Chapter 42

Ana and I sat disappointed in the claustrophobic monitor room that lay hidden behind a false wall in the mansion's attic. Any hope of identifying the killer from the security cameras had been quickly dispelled. The best we could do was confirm that someone had driven one of the Lash Center's trucks off the property at 5:57 that morning and returned with it at 7:44. Whoever it was had taken the precaution of turning off the cameras covering the southeast gate during that interval, which meant the killer had been in this very room earlier.

“There’s irony for you,” I said. “If we had monitors in the monitor room, the case would be solved now.”

“Maybe Dick was right,” Ana said. “Maybe I should've let him mount cameras in the Center. If Snapper and the others are dead because of my short-sightedness, I'll never forgive myself.”

“This is not your fault.”

“Isn't it?”

“No security system is unbeatable in a world of ghosts and shapeshifters and telepaths, not even one designed by you and Dick. Our killer got in because he's clever and determined. But he's not nearly enough of either to beat us in the long run. If we keep our heads and work together, we'll catch this son of a bitch. He's going to answer for his crimes. His crimes, Ana. Not yours.”

Ana looked at me with a reawakened respect.

“Now you're talking like the Val I remember.”

I smiled.

“It's good to be back.”

We left the attic and headed down to the back porch. Ana dropped wearily onto the glider that hung in its shade. Rowena brought us a pitcher of iced lemonade. My mother remained shrouded in guilt and self-doubt. Those feelings ran too deep in her emotional makeup to be dismissed with a few glib assurances. She dealt with it now as she always had: by turning her attention to the welfare of others.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. “Any negative after-effects from your time in my lasso?”

“On the contrary,” I answered, “I've never felt better.”

“Somehow I sense a ‘but’ lurking in there somewhere.”

I tried to laugh but it came out as a snort.

“You're right.”

“Let's hear it.”

“You used to tell me that nobody else could decide how my life should be lived, that where I ended up depended on the choices I made. Even my handicap was only as big a liability as I chose to make it. But it's all a lie, isn't it?”

I was suddenly so angry, it took all my strength not to shout.

“Everywhere I turn, somebody's reminding me we're all just the puppets of the gods. What if I don't want my future decided for me? Do I get any say in it? What if I just want to be left alone?”

Ana got up from the porch swing, knelt by my side and gathered me into her arms.

“I'm so sorry, baby,” she said softly. “I should've known what you'd be going through. I was also one of the chosen, once upon a time. The patron goddesses of Paradise Island decided even before my birth that I would bear the responsibility of spreading the Amazon philosophy throughout Man's World. Then I fell in love with your father and I began to ask what I wanted. The goddesses weren't happy when I chose to abandon my mission and my heritage for life with a mortal man but they couldn't stop me, not without creating unwelcome complications for themselves.”

“So I can still walk away from all this whatever-it-is?”

She ended the hug and, cupping my chin in her hand, looked steadily into my eyes.

“You're strong, Val, stronger than me in some ways. If I could brush off the hand of fate, so can you. If you want to go back to New York and pick up your life where it left off before this started, say the word. No one here will think any the less of you.”

Somewhere deep inside, a door closed forever.

“I can't. I made a career out of holding public figures to a high standard of honor and duty. If I ran out now, I'd spend the rest of my life with a hypocrite and a coward looking back at me in the mirror every morning. No, I'll see this through… but I reserve the right to bitch about it once in a while.”

That earned me an appreciative chuckle.

“That's what I thought you'd say.”

She kissed me and sat back down in the glider.

“Tell me more about this voice that told you to come home,” she said, cooling her brow with the frost on her glass.

“I've heard it before but I can't remember where,” I said, “and that worries me.”

“It should. Whoever this person is, he's powerful enough to affect one of the Spectre's spells. That's no small feat.”

“I've been under a spell?”

“Of course. How else could Jim erase your memory without otherwise harming you except by magic?”

“And this other person somehow interfered with that spell. That's why I forgot all the circumstances leading up to my trip to... wherever... instead of just the trip itself. I didn't do it to myself at all.”

“No, not exactly, but it was probably your guilty conscience that determined the specific effects of the disrupted spell.”

“I don't understand. Are you saying the same spell would've affected someone else differently?”

“Exactly. And it would've affected you differently if someone else had cast it. Magic isn't like the sciences, where cause and effect are quantifiable and consistent. How a spell manifests is determined as much by the one wielding the magic and the one subjected to it as by the ritual itself.”

“You'd think a guy whose friends include a dead gunslinger and a pink genie would be comfortable with the idea of magic,” I said with an unintentional shiver, “but I'm not. I've always known magic existed from listening to you all talk about it but I assumed that it was just another form of energy, that it has limits and obeys rules that science doesn't understand yet but will someday. I never expected it to be so random, so arbitrary. It scares me.”

“I understand your fear but I don't share it. As with any force of nature, you have to approach magic with respect and humility. It can be a terrible weapon in the wrong hands but it's also the only weapon that becomes more powerful when wielded by the good than when wielded by the evil. And consider this: science and its byproducts have killed far more people than have ever been brushed by magic.”

“So this voice I heard belongs to a magic-wielder of some kind, then.”

“Not necessarily. A memory spell, especially one as specific as Jim's, is a delicate creature. Any telepath with even a modicum of skill could disrupt one, assuming they were aware of it in the first place. That's what concerns me. This person was inside your head while you were experiencing your heavenly trip and Spectre didn't sense them. That translates into either extraordinary power or extraordinary skill.”

We sat in silence for a while, sipping our drinks and watching while Suzette Blanc-Dumont and a chicly-dressed old lady I didn't know played a slow, graceless game of badminton on the lawn. The new clarity of my senses was delicious. It was easy to get lost in the warmth of the sun on my face, the cool tartness of the lemonade on my tongue, the hollow note of racket meeting shuttlecock in my ears. I lulled myself into a near-doze. A flash of anger woke me up. It was Suzette and her partner arguing about the score.

“Ana,” I said, giving voice to something that had been nagging at me from the moment I saw Athena's ensorcelled rope, “tell me about the Olympians. Are they really divine? If they are, then who is the capital G God? Is he just a little G god with delusions of grandeur?”

She considered a moment before replying.

“There was a time, two thousand years ago, when my Amazon sisters believed the Olympians created the universe. But as the centuries passed and they watched the progress of civilization in Man's World, they saw the gods' influence over human affairs slip away and realized the old stories couldn't be literally true. One day more than four hundred and fifty years ago, your grandmother petitioned our patronesses — Aphrodite, Athena and Artemis — for some answers. They admitted, reluctantly, that not only did the Olympians not create the universe, they had no more idea who actually did than we do.”

“So what are they then?”

“They're what all the world's mythological pantheons are: clans of immortal superhumans from various dimensions adjacent to ours. No one knows their true origins. Some say they were only drawn to our reality after human beings developed the capacity for religious belief. Others say they were born of mankind's own imagination. There's at least one good argument for that: the appearances, the personalities and even the cultural norms of each pantheon were determined by the human culture with which it first came into contact.”

“So a Japanese god looks Japanese and a Norse god looks Scandinavian. Hah! God makes himself in man's image. I like that.”

“Laugh at them if you like but make no mistake about it: their powers made the gods the undisputed masters of the earthly societies they ruled. But it couldn't last. Human beings are inherently smarter than the gods, who are creatures of impulse rather than reason. We outgrew them intellectually. The rise of the great monotheistic religions and the development of scientific thought combined to rob the gods of much of their power, though some have held on longer than others.”

“Why did those things rob the gods of their power?”

“The gods' superhuman metabolisms require enormous amounts of magical energy to fuel them, energy they consume in their world as nectar and ambrosia but which in our world they must absorb as worship. Without a community of worshippers large enough to sustain them, they can't safely remain in our dimension for more than a few hours without burning themselves out. Of the major clans, only the Hindu gods have a large enough following to allow them to manifest on Earth with impunity but they haven't actually done so in nearly a thousand years. The Olympians rarely intervene in human affairs these days, and many of the older pantheons have grown so weak, they're little more than living shadows. I'm afraid that within a few hundred years the gods will be extinct.”

“These revelations must've created quite the collective identity crisis on the island.”

“Believe me, they did. It took centuries to resolve itself. Today all Amazons venerate the goddesses for their protection and their gift of immortality but only a handful still regard them as literal divinities. Most worship the Logos, the Divine Word, an unknowable intelligence as far above the gods as you and I are above bacteria. God with a capital G, in other words.”

“What about you? What do you believe?”

“I don't know,” she admitted. “From what I can see, every religion is both right and wrong. I prefer to focus on the here and now, on my family and my work. That isn't much help, I know. If you really want a lesson in cosmology, why don't you talk to the Old Timer? If anyone would know, he would.”

“That makes sense. I'm going to go see if I can find him.”

I gave Ana a kiss on the cheek and set out across the estate for the annex. Lost in thought, I nearly drove past the shady gazebo where the Old Timer, divested of his dusty riding togs and back in one of the crisply tailored suits he favored, sat reading. An aura dimly shimmered about him, further proof that my power had indeed increased. He had a volume of Santayana open on his lap and a bottle of white wine sitting alongside him in a bucket of ice. He was just taking a sip from his glass when I caught his eye.

“Good afternoon, Valentine Stevens,” he said in greeting. “You have had an epiphany of some kind, I see.”

“How did you...?”

“The very air around you sings the news. Please tell me what has occurred.”

I spun the tale anew. By the time I finished my narration, the Old Timer was beside himself with delight.

