“Ah, good, you are aware of the circumstances of my employment then.”
There was some rustling on the other end including the squeal of at least two distinct
female voices. “Sorry about that, Mr. Pennyhaven…”
“Pennyworth,” Alfred corrected.
“Yeah…anyway I do know about the doc and his wife; I have friends in Gotham
City,” he confessed.
“Shall we dispense with the normal formalities, Mr. Grant? I am aware that you are
the super-hero Wildcat, as well as a former boxing champion. I have also been informed that
you occasionally take on person protection duties,” Alfred explained.
“I’m not cheap, Mr. Pennyworth,” Ted said, his voice now more businesslike.
“And I am a most determined man to ensure that I only hire the best, regardless of
expense.”

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Chapter 2

To the editor…
By publishing this letter, you will save a life. The amusing thing about it is that you
don’t know whose life you will be sparing from what I assure you is a most painful and
degrading death. In my possession I have two children, fine lads, though I assure you that
male or female, I have no preference. For me it has more to do with their innocence then their
genitalia.
But I do so love their genitalia…
I have kidnapped and (censored) tortured the son of Miguel Rodriguez, a dock worker
from the worst part of Gotham City. I have also managed to (censored) up the (censored) the
scion of Rupert Thrice, president of Gotham Tech Solutions. As I have agreed, one of them is
free, though arguably very sore. Which one is determined totally by random, but rest assured
that by complying with my wishes, to my (censored) needs, you have saved a life.
(censored) bravo…
Now, as agreed, I will detail to you exactly what I did to the child that did not
survive…

The blonde haired woman in the skintight black costume with fishnet stockings laid
the paper down and reached for her cigarettes and coffee. She only smoked when she was
agitated and now was as good a time as any. She lit up and inhaled deeply, letting the
sweetness of the nicotine seep into her brain just before she chased it with the caffeine in the
coffee.
She took a moment to look around the small kitchen of the Justice Society
headquarters. It had not changed much in the decades since the team had been founded and
she remembered sitting or standing here and there and the conversations that had occurred.
For the most part the Society was dead, buried when Congress attempted to control it in the
1950’s. But most of the members had survived the legislature, mostly due to exposure to, at

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various time, “chronal radiation” that made all of the members of the Society age very slowly,
and so the Society endured. At least in theory it did.
There were no more super-villains it seemed, no more threats that were beyond the
capability of modern police forces and the Justice Society appeared to be an outdated idea.
Yet, members of the Society, albeit the minor ones (no Hawkman or Green Lantern), still
hung out at the headquarters, though the phone never rang anymore. The president didn’t care
what the super-heroes thought.
She took another hit off of the smoke and glanced down at the paper, realizing that her
thoughts were becoming hateful and full of spite. If the people didn’t trust people wearing
masks and having strange powers, could she really blame them? When she looked at the
world, and then at her toddler daughter, didn’t she breathe a little easier knowing people like
Baron Blitzkrieg and Degaton weren’t running around loose.
But then there was this fellow who called himself Wicked who was murdering
children in Gotham City and then advertising the fact to the world. What was it with this new
modern age, she thought. Manson. Bundy. And the unnamed dozen or so that had no name. It
was like that as soon as the threats to world peace were over with, the psychos felt it was
recess.
Wicked had shown up about a year before, but his exploits were kept hidden from the
general public thanks in part to a reporter on the Gotham Gazette, but it was only a matter of
time. You could not kidnap, rape and murder children without it getting out despite the best
efforts of the press and police.
The Black Canary, as she was called when in her costume, had a small daughter and
the thought of someone going around violating such innocents made her skin crawl. Any day
she would prefer a would-be world conqueror to a child killer. There was something beyond
evil about Wicked, something that cried out for the involvement of the Justice Society.
She put the cigarette in her mouth and let it hang and then laid the paper out on the
table, smoothing it so it was easier to read. The story was written by a crime reporter named

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Tinsley…Ben Tinsley. The Canary tried to recall the fellow but realized it had been a very
long time since she had graced the papers with her presence.
For decades she had fought crime in Gotham City, watching it transform from the
ideal urban paradise her memories told her it was in her youth into the garbage pit of filth and
crime it was now. Children were now being raped and slaughtered for nothing more than a
few laughs. At least the criminals in her time had some honor.
She thought it ironic that after a war meant to restore civility, World War 2, that
society had continued to slip down towards the cesspool of immorality.
She finished the smoke and downed the last of the coffee, taking a few minutes to
wash her dishes and clean up a little. For the most part the headquarters was a gathering place
for special events; there was no actual duty schedule, no desk watch to speak of. She would
not be relieved, though she was pretty sure she heard Hourman stumble in the night before. If
he had been able to get through the magical locks put on the front door by Dr. Fate, then that
was proof enough he was a member of the Justice Society and so she had not even bothered to
check.
Besides, Hourman had special problems that she did not want to deal with. His
addiction to Miralco, the pill that gave him his super powers, made him moody. Most of the
members of the Society looked the other way; after all, they all had their own little secrets.
Johnny Thunder liked a nip a little too often and Green Lantern was obsessive.
“Don’t throw rocks in glass houses,” she mumbled as she grabbed the keys for her
motorcycle.

Several hours later Black Canary parked her motorcycle in front of the main offices of
the Gotham Gazette. Here, in the city of her youth, she was not treated as something unusual.
Gotham City took her in like a long lost child, embracing her and welcoming her home.
Some people looked in her direction, but nobody treated her any differently than if she
were in civilian clothes. She liked coming back, despite what was happening to the city.

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Sometimes she got the idea she was the only one who still cared, still gave a damn what
happened in Gotham. Certainly Alan, Green Lantern, seemed to switch from darling son to
brooding stranger. One minute he was excited about trying to make changes in the city and
the next he was debating the merits of one person possessing as much power as he did.
It seemed to her that all of the members of the Justice Society that actually had super
powers also had super problems. She could deal with the fact she liked a little flirtatious
activity now and then. After all, nobody got hurt; quite the opposite in fact. She could not
handle, however, how the more powerful members whined all of the time, though.
She stepped into the lobby of the newspaper and received a nod from the security
guard. She supposed that they reckoned that nobody in their right mind would dress the way
she did unless they were really a super-hero. With purpose she walked over to the information
desk where a young girl with too much hairspray and too little make-up sat with a big smile.
“Hi, I’m the Black Canary,” she said.
The girl kept the smile on her face, which looked more painful than pleasant. “Oh, I
know who you are! You were fighting the British when my mother was young.”
“We were fighting the Germans, dear,” the Canary replied, realizing that the girl gave
new meaning to the term “empty-headed”. “The British were our allies.”
“They were?” the girl asked, completely confused. Before she could completely shut
down, Black Canary asked where she could find her quarry.
“I’m looking for Ben Tinsley, the crime reporter,” she said, hoping that the reply
would be quick and painless. Fortunately for her it was and with the directions on the tip of
her tongue, she moved away from the help desk. Heading towards the elevator, she briefly
mused over how many times she had been in this building over the decades.
She had joined the Justice Society only a few years before it disbanded in the face of
government pressure in 1951. When it had broken up, she had headed back to Gotham City
where she operated from time to time. How many crime reporters had she hooked up with,
trading stories and offering each other sources of information during her career? More than

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she could count at the moment she was sure.

Most of the other costumed heroes tried to establish good relationships with their local
police; but the Canary had always shied away from getting too buddy-buddy with cops,
despite the fact she had married a detective. Larry Lance, her husband, was a special case, she
knew, and she loved him. Though, she admitted secretly, love was not always enough.
She stepped out of the elevator on the floor the receptionist had indicated and was
immediately assailed by the sounds of typewriters being put to the task as several reporters
and their assistants worked at a feverish pace. Again, nobody looked up at her and those who
did happen to glance in her direction went back to their duties. Her more frequent public
appearances over the last few months had served to immunize the populace to her and that
was something of a relief.
But she was also filled with a certain amount of dread as she began to realize that
because they were familiar with her, because she had once again been accepted as part of the
norm for Gotham City, her absence could cause dismay, maybe even panic. It was not pride
that led her to that conclusion, but past experience.
In the early 1950’s, the super-heroes had simply given up…all of them, herself
included. Even now, decades later, she was bothered by how quickly they had all folded to
government pressure. Maybe they were all looking for an excuse to call it quits; maybe
chasing evil for so many years had started to affect them.
She stopped in front of a desk that was rather plain, with a bright yellow typewriter
and several pictures set on it. The owner of the desk, a man in his mid-thirties with slicked
back dark hair was munching on a sandwich and did not seem to notice her until he suddenly
spoke.
“You aren’t the real Black Canary, are you?” he said as he started reading some
papers.
The Blonde Bombshell put her hands on her hips. “Would anyone else dress like
this?” she asked.

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He looked up and gave her a quick once over. “The real Canary didn’t need so much
support up top,” he commented dryly as he chewed on his lunch.
Her eyes darkened and she reached down and grabbed him by the tie. He dropped the
sandwich and let out a choking sound. “Listen, gumshoe; I’m as old as your grandmother,
probably…and I had a child not so long ago. You might say I’m a little sensitive about the
‘boys’, if you catch my drift.” She then leaned in close. “I am the Black Canary.”
The reporter began to shake his head and she let him go. Several of the other members
of the staff, especially the older men, began to chuckle and the Canary thought she recognized
a few faces. There were probably several people here she had worked with over the years,
people she had lost contact with because they reminded her of her true age.
“How can I help you?” the reporter asked, looking for his fallen meal.
“You’re Ben Tinsley, right?” she questioned as she made a spot for herself on the edge
of his desk. He appeared to be slightly annoyed by her rearrangement of his space, but after
his comment about her boobs, she could care less.
The truth was that her figure, while still good, was not what it was thirty years before.
She knew that she should consider herself lucky, blessed even, but her vanity always got the
better of her.
“Yeah,” he replied, giving her a suspicious look. “You aren’t a stripper are you?”
“Is it your birthday?” she said sarcastically. When he started to nod, she rolled her
eyes. “Look, I’m just here to ask about your connection to this Wicked guy, that’s all.”
He seemed relieved and he relaxed slightly. There were still some chuckles and
giggles around the office and she assumed that he was probably the butt of many a joke. She
knew he was not a local; some stories he had framed on the wall near his desk indicated that
he had been a reporter in Texas. She was surprised that he did not have the typical accent.
“I don’t know what to tell you; the cops have already gone over everything with me,”
he started as he leaned back, sandwich in hand. “He sends me letters telling me if I don’t print
his rantings, he’ll kill both of the kids he’s kidnapped.”

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“He always gets two?”

Ben nodded and took a large bite. “And they are generally of different backgrounds.
Rich white kid, poor black one…girl and a boy…troubled runaway or maybe an alter boy.”
“Why haven’t you published more about…”
“Not my choice,” Ben said, holding up his sandwich to stop her question. “The police
and the editors all got together, along with some of the other major papers, and decided that
for the good of the community they would hold off on reporting everything.”
The reporter then leaned in close. “Word is, and I got this from the sport’s guy who’s
sleeping with the managing editor’s secretary, that more poor kids are being killed than rich
ones and the more wealthy citizens do not want it getting out.”
“What keeps the poorer families from raising hell?” she quickly asked as he reached
for a glass of water. He told her that the families were being paid to be quiet by the more
astute of Gotham City.
“The murders have been going on for about a year now, but the police weren’t able to
put it together until a few months back,” Ben told her. His voice suddenly turned sarcastic.
“Not that the cops in this city could ever put two and two together. The truth is that a reporter
out of Metropolis, Perry White, started digging around when he got wind of the story and was
going to break it.” Ben then smiled wryly. “Talk about some pissed off people. We decided it
was best to get the story out from a Gotham point of view and so they had me write up an
article about it. Next thing you know, the killer starts writing me.”
He opened a drawer and pulled out a few sheets of paper and handed them over to her.
She looked at him with a strange face and he laughed. “These are Xerox copies of the letters;
the cops took the other ones, though I don’t know why. Not a one of them understands
forensics…”
“You talk like an expert,” she said as she started to skim the letters. She already had
an idea of what they would contain as she had been following the story in the paper.
“Did a lot of work with some Texas Rangers when I worked in Dallas,” he said. She

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heard some more whispering and an entire secret world of office politics opened up to her. He
was the new guy, the outsider and he was probably a good reporter, but Gotham was a strange
city. Foreigners, people from other parts of the country, simply were not welcomed with open
arms in this city. Anything he did before was meaningless and no amount of hazing would
ever allow him to be truly accepted.
“Let’s go for a walk,” she said and he shrugged, grabbed his coat and followed her
out.

“Got a cigarette?” she asked and he said that he didn’t smoke. She sighed and then
handed back the papers she had been reading. “This guy makes Ted Bundy look like a priest.”
“I just wish he hadn’t picked me,” Ben responded as he looked up into the sky. He
shielded his eyes from the sun and stared at the Gazette building. “Are you really willing to
look into this? My father covered the war and I was raised listening to his stories about the
Justice Society and how great they were. Of course, I had to listen to others tell me how great
my father was, but that’s another story.”
“You think this is a job for a super-hero?” she asked with a smile.
“I’ve only been here a few months, ma’am,” he started, a slight Texas accent starting
to creep its way out of his mouth, “but I’m convinced that this city is run by corrupt men with
incompetent cops.” He saw a worried look cross her face and he made a mental note to ask
her about it later. “I might be new, but I know that there is no way they can save the
children.” He took a deep breath and then looked her straight in the eyes. “It hasn’t been
reported yet, but last night the fourteen year old daughter of the lead pitcher for the Gotham
Knights was taken.”

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Chapter 3

The place that he found himself occupying was not a home, nor was it a residence. It
was simply a gathering point, an area where he would bring together his personal items,
personal hopes and goals and personal conquests. Here he was a god, master of a world of
pain, blood, sex and more pain. Death was merely the method of being exiled from his world.
He walked away from the dirty window that gave him a view of an even dirtier alley
and turned to the teenaged girl who was shaking uncontrollably. “The first time is always
difficult; you’ll learn to become more accepting of my gift over time,” he told her, watching
the revulsion and fear wash across her eyes. Had she not been tied to the chair, she would
have no doubt gotten up and flung herself out that dirt-stained window that he had just been
looking out.
But she was trapped, a prisoner in his dungeon, her life a toy for him to play with as
he wished. He cast a glance at her exposed flesh and licked his lips. Her shaking began to
worsen and inside he found himself warmed by her reaction. She would have to be bathed
soon; he could not tolerate body odor or excessive body hair and she was starting to stink and
the hair on her legs aggravated his hips when he was “training” her.
But that could wait as he was hungry and needed to eat. It was important to keep his
strength up for soon he would be out on the hunt again, seeking out another citizen for his
world. Always there had to be two of them because a god had to always make choices. A god
was required to bless the faithful, the ones who pleased him the most, and then punish the
bad.
So far, the teenaged girl he had taken for himself had proven not very eager to please,
not unlike the many others before her. Some had even showed a willingness to do whatever it
took to bring him pleasure; of course, most of them died because he hated suck-ups.
Many times he based his decisions, his death sentences, on more deviant factors.
Which one screamed the most or which one made him sweat from activity. So many ways to
choose that sometimes he thought that the decision making process was why he did what he

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did. Certainly the sex and the murdering were of great benefit, but actually making a choice of
who would live and who would die, and then pronouncing that mandate of finality, that was
what made it worth it.
He moved away from her and went into his small kitchen to make himself a light
meal. Then he would go to sleep, but not before he injected her with a sedative to ensure she
did not break free and run away. She had to know by now what a heavy sleeper he was.
As soon as it became dark he would go out and scout the area, seeing what children
were out at night and try to gauge their habits and rituals. He had a hunger for a young boy, a
smooth-bodied lad of perhaps eleven or twelve years of age. That was the age he was when he
was first introduced to the wonders of sexual pain.
It had been easier to accept rather than fight as he grew older.
A few minutes later he had finished his meal, deciding not to feed his prisoner. It was
better that she learned that obedience had it rewards; defiance had its punishments. If she
wanted nourishment then she would learn to perform like the slut she was meant to be. “All
women are sluts,” he told himself as he pulled a beer from his refrigerator.
Opening it he sauntered over to her and sniffed the air. She would have to be bathed,
there was no doubt about it and that had to be done soon. He needed two because that was the
only way to truly increase the horror. Let the families fight with each other: black versus
white, rich versus poor…it was all a comedy for him. His sole purpose was to seed evil in the
fertile garden of Gotham City, to bring true horror to the citizens for nothing more than a
chuckle.
He felt no shame, no remorse, no flicker in the back of his mind that screamed out that
what he was doing was wrong and he should be sorry. Instead he felt the need to do more, but
his keen intelligence, honed by years of doing whatever it took to survive, told him he needed
patience.
He would only kill one more and then he would fade from this city, moving upstate, or
maybe even crossing the river to NewYork. They could not…no, would not catch him. They,

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the police, were incompetent and full of bluster and pride; they would not share information
across jurisdictions and so the killing would go on and on. Ted, Ted Bundy, he had the right
idea and he was a persona hero of the man who called himself Wicked. Like Bundy, he was
not a bad looking fellow on the outside, but under the skin their lay a monster that came out
every time he got an erection, and that was more often than not.
In fact the beer was loosening him up, opening the door for ideas of depravity that
often kept him warm at night but had to be shut away during the day so he could function
with all of the people who did not understand pain. The so-called “normal” people.
He existed only to give back to the world what he had received, and received and
received and received! He was a god of death, a messiah of perversion and he did not care.
His soul might have been damned, but his body still had work to do and he was going to get it
done.
He turned and looked again at his prisoner and slowly walked up to her, petting her
long hair gently. She was shaking still, but she had learned not to move away. Maybe she was
finally understanding that he was even now deciding if she were going to live or die. He
didn’t really care; the only reason he let any of the children go was so that they could grow to
be just like him.
He knew that he was not like everyone else, but that was fine with him. She dared to
look over at him, a small bit of hope in her eyes. That disturbed him; he had thought the hope
would be gone after hours of sexual torture and rough “playing”. It had been her first time and
her muffled sobs from behind the tape had invigorated him like a siren’s call. He sailed his
ship of cruelty into the rocks of her bare soul and laughed the entire time.
He began to unbutton his pants and she shook her head and he nodded in reply. “Oh,
yes, yes, yes, yes,” he said before pouring a beer on her head. With the hand that had been
caressing her hair he grabbed a handful of her dark mane and yanked her head down so he
could spit in her eye. “Shut up and take it like a man,” he said, knowing that she did not
fathom the meaning of the joke or what was about to happen to her.

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And that made him laugh, especially as he imagined the look on her face when it did
happen to her. He thought about setting up a camera and taking a picture of it and sending it
her parents. That was truly something of true artistic expression he told himself!
That, he thought wryly as he stripped, was truly wicked.

Ted Grant stood looking out at the small cemetery that was near the mansion proper,
observing the young boy that carefully pulled weeds away from two of the gravestones. There
were several markers, each of them a work of art or, in some rare cases, a piece of historical
significance. The boy, though, refused to even acknowledge the other stones; his entire
purpose and focus was set upon the two newest ones.
“Why don’t you just lock his door?” he asked without turning around.
Behind him, clad in the formal attire of his station, stood Alfred Pennyworth. Next to
him was a woman who projected an air of intelligence and slowly radiating power. Her name
was Leslie Thompkins and along with Alfred she had been entrusted with the guardianship of
Bruce Wayne.
“Obviously you are not fully aware of Master Bruce’s capabilities,” Alfred answered.
“Or determination,” Leslie added.
Ted nodded and then ran a hand through his dark hair. It was beginning to shows signs
of gray, which wasn’t so bad when most of the people he had gone to grammar school with
were getting ready to retire and play golf. “So, he leaves the estate on one night a year to
sneak into the city. I suppose it has to do with his parents,” he said. The murder of Thomas
and Martha Wayne was a matter of local legend. Everyone who had spent any amount of time
in the city within the last two years knew the story.
The only problem with this tale, Ted mused, was that there was no happy ending.
Looking at the boy he could just make out the scowl on his face as he wrestled a particularly
stubborn plant out of the ground. A lifetime of facing opponents, both in the ring and in the
back alleyways, had given Ted a unique perspective on facial expressions. There was a cold

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rage inside young Bruce Wayne.