“How pleased I am for you, my young friend! And how I envy you! In ten billion years, the only Oan to glimpse the realm of the Prime Mover and return to tell of it was Krona the Truthseeker. The experience drove him mad, it was said, because of the evil in his heart. The younger Guardians, alas, regard the story of Krona as a myth. Most, in truth, no longer believe there is a Prime Mover. But enough of my prattle. You are disturbed by this revelation. Did it not conform to your expectations?”

“What expectations? I wasn't exactly steeped in religion as a kid. The only time I can remember seeing either of my parents in a church was at my sister's wedding. They allowed me to think for myself when it came to such things.”

“And what did you conclude?”

“That there was no God, that the material universe was all there was.”

“Fascinating. You came to this conclusion despite all the evidence to the contrary surrounding you at Lash House.”

“Call it denial, if you like. Maybe the only way I could cope with being crippled was by seeing it as a random accident. You tried to tell me the other day that nothing happens by accident. You were speaking of the Prime Mover, of God, weren't you? You were saying my disability was part of His plan.”

“Or Her plan. Either term is as accurate as the other. I was not singling you out. Every creature in the universe plays a part in His plan.”

“Which is what?”

“His plan for you?”

“For everyone.”

He set his book aside and poured himself another glass of wine as he replied.

“The Guardians have witnessed firsthand the births, lives and deaths of tens of thousands of worlds. We have studied the languages, religions, artforms and customs of millions of civilizations, living and extinct, within our jurisdiction. We have pondered the meaning of every school of metaphysical thought developed in this galaxy. Yet not even we can perceive more than an infinitesimal fragment of the Prime Mover's plan for the universe or, indeed, of His very nature.”

“But you say He exists and there is a plan. How do you know?”

“When your lifespan is measured in billions of your Earth years, your perceptions begin to discern patterns in the clockwork of the cosmos, patterns that cannot be explained as anything other than proof of a clockmaker.”

“So we're all just cogs in the machine, manipulated to achieve preordained ends that have nothing to do with us? I can't accept that. Is it really God's will that I can't walk or use my hands? What kind of cruel and arbitrary God is it that decrees the suffering and death of His own creations?”

“Ah, Terrans!” he chuckled. “How like you to assume that the universe exists for your convenience! The Prime Mover is not a shepherd tending to His flocks, charming and comforting as that image may be. Every particle of matter and energy that exists is sustained by His will. To ease that burden, the higher orders of life were made responsible for themselves. All civilizations have the potential to put an end to suffering and death. Few, alas, have the wisdom or the will power to do so. The Oans are the eldest of those that did. We tamed our ids and abandoned our egos and worked together to master the sciences which led, in time, to our transformation into the creatures of immeasurable psychic energy we are today.”

“The Guardians aren't a race of little blue men, each identical to the other?”

“To view a Guardian as he truly appears would blind and deafen you to the end of your days. It has killed some of the less hearty species. We therefore never reveal ourselves to lesser beings.”

I thought of the story of Semele, the mortal woman who asked to see Zeus in his true form and was destroyed by the experience.

“Then the Guardians are gods, like the Olympians?”

“No. We are creatures of science, bound by the physical laws of the universe. Gods are creatures of magic. They are not bound by those laws.”

“Creatures of magic. Like the Thunderbolt, you mean?”

“Again, no. The djinn are beings of magical energy who have assumed physical form. The gods are physical beings nourished by magic.”

“Now I'm thoroughly confused.”

“According to the most ancient of Oan sacred writings, the physical universe was created by the Prime Mover from the substance of His own being. The matter and energy that make up the universe as science defines it is what remains of that primal substance when the divinity is separated from it. That divinity is what you call magic. Magic permeates the physical universe but it cannot interact with it except through a living being. Every form of life in the universe has some spark of divinity within them. It is the difference between life and lifelessness. Enough internal magic and a species is self-aware. More and it is immortal. The gods are more divine than mortal species such as your own but less divine than such ethereal species as the djinn and the angels. For all the power we command, Oans contain no more magic within us than any mortal species and, therefore, are as vulnerable to magic as any mortal species. It took magic, the use of which is normally anathema to the Guardians, to transform me into what you see before you.”

“How can you stand to be locked up in a body after millions of years of freedom?”

“It is not an entirely unpleasant experience,” he said, brandishing his drink. “I find it quite nostalgic. I remember, you see, how it was to be mortal. I am the last surviving Oan of the generation born before the key to immortality was discovered. The Oans of my generation opposed immortality on religious grounds and were dismissed as superstitious and ignorant by the younger Oans, who had abandoned the old faith in their zeal for science. The dissenters left Oa for its uninhabited sister world of Malthus, where to this day they continue to exist as a mortal race. I was much too old to be a pioneer and remained behind. I was made immortal while on my deathbed, at my sons' request and against my wishes. That is why I did not protest when I was sentenced to this form. It is my destiny to die a mortal death. Only in accepting that and trusting in the Prime Mover's wisdom have I found peace.”

This was not the conversation I'd envisioned when Ana suggested I seek out the Old Timer. Instead of the scientific objectivity the Guardians were noted for, I got the same unprovable speculation I heard from human philosophers and theologians. It was interesting, to be sure, but hardly the definitive answer I was hoping for. Still, it was a viewpoint untainted by any Earth-spawned culture or religion. I was bound to learn something useful.

“There's one point I'm not clear on. If accepting our destiny is the key to achieving inner peace yet our finite natures prevent us from knowing what that destiny is, how can we possibly recognize which choices are the right ones?”

“Every sentient lifeform has an innate sense of right and wrong, a moral compass ever pointing in the direction the Prime Mover wishes us to go. You know it as conscience. Its source is that spark of divinity of which we spoke. But because we are gifted with free will, conscience is not always heard or heeded and it is from this that all evil springs. When the Guardians recruit a new Green Lantern Corpsman, we select not only the bravest of a species but those with the most strongly developed consciences. The energy commanded by the power rings is too great to be entrusted to any but the most ethical of beings. We have chosen poorly on occasion but overall, Green Lanterns are the noblest of this galaxy's creatures. They are also among the most content, for they are what they were meant to be: fearless, compassionate warriors serving the causes of freedom and justice. You have sought to serve those same causes through your work as a journalist, have you not?”

“I have.”

“And yet you have been deeply unhappy in recent days, Valentine Stevens, despite your professional and material success, is this not so?”

“Yes.”

“I submit that you are unhappy because, for all the good you have accomplished, this is not the role for which the Prime Mover intended you.”

“That’s what the Thunderbolt said the other day.”

“The djinn are sensitive to many of the forces beyond the physical universe. They see what even the Guardians cannot. It is never wise to ignore their utterances.”

“But that doesn't tell me what path I'm supposed to take.”

“The answer lies within yourself. Seek out your inner spark of divinity, for only by its light will all become clear.”

“No need. I'm afraid I already know the answer.”

“You are afraid of the truth?”

“Of this particular truth, yes.”

I paused, either unable or unwilling to say what had to follow. The Old Timer merely looked at me, patient but implacable.

“The Spectre said I'd been given a divine gift but that I treated it as though it were a curse instead of a blessing. He has to have meant my empathic sense. It couldn't be anything else.”

“Empathy is a great gift, indeed. Like all such gifts, however, it carries a great responsibility. I can appreciate your reluctance to wield such a power. It can be used to heal but it can also be used to destroy. From what I have observed in the short time I have known you, I do not believe you are the destructive type.”

“No, but... but you don't know what it's like to feel the emotions of others within you day and night, to never be alone in your own head.”

“On the contrary, my troubled young friend. Have you forgotten what I once was? I have had some small experience with the harnessing of psychic energy. Perhaps I can help you find your way.”

“Fine. Where do we start?”

“Think of your brain as both a transmitter and a receiver of psychic energy. The vast majority of your species lack the sensitivity to receive any signal but their own, save while dreaming or in an occasional flash of dèja vú. The telepath — and the empath, too, in his own way — can receive and broadcast on frequencies other than his own, how well and with how many depending on their degree of sensitivity. Some have to strain to hear a single thought while others go mad from the constant chatter of other minds. We must first determine your level of sensitivity.”

“I'm not sure where I fall on the scale. I seem to always sense something but I have to concentrate to refine the impressions I get.”

“Ah, I understand now. You have always had control of your power. It is only your own resistance to wielding it that has prevented you from doing so.”

“You're kidding.”

“You can sense my empathic signature, yes?”

“Dimly.”

“Attempt to see it more clearly.”

I concentrated. His aura began to blaze brighter. Serenity predominated but I could also sense loneliness and, buried so deep he might not yet be aware of its presence, fear. He was afraid of death. For just an instant, our minds met. I hastily backed out lest contact trigger one of my empathic trances. His aura grew dull and indistinct once more.

The Old Timer smiled kindly.

“Do not pause. Continue to turn down your inner radio.”

A surge of excitement swept through me. Will this work? Please let it work! His aura continued to diminish until it winked out altogether. That might mean nothing. I hadn't been able to sense his emotions at all until today. I looked back at the mansion. The emotions of those within whispered to me as they always did. Could I silence them too?

No.

Wait. Is that...? Did I...?

Yes!

I was alone, truly alone, for the first time in my adult life. I began to play with my power like a stereo buff with a new set of speakers, turning the “volume” on my empathy from silent to deafening and back again. I turned to the Old Timer to tell him what was happening and began to cry.