He mentioned that little tidbit. “We are trying to deal with it the best way we can.
Bruce is consumed with the idea of avenging his parents,” Leslie explained. “But he doesn’t
want to kill anyone. He wants justice. Justice for them. Justice for him.”
“There’s a thin line between justice and revenge,” Ted told them.
Alfred looked at the clock and coughed. “It is time for Master Bruce’s ninjutsu lesson;
perhaps you would like to observe him there.”
Ted turned. “You’re letting him take martial arts? Why?”
“I recommended it,” Leslie said. “I’m only a medical doctor, not a psychiatrist, but I
felt that physical activity would be good for him, a way to release some of his anger.”
“Or teach him how to snap someone’s neck when he’s pissed off,” Ted remarked,
shaking his head. “I don’t get into all of the Eastern philosophy crap, but I can tell you right
now that isn’t someone ready to find his center of being.”
“He has a most excellent instructor…”
Ted held up a hand, cutting Alfred off. “If you want to have him lean chop-sake then
be my guest; I’ve been employed to follow him one night a year and protect him. In order to
protect him, I’ve got to understand him…the way his mind works so I can follow him without
being seen.” He stepped away from the window. “I’d like to see his room.”
Alfred looked to Leslie who nodded her assent. “I’ll take him; you collect Bruce.
Sensei Terry will be quite upset if you are late again.”
The butler excused himself with a small bow and left to perform his duties while Ted
was led upstairs by Leslie. “Bruce keeps his martial arts uniform in the gymnasium so he
won’t disturb us,” she said as she walked next to him. “May I ask you a question, Mr. Grant?”
He shrugged. “Go ahead…you guys are paying the bill.”
“How is it that a man who is as old as my own father looks so young?”
He chuckled. “Good eating, sex with younger women…”
“Mr. Grant…I’m a doctor, I know that is not true,” she said with a slight blush. Ted

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found himself liking the good physician, but not in the way he normally found himself
attracted to women. Instead she represented the type of person he and the other members of
the Justice Society had fought to protect in World War 2. Here was an example of true
American compassion where a woman was willing to take on the responsibility of raising the
son of her friend because he had asked her to. Nothing more, nothing less.
“I’m not a scientist, doc; thought I could arrange for one to talk to you if you want,”
he told her as they reached the top of the massive staircase. “Truth is that most of us heroes
got zapped with ‘time energy” a few years back…”
“’Time energy’?” she asked, her tone indicating she did not believe what he was
saying.
“Yeah,” he said. They stopped for a moment in the hallway. “I don’t know all of the
details, but we were all exposed to an energy field that slowed down our aging processes.” He
stared down at the floor. “Sometimes it seems like it isn’t fair and sometimes its rough seeing
old friends…well, grow old…”
“I understand,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “I was only curious and did not
mean to cause harm.”
He shook his head. “You didn’t; it’s just that sometimes, when I’m not ready for it, the
big picture kind of slams into me. I mean, chances are I’ll outlive little Bruce and there’s
something wrong with that I suppose.”
He straightened up. “But I suppose we both need to make sure that he still gets to a
ripe old age, so let’s go see what is going on with this kid.”
They entered Bruce’s room and Ted was immediately taken back by what he did not
see. Most children Bruce Wayne’s age had models, toys and posters strewn about the room.
Instead what he saw was an almost desolate bedchamber. There were no posters, no trophies
and it was neat as a pin. On the small desk was a set of books; a couple of Hardy Boys
mysteries by Frank Dixon and a textbook that had a title that Ted was not sure he could
pronounce. Leslie picked up the book. “He asked me for this; it is the latest text on forensics

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dealing with gunshot wounds.”

“A little morbid for a kid, especially one that has seen his parents killed, don’t you
think?” Ted asked as he moved around the room. He checked under the bed, hoping to find
anything, but it was clean as well.
“We once tried to keep Bruce away from all of the news accounts of his parent’s
murder, so one day he simply called the Gotham Gazette and asked them to mail him the
clippings,” she responded.
Ted nodded. “And they were more than happy to comply with his request, hoping to
get an exclusive interview one day. Yeah, I’ve dealt with reporters before, worse than lawyers
and lawyers pretty muck suck pond scum if you ask me.” He quickly finished his inventory of
the room and then sighed in frustration.
Leslie asked him what the problem was. “He’s holding everything in; there is nothing
here to give me a clue of what he thinks about. This could be the room of a high school drama
teacher, a priest or a lesbian refer smoker for all I know. There’s nothing to indicate
ownership, nothing to give a personality trait. Christ, the books are from the library or
borrowed from you. His clothes…well, they suck eggs.”
Leslie looked confused. “I am afraid I do not understand what it is exactly that you are
looking for here, Mr. Grant.”
“A clue,” he said. “Why does he make this trip every year? If we knew that, then
maybe we could find a way for him to do what he needs to do here, instead of running off into
the city in the middle of the night.” He sat down on the bed. “Hell, when I was his age, I was
running out at night to see good old Annette Bertinelli.”
“Of the Bertinelli crime family?”
Ted smiled large. “Oh yeah, a cousin in fact. I was twelve, she was fourteen with a set
of knockers on her that…well, you get the idea. We would meet behind the fish market, the
same one where some of her relations would chop up their enemies, and kiss for hours on end.
Kiss until our lips were numb. That’s what he should be doing.”

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“I’m afraid Bruce has difficulty with emotional issues,” she admitted.
“I can imagine,” Ted told her as he got up. He moved over to the desk and picked up
the text book and thumbed through the pages. He got to a chapter that had several notations
made in it, none of them in what looked to be particularly feminine handwriting. Still, he
verified his suspicions by asking her if she had made the notes.
“No, that is Bruce’s handwriting,” she said after examining the book. “I personally
would rather have him face his problems then bury them, so you can see why I tend to
disagree with your assessment. Bruce is reserved, but that is to be expected. He will come
around eventually.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what Hitler’s parents said about him,” Ted sniped. “Look, Doc,
I know it isn’t any of my business…I’m just the gorilla for hire, but this kid needs some real
help.”
“Which is why you are here, Mr. Grant. You are the best at personal protection, you
have said so yourself. Sending Bruce to see a therapist or the like will do no good; he will
simply lie about what he is feeling.” It was her turn to sigh. “You have no idea how forceful
he can be. He is much like his father, but he gets his true strength from his mother.”
“I’m sure he does,” Ted commented, not really wanting to take the conversation any
farther. To him it seemed as if everyone that lived or worked in Wayne Manor suffered from
an inability to grasp reality. But then, he really was only seeing the entire situation from the
outside; he wasn’t here every day. They obviously were sparring no expense getting Bruce the
proper protection and lessons, though the martial arts aspect still bothered him.
He had nothing against martial artists. As a pugilist Ted respected anyone who
dedicated his or her life to the art of unarmed combat. The problem was that after years of
knocking heads and fists with other people, Ted had come to realize that sometimes a hug
worked a lot better than a left hook.
But that was not his concern and he needed to focus on the job. Her question about his
age had brought up old guilt and that had left him open. He closed himself down and went

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into his professional mode. The money was good and honest and super-heroes still needed to
eat. If the Justice Society was still active then maybe things would be different, but it was
nothing more than a VFW for old costumed adventurers now. Very few members even
bothered to put on their costumes even though it had been years since the government had
demanded that anyone of them reveal their identities to the world.
“Again, I am concerned about his internalizing everything; it makes him
unpredictable,” Ted remarked as he rubbed his chin stubble. He did not bother to tell her what
he had read in the margins and she had not bothered to look. Perhaps she knew what it was,
what it said, or maybe she was looking at the boy with blinders on.
The notes were on the chapter concerning bullet trajectories.
Young Bruce was trying to determine if the bullet that had killed his mother had been
meant for him.

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Chapter 4

Ted allowed himself to be escorted through the rest of the manor, taking time to
admire the various collectibles, art work and other mementos of the previous owners. In his
head he kept reciting the lessons from the audio cassette he had listened to on the drive here,
lessons meant to increase his vocabulary. Ever since he had started working for the more
affluent members of Gotham society he had been trying to sound not so much like a kid from
the streets, but more business-like.
Being a super-hero was great, though not as challenging as being a boxer. A boxer
trained day in and day out to battle someone of equal skill and determination; a super-hero
normally fought people weaker than them or so over-powered that it wasn't even funny. The
biggest problem with putting on the costume and defending the innocent was that it did not
pay very well.
Ted had made plenty of money in the 1940's and the 1950's, but it was all gone now.
Another problem of living too long was that you never got to retire. So he was doing the
bodyguard thing until something better came along or at least until the rest of the Justice
Society got off of their butts and decided it was time to fight the good fight again.
Leslie continued to speak softly, pointing out various details, none of it mattering
much to Ted as he shifted thoughts back to his actual duties. Normally he would perform a
complete physical security inspection of the house, but the problem here was not keeping
people out, it was keeping one little boy in.
Kidnapping Bruce Wayne would be pointless. The majority of the Wayne Fortune was
being held in trust and Alfred and Leslie had only limited power to withdraw funds for the
maintenance of the Manor and for providing for Bruce. It was rumored, though, that Thomas
Wayne had made several investments into the computer industry months before his death and
if that were true, it was very likely that Bruce Wayne might be the youngest billionaire in the
world when he turned 21.
The finally came to a small gymnasium that had recently been renovated. Leslie

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explained that it had once been a billiards room, but that Bruce had requested that it be
transformed about a year before. It was at that time, she told him, that Bruce started to
become interested in gymnastics, but refused to participate in any team-related sports.
They stopped at the doorway, spying Alfred standing with his hands clasped behind
his back while a man in a black karate uniform, complete with the Japanese-style split-toe
boots, stood before young Bruce. The boy was busy performing warm-up exercises and was
dressed in very casual sweat clothes. That surprised Ted; most martial arts instructors were
anal about making sure that their students bowed at the mat and wore the correct uniform.
But then it was kind of strange; little boys loved to play dress-up and act like they
were super-heroes, or at least that was what Ted had noted over the years. Then when they
became men, they put the costumes away, unless they were a little off in the head like him!
The instructor was accompanied by a younger man with long sideburns, someone
named “Steve” who also sported a black belt. That must have been Bruce's sparring partner
Ted reasoned and he leaned back against the wall to observe. For the next hour or so they
practiced rolls and cartwheels, standard ninja techniques. Bruce was not a perfect student, but
he listened and he tried. Steve tried to joke with him, but Bruce would not have any of it. He
remained focused on what he was doing and seemed to take the mistakes just as well as he
took the compliments.
Bruce moved well, but it was obvious that the boy had much on his mind, as Sensei
Terry pointed out when Bruce failed to step away from a strike. Steve hit Bruce in the cheek
with enough force to push the boy back. Steve immediately halted the attack and asked if
Bruce was all right.
“Yes,” Bruce replied.
Sensei Terry nodded. “You have to be aware of everything that is going on during an
attack, Bruce,” he explained. “Not everything is what it seems and you have to be prepared
for the unexpected. An attacker may decide to strike you in the stomach with a fist and then
kick you in the leg. Once you are in a fight, once the other person has committed themselves,

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you must forget everything else and concentrate on achieving your objective.”
Ted found himself smiling as he listened. Those were the same words, more or less,
that his boxing coach had told him and it was the same speech he had given several times
when he had students. The basics of hand-to-hand combat were the same regardless of style or
training.
When the class had finished, Alfred moved to talk with Sensei Terry while Steve
checked on Bruce. “I hope I didn't hurt you, Bruce. Normally you're pretty quick about
getting out of the way.”
Bruce lifted his head up from the towel he was using to dry the sweat on his face. His
expression was a mixture of anger and embarrassment. “What? Are you trying to say I'm
good at running away? That I'm a coward?”
Steve shook his head quickly and tried to resolve the situation immediately.
“Absolutely not! You're a great student, Bruce, I was just trying to say...”
“Go ahead, say it, Steve! Tell me how good I am at hiding or ducking, but not very
good at standing up and taking it,” Bruce argued back, his eyes wet with the beginnings of
tears.
“Bruce!” Sensei Terry called out.
“You're both fired,” Bruce said. “Alfred, pay them and see them out,” the young boy
said with a voice of authority. Ted noted that when he gave orders, he sounded much older
and he was willing to bet that he was imitating his father's voice.
Bruce turned and stomped out of the gymnasium, leaving Alfred feeling very confused
and mortified. He started to speak with the two instructors and Ted turned to regard Leslie.
“Boy has a mouth on him,” he remarked. “Have you considered some discipline?”
“Bruce is very rarely given to such outbursts, and they tend to get worse the closer we
get to the anniversary date of his parent's murders.” She looked very worried. “You see how
willful he is. Both Alfred and I are both afraid that if we lock him up, as you suggest, he will
build a wall of resentment towards us. What good will that do? Would it not be better to let

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him get out of his system whatever it is that is infecting him?”

“Spoken like a true doctor; feed the fever, starve the cold and things like that,” Ted
said. He decided to take a gamble and let her in on his own theory. “He acts like he believes
that that his mother was killed because he ducked out of the way. He blames himself.”
“That is natural. Survivors of great trauma often have a difficult time coming to terms
with why they were spared and others were not,” she said. Alfred then joined them and Ted
proposed his ideas about Bruce to him.
“Indeed it is a hypothesis worthy of further investigation. It does coincide with my
observations of his behavior, especially of late. It seems the older he gets, the more heavily
his supposed guilt weighs upon him,” Alfred told them. He took in a deep breath. “Then
perhaps you would agree that by allowing him to face his demons, per say, by allowing his
excursions into Gotham City, we are providing him the opportunity to expel these thoughts
from his mind.”
Ted was reminded of the time he was caught smoking a cigarette when he was a kid
and a cop made him smoke the whole pack until he got sick and threw up. That cop probably
saved him from getting lung cancer.
Then again, he still smoked cigars...
“Have you at least considered sending him to see a psychiatrist?” he asked.
“As I am sure Dr. Thompkins has explained, young Bruce would simply lie. He knows
how to keep secrets, believe me,” Alfred said as he opened the door that would lead them
back into the manor proper. When they reached the library, Alfred went around the room to
make sure all of the doors were closed. “May I be perfectly frank, Mr. Grant?” he asked.
“By all means,” Ted replied, a little shocked by the butler's newfound bluntness.
“Bruce Wayne is a special boy who will one day grow into a special man, the Lord
willing. I cannot explain it, nor can Dr. Thompkins, but there is a feeling of manifest destiny
about him.” Alfred turned to look out the window. “I am willing to give the boy as much
leeway as I can to allow him to explore what path he needs to take in life. I am also willing to

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spare no expense to protect him as he does this, which is why we have retained your services.
I greatly appreciate your concern for him and it provides me with greater ease knowing that
such heartfelt sentiments will be with you as you protect him, but you must understand that no
matter what we do, no matter how hard we try, nothing on this Earth except for perhaps the
Second Coming, and even then I am doubtful, is going to keep him here on that night.”

“You know, it would be a lot easier if you went into the police station and asked the
police yourself,” Ben told Black Canary as they drove along in his compact car. It was not a
bad vehicle, a newer model in fact, but she always measured a man by the car he drove. From
this model, she guessed that Ben did not make as much money as he probably should and he
apparently liked to keep it very, very clean. When she had tried to light a cigarette, he had
nearly had a heart attack.
“People can die from secondhand smoke,” he had said.
“Honey, everyone from my generation smoked and they all lived into their late
fifties,” she had replied as she had thrown the cigarette out the window.
“Have you ever stopped to think how long they would have lived if they hadn't
smoked?” was his retort.
Her mind came back to subject at hand. “I don't like police stations,” she said.
“You're a super-hero, for God's sake! Super-heroes and cops are the same thing,” he
laughed as they made a hard right. “Everyone knows that.”
“No we're not. Cops have examinations and training and stuff like that; super-heroes
put on costumes and run around at all hours of the night saving the world.” She turned to look
out the window and saw her reflection. It was not her current face, though, but the one that
had stared back at her decades before just before she had left for her father's funeral. Even
after all of these years, the sting of his shock over her failing to get into the police academy
was still painful.
Her father had been a cop and had wanted a son. When she had been born, he had

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sworn to make the best of it and had personally trained her in police procedures, unarmed and
armed combat and investigative techniques. None of it had mattered though. It did nothing for
her when she applied because all they saw was her long dark hair and large chest. A woman
in the 1940's could not hope to become a cop unless she screwed the entire force.
Her father had seen her rejection letter and then had fallen dead from a heart attack.
A few months later, armed with a razor wit and a blond wig, she had tried to live up to
her father's image of her. She had been trying ever since. “You're an investigative reporter,
right?” she asked and he nodded. “Then you can get information a lot easier than I would be
able to. You must have a contact on the force.”
He shrugged as he pulled into the parking garage that was located across from the
precinct they were to visit. Black Canary wanted to see whatever notes the police had,
especially on any items they were not releasing to the public. With serial killers it was always
standard procedure to leave some details out of the public venue in order to differentiate
between the real killer and anyone wanting to copy them.
Most people who knew about this assumed that the police routinely hid the
information from the press, but more times than not a good reporter would find it out but not
release it to make the police department feel indebted to them. It was a dirty way to run a free
press, but Ben explained that big city life was all about exchanging favors. “And it is really
bad here compared to Texas,” he commented as he shut off the car. “I can't believe how many
cops really are corrupt here.”
“Then expose them,” she replied.
He shook his head. “To what end? For the most part the graft is low key, shaking
down hookers and drug pushers, maybe some simple assaults, but nothing major. Nothing I
print, nothing I write is going to change anything because what the problem really is a lack of
real leadership. There are some good cops here, but they need someone who is going to stand
up and support them when they try to clean this place up.”
“If it's so bad, why did you leave Texas?” she asked.

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“Got tired of living in my father's shadow. He was a great reporter, he really was, and
because of that, I always ended up being compared to him.” He scratched his head and then
turned to pull his suit jacket from the backseat. “I just wanted to be accepted for my own
work, that's all.”
“Tough trying to live up to their expectations,” she said, suddenly feeling empathy
with the tall reporter.
“Theirs? I don't know about that; I think we are harder on ourselves. I think we take
their desires for our lives and inflate them. Then when it right at the bursting point, we add a
little more hot air and watch our egos explode.” He chuckled and shook his head before
opening the door. “He was a great reporter, though,” he said.
She watched him walk out of the garage and cross the street to enter the police station
and considered the words he had said. “Yeah, my dad had been a great cop, but he wanted me
to be a better one,” she whispered, feeling the onset of the hot tears she cried whenever she
thought of her father.
The only thing she had been concerned with during her teen years had been getting
into the academy. She poured her heart, soul and sweat into the effort, confident that she
would have become the greatest female police officer in Gotham City history. Her rejection
and her father's subsequent death had deeply affected her and many times over the years she
had wondered if by putting on the costume if she had not been trying to find a way to kill
herself. Worse, the way she flirted with danger and dangerous men, she had to consider if
subconsciously she was not trying to get raped, so she could satisfy a male figure.
“God, I'm so screwed up,” she said to herself as she pulled out another cigarette and lit
it. It was ironic that a man who hated smoking kept a working cigarette lighter in his car. She
inhaled deeply and watched the people on the street and was surprised to see so many young
people, many barely into their teens, walking around the streets in the middle of the day
unsupervised. When she was growing up he father would never have allowed her such
freedom and she had to wonder what was the matter with parents today. Her daughter would

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receive the same upbringing she had, she told herself, with just a few minor changes. She
would not force her daughter to follow in her footsteps; quite the contrary, she would dedicate
herself to ensuring that the Black Canary legend died with her.
No matter what.

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Chapter 5

Ben walked back across the street, a folder in his hand that probably shouldn't have
been there. It was only a copy of the actual case file and it had cost him many, many favors,
including a promise to mention a certain officer's name to a female copy editor, but now he
had it.
He had glanced at it briefly inside the police precinct and what he had saw had not
impressed him. He had come from Texas, where he had worked extensively with the Texas
Rangers, so he knew something about police procedures and forensics. The evidence
collection abilities of the Gotham City police left something to be desired. From what he
could tell, the GCPD had managed to taint every single crime scene relating to the Wicked
murders.
It was inexcusable, but there was really nothing he could do about it except hand the
file over to Black Canary. Secretly he hoped that she had a line on a real detective because he
honestly felt they were both out of their league. He was good at following a trail, but the
police, through their ineptness, had managed to erase the path he needed to follow. From what
he knew of the Black Canary, and that was woefully very little, she was not much of an
investigator herself. The records on her that he had briefly scoured when he first joined the
paper, had shown her to be nothing more than eye-candy for the Justice Society.
And her current attitude was doing very little to change that perception.
He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair as he approached his car. She was
the only person who had stepped up to the plate in this game; everyone else was either trying
to pass the buck or just ignoring it. Sure, the cops made like they really cared when the rich
kids were taken and then murdered, but Ben had interviewed the poorer families and found
that the real attitude was one of sterile sensitivity. It was almost as if the cops were scared of
pursuing the killer!
“Oh, God! Didn't I say not to smoke in my car?” Ben asked, waving a gray cloud
away as he opened his door.

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“Did you?” she said with a smile. “I'm sorry, must be the blond hair.” She accepted
the file with a nod that dropped a line of ash into the floorboard. “Good boy.”
“You're going to pay to have my car cleaned,” he said as he started it up.
“No I'm not,” she commented as she scanned the file's contents. As they pulled out
onto the main road she closed it and asked if he knew where a large, detailed map of Gotham
City was at.
Ben thought about it for a moment. He did not want to head back to the paper, mainly
because he was sure that his editor would take one look at Black Canary and decide to assign
the story to someone else. Ben was still trying to be accepted by the other reporters and he
was making headway, but Wicked's desire to communicate with only him had caused some
friction.
“The VFW hall has one,” he announced. She asked how he knew and he said he liked
to go there on Friday nights to put a way a few beers. “My girlfriend won't let me go to real
bars.”
She laughed. “And you actually listen to her, don't you? That's sweet.”
“It isn't sweet, it's what you're supposed to do.”
She gave him a hard stare. “You're a real by-the-book kind of guy, aren't you?”
He took in a deep breath. “I'm sorry. My problem is this story...this case. I'm in the
middle of something when I'm supposed to be an outside observer. Reporters are supposed to
report, not create the news.”
“And knowing that the life of a young girl is in the balance isn't helping, is it?” she
asked. She threw her cigarette out the window but blew the smoke in the cab of the car. Ben
coughed and she chuckled. “Just try to remain objective. That's what you do, right?”
“It's different when there are kids involved,” he told her. “I've got a son.”
“I've got a daughter, so let's stop all of this pillow talk and get down to business. I
want to plot out on a map everywhere this guy has struck and everywhere that he had dumped
a body,” she explained. He nodded and took a right turn a little hard. She ignored it and

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continued to elaborate. “It's called geographical profiling.”

“No kidding.”
“I annoy you, don't I?”
“Not really; I just expected a super-hero to be more heroic,” he said.
There was silence for a few minutes. “It's not easy doing this...putting on a costume
and trying to save the universe. Being a non-powered babe in a group full of super men.”
He said nothing for the rest of the trip.

It took a full half-hour to get Black Canary away from the vets. Dozens of men, all of
who had served during the “great war” had stopped what they were doing to approach and
shake her hand or accept a grateful hug. Ben noted that she seemed a bit put off at first, but he
suspected that was an adequate reaction. From their conversations, he assumed that men were
always trying to touch her, mostly in an inappropriate way.
But this was different. Each one of them had a story to tell of how she had rescued a
friend or saved a loved one; or perhaps there was a tale about the Justice Society and the way
it had protected the home front during the war. She tried to explain that the war had been
before her time, but the old warriors didn't care. They were in the presence of someone who
understood them, had lived their lives in their time period. She was a piece of living history,
unchanged despite the years, and they just wanted to hold onto her for a moment.
Ben busied himself by pulling a small table over to the map of Gotham City and then
getting himself a cup of decaffeinated coffee. It was too late in the day to get the real stuff,
though he was sure that he would need it before long. Super-heroes were notorious for
keeping late hours. He then remembered to call his girlfriend.
By the time he had returned, Black Canary was busy putting pins on the map. For
places where children had been kidnapped she put little American flags. The British Union
Jack was for areas of release and some plain white pushpins indicated where dead bodies had
been found.

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Nodding her head, she reached over for a second folder that Ben had acquired. As she
read through it and grabbed a handful of French flag pins, she explained why she had needed
it. “I'm willing to bet that our friend is stealing his cars because none of the witness
statements have the same vehicle in the area. This is a write-up of all of the stolen vehicles
reported over the same period as the murders.”
“You try to think of everything, don't you?” Ben asked. It was something he would
have suggested as well, but he noticed that the Canary almost seemed to have a pathological
need to be in charge of their little investigation.
She took another twenty minutes to put all of her pins up and then she sat down and
simply stared. Ben looked at the map and then looked at her; there was no pattern he could
see and he considered himself a pretty intelligent guy. He did have one useful piece of
information. “He'll be hunting for his second victim in the next day or so if he keeps to his
normal schedule.”
Black Canary continued to stare at the map and nodded slowly. “Go on,” she
beckoned.
Ben pulled up a chair and picked up a pencil. He tapped it on the table silently as he
spoke. “The interviews with the victims coincide with the descriptions he provides in his
letters to me. He gets the first victim and immediately rapes them. He'll spend several days
assaulting them, bathing them, assaulting them...he shaves them too.”
“Completely?” she asked.
“No, just in the...you know, private areas.”
“He's obsessive to the point it is a compulsion,” she noted, but she also knew that it
wasn't anything new she was revealing. “I don't suppose you've checked to see if this has
happened anywhere else before?”
“Hey, I'm a reporter; I check everything. The closest thing I came to was a similar
situation in Metropolis six years ago. Two children kidnapped...two boys...one was killed and
the other was let go. A letter was sent to the Daily Planet but it was never published.”

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“That means Wicked got interrupted.”

“Yep, but don't try pointing that out to the detectives on the case. They just shake their
heads and head over to the donut box.” Ben sighed and laid his pencil down. A vet came by
and said something to Black Canary and then shuffled off to the bar for a drink.
“Is it really that bad here?”
“Hasn't there always been corruption in Gotham City, especially in the police
department? Personally, I think they believe that this is some sort of mob thing...they are
stupid enough to believe that.”
Black Canary snorted. “I fought the old mob bosses of Gotham, like the Bertinelli's.
They had a code of honor; they'd kill your kids, but they wouldn't rape them.”
“That's really reassuring.”
“So what's your theory, Mr. Tinsley?”
“Military. He joined the army or something. Not prison because a psycho like this
would have gone nuts there, but the military gives him someplace to blend in and plan. Maybe
even learn a skill.”
“Or he needed to get away quick,” she said. “Have you talked to the Metropolis cops
on the case? Metropolis usually has pretty good ones.”
“Dead and the case notes were destroyed when they were exterminating a rat
infestation at their records department. They hadn't gotten to it for any sort of permanent
back-up.” He stood up and checked his watch. “Look, I need to get home. My girlfriend is
already unhappy that I'm hanging out with a sex symbol...”
“You're trying to get on my good side...”
Ben flashed her a smile and she visibly relaxed. “Plus, I need sleep. I'm not a super-
hero. I'd like to get my notes down for this day as well.”
“Writing a book?”
“Actually, yes; why not?”
“No reason,” she told him. They made chitchat for a few more minutes and ended the

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day with her assuring him she could get a ride. An older man at the bar with a crooked smile
and a tall drink in hand waved to him when she nodded at him.
Once Ben was gone, she accepted a drink from her “date” and pulled out her
cigarettes. She would have to call her husband after a while and check in. He was a detective
by trade and they had fallen in love working on cases, much in the same manner she and Ben
were. It was obvious, though, that Ben was more interested in his life than hers. He was
working hard to be a good reporter; not a great one, but a good one.
Again she was reminded of how she had just wanted to be a good cop, and would have
settled for being a good super-hero, but always felt as if she fell short of that goal.
Inhaling deeply she savored the flavor and then blew out hard. Several of the men
were watching her chest and she decided to say nothing. These were good men who had put
their lives on the line for their country and it said a lot about Ben that he considered these
former warriors his friends. He was a good partner for this mission but she still wondered why
she was even doing it.
Wasn't her day past? Hadn't the government basically tried to screw the Justice
Society in 1951? Sure, the locals looked past that sort of thing, letting her run around and play
hero as much as she wanted, but the truth was that nobody really wanted her help. The cops
didn't care; they were just hoping that Wicked would move on. The rest of the Society didn't
care (she was still kind of surprised that Green Lantern had not started investigating these
crimes).
And she was not the detective her husband was, either. Exactly what was she trying to
prove? What was truly motivating her? The need to do good no longer got her out of bed in
the morning.
It was her daughter.
She had no fear of Wicked getting a hold of her child. Larry Lance would kill anyone
who tried to harm little Dinah, just as her mother the super-hero would. Despite her greatest
hopes, she was convinced that somehow the legacy of the Black Canary would make itself at

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home with her daughter and she wanted to stamp out the vilest evils she could before that day
happened.
The world was changing and it was not getting any prettier.

“I just want to be like you, dad,” Bruce whispered as he stood in front of the grave of
his father. Alfred had called him in twice already for dinner, but the boy was having noen of
that tonight. His outburst earlier had embarrassed him and he was not ready to face anyone
yet. Instead, he kept his back to the Manor and faced the only two people in the world he felt
would accept him no matter what he did, no matter what he said.
“You went after him, you attacked him to protect mom.” Bruce reached a hand up and
wiped his running nose. With his body positioned the way it was, he could not see the
muscled form of Ted Grant watching him. Bruce had some awareness that Grant had been
hired to protect him, but he considered the bodyguard nothing more than a nuisance. Alfred
was trying his best, but Bruce refused to be stopped from his mission.
“I ducked...I let mom take the shot that was meant for me and I'm so sorry. I...I want
to be a m..man like you,” he got out before it became impossible to form words. His jaw
muscles refused to obey his commands and he sniffled involuntarily. After a few moments he
raised his head to watch the sun start to go down in the distance. “I've done everything you
would have done, dad. I checked the sources and I wrote it all down. He had to be aiming for
me and I got scared.”
He looked to his mother's grave but remained silent except for the occasional sob. He
had not been able to say very much to her since he had reached his damning conclusion. He
feared her reaction.
Ted watched and made several mental notes. He understood a lot now, especially
after looking through the boy's room. Bruce Wayne had somehow, in his search to reconcile
the death of his parents, come to believe that the killer had actually meant to kill him. For
whatever reason, the shot missed Bruce and hit his mother, or so the boy thought.

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He now went to the spot where the attack had occurred to relive the horror, not to pay
homage. He probably secretly hoped that the killer would return and finish the job. Ted had
seen it many times before. Growing up in a rough neighborhood, he had dealt with all kinds
of psychological horrors. Memories of the Great Depression filled his mind and he pushed
them back. Now was not the time he told himself.
Bruce remained at the grave site for another three hours, crying the whole time.
Exhaustion finally got the better of him and the boy literally dragged himself into the manor
and up to his room. Ted slowly followed and once he was sure that the boy would not be
making any excursions this night, he made his way to the kitchen.
There stood Alfred, his black coat removed and sleeves rolled up. Behind him was a
thousand dollar dishwasher and a sink full of soapy water. “You know, that thing will wash
dishes,” Ted pointed out as he moved over to the coffee machine.
“Yes, but I do it much better,” Alfred said with pride. As Ted poured a steaming cup,
Alfred asked him what he thought.
“The boy needs...something,” Ted said. “But I'll watch him. Nothing will happen to
him this trip, I promise.”
“That, Mr. Grant, you can rest assure, is something I will hold you to.”

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Chapter 6

Wicked finished his business with the girl, leaving her to contemplate what further
horrors awaited her, and left his apartment. He took no special precautions because he knew
that the heavy chains the bound her in the tub of warm water would keep her from escaping. It
was a tried and true method. Certainly she was comfortable now, but as the water cooled, she
would be more preoccupied with keeping warm than getting away.
The scented water would also help remove the smell of fear from her. He had expected
more spirit, more of a fight from the daughter of a professional athlete, but that was not to be.
She had put up token resistance each time, but then her quaking body finally gave in to his
demands and he controlled her.
But he was growing bored with her, and he had half a mind to go ahead and just kill
her, but then he knew he would deviate from his pattern and that would take away the dread
his work brought to the families. They always knew there would be two and one of them
would die. If he just started killing the children, then it could spell trouble.
So, whistling a happy tune, he trotted down the stairs into the lobby of the building.
One of the tenants, a woman a few years older than him, gave him a smile, but he was
otherwise unmolested as he left the building. This was a part of town where people had no
friends and did not try to make them. Not like it was in Metropolis, he reminded himself,
thinking back several years.
He had become so scared that someone had seen what he had done that he had run off
to the Marines. Perhaps it had been a good move because it had taught him the value of hiding
in plain sight. He had been a killer among those trained to kill, so his fascination with
weapons and other aspects of the arts of death went unnoticed. In fact, his officers had worked
hard to try and get him to reenlist, but he had explained that he had family business to attend
to.
Metropolis had not been where he wanted to return to. He no longer got along with his
family, though they had never done anything particular to him. In fact, he had been granted a

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fairly normal childhood. There was no particular reason for what he did and he no longer tried
to analyze it. He simply did it because he wanted to.
Outside he began his brisk walk that would get his blood pumping and prepare him for
the hunt. He desired a boy now and his mind was filled with images of perversion and
debauchery. That, as well, was all right with him. In fact, the thoughts helped him focus on
what he needed to do. Kidnapping children in broad daylight, even with the lackluster efforts
of the GCPD to prevent them, was not very easy. There were always a few adults that decided
to do the right thing, or kept an eye on the neighborhood kids and that was the real problem.
The cops, if he were caught, might rough him up, but all they would really do is put
him in a cage. Piss off the local men on the block and they would kill you!
And it wasn't just the civilians and the cops he had to worry about. Many of the streets
he roamed were part of the territory of a local gang under the control of some tough with an
Italian name. He spied several of members of the gang standing on a street corner, distributing
drugs as cars came up. It seemed to be a profitable day because none of them gave him more
than a cursory glance as he walked by.
That behind him he continued walking, heading outside the immediate area to where
he kept one of four vans he had stolen. A buddy in the Marines had taught him how to boost a
car in less than fifteen seconds and that, he admitted, was probably the most useful thing he
learned in the military.
Twenty minutes later he was in the van, an older model with a large cargo area and
sufficiently rusted out that cops on patrol would not even look in its direction in this part of
the city. Again, hiding in plain sight. If he had stolen a fancier vehicle, he would have been
out of place and immediately would have garnered unwanted attention. To him, the van was
his camouflage gear and he was merely moving deeper into the woods to hunt his quarry.
He kept the radio off; there was nothing to listen to except very bad music, much of it
sung by persons of a different ethnic origin than him and he had no appreciation for it. He
wasn't a racist he often told himself; he'd raped boys and girls of all creeds and colors. Even

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got a hold of a little gay boy who tried to hustle him.

That body still had not been found.
He turned a corner and considered getting some coffee from a small deli he liked to
frequent since moving to Gotham. It helped to stop in there because it made it look like he
was part of this neighborhood instead of the one he actually lived in. And, to be honest, he
liked the coffee.
Parking in his normal spot and stopping long enough to put fifty cents in the parking
meter, he made his way into the shop. The girl behind the counter was busy chatting up with a
guy with too many pimples and he ignored her. She was a little old for his tastes, but flat-
chested enough that he could pretend. However, she was a valuable part of his cover. She was
someone who “knew” him from the deli and would always say he was friendly, polite and
normal. She never even fathomed the ideas he had about foreign objects and her various
orifices.
He moved back towards the coffee pots set up next to some stale doughnuts and
looked for the Styrofoam cups. As he reached for the decanter, there was a comotion two
aisles over, just out of his view. He emptied his hands and walked slowly to the scene of
chaos to see the deli owner, an older man of Arabic descent, manhandling a young boy with
dark skin and an afro that was in desperate need of cutting. “Thief! Little thief! Do you know
what we do to thieves in my country?”
“Yo, blood, this ain't no Saudi damn Arabia! Let go of my arm,” the boy protested. He
pulled hard, but he was thin and small, while his captor was a large man with a thick
mustache and thick forearms. “I said let go!”
Wicked took a step forward, a smile forming on his lips. “Is there a problem here?” he
asked.
The owner looked up. “No problem, no problem! Just a little thief, stealing from me!
From me!” He jerked the boy and illicited a cry of pain. Wicked felt a shiver run down his
spine and he had to take a deep breath to calm himself down. The owner called out to the waif

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of a girl at the counter. “You, call the police and quit whoring with that boy!”
“Hold on,” Wicked said, holding up his hands. “What did he steal?”
The owner opened his free hand and showed a pack of gum. Wicked laughed. “Look,
I'll pay for it. Let's not get the police involved. I'm sure the kid is sorry.”
“Screw you, white boy,” the kid responded with as much attitude as he could summon.
He could not have been more than eleven, but his eyes told the story of a much older man. In
an instant, Wicked understood the boy better than he understood himself.
Raised in the poorer section of Gotham City, he probably had seen violence and
despair his whole life. His improper use of English and the over abundant slang, showed that
he didn't care about school and most likely, neither did his parents if he had any. Most of the
young boys in this section of town had only mothers.
Their fathers were out making more babies.
Of course he could have been wrong and the kid was just a smart-ass. “You shouldn't
look a gift horse in the mouth, kid,” Wicked told him.
“He should be turned over to the police!” the owner argued. “Thieves should be
punished!”
“I agree, but the kid just wanted some gum. Is that really so bad, especially if I'm
willing to pay for it?” Wicked reached into his front pocket and pulled out a twenty. “Come
on...”
The owner thought about it and Wicked watched the thoughts pass through his brain
by the look on his face. He wanted to turn the kid in and Wicked could not blame him. The
thieves would pick him to death of he did not do something, but this was one time he could
afford to be lenient. After all, Wicked was a good customer who seemed to be trying to do a
good thing.
Finally, he let the struggling boy go. Instead of running, the boy allowed himself a
moment to give a knowing smile. Wicked admired his spunk, but also liked the way he stood,
erect and sure. He would be one who would be more than horrified by the breaking. He would

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burn inwardly with shame.

The boy started to turn to leave when Wicked shook his head. “Hold on, son, I want to
talk to you,” he said as he handed over the twenty to the owner. The other man grumbled
something in his native tongue and then went to get Wicked his change.
Alone, Wicked began the process of trying to earn enough of the boy's trust to get him
into the van. Once the lad crossed that border, entered Wicked's web, there would be no
escape. By the time his parent(s) discovered he was missing, the boy would have been given
his first taste of what could be the end of his life.
“What's your name, kid?”
“Jefferson...Jefferson Pierce; what about it, dude?” the boy asked, defiance in his eyes.
He was angry and Wicked could not wait until he got the opportunity to fill those eyes with
sweet sexual pain. “Don't expect me to kiss your white ass 'cause you helped a brother out!”
“No, not my ass,” Wicked whispered. He was about to say something else when an
older woman stormed into the shop. She looked around, spied the boy and Wicked felt his
hopes dashed instantly.
“Jefferson Pierce! What is going on in here?” she demanded, stomping towards the
boy. Immediately, Jefferson's shoulders slumped in defeat. All of the defiance was gone. The
older woman stopped in front of his and lifted his chin so he could see the anger in her face.
“Answer me, young man!”
“Nothing, grandma,” the boy said in a polite voice.
“Don't you be telling me 'nothing', young man! I sent you in here to get some milk and
I find you in here talking to this man! What is going on?”
“He is a thief! A thief! He tried to steal my gum!” the owner ranted as he walked back
into the aisle. “But this nice man agreed to pay for his theft!”
The old woman looked at Wicked and he felt his stomach churn. Her face was
wrinkled and sagging, not at all firm and fresh like the faces he enjoyed. “Is that true, sir?”
she asked.