“What is wrong?” he asked, alarm in his gentle eyes. “Have you injured yourself?”

“I... I can't explain,” I replied with an embarrassed snuffle. “I'm just happy, that's all.”

“To have control of your power?”

“To finally understand... and accept... who I was meant to be.”

“It's about goddamned time you came to your senses, boy.”

I looked up to see the General being wheeled toward the gazebo by Etta. I hadn't felt them approaching.

“Val, you're cryin',” Etta said. “Are you all right?”

“I'm better than all right,” I answered as a smile joined the tears. “I can turn my empathy off. Do you understand what that means?”

“I do,” my father said. “I know you thought your old man didn't know his ass from his elbow in those days, son, but I understood the pain those fits of yours caused you. Maybe you've convinced yourself you held people at arms' length to protect the secret of Lash House but you haven't fooled me. It was being humiliated by the Gunderson girl, not your career aspirations, that drove you away from us and kept you away.”

“You know about that?”

“We all knew about it, baby doll,” said Etta. “We never said nothin' about it outta respect for your privacy.”

“She hurt you so deeply that you built this other identity for yourself so you'd never have to feel that pain again,” the General continued. “Don’t misunderstand, son. I'm proud of your accomplishments but...”

Something was wrong.

“Calm down, Steve,” Etta was saying. “You're gettin' yourself all worked up. This kinda excitement ain't good for you.”

He pressed on, dismissing her concern with an impatient shake of his head.

“...but I believe you were meant for better things. People trust you, son. They open up to you and, afterward, their hearts are lighter. In your own way, you're as much a healer as Charlie McNider. Such a gift shouldn't be squandered.”

He leaned forward in his wheelchair, the importance of his words pushing him beyond the limits of his strength.

“Be the man I know you can be, Valentine. You can be as heroic in your own way as Diana or Clark or any of them if you'll only...”

I watched with horror as the General's eyes abruptly rolled back in his head, the words turned to a strangled gurgle in his throat and he tumbled face first onto the grass. Frantically I attempted to reestablish a connection to my father but I couldn't raise it fast enough to catch more than a second of pain, anger and fear before Trevor Stevens' empathic signature broke apart into empty static.

Chapter 44

I lay in the dark, heart pounding. Vandal Savage, thought long dead, lay helpless but alive scant feet from me. Or was he helpless? True, his shattered shell was immobile but that ageless mind was free to roam, free to wreak God knows what kind of havoc, free to torment me with hints that…

I had to tell the others.

Kicking my covers off, I began to transfer to my manual wheelchair but stopped in mid-air. What if I was wrong? After all, whenever I heard the voice, I was in some altered state of consciousness. Savage came up so often in the interviews I'd been doing. Of course he would be on my mind. What if I was mistaking dreams for reality? Better to make sure first.

I would have to make contact with Patient X's mind once more.

I quietly left my room and flew down the hall, down the stairs and onto the second floor. The transoms above Karl Byrd and John Doe's suites were open. Light shone from the latter. Someone was already in there. I floated close enough to peer in.

Danny Ikeda stood dressed in black leather, three matching pieces of luggage at his feet, next to a hospital bed. In it lay a ghastly living mummy, immobile beneath a tangle of monitor wires and feeding tubes. I stared at him, trying to match his blackened features to the arrogant, goatish face from my dreams. Danny was talking to his patient quietly and gently but something wasn't right. His thick accent was gone.

“Scared, old man?” he was saying. “You should be. I'd be scared shitless if the Demon's Head hated me the way he hates you.”

His smile was devoid of humor.

“Want to hear a joke? Your death is going to hand the master the keys to the whole fucking Earth.”

He brought his face to within an inch of Doe's.

“I'd kill you myself but I have my orders. Besides, if the mighty Superman couldn't destroy you, why would I expect to do better? Yeah, but the boss has got something a whole lot deadlier than the Big Blue Boy Scout in store for you this time. I'll have to be satisfied with that.”

He straightened up and donned a pair of black leather gloves.

“So it's word to your mother, old man. I'm putting miles between me and this shithole as fast as I can. But first,” and he bent over Doe, a beatific smile on his face, “here's a little token of my esteem to remember me by.”

Danny threw back the bedcovers, grabbed the helpless man's shriveled testicles and crushed them like a pair of rotten walnuts. Patient X's toothless jaws gaped in a silent scream. His glistening black eyes darted about the room. Before I could pull back from view, our gazes met.

My brain erupted in a fireball of hatred and rage. Savage — there was no point in denying his identity any longer — broke off contact almost immediately but it was too late. I dropped to the floor in agony, crying out when I hit. A hot pain tore through my left side.

The door flew open. Danny grabbed me by the front of my pajamas and dragged me into the room. He sat on my chest, his hands at my throat. There was no madness in his eyes, only sorrow.

“You should've stayed in bed, Val,” he whispered. “A few more hours and you could have died with the others in one quick, clean, unexpected stroke.”

I sensed a pulse of sympathy from him even as his grip tightened on my throat.

“You don't know it but I'm doing you a favor. You wouldn't want to live in the world that's coming.”

I can't breathe. Got to get him off me. If I can... No, he's too heavy. Empathy no good. Can't focus. Head swimming. This is it. Dying, for real this time. Don't care about me. The others. Have to save the others. Please, God. Please help me stop him.

A gout of blood exploded from Danny's upper chest, lifting him up and off me, a look of outrage and disbelief on his face. The echoes of a gunshot and the smell of cordite filled the air. As I gulped breath after breath of precious oxygen, I tilted my head back and saw a barefoot Karl Byrd standing in the doorway, clad in felt pajamas. He held an umbrella rifle-like in his hands, smoke swirling from its tip.

“Stand down, sirrah,” Byrd growled, “or my next shot will put your brains on the wall. Valentine, are you all right?”

I nodded.

“You... you saved my life.”

“Think nothing of it, dear boy.”

I tried to sit up but got less than halfway before pain and vertigo forced me back down. I just had time to note Danny glaring at us from the corner in which he'd collapsed, blood soaking through his shirt. He was debating whether to lunge at the old man. The sound of many feet thundering down the stairs decided for him. He let himself go limp while grinding his teeth in impotent fury.

Mark appeared, wearing nothing but baby blue boxers, and snatched the lethal parasol from Karl's hands. Ana and Etta — the former in men's silk pajamas, the latter in a pink flannel bathrobe and hair curlers — crowded into the room behind him.

“Watch out!” I cried. “Danny's one of Ra's al-Ghûl's men!”

Mark looked at his right-hand man in astonishment for a second before stepping toward him with fists clenched.

“You have some explaining to do, mister.”

Danny laughed weakly.

“Fuck you. You could put ten more holes in me and I still wouldn't be afraid of you. But you...”

He turned his gaze on Ana.

“I bet you would've been a whole nother matter, lady.”

He jerked convulsively.

“This is only the beginning, you know. He won't be stopped this time. You may've taken a pawn...”

The convulsions became more violent. Flecks of foam formed at the corners of his mouth.

“...but you... can't prevent... checkma...”

He went rigid with a final shudder then fell back against the wall, never to move again. The light faded from his cold black eyes.

“What the hell?” Mark asked.

“Don't touch him,” Ana cautioned as she and Etta knelt on the floor to check on me. “He must've had a cyanide capsule. It's standard issue for these fanatics.”

“I don't get it,” Etta said. “Why would Ra's want Val dead?”

“It wasn't me he was after,” I answered through gritted teeth. “It was John Doe. He... he's Vandal Savage!”

That brought everyone in the room to a halt.

“Mark,” said Ana tonelessly, “call Dick and Clark. Tell them to hurry.”

As Mark rushed off, Ana stood and faced Byrd.

“I'll never forget you for this, Karl. If you hadn't been here...”

He smiled.

“I assume, then, you aren't angry about my having a loaded weapon in the house?”

She glanced at the umbrella where it lay on the floor and gave a short, brittle laugh.

“Under the circumstances, I think we can look the other way.”

“We need to get Val to the infirmary, Di,” Etta interjected as she helped me sit up. “He got roughed up pretty bad. Looks like a couple ribs are broke.”

“No,” I said. “You can't put me out of action yet. We're still in danger. Danny hinted that something was going to happen in a few hours that would kill us all.”

“There's nothing we can do about it,” Ana said, “at least not before Dick gets here. I'll go get what we need to patch you up and we'll do it right here while we wait. How's that?”

“Okay,” I said, “but no painkillers. I want to keep my wits about me.”

“All right. I’ll be right back. Karl, will you help me?”

“Any way I can,” Byrd replied as he followed her out of the room.

“Aunt Etta,” I asked, “would you please get my chair? It's still parked next to my bed.”

She eyed the grinning corpse in the corner uncertainly.

“You sure you wanna be left alone with...?”

“He's done all the damage to me he's ever going to. Anyway, I won't be alone. I have Captain Charcoal here for company.”

That didn't seem to ease her mind for some reason. She still hesitated.

“It'll be easier to bandage me in my chair,” I pointed out.

“You're right,” she said. “While I'm up there I'm gonna throw some clothes on. You want I should grab some duds for you while I’m at it?”

“Yes, thank you. And don't worry. I'll be all right.”

Once she was gone, I ignored the burning in my side and shakily took to the air. I floated over to Savage's bedside. Our eyes locked but this time there was no ice pick through my brain. He merely looked at me patiently, as if to say, “What now?”

“You know, don't you?” I said. “You know what Danny was talking about.”

A blink. It could mean anything.