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Wicked swallowed. “Yes, I didn't think a pack of gum was worth the trouble the boy
would get into it.”
She opened her purse and began to rummage through it. “We don't take no charity, but
I am thankful. You have a good heart,” she said as she produced a handful of change.
Wicked tried to beg off, but she would have none of it. He saw where the boy got his
fiery determination and felt the sadder for his loss. His night was ruined, bad karma in the air.
There would be no new meat to tenderize this night. Reluctantly, he accepted the handful of
coins and watched as the old woman pulled the boy out.
“You should not get involved,” the store owner said, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Next time, let the police handle it. That is why we pay taxes, yes?”
Wicked nodded and then moved off to get his coffee. He could not believe how close
he had been! He cursed silently as he poured pack after pack of sugar into his coffee. He
would have kept at it except he knew it was time to leave. He did not want to spend too much
time in any one place; it would make him harder to track.
He moved to the counter where the girl looked bored and dazed. He reasoned he could
probably smack her across the face and it would take a week for her brain to register. That
was one of the things that truly made her unappealing, unworthy of any true pursuit. He liked
intelligence in his prey, loved the thrill of watching as they tried to come up with a way to
save their lives.
It was almost spiritual to strangle some kid and watch the intellect and potential
simply fade from their gaze.
He checked his watch as he stepped out into the night and figured it was time to call it
a night. He could stay out longer and troll for fish, as he called it, but there was substantial
risk involved. He had been sighted with a child, offering aid to a child. A good detective
might make something of that, not that there were any left in Gotham City. It had been one of
the reasons for coming here, but he could never be too careful. You never knew when the
GCPD might actually hire a cop worth a crap!

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He was almost to his van when he bumped into someone walking down the sidewalk.
He almost spilled his coffee and the anger swelled inside of him. He looked up to see a face
that was youthful, beautiful in a weird way. It wasn't that there was anything mysterious about
her, it was more that her eyes reflected an age far beyond what her good looks belied.
“Sorry,” she said with a toss of dark locks.
“No problem,” he replied, giving her a quick once over. She was built, too, and he felt
the unnatural stirrings within him. He very rarely had desires for what he considered mature
women, but he was willing to make an exception in this case.
She turned to walk away and he glanced at her posterior. Very, very firm. “Hey,” he
called out, “what's your hurry, baby?”
She stopped and slowly turned back around, her face not one of shock, but more of
mild amusement. Suddenly, he felt inadequate, just as he had growing up when the pretty girls
had looked at him. All of the other boys got girlfriends, but not him. Nobody ever gave him a
note in class, or sat next to him on the bus. They just looked at him like he was an alien. “Are
you talking to me, young fella?” she asked.
He swallowed hard and felt his hand starting to shake. He was intimidated and he
knew it. “I...I thought...”
“What? You thought that with that smooth line I was going to hop into your arms?”
she prodded. “Well?”
He suddenly turned and threw down the coffee, making a sprint to his van. He hopped
in it, started it up and roared away, cursing everyone from the woman to God. Then he felt the
wetness in his pants and the rank smell of urine.

Dinah shook her head and decided to file the encounter away for later laughter. It
wasn't so uncommon for guys to hit on her, even when she wasn't in costume or wig, but they
never ran. Normally they tried to dazzle her with descriptions of their anatomies that defied
logic, or attempted to sway her with promises of sexual pleasure unheard of since the days of

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the Roman orgies.

Not today she surmised as she started towards her favorite deli. It had always been
here, ever since the forties, just with different owners. Jewish, Irish, Italian and now Arabic.
But they always had the best prices on smokes and damn good coffee to boot. She wanted to
stock up before she had to change into costume. Her analysis of the Wicked crimes told her
that he would strike either here or the Bowery within the next two nights. Ben was supposed
to meet her soon while they tried to stake out the area, but it was like looking for a needle in a
haystack.
Stepping inside the deli, she put on her happy face and ordered up a pack of cigarettes.

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Chapter 7
.

Ben looked at his watch and saw that it was still far too early for a sane man to be
moving about town. He should have been at his desk, in front of his typewriter, working away
and nibbling on a bagel. At least then maybe he would gain a little more acceptance from the
other reporters on the paper. Being an outsider, a southern outsider at that, was not gaining
him any friends. But, he told himself, they were not being as hard on him now that he was
hanging out with Black Canary.
It was almost as if since she had given him the nod, the others had to accept him. He
began to think of her as the pope of Gotham City, laying hands upon his reputation and
providing him with absolution. He chuckled; she would probably find a lot of humor in that.
He had to admit that the hero was growing on him. There were no heroes in Texas,
unless you counted firemen, cops and the Rangers. There were no super heroes in Texas and
he had not really expected to ever meet any when he moved east. After all, the Justice Society
had disbanded decades before and very few of the members were active any longer. In fact,
the most active hero had never actually been a member of the Society; Johnny Quick had
never made the cut.
He knew that some of the other costumed adventurers, or lunatics depending on your
point of view, occasionally put on their fighting togs and went around reliving their glory
days, but for the most part, they were simply part of a past he only vaguely remembered. In
his childhood, things had been different. Spending his summers on his grandfather's farm,
listening to the patriarch of the family spin yarns about the masked men of World War II and
their incredible powers and abilities.
Sometimes Ben wondered if it were those stories that had led him to journalism, or
was it really just trying to gain his father's acceptance?
He also reasoned that the relationship that he had developed with his “Peepaw” had
also made him naturally gravitate towards persons of elder generations. Perhaps that was the

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reason he and Stan had become such close friends.

Stan Montgomery was the local Veteran's Assistance liaison, a former infnatryman
who had served with honor and distinction during Korea. Stan was also one of Ben's sources
as he had access to military records and information that normally would require great
patience to find as you wandered through the sea of governmental red tape. Many times Stan
gave him information that was personal in nature, stuff you just could not get a hold of.
Stan came back into the office carrying a notepad and a cup of steaming black coffee.
Ben knew the older man liked his coffee as thick as tar and no conversation could start until
he filled his tank with a little of the “caffeine gasoline”. He waited patiently as Stan took his
seat behind his desk and then took a long, hot sip. “Ah, now that is what makes America
great. You ever been overseas, Ben?”
“No, I prefer to write about local crime. It seems Gotham City has enough to keep me
busy,” the reporter replied with a smile.
Stan chuckled. “Yeah, a couple of the boys down at the VFW told me about your
goings-on with the Black Canary.” He leaned forward. “Tell me something...are those legs
still as sexy?”
Ben laughed. “Yeah, despite her age, she is quite the looker.”
Leaning back, Stan closed his eyes. “I remember when the Justice Society broke up.
Talk about a bunch of unhappy GI's.”
The comment put a frown across Ben's face. “Well,” Stan began to explain, “back in
the late forties and early fifties, the JSA would do a lot of benefit shows for the troops.
Nothing put a smile on a trooper's face quicker than seeing Phantom Lady and Black Canary
come out on stage. Hell, after what Congress did to them, trying to control them and
everything, I don't blame them for taking off on their own.”
“I think most people would agree with you,” Ben said.
“Once got within ten feet of her, that Black Canary. Had on some fifty cent cologne I
had bought in Berlin...this was right before I shipped out...had the crazy idea I was going to

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sweep her off of her feet.” Stan stopped and broke out in a raucous laughter. “Ended up
standing there, pouring sweat, with half a hard-on the second I saw her. Smelled like pig urine
too now that I recall. She gave me the damnedest look, made me shrink back into the crowd!”
Ben joined in the laughter, trying to imagine his friend younger and less sure of
himself. Black Canary did have a tendency to intimidate even the strongest willed men, even
Ben himself though he was loathe to admit it. After a few more minutes of talking about the
various feminine attributes of the hero, Ben decided to get down to business. “Did you find
anything for me, Stan?”
The older man handed over the note pad, which had several names written on it. One
of them was circled. “Michael Keates. Joined the Marines a couple years back, right after
those murders happened in Metropolis. Made corporal and then got out about seven months
ago.”
Ben nodded. “Right before the first murder here in Gotham City.” He looked up.
“What sort of discharge?”
Stan shrugged. “Honorable, but I contacted a few friends in the Corps who put me in
touch with his last commanding officer. Seems Keates was a little too gung-ho for even the
Marines. Normally they try to convince guys to reenlist, but the commander said that in this
case they just let him go.”
“Where did he serve?”
“Mostly stateside, but he did have a one-year tour over in the Middle East, part of
some embassy attachment.” Stan took another sip of his coffee. “You look at his service
record and you see someone who seemed destined for a career in the Marines. Not that he
stood out, mind you, but that he fit in. He fit in too well.”
“I get what you're saying,” Ben answered. He tore off the top sheet of paper, folded it
and put it inside his jacket pocket. “He knows how to fade into the background.”
“Sometimes better than being super strong or having a ring that makes giant green
hands appear in thin air,” Stan told him. “He relocated to Gotham City right after he got out,

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but he hasn't applied for any benefits. No educational or job placement, so I don't have a
current address.”
“I thought that once guys got out they were part of the Inactive Ready Reserve for the
remainder of their contract?” Ben asked. Most people enlisted for a total of 8 years, just that
not all of it was on active duty. “Isn't he supposed to check in once a year...”
Stan coughed. “Hell, Ben, most guys who get out don't want nothing to do with the
military ever again. And we don't have the resources to track them down. Don't matter
anyway; if the Soviets attack they are gonna use nukes and all of the reservists in the world
aren't going to help.”
Ben did not want to get led into another debate on the status of the super-powers. “So,
you have no idea where he could be?”
“He's probably still here in Gotham, or he's moved on to Bludhaven. He doesn't seem
to have any skills that would find him work in some place like Metropolis.”
Ben nodded and stood. He and Stan shook hands. “I owe you, buddy,” Ben told him.
“Get me a chance to meet Black Canary and we'll call it square.”

“Yes, my friend wants to meet you,” Ben told her. He cradled the phone between his
face and his shoulder and reached for the tuna sandwich sitting on his desk. “I'm doing my
best to follow-up, but this guy is like a ghost.”
Ben's editor walked by and for the first time did not scowl at him for eating at his
desk. It really did appear that working with a real Gotham hero was benefiting him. “My
friend? He's from your generation except no Fountain of Youth. Yes, he's single...can we be
serious for a moment?”
He stopped midway through a bite of his meal. “Dinner? Tonight? Me?” he began to
chew again as he considered it. “Oh, you want me to meet your husband. Bring my
girlfriend?” He did not bother to tell her that he was now unattached as his lover had become
convinced she was going to be dumped for the more charismatic Black Canary. “How about

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my son?”
He nodded and then promised that he would meet her at the designated time and place.
He hung up the phone and continued to eat his lunch. It was sort of surreal when he thought
about it. A real, live super-hero wanted to have dinner with him, as herself and with her
family. He would actually see what she looked like without cleavage!
He started to laugh at the mental joke and choked immediately on his food. He set the
sandwich down, still in the midst of a coughing fit and reached for his diet soda. People
stopped to look at him and his face burned with embarrassment. Grabbing the can, he took a
long hard drink from it.
When he had finally recovered he noticed that a tall man was standing at his desk. The
man seemed familiar in the sense that Ben was sure he was supposed ot have recognized him.
“Can I help you?” he managed to croak out.
“Benjamin Tinsley?” the man asked. His voice was deep and only seemed to
accentuate his presence. He was tall and muscular; his suit, which appeared to be fairly old
but in good repair, could not hide his physique. His hair was red, with a single streak of stark
white running through it at the front.
“Ben, actually,” he replied. “And you are?”
“Detective Jim Corrigan of the GCPD,” the man replied. He produced a badge and
Ben noted that it was the real thing, but he could not place the police officer. As a crime
reporter he had interviewed dozens of cops and had been to hundreds of crime scenes since he
had moved north. Yet, for the life of him, he could not remember ever meeting him.
“I feel like I should know you,” Ben told him.
“Most people who get to know me regret it, Ben,” Corrigan responded. “Such is the
life of a cop.”
“What can I do for you, Detective?”
Corrigan looked around for a chair and then grabbed one from an empty desk. He
pulled it up close to Ben and sat down. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to them Ben

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noted. “I understand that you are the reporter that Wicked contacts.”
“Unfortunately,” Ben told him. “Some reporters live for scoops like that, but all it
does is give me nightmares.”
If Corrigan found humor in the comment, he did not show it. Instead, his jaw remained
set and firm. “I have also reason to believe you are working with the Black Canary on the
case.”
Ben scratched his head. “I don't know if I would go so far to say that we are working a
case. I'm pursuing a story about her investigation...”
“In other words, you are working the case with her,” Corrigan interrupted. “She is a
good person, a good soul.”
Ben only nodded, wondering what it was the detective wanted, but somehow felt
uncomfortable asking him to get to the point. Corrigan took in a slow breath, exhaling
through his nose, his face giving Ben the impression that his mind had just been read. “It is
important that you work quickly on finding this monster of a man,” Corrigan finally said.
“Yeah, well, that really is a job for the police, now isn't it, officer? I'm a reporter, I tell
people about how well you guys do your work, stuff like that,” Ben reminded him. He was
getting the definite impression that there was something very odd about this man.
“The police department is corrupt and you know it. An evil permeates the hearts of
those sworn to protect the innocent of this city. It has allowed,” Corrigan said, “something
vile to prey upon the children.”
“Ho-kay,” Ben said, pushing his chair back a little. “What division do you belong to,
Detective Corrigan?”
Corrigan ignored the question and instead reached over for a note pad and a pencil. He
began to sketch out a crude map of what Ben immediately recognized as being downtown
Gotham. “This is the area your partner has determined the killer is working in for this hunting
period,” Corrigan said without looking up. “You need to be in this area tomorrow night,” he
told him, tapping the pencil on what was labeled as Crime Alley.

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“If you know this, detective, then why are you telling me and not your superiors? In
fact, this sounds like a practical joke to me. Who put you up to this?”
Corrigan slowly turned to look into Ben's eyes. “You must stop him. The future is
riding on your actions.”
Ben stood up and shook off the creeping cold feeling that was making the hair on his
neck stand up. “Get the hell out of here, you crackpot!”
“Hey, Tinsley!” the sports editor called out from across the aisleway. “Who the hell
you yelling at, Texas?”
He started to point to Corrigan, but there was only an empty chair. “What, you want us
to leave before the Canary comes by to sing to ya?”
The other reporters in the newsroom began to laugh and heckle him and he felt his
face go flush. He looked around the immediate area, but did not see Corrigan anywhere and
he would have been hard to miss in his out-of-date clothes. Next he scanned his desk and a
nervous shiver erupted in his hands. There sat the map with a circle around Crime Alley.
One of the other crime reporters, a grizzled old veteran with a penchant for foul
smelling cigars and a little whiskey in his coffee, strolled up. “Don't let them get to you.
Sometimes I want to stand up and tell 'em to leave, too!”
Ben shook his head. “Did you see that guy I was talking to? The cop?”
The other man took a long drink of his “enriched” coffee and laughed. “Cop? There
ain't been no cop up here, Tinsley.”
“Yes there was!” Ben exclaimed, drawing a few more stares. He regained his
composure and lowered his voice. “He said his name was Jim Corrigan.”
Turn a slightly more pale shade, the reporter took a long drink of his coffee. “Jim
Corrigan is dead, sonny; he was a cop back in the thirties. Retired from the GCPD in the
fifties. Think he died in 1969 or sometime like that.”
Ben shook his head and slowly sat back down, his eyes drifting to the map and the
phantom cop's cryptic warning that the future was now in his hands. All he could do was

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question the Almighty why he had been the one chosen to the be the harbinger of death in this
city.

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Chapter 8

Dark eyes squinted, the only outward sign of determination that young Bruce Wayne
would allow to show. It was the fifth camera he had discovered, cleverly hidden on the
grounds of Wayne Manor and it was the fifth time he had been stumped as to what to do
about it. He turned quickly, but Ted Grant, his appointed bodyguard did not bother to hide. It
had been made painfully clear by Alfred that the new head of security was here to stay, at
least for the time being.
He returned his attention to the camera, a rather bulky thing that had some camouflage
netting over it. It was inside a set of bushes and covered one of the many ways off of the
property. He wanted to turn it off or tear it out of the ground, but his eleven year old mind
simply could not figure out how. He could not imagine, at that moment, how one day cameras
would be meaningless to him.
The boy was patient as Ted approached. The former boxer was dressed in a dark suit
and he kept his hands in his pockets as he moved towards his charge. “I don't like the
cameras,” Bruce told him. “They mess up the look of my house.”
Ted nodded. “I tried to keep them hidden, but they don't make anything less
conspicuous,” he offered as an excuse.
Bruce shook his head. “Talk like you normally do, not how you talk to Alfred. Your
face scrunches up and I can tell you are trying too hard.”
Ted seemed to visibly relax. “Awright, is this better?”
Bruce nodded and turned back to the camera. “I'll get shocked if I try to pull the wires
out, won't I?”
Ted squatted down on his haunches and picked up a twig. “Probably. Probably hurt
like hell. And, you'd deserve it for being so dumb.”
“You can't stop me,” Bruce announced. “Nobody can.”
“Kid, have you ever considered how stupid it is...”
“It isn't stupid,” Bruce said, his voice giving Ted a slight chill. Before he could

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continue the conversation Bruce turned and started to walk away. The boy's head moved back
and forth, scanning the shrubbery and landscape for any and all changes that had been made
to the grounds. Security specialists had been installing the latest in surveillance equipment
over the last few weeks, all in preparation for Bruce's yearly constitutional into Gotham City.
For fifteen minutes the boy walked around the large house, his trip taking him to the
small cemetery that held his parent's remains. As Ted came up behind him, Bruce started
talking. “They didn't put anything here did they?” he asked. Ted wasn't sure if he was talking
about the burial grounds in general or about his mother's grave which he stood in front of.
It was more than obvious that the boy was harboring guilt over his inaction on the
night his parents were murdered. He had somehow convinced himself that the bullet that had
killed Martha Wayne had been meant for him, but common sense dictated that his mother had
always been the target. “No, I made sure that this was kept untouched,” Ted told him.
Bruce nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Grant.” It was truly the first kind thing Bruce had said
to him since he had taken on the assignment of protecting him. “Can I ask you something
personal?”
Ted shrugged. He had very few secrets. Even his Wildcat identity was not something
he worked very hard to protect. “Go ahead.”
“You're the same Ted Grant that was a fighter back in the old days, right?” Ted
coughed and smiled, telling Bruce that it was a while back, but certainly not the “old days” as
he put it. “How come you're so young?”
Ted took in a deep breath, wondering if he should consider changing his name and
starting life all over again. It would make things so much easier when people asked questions
about his age. “Something happened to me a long time ago; it gave me a second chance at
life.”
Bruce nodded and was very quiet for a few minutes. Then his hand went up to his eye
and Ted knew that he was wiping away a tear. The boy could not help but cry whenever he
got around the graves. “Why do you get two lives when my parents didn't even get a whole

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one?”

“Two for the Lance party,” Ben said, straightening his tie. It was the only one he had
and it did not match anything he owned, but he kept it because it was one of the few things he
was able to get in his divorce. The small boy next to him was the other.
His ex-wife wasn't a bad woman or a bad mother, but she had problems
communicating to him. It was that lack of communication that had ended their marriage; she
had another man and had not communicated it to him. Luckily the jerk she was with now
hated kids and so that meant he got his son free and clear. Of course, it would be nice to get
child support but the court in Texas had laughed at the notion of a woman paying a man.
“Yes, sir,” the hostess said with a fake smile. She looked as if she could die and when
he saw how many people were in the restaurant, he could understand why. It was very
crowded and noisy and full of cigarette smoke. Ben decided to forego the small talk and
grabbed his son by the hand and followed her.
They passed many of the upper median income families of Gotham City, mostly small
business owners or retirees. No mafia bosses or the super rich, just normal hardworking
citizens that somehow believed that because they were part of the majority demographic
group they were immune to the horrors that waited outside. They were too poor to rob and too
rich to be considered scum. Suddenly Ben felt dirty as he realized that he belonged to this
same group.
He pulled his son a little closer, hoping somewhat vainly that he could protect him
from the arrogant stupidity that was permeating the room. Before he knew it, however, he was
face to face with a stunning woman of youthful features and dark hair. The hostess moved
away and Dinah offered her hand to Ben. “Nice tie,” she said.
“You're not a real blond,” he stammered out.
“I'm the only one who knows for sure,” a man seated at the table said. He stood up and
took Ben's outstretched hand. He gave a hard shake. “Name's Larry Lance,” he said.

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Ben's mind began to work overtime as he seated his son and considered the name he
had been given. “You're the same Larry Lance that was a detective in the 1950's?”
The man smiled and picked up a napkin to wipe the mouth of a small child that was
next to him. “Yep, might say I got the same disease my wife has. Can't grow old no matter
how hard I try.”
“That's your daughter, Mrs. Lance?”
Dinah laughed and gave him her real name. “Don't call me 'Mrs.' It makes me feel
old.”
“Honey, we are old,” Larry pointed out as he picked up his child. The little girl
giggled and squealed slightly and Ben was reminded of the days when his son had been
younger, back before it became embarrassing to show affection in public. “This is our little
Di, named after her mother.”
“It was a lot easier than trying to come up with a name,” Dinah admitted. Ben
introduced his son quickly, but the boy was already looking around at other tables, trying to
decide what it was he wanted to eat. “Tough day I suppose,” she said before quickly relating
the details of her investigations into the various areas of Gotham City. “I think you are on the
money with the military angle.”
Larry agreed and tickled his daughter. “I would have thought prison first, but then I'm
an ancient old fart.”
“As long as you don't disappear into thin air,” Ben remarked.
“Huh?” Larry asked.
Ben sighed and told them about his visit from Jim Corrigan. “I mean, one second the
guy is there, acting all creepy and then the next he's gone. And nobody saw him except me!”
Dinah turned away and her husband stopped playing with their daughter. They
whispered quietly to each other and Ben assumed that they were exchanging ideas on it. What
else would you expect from a detective married to a super-hero. “I tried to do a little research
in Corrigan, but it ended up nowhere. Some of the older cops said he retired, others say he

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he's dead. Some even say he was killed back before the war.”
Dinah waved the waiter over before anything else could be said. “Let's stop talking
shop, okay? Tonight, let's put all of this bad stuff behind us and enjoy ourselves.”
Ben reached up and loosened his pitiful tie. “Fine by me; I've had enough of this crap
for a lifetime.”

Wicked was in a fury.

He knew he was slipping up, that he was losing his edge. He had gotten far too
comfortable in this city, with its people and the ineptitude of the local police to stop him. He
had gotten cocky and the incidents the day before at the deli, both with the boy and the hot
woman with the perfect butt had put him off. He needed to wrap things up in Gotham City
and move on he told himself.
There were other cities he could visit, urban sprawls like Cincinnati, Star City and St.
Roch. There he could start over; after all, local police departments didn't share information so
it would be years before anyone tied things together. He truly wanted to go home, but
Metropolis was unlike any other city in the country. Its law enforcement was top notch and
free from corruption and they would hound him until he either made a mistake or confessed.
That still left him in a quandary. He needed to complete this set of murder and rape or
else his reputation would be ruined. He would become a list statistic. He wanted to be greater
than Bundy and to do that, he needed to prey upon the fears of the populace by attacking them
on both ends of the spectrum. Then, when the common folk began to feel they were safe, he
would strike at them!
And he had no reason for doing it, none at all. He simply enjoyed it.
The girl was still whimpering and occasionally he would hear her start to pray or
whisper for her mommy and daddy. None of them were going to help her. Nobody was going
to help her.
He looked at her, with her torn clothing that exposed her more private areas to him

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and he felt himself beginning to get aroused at the same time he was angry. Suddenly she
became the focus of his rage and he stomped over to her and she opened her mouth to protest.
He punched her, harder than he ever had before and knock out a tooth. He puled her head
down and bounced her face off of his knee and then pushed her back onto the bed.
Blood was coming out her mouth, but he didn't care. What he saw was the woman
with the perfect butt that had made him feel small and useless in front of the deli. “Come on,
bitch, laugh at me now,” he said as he pulled off his shirt, exposing his bulging muscles. The
girl was fearful now, adrenaline pumping her legs as she tried to scoot away. He reached out
and grabbed her by the ankle, pulling her back to him. “Open your legs!” he screamed. The
girl shook her head, gaining courage from her desperation. It did nothing but excite him.
She kicked out and caught him upside the head, but he rolled with it and put his hands
on her thighs. “Not so hot now, are you?” he asked as he forced them open. Again she resisted
and finally voiced her opposition. “No!”
“No?” he laughed. He reached to the small of his back and grasped the large hunting
knife by the hilt and slowly pulled it out. “You'll do what I say, or else you'll die!”
“I don't care!” she said, defiance growing in her voice. “My daddy told me to never be
afraid...to never stop fighting!”
He moved quicker than her eye could follow, the knife blade plunging through her
throat, cutting the tissue and coming out the back. Her eyes popped open in surprise, in the
realization that her life was about to end. “Where's your daddy now?” he asked, removing his
hand from the weapon.
She rolled to the side, bright red blood pouring out of her throat, gurgling sounds
coming from the hole he had created. “Daddy can't help now! Daddy let you down! Daddy is
gonna let you die!” He continued to taunt her, to laugh and make childish remarks like “nyah,
nyah”. He even went so far as to climb up and lick her face, asking her what it was like,
knowing she had pushed him too far.
Her body thrashed slightly and then began to jerk; he recognized the signs of death as

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it approached, stomping on the soul as it came to claim its prize. Her eyes looked to him once
more and then began to roll back into her head.
He grabbed her chilling body and pulled her closer with one hand, the other hand
pulling at the clasp to his pants.

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Chapter 9
.

Ted sipped at the coffee which Alfred had prepared for him and studied the sleeping
figure on the monitor. The night-vision camera was something of a wonder and it still amazed
him that Alfred had been able to secure it. Apparently the Wayne Fortune, or at least the
butler's discretionary account, was vast because Ted knew that this was military grade stuff,
not available for the average consumer. Yet he had asked for it and it had been delivered; a
Christmas morning for any security specialist.
Bruce Wayne did not sleep like a normal child. Ted had dated enough single mothers
in his life that he knew what the typical youngster looked like when they slept. He likened it
to what he must look like without the unshaven face and beer bottles surrounding the head.
But Bruce was different and every time he watched the boy slumber, he got chills.
The boy never moved, unless he was having nightmares, and he had nightmares all of
the time. Sometimes his eyes would pop open, though he would still be asleep, and Ted would
see pure rage in them. Not the melancholy sadness that one could find there during the
waking hours, but instead a burning need for revenge. He had seen the look too many times,
especially after Pearl Harbor.
He occasionally shouted out words like “mom” or “dad”, but mostly he roared out
“I'm sorry” and Ted could watch his neck muscles grow taut. There was a hurricane brewing
in the soul of Bruce Wayne and nothing seemed to be able to stop it. He was full of remorse,
anger and guilt; a deadly cocktail that would spell his doom if someone did not do something.
But, he told himself, Alfred was oblivious to it all. He saw a young child he wanted to save,
as if to absolve himself of some unseen guilt.
Leslie Thompkins was worse. She was a smart one, Ted knew, and actually wouldn't
be half-bad looking if she maybe dropped the doctor's uniform and glasses and exchanged
them for a six pack and a box of condoms. She was trying to be a mother to a child she really
knew nothing about and she was failing. Some women just weren't the motherly type and she

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was instead trying to somehow suckle him with intelligence.

All of the brains in the world couldn't help a broken heart. Ted had considered calling
Dr. Charles McNider who was his former teammate Dr. Mid-Nite. Charlie was not just a good
egg, but he understood kids as well, but he had hesitated. Ted's mother had told him that all of
the world's problems, no matter how big or small, could be solved with love. There was no
doubting the love that both Leslie and Alfred had for Bruce, but neither were able to properly
express it. Alfred was overbearing at times (though smart enough to hire proper security given
Bruce's desire to run off into the city) and Leslie wanted to let him “express himself”.
Ted had had enough of that hippie-crap back in the old days; what the boy needed was
his mom and dad and he was never going to get them. And Ted wondered if somehow the
entire world was going to pay for this boy's lack of real parenting. How would he turn out?
Would he become a monster or a messiah?
“His fate is tied with the destiny of all of mankind,” a cryptic voice said from behind
him.
Ted gave a small shout and started to fall back. Only his Olympic-level reflexes saved
him from falling on his butt. Instead he rolled out of the chair and down into a crouch, two
fists at the ready to strike. His eyes took in the form in front of him and he relaxed. “Damn it,
Spooky, why the hell did you do that?” he said as he stood up.
The Spectre, pale skinned and clad in the deep green cloak that would only look good
on him, said nothing but continued to stare. “Yo, Corrigan, I'm talking to you,” Ted said as he
grabbed his chair and shoved it under the desk. “Best be using that magic of yours to clean
my shorts out after that!”
The Spectre seemed to sigh. “Why is that you always tempt my wrath?” he asked.
“Oh, please, keep that damn high and mighty stuff to yourself. I'm working on
something in the real world, Spooky...”
“The son of Thomas Wayne is standing at a crossroads, at a nexus of the Plan,” the
Spectre said, his voice having a chilling effect on the air in the room. Ted shoved his hands in

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his pockets and decided to keep his mouth shut for a few minutes. He had not seen the Spectre
in years, but then the Justice Society hadn't been having regular meetings either.
The Spectre had claimed to be a representative of God, some sort of spirit of
vengeance, but Ted didn't know if he believed it. When you could watch someone move
mountains with a power ring, what was so special about the Almighty? “Still you allow your
mind to wander,” the spirit-being admonished him.
“Stop reading my mind, Spooky,” Ted ordered. “I know I'm a sinner and a damn good
one. So I don't give you my full attention? Big deal!” He turned back to the monitor and
watched Bruce. “If you're so interested in bringing down the bad guys, why don't you get the
bastard that killed his parents.” Ted turned around and pointed a finger at the Spectre. “For
that matter, where were you when they were murdered?”
“Where were you, Wildcat?”
“I can't be everywhere,” Ted replied, knowing it was a pointless argument.
“Dinah is back in the city.”
He nodded and grabbed his cup of coffee, sitting down on the edge of the desk. “That
makes sense since she is from here.”
“It is good to help your friends.”
“You came all the way down here from the Big House in the Sky to tell me that? Why
don't you do something like make that kid mind me?”
He thought he heard a chuckle coming from beneath the Spectre's hood. It was an
unnatural sound, something that could not be described as human...ever. “Nobody, at least
none that I can think of, will ever make Bruce Wayne do anything.” Then his eyes began to
glow and Ted felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He now realized that he had
never been alone with the Spectre before and he secretly wished someone like Dr. Fate or
Green Lantern would suddenly appear. “Time is of the essence, Theodore Grant. You have
been given a most important task and your efforts must succeed.”
“Is that your way of saying good luck, the kid is smarter than you?” he asked, hoping

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the joke would warm the air.

The audio monitor picked up Bruce's scream. “Mom!” Ted saw the boy thrashing in
his bed and he froze. It was a nightmare; the boy was not in real danger. Did he approach the
boy or did he call Alfred? He turned to the Spectre, but he was gone. “Asshole,” he grumbled,
making his decision. He exited the small office and made his way through the manner. One of
the guards he had hired on saw him and tried to ask a question. When he observed Ted's face,
he let the question hang in the air and immediately fell in behind him.
The guard reached into his jacket and pulled out his automatic pistol. He said nothing
but instead flipped the safety off and only slowed when Ted kicked open Bruce's door. The
boy was still screaming for his mother, fighting off invisible demons. Ted jumped across the
space between the door and the bed and reached out to the boy. “Kid! Kid! Wake up!”
Bruce's eyes flipped open and looked beyond Ted's shoulder. In the doorway the guard
was silhouetted, his pistol in hand, held up slightly. A gut wrenching cry emitted from Bruce's
throat and he threw all of his weight into a neck strike, a shudo. Caught off guard, Ted
tumbled out of the bed.
The guard only saw what he thought to be an animal coming at him; disheveled and
roaring like a wounded lion, Bruce slammed into him. “No! No! Get away from my mother!
Get Away!” Bruce began pummeling the guard as they went down into the hallway. The gun
tumbled away and Alfred scooped it up in one deft motion as he came to the rescue.
Ted cursed and got up, rubbing his neck. Part of him was impressed; Bruce had
learned something in those martial arts classes and he had acted out of reflex. He was a
natural fighter. He was also a sloppy one as he watched the guard easily block the blows
coming at his head. Alfred was trying to pull Bruce off, but the boy was yelling at the top of
his lungs for his mother to run.
Ted came up and gently pushed Alfred away. The butler wanted to protest, but the
look in Ted's eyes told him that he had an idea. Alfred relented and Ted leaned in close. “She
got away, son; you did good. She's safe.”

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Bruce stiffened and the fell into Ted's arms. “My word, is he hurt?” Alfred asked.
Ted Scooped up the limp form of the heir to the Wayne fortune and looked to his
guard. “Hey, dumbass, I thought you were a professional! You let a kid knock your gun
away?”
The helpless employee said nothing. It was one thing to get knocked down, it was
another to be disarmed. “Better not happen again. You okay?”
The guard said he was and accepted the offered weapon from Alfred. “Mr. Grant, you
still have not answered my question!”
Ted nodded and carried Bruce into the bedroom and placed him gingerly into the bed.
He covered him up and then motioned for them to step outside. Once the door was closed he
started to rub his neck. “Damn it, Pennyworth, that kid needs some real help! You keep
fraggin' around and not take this crap seriously...”
“It is the anniversary of his parent's death, Mr. Grant,” Alfred began, only the slightest
hint of irritation in his voice. “It is a day I do not relish either. I have nightmares just as he
does. I loved them as well, as if they were members of my own family.” Alfred straightened
slightly and put his hands behind his back. “You insist on providing me with your 'expert'
advice concerning the well-being of Master Bruce, yet you fail to realize that we have gone
down these roads already. Master Bruce refuses to speak with anyone about what happened
that night. I have exhausted every avenue imaginable and every professional Ms. Thompkins
and I have consulted have all said the same thing: commit the child to a special home.”
Alfred paused and Ted suddenly felt very small. “I will not throw him away. I will not
give up on him. If he is half the man his father was and has half the heart his mother had, he
will come through this. I agree that he will not be the type of person who has dinner parties
and sings songs around the piano next to the fireplace, Mr. Grant, but I do sincerely believe
that the Creator has something special in mind for him.”
Ted was suddenly reminded of his conversation with the Spectre. There had been
mention of something like fate or destiny. “I...I just want to help...”

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“Indeed and you are, Mr. Grant. I do not want Master Bruce to go back to that city, but
as I explained, I do not believe the ability to stop him has yet to be created. Whatever it is he
is looking for, whatever the path is that he must follow in life, unfortunately must begin there,
at that spot. At that dreadful, awful spot.”
Ted said nothing more, but instead watched as the butler shuffled off to his own room.
He tried to understand the depth of anguish the other man was feeling, but he had no frame of
reference. It was like being in a madhouse and at the same time it wasn't. Maybe Alfred and
Bruce and Leslie were more normal than he had given them credit for. Maybe he had
expected that because there was a lot of money involved, that somehow they would handle the
problems differently.
But they didn't. They struggled through life the same way every one else did.
Sometimes they did something right by design, sometimes they did something wrong by
accident. He supposed that it had to do with his own background. As a kid growing up at the
beginning of the twentieth century, he had been on the wrong side of the tracks, always
looking across at the people who had, it seemed, everything. He had convinced himself a long
time ago that if you had enough money, then you could fix anything.
Now that he was several decades older, but not too much wiser, he understood it was
not that way. Bruce could have been anyone's son and all of his money could not help him.
He needed closure, or at least a kick in the right direction. Alfred had hoped that love and
attention would be enough, but instead Bruce needed to go back to that point and see if there
was anything he could have done.
It all made sense now! It wasn't that he blamed himself, completely, he was trying to
sort it out. Did he make a mistake? If he did, could he forgive himself? Could he really have
saved his mother?
Were these the questions a young boy should be asking? Ted remembered his years at
that age and his questions were more of “now that I know what its used for, who do I give it
to? Sally? Suzy? Mary?”

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But there was more to it. Once Bruce Wayne decided that he could have done nothing
that night to stop his parent's murder, what would he do next? How does one cope with such a
loss? What does it do to a man.
Ted turned and looked at the door, rubbed his neck, and made his way back to his little
security office.

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Chapter 10

Wicked stared at the blood that ran from his forehead to his toes and marveled for a
moment the way it seemed to make a piece of macabre art on his flesh. He was a portrait of
evil and for that single instance of time, he was a masterpiece of depravity. His eye caught the
reflection of the room behind him and he felt the fear rise in him.
He turned and walked naked into the room and surveyed the carnage. The corpse of
the girl was laying spread-eagle on the bed, a flesh flower in a garden of blood, gore and other
bodily fluids. He had expended himself time and time again during the night, pulling her head
close to his, feeling her flesh cool even as his heated up. He had forced her to bend and twist
in ways a live woman could not have, all the time cursing the woman who had driven him to
his rage.
He had sworn if he had ever met that woman again, he would disembowel her,
sodomize her and then cut her head off, and not necessarily in that order. But that was not
something he needed to worry about. He had completely gone off the deep end, but he was
not surprised. How many times had he suppressed his fantasies about the dead? He was smart
enough to know he could not continue doing what he did for a living and not fall off the
wagon.
So, now he had a desecrated corpse in his apartment and a need to molest a little boy.
He also needed to get out of Gotham City tonight at the very latest. The body would start to
stink soon and he had not the time nor the inclination to clean her up. Let this be the way her
parents remembered her. Their precious little daughter cut up, raped, and torn apart. God
himself wouldn't be able to put her soul back together!
Without a word he went and showered, wiping away the evidence of his conquest, of
his power over the little bitches and bastards that thought they were better than him. Her
designer jeans and expense account had done nothing to save her. It didn't matter how much
money or prestige she or her family had possessed; she had been his to do with as he saw fit.
He felt himself becoming aroused and he turned his thoughts to other things because

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he did not want to be too tired to ravage his intended prey. A young boy of eleven or twelve
perhaps, possibly as old as a teenager? Sometimes it was like selecting a fine wine and he
could not wait to sniff the cork, that first taste of what was to come.
Fifteen minutes later he was on the street, hair wet and hanging down on his face,
wearing clothes a little too big for him. He gave himself a maximum of forty-eight hours
before the body was found. Even the incompetent morons of the GCPD could figure out his
identity by the end of the week, but more than likely they would call in the feds. By then he
would have changed his appearance and would be in another city on the other side of the
country.
A smile began to creep onto his face as he waved to the shopkeepers he had seen
every morning. After he sated his thirst for perversion, he could get back on track. Maybe he
would even mix it up a bit, kidnapping only crippled children or some retards! The more
innocent, the better!
He hated the world he lived in, he decided at that moment. He looked around and saw
people going about their lives, realizing that he never really had a chance. They got to live
their dreams, but his were all illegal. Because he did not want to conform to their rules, he had
become a social outcast, having to find happiness in private. He had the wrong taste in
clothes, he listened to the wrong music and had knowledge in all of the wrong subjects.
And he liked to have sex with kids. Seems as if everyone had a problem with that. His
philosophy had always been if they weren't meant for it, they wouldn't have been given the
equipment until they were ready. After all, you don't hand someone a gun unless you expect
them to use it, right? God wanted them to have sex!
Lost in his thoughts, he paid very little attention to where he was going, just taking
streets and corners, whistling as he went along, even taking time to pass a few quarters to a
beggar. Around lunchtime he was in a part of town he had only driven through briefly as it
was right off the main highway.
It seemed fortune smiled upon him.