“Damn you!” I was suddenly furious. “How many good men and women lie rotting in their graves while you go on and on? I hope it hurts, you evil fuck. I hope the pain fills your every waking moment.”

I caught myself bending over him in an unsettling echo of Danny's earlier actions.

“Let's get one thing straight up front, caveman. I don't give a damn about the biology of it. My father is the old soldier dying downstairs. So forget the Darth Vader bullshit.”

The eyes grew hard but they continued to return my gaze steadily.

Staying afloat took more energy than I had. I settled into a chair to wait for the others. My eyes kept straying to Danny's corpse. He'd been good, good enough to fool even a telepath like J'onn J'onzz. Not one of us suspected there was anything beneath the amiable, hardworking facade he wore.

A minute or two later, I heard the elevator doors open and the familiar buzz of my wheelchair's motors. Etta rode into the room dressed in a wrinkled uniform, her now rollerless hair a tangled mat of white curls.

“Here y'go, kid,” she said. “I figgered you'd wanna be under your own power.”

She got up and waited as I floated waveringly from one chair to the other, her eyes straying over to Danny against her will. I hovered while she put a pair of jeans, athletic socks and my favorite sneakers on me. The Columbia sweatshirt she brought for me would wait until I'd been repaired.

“I figgered it'd be easier to just put stuff on over your jammies than to take 'em off and put on undies,” she said as she dressed me. “I didn't think you'd mind under the circumstances.”

“My jammies, Etta?”

She stopped dead in the middle of slipping the socks onto my feet.

“Oh,” she said, her cheeks cherry-red. “Oh, my. It's so easy to forget you're all grown up.”

She stuck her chin in the air.

“Well, I ain't apologizin', no sir. You've been mean to your auntie stayin' away so long. You're a bad boy!”

She broke into girlish laughter for a few seconds then grew solemn.

“I'm so glad you're home, kid. I missed you.”

“Remind me when this is all over,” I said, “to tell you about my big surprise.”

“What surprise?”

“If I tell you, it won't be a surprise. Isn't that what you used to say when I'd ask what you got me for Christmas?”

She clucked her tongue at me.

“Quotin' an old lady's words back to her, eh, wise guy? Is there no end to your deviltry?”

Before I could think of a suitable comeback, Mark returned. He'd found time to throw on a pair of jeans, a sleeveless tee shirt and a pair of flip-flops. He was carrying a heavy blanket which he unceremoniously threw over the still-bleeding corpse. The three of us looked at each other numbly.

“It was him, wasn't it?” Mark said. “Danny's the one that's been killing our people.”

“Maybe,” I answered. “I leave it up to Dick to connect the dots.”

“It ain't right,” Etta said. “It ain't right that Ra's should be draggin' the old an' the helpless into his schemes. Dick always says that, in his own perverted way, Ra's is a man of honor. Where's the honor in this? Where's the sense?”

“Human life means nothing to Ra's al-Ghûl,” said Ana, as she and Karl returned with bandages and other supplies to patch me up with. “The man is simply mad.”

“I don't know, Ana,” Mark said. “This isn't the Joker we're talking about. Ra's scares the shit out of me but not because he's crazy. He always knows exactly what he's doing and why.”

“He hates Savage, that much is clear,” I said. “But Danny could've killed Savage any... Ouch. Ow!”

Ana was taping my ribs.

“Sorry,” she said, her hands never slowing. “I'm being as careful as I can. You're the one who didn't want any painkillers.”

“You were saying, Val?” asked Mark.

“If all Ra's wanted was Savage dead, Danny could've done it anytime. He could've gotten in and out without our being the wiser. So why the show? Why put us on alert by killing all the others?”

“Perhaps al-Ghûl miscalculated,” Karl suggested. “Danny may not have been as stable as Ra's believed him to be. The type of criminal who kills for the sheer sport of it often seems reasonable and even pleasant on the surface.”

“That's possible,” I admitted as Ana put the sweatshirt on me, “but it seems a little too pat. Something about that scenario doesn't fit all the facts.”

“And I want to hear your reasoning,” said a voice from the doorway, “but first, I want to hear the story from the beginning.”

Dick, bleary-eyed but in uniform, walked into the room. He carefully scanned the scene inch by inch, each detail immediately locked into place and assigned its possible significance. Clark entered behind him, still wearing that afternoon's clothes.

“Alive” he said in a hollow voice. “I didn't kill him after all.”

Two heartbeats passed.

“Let's try again.”

Clark rushed toward Savage at eye-blurring speed. Only Ana was fast enough to block his path. The shockwave of their collision ruffled our hair yet neither seemed to feel more than a gentle bump. Ana tried to hold Clark back as he pressed on but she was quickly giving ground. Carpet ripped up and floorboards splintered beneath their feet. Dick and Mark, their response times all too human, didn't notice what was happening for a couple of seconds, long enough for Clark to back Ana up against the foot of Savage's bed. Each man grabbed an arm and tried to pull him back but he flung them off with a shrug. Mark slammed up against the nurses' duty station and dropped to the floor with the wind knocked out of him. Dick stumbled past us and landed in Danny's lap, accidentally pulling the blanket down and exposing the corpse's staring eyes and foam-encrusted grin. Clark took advantage of this distraction and, striking too fast for the eye to follow, pressed a nerve in Ana's neck. The last obstacle in his path fell.

A second passed while Clark stared down at his wife's now helpless murderer. Slowly and without changing expression, he raised his fists above his head. I was under full empathic assault, the howl of Clark's hatred drowning out even Savage's spasms of terror, each of which exploded in my head like fireworks. I reeled beneath the onslaught at first but then a fierce determination welled up within me and I pushed the pain aside. I knew what I had to do.

“Clark, stop!”

He did.

Slowly, he turned and looked at me. His conflicting emotions were tearing him apart but there was no sign of it on his face, only an eerily rigid calm.

“Help me.”

I felt more than heard his plea.

“Yes,” I said softly. “I can help you. You have to let go, Clark: let go of the rage, let go of the hatred. They’ve been poisoning you for years.”

The words I spoke were unimportant, said merely to hold his attention while I began the real work. I dove into the inferno of his hatred, basking in its fury, absorbing it all, calming it, dispelling it. Clark's memory of the moment he saw Lois die played out before my eyes but where I once would have been overwhelmed by its emotion, I now could end the illusion at will. This time I was in control, not my power.

Grief lay coiled beneath the anger. In my mind's eye, I saw the expanse of smoking ruins that had been Metropolis, the rows of cots bearing fallen friends filling the Batcave, the cold marble stone bearing the simple inscription “Lois Lane Kent – Journalist.” Again, I was not lost in it. I absorbed, calmed and dispelled his pain, saying as I did,

“It's time to accept that she's gone. Honor her memory, yes, but remember her, who she was, why you loved her, not how she died. Lois loved you too much to want you spending the rest of your life grieving for her... or avenging her.”

A tear ran down his wrinkled cheek.

Now I stood in a mire of self-loathing. This was the most dangerous emotion of all because it fed on itself, growing like a noxious weed and choking the life out of the finer emotions. The now-familiar sensation of absorb, calm, dispel ran through me as I said,

“Your father was a wise man. He would have forgiven you for anything, even for Savage. You have a chance to atone for your sin and reclaim your soul, Clark, by sparing Savage this time. When you killed him before, you handed him his only victory. He won because Superman died with him. And he wins again every single day that you wake up and turn your back on the hero you were born to be. Don't let this asshole have the last laugh.”

The room grew deathly quiet after I spoke those words.

Clark swayed drunkenly before dropping to his knees. Covering his face with his hands, he let out a long, bone-chilling wail that shook the walls. His hands dropped away. True serenity had replaced the forced calm. He stood up. It might have been my imagination but I'd swear he'd gained a couple of inches of height. There was a majesty to him that hadn't been there before.

The spell of the moment was broken. Etta and Mark rushed forward to help a wobbly Ana to her feet. Karl discretely used the tip of his umbrella gun to flip the blanket back over Danny. Dick stepped forward to place a hand on Clark's broad shoulder.

“What was that all about? Are you all right?”

“Dick, my dear friend, you have no idea how all right I am. This must be how Atlas felt when he handed the weight of the world over to Hercules. Val,” he said, turning to me, “there's nothing I can say but thank you.”

I smiled wearily.

“For you, Clark, any time.”

“That was humbling,” Ana said, rubbing her neck gingerly. “I never even saw it coming. Mr. Savage is still with us. You changed your mind, I take it?”

“With a little help from my friends,” Clark said.

“I hate to spoil this tender moment,” said Dick, “but I really need to know what the hell is going on.”

I told him everything that had happened from the last time we'd spoken. As I did, his gaze riveted on Savage. When I'd finished, Dick pulled up a chair and sat at the foot of the living mummy's bed, resting his arms atop the brass frame and staring into the other's immortal eyes.

“You have no idea what Danny meant about the quick, clean stroke?” he asked.

“No,” I answered, “but whatever it is, it'll supposedly give Ra's total control of the world so you can bet it's something big.”

“And you think Savage knows?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Me, too. What are we going to do about it?”

“Val, can you get through to Savage the way you got through to Mr. Kent?” Mark asked.

“Apples and oranges, I'm afraid. I can't extract the kind of specific information we need from his emotions alone. But I know someone who can. We need Lia.”

“Lia lost her powers, Val, you know that,” said Ana.

“Trust me.”

“He's right,” Dick said, “we do need a telepath and we don't have time to track down J'onn or Madame Xanadu. Etta, would you mind?”

She looked uncertainly over to her boss.

“Go get her,” Ana sighed.

Dick walked over to examine Danny's luggage. The small bag carried men’s' toiletries, a first aid kit, a generous supply of condoms and a fully loaded .45 automatic with five spare clips. He ejected the clip and removed the round from the chamber before setting the gun aside. The middle-sized case carried documents: photocopies of patient files and business records, annotated snapshots of the staff and patients, hand-drawn blueprints of the entire estate identifying all the security equipment, and nine notebooks full of strange symbols that Dick recognized as an obscure Burmese dialect. There were also thirty-four miniature audiocassettes, including clearly-labeled copies of all my interview tapes.

“Hera help us,” Ana said. “He had everything.”

“We'd be sitting ducks,” Mark agreed.

“Maybe we still are,” Etta said, looking around nervously.

“That's just what I was thinking,” Ana said. “All right, everyone who isn't fully dressed, go get that way. Karl, I want you to wake up Pat Dugan and Eel O'Brien and help them get every vehicle we have gassed up and ready to go. Mark, alert the on-duty staff to start waking up the residents and get them ready to leave. Please see to Steve and Charles yourself. I'll send Etta to handle the women's wing as soon as she gets back. Dress everybody warm. They get to take a toothbrush, their medicines and a change of underwear, nothing else. If they ask what's going on, tell them it's a new drill the state ordered us to do. You're okay with all of this, Dick?”

“I'd have suggested it myself if you hadn't beaten me to the punch.”

“I'll be back,” she continued, “as soon as I go fetch my lasso. If there is a chance we can talk to Savage then, by Zeus, he's going to tell us the truth.”

She and the others left the room.

“What about the folks in town, Dick? Should we be warning them?” asked Clark.

“Not until we know more. If we order an evacuation, we have to explain why.”

The third bag contained clothes. Our Danny had quite the wardrobe: the hottest designers, the latest trends, everything brand new and top of the line and worth far more than he could afford on his salary. Dick checked all the pockets, turned everything inside out and found nothing. Still not satisfied, he examined the empty suitcase itself. Behind a false panel, he found thousands of dollars' worth of American, British, German, Japanese, Korean and South African currency as well as passports and drivers' licenses corresponding to each nationality.

Next, he examined the body itself. The documents in Danny's wallet identified him as a sports promoter named Jack Hayashi of Queens, New York. The keys to a Lamborghini were tucked away in the breast pocket of his leather jacket. Dick rolled up the dead man's sleeve and looked closely at the inner forearm.

“The laser surgeon wasn't very good,” he said. “You can still make out the outline of a Demon's Head tattoo. So he worked directly for Ra's but I doubt he was part of the inner circle. They don't take field assignments. This guy wasn't League of Assassins, either. Val and Karl would be dead if he were. He was a sneak, not a killer, and he thought the job was done. He was already getting in character for his next assignment. If he'd kept the Danny thing going long enough to get away, Val wouldn't have noticed anything wrong.”

“What's this all about?” demanded a frowzy Lia Briggs as Etta herded her into the room. She wore a faded oversized tee shirt, a pair of red jogging shorts and cork-soled sandals. Displeasure and suspicion swarmed about her like a cloud of gnats. Behind her, Ana — now dressed in denim and flannel, her magic lariat slung over one shoulder — caught Etta at the door, repeating her earlier orders and sending her on her way.

“Val, the floor is yours,” Dick said after everyone settled down.

“Lia,” I began, “the man in the bed is Vandal Savage. We believe he has information that could mean the difference between life and death for everyone at Lash House but he has no way to communicate that information to us. We need a telepath.”

“I can't do that anymore.”

“No? Then answer a question for me. How did you know about my empathic powers?”

“I heard a rumor.”

“No, you didn't. The same news took Mark by complete surprise two days later. Everybody talks to Mark. A rumor like that would never get past him for that long. You knew my secret because you read my mind.”

Her reply was barely audible.

“Yes.”

“What else can you still do?”

“That's all, I swear. I can read the thoughts of others but I can't project my own.”

“Why, Lia?” Ana asked. “Why did you lie to us?”

“I don't care why,” I said, “not at the moment anyway. Lia, we can't force you to help us but we need you and we need you now. Please.”

She said nothing. Instead, she sat down like the prim and proper parochial schoolgirl she had been long ago, hands clasped and feet together, in Dick's abandoned chair at the foot of Savage's bed.

“He says he won't talk to anyone but Val.”

Her tone was surprisingly conversational.

“Agreed,” Dick said, “if he submits to Diana's lasso.”

“He says... well, he suggests you do something anatomically impossible to yourself, Dick. Wait. He's changed his mind. He says he's not committing suicide just to spite you. You can use the lasso on him.”

Ana looped a coil of rope around the immobile man's left wrist. His papery skin crackled when she cinched it up. Savage suddenly arched his back as if in terrible pain, a primeval bark escaping his throat, before he dropped abruptly back down onto the mattress. His right knee flexed once, then he was motionless again except for the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. Lia slumped in her chair, her eyelids at half-mast. When she spoke a moment later, another mind chose the words.

“What is it you want from me?”

I licked my lips nervously before answering.

“You are Vandal Savage?”

“I am Vandar Agd, eldest son of Vandar Tor, first among hunters for the Rhinoceros Clan. All other names are a lie.”

“Fair enough. Do you know where you are?”

“In the house of my enemies.”

“Very poetic. I meant specifically.”

“I am at the Lash Center for Convalescent Care, somewhere in the American state of Wisconsin.”

“How long have you known this?”

“I have drifted in and out of awareness for several months, enough to learn my location and medical condition, but I only returned to full consciousness recently. In fact, it was you who awoke me, child. Your mind reached out to mine in the instant of that Puerto Rican rabble rouser's death.”

“You planted the compulsion to come here in my mind, didn't you?”

“I summoned you.”

“Why?”

“I summoned all my children. You are the only one who answered.”

“Enough of your damned riddles! I want the truth. Are you my father?”

“What?” Ana asked.

“Val, please,” Dick said, “we don't have time for this.”

“I'm making time. Deal with it. Vandar Agd, I ask you again: are you my father?”

He hesitated but not even he could resist Athena's spell.

“I do not know one way or the other. I suspect not. I usually share a telepathic bond with my first-generation descendants. I could only communicate with you when you were in a dream state. You are probably a grandchild or great-grandchild.”

“But you wanted me to believe that I was your son. Why?”

“It is not too soon to begin planning my next campaign. I wished to exploit your political connections and media contacts. I thought you were weak, that you could be corrupted. I see now I was wrong.”

“Are you responsible for the murders of the last week, either directly or indirectly?”

“I am not. I do not make war on invalids.”

I looked over at the blanketed body in the corner.

“Did Danny kill them?”

“Perhaps. He was an agent of Ra's al-Ghûl, yes? Who knows what that son of a jackal's sycophants are capable of?”

“Were you aware of Danny's true loyalties before tonight?”

“Yes. He removed his comical coolie mask days ago, as soon as he was satisfied as to my true identity. I am delighted the loathsome little insect is dead.”

“How did he figure out who you were?”

“He has eavesdropping mechanisms scattered throughout the complex. He overheard Princess Diana's conversation with Kal-L about my death. That, combined with my medical records, was all he needed. Frankly, I am surprised the rest of you hadn't figured it out by now. You really are a dull lot.”

“What did Danny mean about everyone dying in a few hours?”

“I am not certain. I imagine it has something to do with the package the other agents delivered to him.”

“What agents?” Dick asked.

No answer.

“What agents?” I repeated.

“The social workers. Rittenhouse and Quesenberry.”

“I'll be damned,” Dick muttered.

“I knew something wasn't right about them,” Ana gasped.

“Did they talk to you?”

“Not directly. I did hear them tell Ikeda that the Demon's Head was pleased with his work. They also warned him that he would have to be at least 250 miles away from this place by noon Monday if he wanted to live.”

The phone at the nurse's station rang, startling us all.

Dick answered it.

“Yes? That's all right, Etta. Put him through. Hello, Tim. You're up late even by Helena's standards. I take it you have news for me. Let me put you on hold for just a minute.”

He pushed a button and hung up the handset.

“That's enough, Val. He doesn't know enough to warrant continuing this. Lia, if you can hear me, you can let him go now.”

She turned suddenly and clamped her hand around my wrist.

“This is for you, my son!” she/he said.

The roar of his laughter, almost comic when filtered through Lia's vocal chords, sounded in my ears as an image played out in my mind. It was Savage, whole and healthy, having violent, loveless sex with the Suzette Devereaux of thirty years ago. The memory was so vivid I could smell their sweat. It vanished as abruptly as it appeared.

Her off-balance posture caught the reawakened Lia by surprise and she tumbled to the floor. Luckily for me, she let go of my wrist before she fell. Embarrassed, she quickly got up and stood there shivering.

“His, his mind,” she stammered, “it's a, a cesspool. Please, please don't ask me to do that again.”

“You've done your part,” Ana said. “Go pack. We'll talk later. Not a word to anyone about what just happened, understand?”

Lia nodded curtly then left the room, her terror and revulsion trailing behind her.

“Shut the door, Clark,” Dick said.

As soon as the lock was turned and the transom closed, the chief turned on the speakerphone so we could follow his conversation.

“Sorry about that, Tim. What have you got for me?”

“It took me awhile to crack your code,” a boyish voice replied, “but I finally got it. It isn't a message. It's a picture. The numbers are coordinates. Each group of six digits represents a distance and angle relative to a zero point. When I fed 'em all into the computer, it drew a diagram.”