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Parked at the side of street was a car that only someone with kids would purchase and
he could see a woman hunched over a road map while a young man sat next to her in the
passenger's seat. He was slumped down and so Wicked had to walk closer to get a good look.
He was a good looking kid with a mop of brown hair and a bored look. He couldn't have been
much older than twelve, maybe thirteen. Wicked stopped a few feet away from the car, all the
while scanning the area for anyone. All he saw were some addicts shooting up in an alleyway,
nothing to worry about at all.
Inwardly he pushed down the demon raging inside of him and jerked out the military
discipline he had learned in the marines. Slowly he approached the car and knocked on the
window. The woman looked and Wicked put on his innocent smile. “Ma'am, are you lost?” he
asked.
He made a calculation. She was lost, it was obvious, a stranger in a strange land and
by her dress, probably from the Midwest. She wasn't pretty, but she wasn't ugly, a typical
mother. Wicked had the big advantage in that he was white and he knew that people believed
that only black people were bad in the city.
He was correct; her White Anglo-Saxon Protestant upbringing spelled her doom. She
indicated to the teenager to roll down the window. The boy wasn't too sure, but he did as he
was told. “Can I help you, ma'am?”
She started to speak but Wicked acted first. He grabbed not at her, but at the boy, who
had neglected to put on his seatbelt. Wicked pulled on him and the boy screamed. “Shut up!”
he told him, pulling him clear out of the car and onto the sidewalk.
The woman started to get out, screaming help, but he knew it would do no good. This
was a part of town where hookers were disciplined and cries for aid made by a woman were
laughed at. The boy tried to fight back, but Wicked was too strong.
Or so he thought.
The boy got a kick in that knocked the older man back. Like a leopard, the teenager
sprang up on his feet and faced off against Wicked. There was no fear in his eyes; in fact, he

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seemed to see Wicked as a challenge. “Come on,” the boy whispered.

Wicked roared, but the boy dodged, delivering another savage kick to the stomach.
“Come on!” the boy screamed again. “You think I'm afraid of you, fat ass?”
Wicked swung out and caught the boy in the shoulder, sending him against a wall, but
it only seemed to put more fire in the boy's eyes. Another punch and the boy's eye swelled up,
but he got two licks in that were hard and powerful.
“Hal! Get back in the car!” the woman cried out.
“No!” he told her. “He wants a fight, he gets a fight. I'm not afraid of you. I'm not
afraid of anything,” the boy boasted.
“You're gonna die, boy,” Wicked said, rubbing his chin. “Your momma is gonna be
crying at your funeral.”
“She ain't my mother and I'm not gonna die,” he said with a certainty that gave
Wicked pause. He had fought his victims in the past, but never with one that seemed to such
pleasure in the battle.
Hal roared and tackled Wicked, sending him back against the wall. The criminal had
not been ready and his head hit the bricks hard. He saw stars behind his eyes and then a lot of
pain as Hal kicked him in the jaw. “Hal Jordan! Get in this car now!”
Another kick knocked some teeth loose and Wicked moaned. He had been completely
unprepared for the assault. He had never seen such fearlessness in anyone. “You're lucky my
aunt wants me to go, bastard. Next time pick on an adult.”
Wicked closed his eyes and waited until he heard the car roar off. The smell of
exhaust fumes and burnt rubber brought him back to reality and he got up slowly. He would
not make that mistake again. His marine corps instructors would have laughed all day long to
see him taken down by a scrawny...well, smaller teenager.
Next time he got into a fight, it would be for keeps.

“Dinah, wake up,” Ben said as he hopped into the driver's seat. Black Canary shook

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her head and straightened up in the passenger seat. “I got a lead. Report just came in of a
mutilated body in an apartment downtown. The guy renting the place matches the description
of Keates.”
Ben started the car and slowly backed out. “Maybe I should drive,” she said. It had
been one of her complaints. “You drive the speed limit.”
“And I get us there safely and without costly tickets,” he reminded her. “I wouldn't
want your daughter to go without a mother because of me.”
“Which is why I should drive,” she said, brushing crumbs out of her cleavage. “And
why do we have to eat in the car?”
“Because when the story is hot, we need to be able to move.”
“You need one of those car phones,” she said.
“Like that will ever be affordable,” he laughed. “Maybe you're married to a high-
priced detective, but I have to live on a reporter's salary. Plus I have a son to raise.”
“Don't you ever want to settle down with a wife again?” she asked as they took a turn
a little too hard. Ben immediately let off the gas slightly.
“I don't work well with women in close quarters. Communication problems. I don't
like intimacy without a beer. Stuff like that.”
“Your wife hurt you,” she remarked.
He nodded. “You don't put that much emotional effort into something and expect it to
go bust. I suppose that's why I'm so dedicated to this story. Getting the killer is sort of what I
need to come home to.”
“We'll get him,” she promised.
“I hope so. I haven't received a letter concerning this victim. According to the cops, he
sends them out either right before or right after he commits his murder. But, there has been no
other kidnapping reported.” He smacked the steering wheel as they came to a stop at a red
light. “Unless the cops are covering it up, again.”
“I doubt it, but then they are down-playing it so much that the people just don't realize

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what is going on around them,” she said as she looked out the window. “This wouldn't have
happened a few decades ago. The police would have made it a point to tell the people...”
“Oh, come on, Dinah,” Ben laughed. He pushed the gas down and zipped past a
pickup truck. “You mean to tell me that all of the cases that you and the Justice Society
worked on made into the public venue?”
She said nothing, realizing that he was correct. Some of the things that she and her
comrades had faced were simply too awful or unbelievable for the common person to relate
to. They had kept the secrets of their work out of the spotlight to prevent a panic, but now that
she was seeing what the GCPD was doing, she was not sure they should have been playing
God. What right did they have to not speak the truth?
“So you think that what the police are doing is the right thing?”
He shrugged and hit the brakes, skidding to a halt at another stop light. “I don't print
everything I know and we haven't printed every letter. Maybe everyone just disconnects from
it all because it is so horrible. I mean, come on, a guy who rapes and slaughters children?”
“It isn't anything new. There were older men on my street, when I was kid, who would
offer me a dime to show them my panties.” She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
She was speaking of things that she had not ever mentioned to another soul, not even her
husband. “My dad had taught me to respect my elders, but I was too smart for that, or so I
thought. I thought that being old meant harmless. “
“I don't understand...”
“Of course you don't. You didn't get boobs at ten years old.”
Ben scratched his head and then stomped the gas again, silently vowing to run the next
light. “So some old man messed with you? My God, what did you do?”
A finger made its way to her mouth and she absently chewed on the manicured nail.
“What could I do? My dad didn't believe me when I told him, said that a sixty year-old man
couldn't do such things. After that, I kept my mouth shut about everything...I just did what my
father wanted. He never knew the extent of what was done to me.”

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Ben didn't know what to say and instead gripped the steering wheel. They made the
rest of the trip in silence and more than once he thought he saw her wipe away a tear. He
wanted to make a joke, try to do something to make her smile, but as he reminded himself, his
communication skills were inadequate. Especially in this case he told himself.
Several police cars and emergency vehicles crowded the streets and Ben was forced to
park at a fast-food joint. He pulled out his press identification and reached into the back of the
car for his notebook. Black Canary started to put on her overcoat. She had explained that she
wore it to crime scenes to keep from distracting the police or investigators.
They made their way to the yellow tape, Ben nodding to a few reporters from the rival
papers and then shaking his head at the news crews with their cameras and microphones.
“That's not real journalism, its a dog and pony show.”
“It seems like the public is finally taking this seriously,” Black Canary told him. She
hadn't seen so many cops in one place since the riots of the civil rights era.
“Hey, Ben,” another reporter said. The man's press card indicated he was from
Newark.
“Hey, Cal,” Ben said, taking the man's offered hand. “What's going on?”
“There was a gas leak and when the GP and G guys went looking for it, they found the
girl who was kidnapped all mutilated. The super called the cops, but the Power and Gas guys
went running out of here screaming at the tops of their lungs, got everyone's attention.”
Ben nodded and started taking down notes. “Must have stirred up a hornet's nest.”
“Yeah, no shit...hey,” the man said, finally getting a good look at Ben's companion.
“Hello, beautiful...”
“She's my sister...”
“Your sister is a reporter in Fort Worth and she's not a blonde...”
“No, she's a nun, my spiritual adviser,” Ben lied. A smile crossed Black Canary's lips
and he felt himself warm. It was nice to have her back.
“What? Oh my God, I'm sorry, sister; I didn't see...” he looked down and noted the

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fishnet stockings. “Exactly what order to you belong to, sister?”

“The Maidens of Discipline.”
“Yeah,” Cal said, scratching his head. “Only in Gotham City, I suppose. Makes sense
considering the manhunt.”
Ben looked up. “What manhunt?”
“The guy who rented this apartment. He attacked a woman and her teenage nephew
about an hour ago. She went ape as well, causing a damn panic when she went running into
the nearest precinct. Got all of 'em down here,” Cal added, pointing to a female reporter
speaking to a camera. “Guess everyone realizes that crazy bastard is the real deal, a dark
shade of Ted Bundy. I can't believe how much the public didn't realize what those letters your
paper was printing...”
“Where were they attacked at?” Ben asked.
Cal told them and Ben thanked him. “The sister and I have to go...”
“Time to get spanked?” Cal asked with a snort.
“Someone is gonna get spanked, that's for sure,” Black Canary promised.

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Chapter 11
.

Bruce took a final look at his room and then moved the strap for his bag higher up on
his shoulder. He then turned to his door and opened it, looking out in the hallway. Ever since
the incident where he had knocked down the guard, the security agents had been giving him a
little more leeway. That had been their first mistake.
For days Bruce had wondered how he was going to get around them, but then their
own need to not “cross his boundaries” had provided the answer. Instead of being stationed on
the second story as the original plan had been, they were standing at the bottom of the stairs.
That meant the direct route to the front door was cut off, but that was only one way.
Satisfied that he was basically alone on this floor, he closed the door and locked it. As
a final precaution, he retrieved the heavy wooden chair at his desk and propped it against the
door. That would hold back any attempts to break down his door. They might suspect he had
escaped, but they would need to waste time getting in to verify that fact. It would buy him
several precious seconds.
He then walked over to his window and opened it. They had not put an alarm in here
only because Bruce had been adamant that nothing was going to touch the window that
overlooked the family cemetery. Again, his power of persuasion worked well to his advantage
even though he found manipulating people to be troubling. He assumed that it was a
necessary evil in order to get his mission done. What was it his father had used to say about
breaking eggs and an omelet?
He shrugged and pushed the window open. His plan called for him to shimmy down
several drainage pipes to the ground. He had about fifteen minutes to get out of range of the
cameras. They were set up to automatically come on in late afternoon while physical security
handled the day shift. However, Bruce had observed that around this time every day, the
guard that was positioned under his window liked to head around the corner, out of the way,
to have a cigarette.

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He sniffed the air and was rewarded with the pungent scent of burning tobacco.
Less than a minute later he was on the ground and scurrying along the side of the
building, avoiding the cameras that he had mentally mapped out. It was an electronic gauntlet,
but he was more than up to the challenge. Midway through the maze he jumped and tried to
do a front roll as he had been taught, but came down hard on his shoulder and back. Laying
on the ground, he stared up at the clouds, willing himself not to cry out in pain.
After a few seconds he started to move. It hurt to do so, but he realized very quickly
that he had not done anything permanent. Slowly he got up, telling himself that he needed to
get moving and that the pain wasn't that bad. After all, she had been through worse, hadn't he?
Within five minutes he was beyond the cameras that had been installed. Again, fate
was with him as the work crews that were supposed to place cameras in the woods of the
estate had quit halfway through the job over a labor dispute with management. Bruce didn't
understand the specifics, but he made a promise to ensure that he paid his employees well
enough that they would not leave a job unfinished once he was on charge!

Ted Grant, dressed in his Wildcat costume, watched as Bruce ran past the tree he sat
in. He smiled beneath his mask, trying to imagine the thoughts going through the young man's
mind. He was sure that he felt the rush of victory, never realizing that he was being led down
a path that Ted had set up. The particular guard, the set-up of the cameras, even the fake
workman strike; it was all part of a massive disinformation campaign.
True enough, Wayne Manor needed better security. A middle-aged butler simply was
not enough to protect a millionaire child, no matter how dedicated that butler was. Ted
admired Alfred, but was also dismayed by his inability to see that he was taking the boy down
the wrong path. That, however, was not the concern tonight.
From the very beginning, Ted had observed young Bruce Wayne and had become
convinced that the boy's determination was going to allow him to succeed against any
defense. So Ted decided to do what all great military men did and set up the best defense

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possible by creating a good offense.

Bruce was following Ted's path; he was the rat in the maze looking for the cheese. He
would never get off of the estate grounds. Instead the big, bad Wildcat would drop down and
scare some sense into the boy.
Ted just hoped he didn't soil his pants.
It was one thing to face off against grown adults; it was another thing to confront a
real live super-hero.
Sure of himself, Ted started to climb down from the tree. He would let Bruce get far
enough away from the manor so that when he did get caught, his screams of anger would not
upset Alfred terribly.
Later, Ted would reflect on how he had made the first mistake of being a super-hero:
arrogance. He had assumed that Bruce's age was proportional to his determination. The entire
time he had been on the job, he had simply assumed that Alfred simply wasn't man enough to
handle a scrapping young boy. It wasn't the butler's fault; Alfred was an all right Joe and all,
but he wasn't the fatherly type.
And Bruce really did need a father. Some kids were able to grow up without a dad and
do relatively okay; of course, they normally became mommas boys. But what happened to the
kids who lost both parents. In the old days, they got shipped off to the orphanage where they
attend the School of Hard Knocks. Nowadays, if you had the loot, you got to be raised by
your servants. Ted supposed it was an enviable position, training your boss.
They began to approach a small dirt path that Ted had found a few days before. It
looked like something that had once been used and he imagined Thomas Wayne had jogged
out here. The man had definitely been gifted with a physique and as a doctor he had known
that exercise was key to healthy living. Ted wondered if Bruce ever bothered to run the path,
hoping to maybe find a footprint or sign of some sort that told that his father had passed
through at one time?
Sticking to the trees, Ted watched as Bruce took the path further into the woods. At

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one point, the path came within 50 feet of a service road. Alfred had explained that last year,
Bruce had arranged for a taxi to pick him up there, though the butler had never let on he knew
about it. Ted figured that Bruce's young mind would cause him to follow the path of least
resistance, like water, and if the trick had worked out once, then it would work out again.
Ted decided to flank the boy, moving to the right and into the woods, trying to be as
quiet as his namesake. He was stalking him a rabbit, he told himself, and he was reminded of
the old cartoons with the hunter that said his “R” sounds with a “W”. Despite himself, he gave
a little chuckle as he fondly recalled some of the more funny cartoons.
Climbing up a small embankment, he stepped onto the service road about twenty yards
from where he expected Bruce to come out. Immediately he knew something was wrong.
There was no taxi waiting.
“That little sonuvabitch,” he cursed. “He changed his plan...”
Quickly he went over the layout of the property even as he jogged down the road a
little further, ensuring that there was nothing hidden along the roadside. A quick search
revealed nothing, so he popped back into the woods and called out Bruce's name. There was
no response, but then he had not really expected any. He hoped that knowing he was being
followed would deflate the boy's morale and send him shuffling back to the manor.
No such luck he told himself.
He started running down the path again, cursing himself mentally. Bruce must have
somehow figured that Alfred had found out about the taxi, but he had kept his mouth shut.
The boy could keep a secret; it was always the quiet ones you had to look out for!
He yelled for the heir to the Wayne Fortune again and all he got was a “ha ha” from
the distance. The kid was in good shape and probably could sprint faster than Ted could run,
which meant he was a good quarter mile ahead of the hero. Ted had stamina, though; Bruce
could not run as long a Ted could and if there was no car, then there was no escape.
The sound of a two-stroke engine being fired up sent a hot flash up Ted's spine. He
suddenly remembered that there was a small shack out here that held...dirtbikes! “Damn it!

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The kid learned how to ride one this year!” Breathing hard, he doubled the pace of his run, his
costumed feet slapping against the hard dirt. “I'm going to kill him!” he promised himself, the
veritable carrot in front of the donkey to keep him going.
His ears told him he was losing the fight as the bike's engine revved and then started to
get further away. Bruce changed gears effortlessly, a loud, obnoxious testimony to his ability
to adapt. Thirty seconds later, Ted arrived at the shack to find one of the doors flung open and
a an empty bike rack. He scanned the area and saw his salvation. He hopped onto the three-
wheel ATV and turned the ignition key. He tried to start it, but realized it was out of gas.
“Ahhhhhhh!” he screamed, shaking his fist in the air. Then a thought popped into his
head. He got off and went into the shack and soon let out a cheer of victory. A full can of gas
was inside next to some tree-trimming equipment and he made quick use of it.
Bruce had a five-minute head start, but Ted could make up for that of he rode like a
madman. He hated the three-wheeled ATV's as they were more dangerous and to be honest,
he wasn't all that good on them. Regardless, he twisted the throttle and burst out of the woods,
jumping over the access road and landing hard on the other side.
He managed to keep control of the vehicle even as his eyes tried to pick out Bruce's
fading figure against the rapidly darkening horizon. He saw him, stopped at a red light. The
kid was good enough to out race him and obey the traffic laws!
For the next fifteen minutes they played cat and mouse, Bruce maintaining his quarter
mile lead on Ted as they approached the city. Finally, he saw the boy pull into a fast food
restaurant and park his bike near the back. Ted put his in an alleyway and took the keys with
him. In costume, he could not make his way towards the eatery without drawing a huge
crowd. If he took off his costume, then he'd get arrested for walking around in his “real”
Wildcat outfit. “Meow, meow,” he joked as he peaked around the corner.
He observed the people in the restaurant and wished it wasn't so crowded, but it was
around dinner time. If Bruce held to his schedule, he would have to be at Crime Alley within
the next hour and a half to “celebrate” his parents deaths.

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“Hey, man, got any spare change?” a voice said behind him.
“No.”
“Give me your damn spare change!”
Ted slowly turned around to see a gaunt man with long greasy hair holding a pocket
knife. The man took a good look at his costume and swallowed hard. “I'm gonna get my ass
kicked, ain't I?”
“Run away,” Ted said, switching into Wildcat mode. “Or I'm going to introduce you
to Mr. Fist,” he said, holding up his left one.
The junkie knew he was outmatched, dropped the knife and ran. Wildcat smirked and
then turned back to give his attention to Bruce. As he did so, a small, skinny kid walked up to
him. He began to wonder if he had not picked the busiest alleyway in Gotham City. “Hi,
Mister,” the kid said. “What ya doin'?”
Wildcat inhaled deeply and tried to sound nice; the truth was that he just didn't have
the time. “Super-hero business, can't talk about it.”
“Is that your three-wheeler, Mister Bobcat?”
He looked at the boy and determined he was no older than perhaps nine. What was he
doing out here by himself? What was wrong with parents today? “It's Wildcat and yes, it is.
Go away.”
“My name is Jack. Jack Napier. You said you're Wildcat? I've never seen a blue cat
before. It's kind of funny,” he said with a laugh that sounded eerie and hollow.
“Yeah, my partner is a giant pink rabbit...”
“Do you know Black Canary? She's not black...”
“Kid, really, I'm busy...”
Jack continued to ramble on and Wildcat phased him out for the moment as he
scanned the area. The bike was still in its parking spot with a couple of young toughs eyeing
it. No doubt it was going to be stolen and there was nothing he could really do about it. What
he needed was a belt to hold a walkie-talkie...a utility belt...

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“You want to hear a knock knock joke?”

“No!” Wildcat barked. Jack's face turned pale and he turned and ran away, screaming
like a girl. Wildcat did not feel bad about it; the kid had been annoying. He hoped that he
would never deal with him ever again.
Returning his attention to the scene, he picked out a bus stop just down the street.
There were two teenage girls and a boy with long blond hair waiting for the next bus. He
looked back to the fast food restaurant just as the bus passed.
He switched back to the bus stop and zeroed in on the kid with long hair. It was
Bruce! Wearing a wig and another jacket, but definitely him. He must have put on the
disguise in the restroom, but he was not adept enough to change his body posture. He still
stood with his chest out, haughty and proud, unwilling to ask for help from anyone. Wildcat
watched him get on the bus and then turned to look for a new ride.

Bruce thought the wig itched, but it seemed to have worked. He didn't see the three-
wheeler and he doubted that Ted Grant would risk getting arrested by riding it within the city
limits on the streets. He was on his way, once again victorious. He found himself a seat,
avoiding eye contact with anyone. He didn't want to strike up a conversation.
Two seats behind him, the eyes of Wicked focused on the back of his blond head,
depraved thoughts stirring within his mind.

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Chapter 12

“Honestly, ma'am,” Ben said in an exasperated tone, “I really am a local reporter.”

Hal Jordan's aunt seemed skeptical when she took a hard listen to his accent and he
continued to try to get her to believe him. A few feet away, a smug and cocksure Hal was
being interviewed by the Black Canary.
They had lucked out in catching the woman and her nephew as they were exiting the
police precinct, anxious it seemed to get back on the nearest road out of Gotham City. She did
not blame them; Gotham City had as many dangers as it had sights to see, and they had
unfortunately gotten more than they had bargained for.
“Yeah, I kicked his ass,” Hal said with a tone that indicated he was trying to sound
older. He had his chest puffed out a little bit and she noted with some mild amusement that he
could not help but drop his eyes at her chest as he spoke to her. It was funny when young
guys were faced with their first pair.
“Some people would call it stupid, others would call it brave,” she remarked.
He shrugged and his answer was blatantly honest. “I wasn't scared, if that is what
you're getting at.” In that moment, she felt as if she got a glimpse at the real person inside the
youthful shell of Hal Jordan. He was fearless. Very few people had such charisma that it
manifested so early in life, but there was no doubting it; this was someone who simply did not
know fear.
He tried to steer the conversation back to her, a feeble attempt at flirtation. “Must get
kind of cold in that get-up.”
“Yeah, listen, kid, where did the guy go after you whaled on him?”
He shook his head. “Nowhere. I left him on the ground rethinking his life. I don't take
very kindly to guys trying to have their way with me. I'm into girls.”
She fought back a mischievous grin. He was going to be a lady killer one day and he
knew it, but there was still something about him that made the cockiness attractive. If he were
only a few years older...

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“Well, it doesn't sound like this person cared about your preferences,” she reminded
him. “Still, fighting back was the right thing, though your aunt was correct in getting you out
of there.”
He reluctantly agreed. “Yeah, but the entire trip is ruined; we were supposed to be
heading further upstate to the air show. A friend of my dad's promised to take me up and my
aunt agreed to come out east with me to do it. Gave her a chance to talk to relatives we hadn't
seen in a long time.”
Black Canary nodded. She had already gotten the lowdown on the Jordan's and was
aware that young Hal's father was dead. “Confronting a kidnapper can put a damper on
anything, you know what I mean?”
“I am a reporter!” Ben argued. “Fine! Don't help me!” he said, stomping away.
“Your boyfriend has some anger issues,” Hal said with a chuckle. “I better go talk to
my aunt.” He took a final glance at her cleavage and then walked over to where Ben had
stood. Biting her bottom lip, Black Canary turned and started to make her way back to the car.
Ben was halfway there and he stopped to throw his notebook on the ground.
“The kid thinks you have some problems,” she chided him.
Ben stooped over to pick up his property. “I do. There's a sick bastard running around
killing kids and that...that bitch wants to argue over my credentials because of my accent!”
“I'm sympathetic, but face it, she justs wants to get her nephew out of here and back
home,” she replied. “He talked to me, though; it was Keates by the description.”
He waved her to follow along as he began to move towards the car. “Of course he
talked to you; everyone talks to you.”
“I've told you before, I have a way with men.”
He stopped and looked hard at her. A smile formed on his frowning face. “You are
pretty to look at.”
“Is that a crack in the 'I don't really worry about such things' armor of Ben Tinsley?
I'm amazed. Maybe after all of this is over you might even get a personality.”

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“Ha ha,” he replied as he got in his car and started it up. She plopped into the
passenger seat and pulled out her cigarettes. “Oh, God,” he started.
“Stuff it,” she was quick to tell him. She pulled out one smoke, sniffed it as if it were a
fine cigar and sighed. “These will be the death of me.”
As she lit up, he rolled down his window and pulled out of the police parking lot.
“From what I can tell, he's desperate,” he said.
Black Canary agreed. “I've been reading up on killers like this. Chances are he feels
compelled to finish his pattern; he needs a young boy. Maybe not to kill, just to rape.”
“Comforting.”
“I think he's heading towards Crime Alley,” she said, calling up a mental map of the
city.
“Great timing. Tonight,” Ben added, “is the anniversary of the murder of Thomas and
Martha Wayne.”
“Yeah, I remember that. Really sad. They had a kid, right?”
Ben nodded and pushed down on the accelerator so they could speed through a yellow
light. “Bruce Wayne. He's the heir to the entire fortune which some estimate will be in the
billions when he takes full ownership of it. He's got no parents though, that has to suck.”
“I figured that you would be more of the type to say that some kids are better off
without their parents,” she said, blowing out a lungful of smoke.
“I love my parents...I love my sister...I just hate...dislike the fact that I'm compared to
their accomplishments instead of being recognized for my own.” He nodded his head and cut
in front of a taxi that began to honk at them. “Isn't that your problem?”
“Ha! My problem is that I compare myself too much to my father's expectations. Hell,
we're all messed up a little, Ben.” She turned to look out the window and saw that they were
passing a station wagon that was full of smiling little children. “There are no perfect parents. I
don't care if they are rich, famous, or a couple of farmers out in Kansas. Everyone has issues;
I guess I've had a longer time to work mine through.”

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Ben looked both ways and ran a stop sign, a devilish grin on his face. Black Canary
raised an eyebrow; was Ben actually breaking a few rules? There was hope for him. “Yeah,
well, I think your dad would be proud of you.”
She thought about some of the mistakes of her past, the villains that had gotten away
or the times she may have used too much, or not enough force. Those early years, she told
herself, would have gone a lot smoother had she been able to turn to her father for advice.
Then a little voice would remind her that he had not believed her when she had gone to him
about being molested.
Molested hell! She had been raped!
She pulled out another cigarette and lit it off the one she had nearly finished. “I hit a
nerve or something?” Ben asked.
“No, just some bad thoughts that want to take up roost under this blond wig,” she said.
“But I suppose that nothing is quite as bad as having your parents shot to death right in front
of you.” She rolled the window down a little to let some of the smoke out. “God, this guy
needs to be taken down. I wish you could have gotten a more recent picture.” Ben had been
able to obtain a photograph of Keates when he had graduated basic training.
“I'm doing the best I can. Maybe we should contact that Detective Corrigan...”
“No!” she snapped, throwing the cigarette out half-smoked. “Leave him out of this.”
“You really have a problem with cops, don't you?”
“With Corrigan I do.”
Ben hit the brakes and nearly spun in a circle as he remembered at the last instant to
turn. His gaze strayed over to an alleyway where he thought he saw a four-wheeler parked. At
the same time, Black Canary's eye fell on a car where she would have sworn she saw Ted
Grant hoping into the back, two very young women in the front.
She shook it off as Ben fell in behind a bus. It would be a few blocks before he could
pass it. “Corrigan is one of you guys, isn't he? Like Dr. Fate or Dr. Occult?”
She nodded. “Something like that. Let's just say his status is always in question.” They

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were going at a snail's pace and she could see Ben's knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.
“You sure know a lot about my teammates.”
“I never said I wasn't a fan, I'm just not a rabid one. I knew who you were before you
came into my...”
“Life?” she asked, batting her blue eyes.
He shook his head. “Office.” He looked down at her left hand. “Do you ever wear a
wedding band?”
“In costume, no; if a creep thinks you're single and dressed like this, you must be a
dumb slut. The band would make me somehow legitimate and it wouldn't throw them off
guard,” she explained. “As I said, this costume has a real function. I wish it was bullet-proof,
though.”
She didn't bother to go into detail about how, regardless of her feelings for her
husband, the idea of settling on one man was foreign to her. It was a secret shame and also her
own personal triumph. Many women who were the victims of childhood sexual abuse
withdrew, but she had not allowed it to consume her, had she? She now had the power.
Was that what drove Wicked? A chill ran down her spine. Was he after power? Had
he been abused as a child? None of the information that Ben had been able to dig up had
indicated anything like that, but maybe he never told anyone. She hadn't, after all. She had
mentioned some of it to a few people, but the depths of madness she had been thrown into as
a young girl was not something she wanted to talk about.
Remembering was hard enough.
Sometimes, at night, when she was alone, she could almost feel those cold hands
slipping under her clothes, pulling at undergarments. She could still smell the breath of the
old man, cigarettes and coffee; yellow stained teeth and a withered brown tongue. Then came
the pain, the humiliation, then wanting to scrub herself with cleansing powder to remove his
sweat and other fluids.
His wicked laugh when she threatened to tell her father. His lecherous smile when her

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father had not believed her. His knowing smirk when she was introduced to his friends.
She let out an expletive. “Get this damn car around the bus or move over, Tinsley!”
“I'm not going to get us killed getting there. Besides its a big area...”
“Just go!” she ordered.
The rest of the trip was made in silence, Ben noting that Black Canary was lost in
some sort of waking nightmare. Again he wanted to help, to reach out, but he couldn't. Her
problems were decades old and buried deep. This case had forced some of that to the surface.
Hell, he thought, it was making him think as well. What he had said about his parents...his
father...had been true. He loved the man. He was so happy he had been raised well, not
growing up to be a psycho like Michael Keates.
He mentally went over a calendar in his mind, figuring out he was about due some
vacation and promising himself, as he always did, that he was going to take it. Spend some
time with his son. Maybe even try to get lucky.
All he had to do before hand was help a a semi-retired super-hero with deep-rooted
anger issues and sexual hang-ups save Gotham City from the worst serial killer this side of
Ted Bundy or Jack the Ripper.
“I'm not a super-hero,” he whispered to himself. Why was he caught up in this? It was
a compulsion that he could not explain. Is this what drove people like the Black Canary and
Hawkman to do good despite the fact they probably had just as screwed up lives as anyone
else?
Finally an opening materialized and Ben raced his car around the bus, never realizing
that his prey was sitting in the back of it.

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Chapter 13
.

The bus slowed to a stop and the driver took a look at Bruce. “You sure you want to et
off here, son? This is a dangerous place.”
Bruce looked at the man, surprised by his honest desire to check on his safety. Here, in
the middle of what he considered hell, was a good soul. Perhaps there was some good left in
the city; maybe it was worth saving after all. He wasn't sure and it would be many years
before he would make that decision.
He half-considered just staying on the bus, following the advice of both Alfred and
Mr. Grant. Did he really need to come back here? Was it that important? His parents weren't
here anymore; they were buried back at the manor house, in the family plot of land. He
suddenly felt stupid.
“Maybe you should stay here,” the driver offered. His emerald eyes flashed slightly
and had Bruce been inclined to look closer, he would have seen the the ghastly visage of the
Spectre in the driver's eyes.
He shook his head, throwing off a fog that had suddenly formed in his brain. He said
nothing more, but instead stumbled off, pulling his backpack up onto his shoulder. Behind
him, a large man moved down the bus aisleway, slowly shuffling forward. He watched the
boy, avoiding the deathly gaze of the bus driver.
The Spectre howled inside the bus driver, knowing that the roots of evil were
spreading out this night. Something wicked was being planted, something foul was growing
in the garden that was Gotham City. He wanted to stop it; he knew what the future held for
this night and the future.
And because of that, he could do no more than watch as the small child known as
Bruce Wayne briskly walked into a destiny that was to be filled with pain, misery and
expectations never met.

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Wicked stared at the blond haired boy, his excitement growing at the same rate as his
erection. He would sate his lust tonight, perhaps not killing the boy. Let the boy live he told
himself, let him proclaim to the world how evil old Wicked buggered him! He had to clamp
down on his jaw in order to keep from giggling too loud. He simply could not believe his
luck!
Wicked almost skipped as he followed behind the boy at a safe distance. This part of
the city was grimy and filthy, more so than what you would find in the other parts. By the
style of the buildings, he guessed that this had once been a very nice place a few decades
before. However, anything that had been of value concerning this section of Gotham City had
long since decayed into dark, hellish shapes.
Indeed, it was like walking into hell when he thought about it, and that suited him just
fine. He knew his soul was damned, but that was the least of his concerns. His spiritual needs
were inconsequential to his physical/sexual ones. He had an itch to scratch and that weighed
more heavily on his mind then anything else.
The boy did not belong here, Wicked knew, but his lust kept him from pursuing the
thought any further. A more sane person would be asking why he was here. A more sane
person would look at his clean clothes and realize that this was no common street urchin, but
was instead a fish out of water. A more sane person would avoid him because this was
someone who would be missed, somebody who might even have someone waiting for them,
or looking for them.
But Wicked no longer cared about his sanity. It was much easier to now just slip into
the warm embrace of being plain crazy. He no longer had to justify his crimes, just commit
them with deadly efficiency. This boy would be the end of his beginning and the beginning of
his future. In another town or city he would begin anew.
The boy did not notice him, even though he looked back once. It was almost as if he
were looking for someone else and had tunnel vision. Wicked did not match the physical
description of who the boy feared and that suggested a runaway. That would be beneficial in

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that the police would probably wait 24 hours before looking for him.
That would be more than enough time.
Wicked heard the screech of tires and turned to see the small economy car that had
passed his bus earlier. Inside were two people, frantically looking back and forth and he
suspected it could be the parents of his prey. Better to fade into the shadows and wait he told
himself. Stepping into the shadow of a building, he allowed the car to slowly drive by, but he
managed to keep an eye on the boy as well.
Something wasn't right as the boy seemed to note the car as well, but seemed
unconcerned. Wicked wasn't sure what was happening, but he told himself that he had been
too careless lately so he continued to use the darkness as a cover. The boy was three blocks
away before he felt safe enough to step away, though he could hear the car a few alleyways
over. The driver was not being subtle about taking turns and he could have sworn he heard
garbage cans clattering.

“Damn it!” Ben said, smacking the steering wheel.

“How did you hit the only garbage can in the entire alley?” Black Canary asked, mirth
in her voice despite the situation. “That's either really bad luck or really good aim.”
Ben turned off the engine and yanked the keys out of the ignition. “We weren't really
getting any results like this anyway.”
“Foot patrol is always the best way,” she agreed as she got out. She stepped away
from the car and slowly closed the door, removing her trench coat and throwing it to the
ground next to the vehicle. It wasn't anything important anyway, just something she had
grabbed out of her closet. Most likely it was one of her husband's leftovers from the fifties.
She sniffed the air and nearly gagged. The air was filled with the odor of a spoiled
river and sewage lines desperate for attention. At one time, this had been a part of the city that
had been jumping, full of energy and life. Now it was the first casualty in the war on crime
that the good people of Gotham City seemed to be losing.

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“I'm going to head towards Crime Alley,” Ben said. “I've got a feeling about it.”
She nodded. “I'll head that way as well, but I know a few back alleys that i can check.
I don't know if we are wasting our time or not; doesn't seem to be a lot of kids down this
way.”
Ben shook his head and spread his arms wide. “This is the heart of Lost Children
Central. Every year, dozens of kids, mainly teenage girls, are abducted and brought here to be
raped or forced into one of the underground porn houses in the area. The cops make a few
arrests and then accept a lot more bribes.” He lowered his arms. “The kids are here, they are
just hidden very well.”
“Do you think Wicked knows that?”
“Rats always converge in the same place.”
She didn't really want to accept that answer, because the reality of it was too horrible
to comprehend. What Wicked did was terrible, but was it becoming something that was not
even out of place anymore? God, she prayed, she missed the good old days.
Or did she?
Again she had to tell herself that many of the crimes that she was thinking about
occurred when she was a young girl; had occurred for hundreds of years. The innocent were
always the victims of the powerful. Be it slavery, murder or rape, it didn't matter.
“This business sucks,” she told herself as the separated. “This really, really sucks.” All
she wanted to do was go home and hold her daughter and tell her everything was going to be
okay.

“Ladies, I wish I could stay,” Wildcat said as he squeezed out of the backseat of the
car that had carried him to the Crime Alley area. He couldn't get too close because he did not
want to take a chance of having Bruce recognized.
The driver giggled and her equally bubbly companion could not resist giving Wildcat's
rump a pat. “You sure you can't stay, kitty? I bet we can make you purr.”

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A smile crossed his face as he considered the two. They were just old enough to be the
granddaughters of his girlfriends in the forties. “I'll take a rain check on that, girls.”
One of them handed him a card with some numbers on it. “Call us.”
He took the card. “I will,” he said as the drove off, laughing like a couple of drunk
bingo whores. He looked at the card and started to throw it down and then reconsidered. A
devilish grin indicated what he intended to do with the number and he quickly stuffed it inside
his waistband pocket before sprinting off in the direction of the spot where the Wayne parents
had been murdered.
Several winos and bums gave startled cries as he ran by, the claws of his costume's
feet clicking on the ground. One older, grizzled drunk raised a bottle to him as he passed.
“Yooz go Wildcat...yooz ki-hick dat Degertun's ass!”
A couple more of the more senior homeless men began to chant “J Ass A”, as opposed
to the initials of the Justice Society of America. Wildcat ignored them , ran up a board to the
top of a stack of crates and then jumped for the bottom rung of a fire escape ladder.
Even before the ladder was able to fully slide down to the street below, he was two
more flights up, making his way to the roof. The best way to track someone on the ground
was to follow them on the rooftops. He jumped from building to building, pushing himself to
his physical limits as he looked for any sign of Bruce. The closer he got to Crime Alley, the
more worried he became. Why hadn't he found the boy yet? He didn't have that great of a
head start.
Finally, after a few tense minutes, he saw who he was looking for. Bruce was below
him and Wildcat cut to the right, jumped to the next building and practically jumped from
every other floor on the fire escape. Once on street level, he gave himself a moment to pause
and catch his breath.
Part of him debated letting the boy go ahead and do his thing. After all, he had made it
this far on his own, though it had been a very reckless way to do it. Impressive, but reckless.
Then again, he had been hired to make sure Bruce was safe and this definitely wasn't the

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safest place to be. As if to punctuate that, he looked down to see a used condom laying next to
a soiled and torn teddy bear.
That made up his mind. He moved to step in front of Bruce when some movement
caught his eye. He froze in the shadows and watched as across the street, in another alley, a
figure snuck around. Bruce passed by the alleyway and the figure stopped short, watched the
young boy and then began to move a little quicker towards the mouth of the alley.
Wildcat decided not to take any chances. He sprinted across the street; Bruce had
already turned the corner into what was Crime Alley proper and the figure was gearing up for
a run. So intent was the figure on Bruce that it did not see Wildcat until the very last moment.
The figure threw up an arm that caught the hero, but did not prevent him from being taken
back and down into the alley.
Wildcat took a punch to the jaw and by reflex only, struck back. Then his foe seemed
to get really mad and the hero kept moving to pin their arms. “Let go of me!” the figure said,
before being able to maneuver their knee in for a groin strike.
Pain shot through Wildcat, but not enough to make him let go. His pelvic protection
prevented any real damage, but it did manage to pinch some of the more tender spots. With a
snarl, Wildcat mentally took off the kid gloves. “Child molesting scumbag,” the hero roared
as he gave two quick punches to the stomach.
“Oh, God,” the figure said before vomiting. An elbow to the ribs brought a resounding
crack. “Stop!”
Wildcat responded by standing up and hauling the figure to his knees. “Why were you
following that kid?”
“Rape...” the man said, spitting out blood.
Wildcat kneed the man on the jaw, sending him sprawling back against the cold, slimy
ground.