“Of what?”

“Well, I wasn't sure at first but when I crossmatched it against the Justice Legacy's database, it got a hit in one of the villain files.”

“Ra's al-Ghûl.”

“Not even close,” the newest Robin chortled, obviously enjoying his moment in the spotlight. “It was a blueprint confiscated from one of T. O. Morrow's secret labs. As near as Oracle can tell, he never got around to actually building one.”

“We think somebody has gotten around to it.”

Tim, all the bravado shocked out of him, swallowed hard and said, “That’s bad, Mr. Grayson. That's real bad. The diagram is of a thermonuclear bomb.”

Chapter 46

The bomb was smaller than described. Nestled where it was beneath the overhanging roof of an unoccupied tower room, I might never have seen it—or worse, gotten too close before seeing it—if not for the bright red glow of the detonator's LED clock steadily ticking away our remaining hours of life. That night at the Saddle Tramp, Mark said the inspectors had Danny “looking under eaves” with them. Following that lead, it had taken me less than fifteen minutes to find it.

I floated away from the building, staying out of sight of the staff and patients scurrying about in the parking lot north of the mansion.

“Bingo, guys,” I said into the radio clipped to my shirt. “It's just outside the window in the northeast tower.”

“Good work, Val,” Dick responded. “We'll meet you on the lawn below.”

“Atta boy, kid,” Clark added.

“I'll be a m-m-minute,” Bob said, his voice sounding uncharacteristically mechanical over the crude speaker. “The suit works but I have to get it fresh b-b-batteries and b-b-b-borrow some freon from the m-meat locker to fuel it. I'll try to hurry.”

As I returned to my wheelchair parked below to wait for the others, I thought of the dream from Friday afternoon. Was that how it would be: a light, a shockwave, a roar and then death by nuclear fire? Or would we be dead before our brains could register their own disintegration? No. I couldn't dwell on it. I had to stay positive.

Clark and Dick appeared from around opposite corners of the house.

“There it is,” Clark said, glancing up. “Hard to imagine that little box contains so much death.”

“I don't see it,” Dick said, “but I don't have your eyes. Can you read the timer?”

“Not from this angle.”

“Savage was right,” I said. “We have until noon to deactivate it. What's that, Dick?”

He was holding a small metal rectangle, about the size but four times the thickness of a pocket calculator.

“Unless I miss my guess,” he replied, “this is the ectoplasmic inhibitor field generator that's been plaguing your ghost friend. I found it taped to the underside of the workstation in Savage's room.”

“Wow. When you said they found a way to miniaturize the technology, you weren't kidding. Did you shut down the field?”

“Not yet. I think this is the EIF generator but I can't say for sure until I open it up. If I'm wrong and this is actually a remote detonator for the bomb, I'd rather find out after we deactivate the thing.”

The mansion's front door opened. Out into the early morning sunlight stepped Bob Tinker and Byrna Brilyant, the latter clad in her Snowman costume minus its headpiece. The incongruity of seeing her sweet old face perched atop the lumbering bulk of the primitive exoskeleton made me smile.

“What's this now?” Dick asked wearily.

Ana appeared in the open doorway.

“Byrna!” she yelled. “What do you think you're doing? Get back here this minute.”

The old lady never slowed her stride as she answered, “I can't do that, Ana, dear. I'm needed. Mr. Tinker can't disarm his bomb and work the Snowman's controls at the same time.”

“Then show one of the others what to do. I can't allow you to stay behind.”

Byrna stopped then and turned to face her benefactor.

“I love you for all the kindness you've shown me, Ana, and I'd normally do anything you asked. But not this. No one knows this suit better than its inventor. With all due respect to Chief Grayson and Mr. Kent, they can't possibly absorb a lifetime of experience and instinct in a few minutes.”

“I have to agree, Diana,” Dick said. “We do need her.”

“See? They need me. I haven't felt needed in a long time. Don't take it away from me.”

Ana stood seething, fists clenched at her side, but she couldn't argue with their logic.

“All right then,” she said, “the rest of us are moving out. Val, come with us, I'm begging you. There's nothing more you can do to help them now.”

“My officers don't leave in the middle of a case,” Dick said before I could answer. “Not on my watch.”

Ana took a step forward, thunderstorms in her eyes, before stopping short and swallowing her fury. There was no more time to waste arguing. With only a terse “Good luck” as her farewell, she vanished back into the house.

A moment later, we heard the roar of many engines turning over. A procession of vans, mini-buses, ambulances, station wagons, sedans and compacts, led by Etta in her Lincoln, paraded by us. Pat Dugan's Packard brought up the rear. Dozens of hands waved at us out of various windows. Ana, riding shotgun with Etta, kept her face turned away. We watched in silence as the caravan wound its way down the long driveway and turned south onto Lakeside Drive. As soon as the Packard's taillights passed from sight, we turned back to the matter at hand.

“What do you need us to do, Miss Brilyant?” Dick asked.

“The closer I can get to the device, the quicker I can freeze it,” she said, “but I'll have to maintain the temperature drop the whole time Mr. Tinker works on it if we don't want it thawing before he's through. I suppose we'll need a stepladder or some such.”

She looked up at the tower uncertainly.

“Of course it's been a lot of years since I climbed anything higher than a shag carpet.”

“Don't you worry,” Clark said. “You'll be as safe as a babe in its mother's arms. I'll fly you up and hover with you until it's all over. That is, if that's all right with you.”

She definitely liked the idea. Her eyes lit up and a blush rose in her cheeks.

“Well, Mr. Kent, there's no time for modesty, now is there? I'm quite sure you'll keep me snug and secure.”

“What position?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you need to be upright for the suit to work or can I carry you in my arms? It makes a difference in how I pick you up.”

“Oh. Oh, yes, I see. The icemakers will work in any position. Whichever way is most comfortable for you, dear. We don't want to wear you out too soon, do we? I'll need a few minutes to stabilize the temperature. The lower I take it, the longer it will resist warming. What's your freezing point, Mr. Tinker?”

“I can still m-m-move comfortably at 25 b-below. Lower than that and m-my lubrication stops flowing.”

“Can you take that kind of chill for what could be hours?” she asked Clark.

“I'll stay warm.”

“Then 25 below it is. Better give me fifteen minutes before coming up, Mr. Tinker, to be safe.”

“Go,” Dick said.

Clark scooped Byrna up in his arms and rose into the air until they faced the device from eight feet away. She twisted in his grasp until she could raise one of the suit's bulky blue arms. With the other hand, she turned a knob on her belt. Nothing happened at first, then a ripple of cold rolled out from the extended fingertips. We could see their breath after only a few seconds.

“How do you propose to get up there, Bob?” I asked.

Bob watched Clark and Byrna thoughtfully for a minute than said, “I'm going to telescope m-my legs to their m-m-m-maximum extension. That ought to p-p-place me eye to eye with the thing. After that, I can use my internal chronometer to keep m-myself m-m-moving at, let's say, a quarter m-mile per hour, just to err on the side of caution.”

Dick rubbed the back of his neck absently. The strain was getting to him.

“How long will it take you at that speed?”

“I have to unscrew the faceplate, open the detonater casing, crosswire the firing circuit, snip three wires and remove the p-p-plutonium capsule. Assuming your ladyfriend's diagram is accurate and there are no surprises, it should take me two hours, m-maybe three. You know, you fellows don't have to stay. Why don't you and Val climb in that tank of yours, Dick, and get out of here?”

“Can't. Clark flew me here to save time. Ana and the others drove off in every set of wheels the Center had except your Lawnboy and Val's chair. We're here to stay.”

“I'm going to start up,” the determined little robot announced.

“Aren't you taking any tools?” I asked.

Bob raised a hand and willed the forefinger to reshape itself into a Phillips-head screwdriver. He smiled.

“I never leave home without m-my toolbox.”

“Before you start,” Dick said, “there's something I should say to you while there's still time. I was wrong to deactivate Tina. Forgive an old man for confusing the letter of the law with true justice... and for forgetting who his friends are.”

Bob kicked at a dandelion that had escaped his mower blades before replying, “To tell you the truth, Chief, I thought Tina m-m-might really have killed Doc m-myself. Suppose we agree never to m-mention it again?”

They shook hands before Bob turned and strode away. Positioning himself between the spot where Clark hovered and the house, he began to elongate his legs. Slowly, his upper body rose into the air until he'd stretched nearly the full height of the mansion's four stories. Long, lethally sharp icicles now hung from the tower roof. A cloud of frost danced in the air around the bomb. Bob's head and shoulders disappeared into this mist. We could no longer see his progress. Dick sat down on the grass beside me to wait.

Twenty minutes passed. The only movement that could be seen was the back of Clark's shirt snapping in the frigid wind that swirled about the tower. Scared as we were, the wait was boring. We began to grow sleepy. I was just nodding off when something dropped to the ground. The sun's reflection flashed off its metal surface as it bounced on the thick grass of the lawn.

“One screw off,” Clark called down.

“Talk to me, Val,” said Dick. “Keep me awake.”

“Why would Danny plant the inhibitor doohickey in Savage's room, where another staffer might've found it, instead of someplace less conspicuous? Did he want to make sure Bat stayed out of that specific room?”

“I don't think he had it to keep Bat Lash in check. Ra's may well issue them to all his field agents as a precaution against Boston Brand interfering in his operations. He probably didn't even know about Lash until his bugs picked up your conversation with him.”

“That fits. Bat said something had been preventing him from contacting Brand for the last few weeks. That must've been what he felt.”

“That would be my guess, yeah. Once he knew about Lash, he turned the field on high to take Lash out of the picture just in case.”

“Danny didn't kill anyone but himself, did he?”

“No. Karl was wrong. Ra's doesn't use loose cannons. Danny, or whoever he really was, could never have earned that tattoo unless he were smart, reliable and loyal.”

“So even if we don't all go up in a mushroom cloud, we'll still be no closer to catching him.”

“Believe me, I share your frustration. I'm a hell of a good criminologist but that's never enough against superhumans. The crooks Bruce and I went up against were mostly brilliant loonies in funny clothes, weird but human all the same. It was rare that we faced a genuine super-villain. Bruce'd practically foam at the mouth if we had to tackle Clayface or Doctor Double-X. He hated those guys. It took Clark and Diana weeks to convince him to join the Justice League. He felt so out of place in their cases. You know why the JLA's first new recruit was Green Arrow? So Bruce wouldn't be the only guy without powers on the team.”

“It's hard to imagine Bruce Wayne having that kind of insecurity.”

“He was tired. A quarter century of constant fighting will do that to you. By the Sixties, Bruce was beat all to hell. At least he had the sense to retire gracefully. Some of the older guys stayed in so long it was embarrassing to have them along on a case. When Bruce became Batman again that last time, I knew he was going to die.”

“How did it happen? I know he was murdered but not much more.”

“It was all so senseless. There was a sorcerer named Fredrick Vaux who decided to sacrifice some super-heroes to the evil gods he worshipped. He gave magical powers to a businessman Bruce and I sent to prison back in '60, knowing full well that this convict, Bill Jensen, had lost his mind. Jensen escaped and threatened to destroy Gotham if the original Batman didn't surrender to him. When he did, Jensen used his powers to immolate himself and took Bruce with him. The Justice League told the papers that Jensen killed both Batman and Commissioner Wayne, of course.”

“What happened to Vaux?”

“Doctor Fate happened to him. It wasn't pretty, but he didn't deserve pretty.”

He plucked a dandelion and examined it as though it held the key to a mystery.

“You know what the worst part of it was? Vaux had never even met Bruce, in or out of costume. He picked him at random to be his first victim. The greatest man I've ever known died in agony because some sociopath went eenie-meenie-minie-mo. It shook me. I didn't share Bruce's hangup about super-villains, I fought alongside the JLA for years without a problem but after he died, I got gun-shy.”

“Was that why you quit the League and started the Outsiders?”

“Subconsciously, maybe. No, I quit because one of my executives was kidnapped by a terrorist named Baron Bedlam. Bedlam hoped to force Wayne Enterprises into financing his overthrow of the king of Markovia. Reagan ordered the JLA to stay out of it. Bruce would've gone along with the others, he was establishment through and through, and Clark expected the same from me. But I'm not Bruce, and I wasn't to the manor born. I'm just a carny who caught a break. The League had become too hidebound, too caught up in rules and regulations, for my tastes. So I quit. Jeff Pierce and Rex Mason had turned down JLA membership because they didn't agree with its politics either. They seemed like natural allies for the mission I had in mind. I didn't count on others getting involved, especially not three amateurs, yet if not for Gaby, Tatsu and especially Prince Brion, Bedlam's coup would've succeeded. I decided afterward to mold this odd combo into an alternative to the JLA, a new kind of team that wasn't afraid to get its hands dirty.”

“You must've done one hell of a job of molding. The Outsiders were the only team not to lose a member in the Battle.”

“I'm proud of that. The Martian Manhunter's new League and Sylvester Pemberton's team had no more experience than my kids did but they took heavy hits. The difference was the Outsiders kept their heads when the other young heroes panicked.”

“I thought you'd actually quit the Outsiders before Metropolis.”

“I had. The others, Rex and Jeff especially, felt I was holding the reins too tight. I walked out, figuring they'd beg me to come back after their first case without me. Shows you what I know. I'd trained them so well they didn't need me anymore. Maybe that was just as well. I was tired by then, the way Bruce had been tired. I'd already decided to hang up my cowl when Savage issued his challenge.”

“Second screw out!” Clark announced.

Dick checked his watch.

“Bob's going faster than he predicted. I hope he doesn't get overconfident.”

“I'm surprised you can say ‘Bob Tinker’ and ‘overconfident’ in the same sentence and keep a straight face.”

That made him laugh.

“I always loved working with the Metal Men,” he said. “They were such characters. Listening to their little squabbles, you'd never know they were robots instead of a family. Of them all, it was shy little Tin I liked best. Look at him up there, face to face with that thing, calmly working away. He is so goddamned brave.”

“I understand you were best man at his wedding.”

“He was so sincere when he asked me, I couldn't say no.”

“Thank you for letting me stay. I know standing up to Ana is never easy.”

“I meant what I said. You're a deputy. I expect you to do your duty.”

He smiled.

“If you'd wanted to leave, I'd have let you go but I knew you had too much integrity to run and too much pride to be forced. Anyway, you earned the right to stay. We'd have been screwed if you hadn't remembered the Snowman.”

“I guess. Still, it seems to me like most of the credit goes to your pal Tim.”

“Yeah, the kid came through. Hell, I suppose we even have to thank Savage.”

“And what of me?” said a voice from behind us, causing us both to jump. “Have you no kind words for she who warned you in the first place?”

We turned. There stood the exotic woman from the Saddle Tramp, a haughty vision of white muslin over flawless olive skin. She had come up on us in total stealth. Dick got to his feet awkwardly, attempting to hide his embarrassment at being caught by surprise.

“Talia!”

“Hello, Richard. It is good to see you again.”

“What are you doing here?”

His tone was angry but I could sense the great longing hidden behind it.

“I had no intention of intruding further into your quiet little life but I feared you might not be able to decipher my code in time. I should have known better.”

She reached out and brushed her fingers gently down the side of his face.

“I lie. I had to see you again one last time, beloved, in case...”

He grabbed her hands roughly and shoved them away from him.

“In case? In case my friends and I die? In case your loving father successfully launches World War Three?”

“Why are you angry with me? I am helping you. Do you have any idea of the risk I took getting that message to you?”

“You haven't changed a bit, Talia. How many times have we done this dance? Daddy Dearest launches his latest genocidal scheme, you rat him out to me, I stop him but you help him get away, isn't that the way it goes? Well, that's bullshit. If you truly want my gratitude, tell me where he is. He's got to pay this time. You can't protect him anymore.”

She took a folded envelope stuffed with papers from the pocket of her blouse and handed it to him.

“These are the latitudes and longitudes of every one of my father's palaces and hideaways, as well as a complete list of his alternate identities and bank accounts. He will not escape your justice unless it is by his own hand.”

Dick glanced through the papers.

“This is incredible. Everything we could possibly use against him is here. Why?”

“Because I love you. Isn't that enough?”

“No. I wish I could say it was. Maybe if you'd done this thirty years ago, it would be.”

“My father has changed. The Lazarus Pit did not work properly the last time he used it. It rejuvenated his body but his mind is decaying. A lust for revenge has overwhelmed his reason. This madness,” and she waved her hand at Bob and the others, “is the result.”

“There goes the third screw,” Clark announced.

Talia glanced up and smiled.

“You have always had colorful allies, Richard, but I think you may have outdone yourself this time. An old woman, a cripple, a clockwork man and... Is that Superman? I told my father he wasn't dead but he never listens to me.”

A tear danced in the corner of her eye.

“What will become of me when he is gone?”

“You'll survive. You always have.”

“I could stay with you.”

“Talia...”

Now she was openly weeping.

“Please, Richard, don't. I can't bear to hear it again.”

“I love you,” he said, “God help me, I do. But I can't change who and what I am. You're wanted in dozens of countries for theft, for espionage, for murder, Talia, for murder. I can't ignore that, no matter how desperately I want to. If you stay, I'll have to turn you in.”

“Then there is nothing left to be said.”

“Nothing except good-bye.”

She stepped forward and he enfolded her in his arms. Their kiss, for all its apparent passion, filled me with sadness. Suddenly, Dick was cartwheeling through the air, the victim of an expertly executed judo throw. He landed flat on his back with a huff of forcibly expelled breath. I looked back and Talia was gone.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Nothing injured but my pride,” he said, getting up and brushing himself off. “It's like Charlie Brown and the football. I can't believe I fell for that again.”

“That wasn't what I meant.”

“I know.”

He stood gazing east, as if he sensed her off in the distance. I held my peace. Whatever he was feeling, he wasn't ready to share it. I had to respect that. After a few minutes, he sat back down beside my chair. Ten minutes of silence ticked away.

“He has the faceplate off,” Clark said. “It looks just like the diagram. No surprises. He should... Oh, shit!”

Dick jumped to his feet.

“What's wrong?”

“The plastic sheathing over the wiring is brittle from the cold,” Bob shouted. “It's crumbling away. The sensors are dead but if water seeps into the circuitry... The timer's sped up! We've got two minutes, maybe less!”

“Bob, take Byrna,” Clark barked, tossing the lady in question into the robot's slender arms like a big blue basketball. His powerful fingers tearing the device from its moorings, he flashed straight up into the morning sky, quickly vanishing from sight.

The seconds crawled by. I was too afraid to so much as draw a breath.