Wicked watched the fight from the safety of the alleyway that Wildcat had just

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vacated. He had been shocked to have the super-hero land just a few feet in front of him, but
was pleasantly surprised that he had not been seen. Wildcat had been focused on the man
across the way, which was fine by him.
Wicked stepped a few yards over to a hole in a fence that gave him a perfect view of
the young boy, who had stopped in the middle of the alleyway. A few blocks over, the lights
from a theater, which now only showed adult films, silhouetted the boy for him. He looked
almost angelic, on his knees there, laying out a single rose. It was almost as if he were calling
to him, saying “take me, ravage me, fill me with your love”.
Smiling, Wicked adjusted himself in his pants and slowly began to move through the
hole.

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Chapter 14
.

Bruce knelt in the dim, yellow light of the single street lamp that was working on the
street. It was dirty and dim, giving off no more light than the marquis at the movie theater just
a few blocks over. It was hard for him to imagine that this was the place where it all
happened, but there was no denying the truth.
This was where they died.
His water-filled eyes slowly searched the scene, looking for some tell-tale sign that
they had been here. Maybe a pearly from his mother's necklace or a piece of burnt cloth from
his father's suit which had fluttered down after the bullet had penetrated it. There was nothing
and he remembered that it had started to rain that night and his parent's blood had mixed with
the filth of the street and then had run down into the storm drain.
Why had they gone this way, he asked himself. His memories of that awful night were
colored by his fears, fears that he had allowed his mother to take the bullet meant for him.
Logic told him that the killer had wanted to murder the adults, that Bruce had posed no threat,
but in his mind's eye, he saw himself moving in fear, out of the way and allowing the killing
shot to take his mother.
His heart ached as he silently prayed, begging the saints and the angels to comfort his
parents, to let them know he was sorry he had not been braver. Hands trembling, he laid down
the single rose, his mother's favorite, on the ground, an offering to the woman he so
desperately needed to hold him. He wanted to feel his father's hand in his hair, messing it up
and forcing the large grin that always seemed to find a perch on his face.
He rocked slowly back and forth, closing his eyes and then squeezing them. The tears
slowed, but did not stop. It was too hard not to and he hoped that as he got older, he would
become more of a master of his emotions. He did not want to cry because now was not the
time for it. He had cried that night, cried as his parents died and he did nothing.
More than anything, he wanted to stop crying.

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Wicked stopped and observed his prey, noting that the boy must have been mildly
retarded, sitting in the middle of the street as he was. That was fine by him because a child of
less-than-perfect mental faculties would be more willing to do what he wanted. He stepped
over some garbage, making his way to the end of the alley. He noted an alcove ahead of him;
a perfect spot to rape the boy, and smiled. Things were falling into place and he realized that
he could kill the boy and leave him here and it would be months before he was found, if
anyone even bothered to look here.
As he stepped in front of the alcove, a hand reached out, grabbed his jacket and hauled
him into the darkness. Trapped as another hand grabbed the opposite side of his coat, he could
do nothing but wheeze as a knee met his stomach. In the same movement, a foot hit his inner
thigh, weakening his ability to stand.
He smelled perfume. “Bitch,” he wheezed. “Or a faggot.”
A forehead smashed his already sore face; the beating he had taken from the teenager
earlier was slowing him down. Then a quick chop to the throat made him swallow blood.
“Had enough?” a female voice asked.
He recognized the voice immediately; it was burned into his brain. It was the woman
that had ridiculed him. High heels stabbed him in the chest and he realized she was bracing
against the opposite wall to put pressure on him. He tried to push back, but her legs were far
too strong.
He slammed his back against the bricks, rattling his teeth, as he heard the sound of her
shoes touching the concrete. “I know you,” he said, lunging forward. He put his hands out to
where he believed her breasts were, but met only air. Incredibly, she had squeezed into the
small, dark corner and proceeded to land several strong punches onto the back of his head. He
saw lights when there were none in the alcove.
“Good, then I won't bother with the introductions,” Black Canary replied as he rolled
into a heap. She kicked him and then a second time. “Son of bitch,” she said.

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He didn't respond immediately; his head was pounding and his anger rising, but he
could do nothing because every time he had a thought, she struck again. Like an angry nest of
hornets, she stung him and then swirled around him to strike again someplace else. His sore
body was giving out; the adrenaline rush of the early morning was draining away, leaving him
helpless.
Like he always had been, he told himself. The voice belonged to the beautiful woman
he had encountered. It was a nightmare, something straight out of the pits of hell. He was
being beaten to death by a woman he should have been controlling!
“Get up!” she hissed in his ear. “You like it rough, this is the rough way, bastard!” She
grabbed his collar and pulled. He tried to swing, but she punched his arm out of the way and
took a knee to the base of his skull.
Then an arm snaked around his neck and he felt her kneel behind him. Her smell was
stronger and he felt her hot breath on him. The arm grabbed onto her opposite bicep while that
arm moved to plant a hand on the back of his head. A standard choke hold.
It took very little effort to close his windpipe.

“Rapist...” the bloodied man said.

Wildcat reached down, grabbed the man and tossed him bodily into the dark street.
Around the corner, Bruce Wayne was too involved in his meditations to notice the sounds, not
that he would. This was a part of the city that was rampant with crime and he knew it was
dangerous to be here.
Wildcat knew the danger as well, but instead of ignoring it with childlike naivety, he
attacked it head on. The man he was confronting was trying to drag himself away and Wildcat
decided it was time to let up on him. “Rapist...”
“Yeah, yeah,” Wildcat said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You're a big, bad rapist
I'm sure.”

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Ben had never felt such pain, even as a kid when he had been beaten up by a couple of
older boys who were mad that his sister wouldn't go out and party with them. He had been
pretty banged up then, but it had been nothing compared to this. From out of nowhere, he had
been assaulted by a hero from the past. His first glimpse of Wildcat had triggered a pleasant
thought: Dinah had called in some friends!
That thought soon turned to one of horror as he found himself the object of a savage
attack. There was no way to put into words the force of Wildcat's blows, but Ben imagined
that it was much like being punched by a heavyweight prize fighter. He thought his brain was
slamming into this skull as energy, in the form of pain, raced through his body even as his
blood seemed to want to leave it.
Wildcat kept talking to him, but his ears were ringing and he found that wneh he tried
to talk, even the simplest of words escaped him. He wanted to scream but it was as if
something else was pushing him away. Despite the pain, despite the fact that being in such
close proximity to Wildcat was going to cause him further abuse, he kept moving towards the
boy he had seen walking. He had to warn the boy and it became his sole focus, his light at the
end of the tunnel.
He could not explain the feeling, the compulsion that forced him to keep going. He
was reminded of Jesus and his final walk, which he found odd since he never considered
himself particularly religious. And he certainly was not worthy of being compared to the Son
of God!
But then there had been those who had been seemingly possessed by unearthly forces,
spirits that pushed them to do the right thing no matter what. In his mind, he knew that
Wildcat was attacking him out of confusion, it was a simple mistake, but he could not take the
time to explain. His brain burned with the single thought that he had to save the boy.
Some strenght he did not know he had surged inside of him, giving him the power to
resist. Wildcat reached down, no doubt to toss him in the opposite direction. Ben kicked back
and in a one-in-a-million shot, he hit Wildcat hard enough in the mask to knock it off center.

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Cursing, Wildcat backed up to readjust it, promising to provide Ben with a “ass whippin' of a
lifetime” once he had.
The manic energy still in him, Ben picked up his broken body and stepped. Pain ran
through him, like a lightning bolt. He saw stars and colors and he stumbled, but each step
came faster and in a limping jog, he made it to the corner.
He looked through the one eye that could focus and he saw the boy kneeling. There
was nobody around, but a cold wind picked up and he heard a whisper that registered on his
soul: save the boy. He shook his head, not understanding why he was hearing voices and
wondering if he were simply dying from a loss of blood.
A white and green shadow passed in front of him and his world went black. He felt as
if he had been dropped into a frozen lake. He heard screams and smelled sulfur. A scream,
followed by a thousand more echoed around him and he tried to step away. He was rooted to
the spot, even as fires started to spring up here and there. The damned moaned and worked on
mining rocks from tall, skinny mountains. As more fires began to blaze, he noted that the
mountains were actually buildings...skyscrapers and that the screams were coming from the
miners, who were digging flesh out of the structures.
Then came a hideous laugh and a face in the sky, with large red lips and green hair,
began babbling incoherently, while a scarecrow and a giant penguin tortured people at the
base of one of the buildings. Other people were crucified on huge, black question marks,
while a black cat purred and mewed. Moving back and forth, it seemed undecided about what
it should do.
There were other horrors as well, but none were as bad as the laughing in the sky.
Then the heavens opened up and Ben saw a big, red “S” fall and crash on the scorched
ground. Several green...lanterns? Yes, green lanterns! Several of them glowed bright and then
dimmed as more unusual creatures stepped out of the shadows to assault the unsuspecting
miners.
“No,” Ben whispered through parched lips. He tasted blood, it coppery flavor making

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his stomach turn.

Then there was a bright yellow beam that shot down from the tallest building. The ray
of light struck the “S” and it lifted high into the air. The lanterns became beacons whose light
warmed him and he felt as if he were standing on the verge of an explosion, so excited he was
becoming. The light continued its path, burning the penguin and the scarecrow, shattering the
question mark and sending the cat running.
Off the ground it went, high into the air where it became a yellow oval with a bat
emblem in the center. The laughing visage exploded and the miners cheered.
Then it was gone and Ben, broken and bruised, bleeding and basically confused,
moved to the boy. The boy was the future, though he did not truly understand why. The boy
represented the light with the bat emblem and the scene of hell he had witnessed had been
Gotham City.
“Boy,” he said, trying to get enough air in his lungs to call out louder. “Run...” he
whispered.
The child stirred and began to turn, but Ben knew he was in trouble as he heard
Wildcat running up on him. The young boy fell back, horror in his eyes and Ben realized that
he was probably a frightful sight to behold. Yet, instead of backing away, the boy balled his
fists and began to tremble.

Wicked managed to break the hold, but it had taken most of his strength. All he had
left was his weight advantage and he pressed it, shooting straight up and slamming his
shoulders into his attackers face. The woman grunted and then fell back. For a moment he
was in a quandary: jump on the woman or go after the child?
He decided to go for the child.
He turned and the young boy, the sweet little lad he was to ravage, got up and started
yelling before taking off in a run. “No!” Wicked cried out just before a high heel nailed him
in the calf muscle.

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The strong arm snaked its way around his neck again and he immediately heard a
crack.

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Chapter 15

Ben went down again, this time a victim of an enraged little boy.
He saw nothing more than bright lights behind his eyes; he was to the point that the
pain no longer mattered. He felt the concrete dig into his back as he slammed onto the road.
He was prepared to die. He felt enlightened, ironically, and ready to face whatever it was his
Creator had in store for him.
He knew the young boy was on him and he picked up sounds that took, it seemed,
forever for his brain to translate. He saw the boy's tear-stained face and thought he recognized
him, but then decided that he didn't know very many blond-haired boys. That was okay, he
would be dead soon and the pain would stop.
The screaming and the punching would stop.
But it was all right. He had saved the boy.

Wildcat froze as he watched Bruce tackle the man he had beaten. The boy was
screaming “murderer” and not letting up. But this was not a coordinated attack; gone were the
intricate strikes he had mastered in his martial arts classes. Instead he was a wild man, a
hungry wolf going for the kill. His eyes were glazed over, reminding him of someone who
was sleepwalking. Then he saw someone stumble out from the side, going towards the boy.
He started to move, wondering what sort of hell he had stumbled into. His mouth
opened, preparing to shout at the new intruder when the impossible happened. “Dinah?” he
asked, not believing what he was seeing.
Black Canary got behind the man and immediately put him in a choke hold, one that
Wildcat instantly recognized as being lethal in a short period of time. It was meant to not just
choke the victim out, but to snap their neck. He moved faster and hopped over Bruce just as a
small popping sound could be heard. How he had heard it over Bruce's wailing, he didn't
know, but it spurred him on to further action.
He slammed into the man and Black Canary, knocking them both down. She

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immediately did a back roll and came up in a defensive stance. Her hands out in front of her,
she eyed him. “Ted?” she asked. Wildcat noted that her masscara was running down her face,
which was flushed.
Wicked started to get up and Wildcat kicked out, hitting him solid in the chest. Then
the hero turned to Bruce, his charge.
The boy had fallen silent and was sitting atop Ben's lifeless body. “Ben!” Black
Canary exclaimed, moving past Ted to her fallen friend. She checked him for a pulse and then
looked up at her JSA teammate. “Did you do this?”
“Were you trying to kill that guy?” Wildcat shot back in a defensive tone.
She looked over to Wicked, who was finally out cold. “He's a murdering child
molester!”
He blushed under his mask, realizing that he had been just as intent on harm to the
man under Bruce. He decided not to answer the question and instead reached down to Bruce.
The boy was lifeless, his breathing shallow and his skin was cold. His eyes were wide open,
but Wildcat doubted he was awake. Carefully, he picked up the boy and pulled him close to
his chest. “How is your friend?”
“Alive,” she hissed and then stood up. “Beat up pretty bad, but alive.” Her demeanor
softened when she saw the blond wig fall away. “Yours?”
“Something like that,” he replied. He took another look at Ben. “New boyfriend?”
“Something like that,” she said. She moved over to where Wicked was laying and
pulled out a pair of handcuffs from a small pocket in her costume. She rolled him over none
too gently and yanked his arms behind his body. He gave a moan of pain and she slapped the
restraints on, tightening them as far as they would go. Satisfied she stood up and spit at the
back of his head.
“That's not how we do business, Dinah,” Wildcat admonished.
“Maybe its the way we should, Ted,” she blurted back. “Maybe its time someone cut
the balls off these perverts so the rest of us can sleep at night.”

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“Hey, beat the snot out of them but don't kill them...isn't that what Carter used to say?”
She snorted, but there was no humor in her voice. “Hawkman was wrong. If you don't
take out the trash, then it starts to stink up the place. That,” she said as she kicked Wicked in
the leg, “is trash.”
“So we should slaughter him like a pig?”
She shook her head. “It is so obvious nobody ever stuck anything inside you that you
didn't want.”
“Dinah...”
“Save it!” she snapped, karate-chopping the air with a hand. “You want to save the
bastard's life, go find a phone. Do it fast before I find away to suffocate him with my shoe.”

“He remembers nothing past laying the flower down,” Alfred said as he signed the
check. He tore it out of the large, leather-bound register and waved it in the air to dry the ink.
“I cannot thank you enough.”
Ted nodded and accepted the paper when it was offered. “I think the idea of traveling
is a good one. He wants to see th world, let him. Get him away from this place because he'll
go nuts here.” If he wasn't already.
“He wanted to say farewell to you and offer his apologies for putting you in a difficult
position.” Alfred looked out the large window. Ted could not see him, but he knew that Bruce
was out there, probably reading a book. After the fateful night, he had changed, becoming
calm. He was like a spring day after a thunderstorm. “I would like to keep your contact
information just in case.”
“You planning on coming back to Gotham during that time of year?” he asked as he
put the check into his suit jacket pocket.
The butler sighed and there was a look of defeat on his face. “I may have no choice,
Mr. Grant. What sort of trouble would he get into if we were in Japan or Australia and he
decided he needed to be here?”

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Ted pursed his lips and then joined Alfred as he walked towards the window. “You'll
keep the security systems I've installed?”
“Of course, for all of the good they will do. Master Bruce has already figured his ways
around them. Willful boy; much like his parents. Both of them.”
“He doesn't remember anything at all?”
“Perhaps it will come to him in time. He has a phenomenal memory and he does not
cater to secrets if they are not his own.” Alfred put his hands behind his back. “Yes, in time I
am sure he will remember and reflect on what the night meant to him. His desire for revenge,
for justice and for, I would dare say, redemption, pushes him towards a goal he cannot yet
fathom.”
“He was really lucky.”
“Indeed. Luck seems to follow Master Bruce. Some of it good, but most of it bad, I'm
afraid that is the lot of his life.” Alfred turned to Ted and smiled. “But that is not your concern
as of now.”
Alfred held out his hand and Ted took it, surprised by the strength he felt. Alfred was
a fighter, that was for sure. “Alfred, you're a helluva guy. Get the kid the help he needs,
please.”
“I will take it under advisement, Mr. Grant,” Alfred promised. “You can show
yourself out, I assume? I need to finish Master Bruce's lunch.”
Ted indicated that he could and a few minutes later, he was outside in the fresh air. A
car was waiting to take him downtown where he would once again fade into the Gotham
background. His driver was a large man, almost as large as himself, with a similar boxer-like
physique.
“You performed well, Theodore Grant.”
“Damn it, Spooky! This is getting annoying!” Ted said, recognizing the voice of the
Spectre. “Don't you have souls to punish or something?”
“You saved the boy.”

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“No, that guy Tinsley saved Bruce.”

“You played your role.”
“So God wanted me to beat the crap out the kid's savior?” Ted laughed. “Sounds like a
tough religion to me.”
“You were put in place, how you reacted was up to you,” the Spectre replied, opening
the rear door. Ted looked and then smiled; being driven by a spirit was a once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity. He got in and waited for his former teammate to get in the driver's seat.
When they were exiting the long driveway, he spoke up again. “Should I have let
Dinah killed that bastard, Spooky?”
The Spectre said nothing for a long moment and Ted wondered if maybe he had
vacated the body of the driver. He checked the rear view mirror and saw the cold eyes that
could only belong to someone who was dead. “The Lord our God said that you shall not kill.”
“I know my Sunday school lessons, damn it,” Ted groused. “But sometimes there are
things...there are people that maybe should be removed. Don't we have a right to remove
them? Was Dinah right?”
“Only your heart can tell you that.”
“You're a lot of help.”
“Michael Keates is a wicked soul, a foul creature that personifies the evil that was
loosed upon the world in the Fall from Eden. He is worthy of wrath.”
Ted grimaced. “What the hell does that mean?”
“What the hell does what mean, buddy?” the driver said, looking at Ted in the mirror.
“You getting smart with me or something?”
“Aw, shuddup,” Ted replied, his natural accent finding its way onto his lips. It felt
good, like an old pair of shoes or a worn set of gloves. That set him thinking and he told the
driver to take him to a gym he normally used to work out. A few hours with the punching bag
would make him feel better. Or at least he hoped so.

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Ben opened his eyes to see two flesh colored mountains. With a sigh, Dinah sat back
down, a small damp towel in her hand. “You've been running a fever,” she said with a smile.
His forehead felt damp.
“Am I dead?”
“Almost. You got beat up by Wildcat.”
He nodded. “I know, I was there. Wicked?”
“Locked up.”
“The boy?”
“That was Bruce Wayne, but that's between you and me. He's paying your doctor's
bills. I'm playing nurse.”
Ben looked around the room to discover he was indeed in a hospital. He was bandaged
up pretty good and Dinah was dressed in a low cut nurse outfit. “Where did you get that?”
“Thing my husband likes when he's feeling frisky. It's enough to convince everyone
I'm your private nurse.” She patted his hand. “You did a brave thing, trying to save the kid.”
“I just wanted to get the story, you know.”
“You won't be able to write it, though. I promised a friend that Wayne's name would
be kept out of it.” Before he could protest she pulled an envelope out of her skirt pocket and
held it up. “You could almost retire on this check.”
Ben considered it for a moment and decided that a juicy story wasn't worth being
poor. Besides, he hated his job. Suddenly, he realized that he really wanted to go back home.
Gotham City sucked.
“I'm glad its over.”
She said nothing more but instead let him fall back asleep, content that he was being
watched over by his own guardian angel. She sat back, deciding as to whether or not to let
him know in the next day or so that Wicked was most likely not going to get very much time.
The word that had gotten to her was that Wicked's lawyer was getting most of the evidence
against him thrown out.

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The incompetent cops of the GCPD had contaminated evidence and most of the
witnesses were of questionable reputation. There would be no murder conviction or one for
child rape. There were some minor charges to take care of, piddly crap that would carry small
sentences.
But then there would be appeals for every little thing. Maybe an insanity defense,
maybe not. Either way justice would never be truly served because she had not followed
through on what she knew deep in her soul would have been the right thing to do.
But now it was a mess and it would be some time before it was all cleared up, but the
end result would be...for lack of a better term...
Wicked.

Wicked