A blinding light filled the air. I turned away, my eyes squeezed shut, but the light was not to be denied. There was an instant of searing pain but it was just as quickly gone. I tensed in anticipation but nothing further happened: no sound, no shockwave, no heat. Cautiously, I reopened my eyes.

Behind a ballet of throbbing afterimages, I could dimly make out shadowy outlines that gradually resolved themselves into the others. Dick was on his knees not far from where I sat, wiping the tears away from his overtaxed eyes with a handkerchief. Byrna had leapt out of Bob's arms the instant they'd returned to ground level and lay curled in a fetal ball at his feet, paralyzed by terror. Bob himself stood perfectly still staring up into the sky. Suddenly, he pointed into the heart of the fading glare and shouted, “Look!”

No more than a flyspeck at first, the form hurtling groundward quickly became recognizable. It was Clark, his clothing in tatters, falling headfirst out of the sky.

“Run!” Dick shouted.

We scattered, each in a different direction. I abandoned my wheelchair in favor of flight. I made it perhaps sixty yards before he hit. A wall of pressure slammed into me, propelling me through the air as surely as if I'd been shot from a cannon. The boom of the concussion followed almost immediately. Gravity regained its grip and I fell to earth, too stunned to stay aloft. I landed hard, reigniting the fire in my side, but there was no time to react to it. A rain of pulverized pebbles, dirt and grass filled the air. It obscured til the last second the 175 pounds of batteries, motors and titanium alloy frame dropping toward me. I barely rolled clear before my chair fragmented explosively against the still-rippling ground. Slivers of metal and plastic shredded my right pants leg, cutting bloody furrows along my thigh. An eerie silence followed, broken only by the faint sound of coughing. My ears were still ringing so loudly, it took me a few seconds to realize it was my coughs I was hearing.

Anxious for fresh air, I flew above the settling duststorm. The front lawn of Lash House was gone, replaced by a crater a hundred and twenty feet across and thirty feet deep. It began to fill with the water pouring from a burst water main. Every window on the mansion's eastern facade was shattered. Dozens of shingles were shaken loose, along with entire sections of the decorative gingerbread. The shrubbery lay in heaps against the house, uprooted by the force of the impact. Every concrete surface in sight was riddled with cracks. The front walkway on the side closest to ground zero had been torn to pieces. Every tree within nine hundred feet of the impact was uprooted, one old oak nearly crushing Miss Brilyant in its death throes, and those beyond were denuded of their leaves. My eyes turned back to the crater. Dick and Bob were scrambling down its conical sides to see to Clark, face down in a crumpled heap amidst the rubble of what had been the hospital's staff lounge, a rapidly speading pool of muddy water forming around him.

I flew closer before asking, “How is he?”

Dick, kneeling at Clark's side, turned him enough to get his face clear of the water.

“He's alive!”

“I think he's coming around,” Bob added.

Sure enough, Clark was moving, albeit in slow motion. During our interview the previous afternoon, he'd insisted accounts of his invulnerability were exaggerated. Seeing him this way, recovering from a fall that would've liquefied any ordinary man, it was hard to credit. He bore no sign of cut or bruise though I could sense he was in pain. As the others helped him climb the crater's slippery side, I sensed his aches slowly fading to nothingness. I was jealous. My ribs were nastily nagging at me.

“What happened up there?” asked Bob.

“I almost didn't make it,” Clark said. “It took me longer than I thought to reach the upper atmosphere. I flung the bomb into space but it exploded less than three miles from my position. The shockwave caught me by surprise and knocked me out. How are all of you?”

“We seem to be intact,” Byrna said, “but I'm afraid poor Val's wheelchair didn't make it.”

“A small sacrifice,” I said.

“I'm going to change out of this monkey suit,” she announced. “If you like, dear, I can fetch another chair for you while I'm at it.”

“Thank you, Miss Brilyant, but I'm fine.”

She carefully stepped around the debris and walked into the mansion.

Bob looked around at the chaotic no man's land that was the front lawn.

“It's going to take m-me weeks to clean up this m-m-m-mess.”

“Considering what our casualty list could've looked like,” I said, “I'd say we got off light.”

“That impact will have registered on seismographs all around the region,” Dick said, “and half the northern hemisphere must have seen that light. We need a cover story.”

“We were excavating for a hospital extension and we hit a p-p-pocket of natural gas?” Bob suggested.

“The physical evidence would say otherwise,” Dick mused. “We'll have to do better than that.”

“Suppose we blame Ra's?” I said. “He's used killer satellites before. We could say he'd launched another one but it exploded in orbit and part of it fell here. Let's see him prove otherwise.”

The two older men broke out in broad grins.

“I like the way this boy thinks,” Clark chuckled.

“That is deeply devious,” Dick said, “but we can't. No one has connected Lash House to The Life so far. Let's not give them a reason to. A meteor fell. The astronomers will have their doubts but that story will satisfy the authorities and the press.”

“Shouldn't we call Ana and tell her it's over?” I asked.

Before Dick could reply, Byrna reappeared in the doorway.

“It's a disaster inside,” she said. “Everything's been knocked all cattywumpus.”

“Let's call her after we clean the place up,” Dick suggested. “Atomic bombs I can deal with. Telling Ana we wrecked her house? That's scary.”

Chapter 48

I awoke back in my bed. Had it been a dream? I hurt all over so probably not.

Rolling over to look at the clock, I was startled to see someone sitting at the desk reading. She could've been mistaken for Ana if not for her golden hair, icy blue eyes and peaches-and-cream complexion. If her former classmates could see mousy little Polly Stevens just now, their brains would short-circuit. Even dressed in a simple silk blouse and designer jeans, Lyta Hall carried herself with all the confidence and authority the world expected in a Wonder Woman.

“About time you woke up,” she said in greeting. “You've been out half the day.”

“How's Dad?”

Her voice stayed matter-of-fact.

“Still with us. Ana set up an intensive care unit in their bedroom.”

“Good. This feels weird. One minute I'm in the office talking to Donna, the next I'm here talking to you. Fill in the blanks, huh?”

“According to Doctor Mac, you collapsed from exhaustion.”

“Guess I'm not as ready to play in the majors as I thought.”

“Not to hear the folks talk about it. That was quite a story. I wasn't sure I believed it all until just now. Look at you, beat all to hell and raring to go after a few hours' sleep. I can see it in your eyes. Who knew my little baby brother was such a tough guy?”

“I don't feel very tough.”

“Trust me, kid, you're plenty tough. You took all kinds of beatings and you still pitched in when trouble came. Doctor McNider says you simply pushed yourself too hard for too long. It was bound to catch up to you.”

“Any word from the JLA?”

“Tim relayed a message from Helena a couple of hours ago. The Legacy's been pouncing on every hiding place pinpointed in Talia's notes. They caught Ra's and his executive council with their pants down at a safe house in Samarkand. Ra's swore he wouldn't be taken alive. He set off a bomb.”

“Oh God,” I groaned. “So he won after all.”

“No, no, no! It wasn't a nuke, just a big stack of dynamite! The safe house is a pile of toothpicks and Ra's and his flunkies are dead but there wasn't much widespread damage. Zatanna is in serious condition but they expect her to pull through. Helena, Plas and Wally received minor injuries but stayed with the others picking off the stragglers. It's over.”

“It almost happened,” I murmured. “That nuke almost went off. We almost died.”

“But you didn't. That's the thing about The Life, Val. You can't dwell on the danger or it will cripple you, you should excuse the expression.”

“How do you do it, Polly? How do you face down the fear?”

“By remembering who and what I'm fighting for. You of all people shouldn't need a speech about duty and honor to know what I'm talking about. It's in your blood.”

I gingerly sat upright with my back to the headboard.

“So where's Hec?”

“In town, annoying Dick.”

“Annoying him how?”

“Carter and Shiera were pretty fair detectives and Hec's determined to follow in their footsteps. I haven't got the heart to tell him how thoroughly he sucks at it. I'm hoping Dick will break it to him gently. Or kick his ass. Whichever.”

“How are things between you two?”

“Not so good, to tell you the truth. The Life keeps getting in the way. When Hec's in costume, he is such an asshole!”

She sighed and picked at an imaginary something under one of her fingernails.

“Lately, he's been an asshole at home too. We argue constantly.”

“Over what?”

“Over everything. Nothing I say or do makes him happy. It's like he's got all this resentment towards me that he's kept bottled up for years and he can't hold it in anymore.”

“Why does he resent you?”

“Jesus, why doesn't he? He resents that my career has been more successful than his. He resents that the JLA treat him like my kid sidekick and the press treats him like Mr. Wonder Woman. He resents that I have super-strength and could snap him like a twig if I had to. He resents that I had a happy childhood. He even seems to resent that I still love him.”

“I'm sorry. It's no secret I never liked Hec but I always made allowances for him because he so obviously adored you. I wish I could help somehow.”

“You are helping,” she said, rubbing my arm affectionately. “I always was able to talk to you, Val. I could always be myself around you. I miss you. I miss having a confidante. Kara and Helena and the other JLA girls don't understand why I would want to keep my marriage together. They don't understand marriage, period. None of them have been married or even had a stable relationship. Helena's still a goddamned virgin, for Christ's sake!”

She burst into laughter.

“Oh, I really shouldn't have said that out loud!”

“Damn, Polly,” I said with a grin, “it's good to see you.”

“Ditto. Sometimes this secrecy routine really blows.”

There was a knock, followed by Mark quietly opening the door and stepping halfway across the threshhold. He looked exhausted but had found time to shave and put on a clean uniform.

“I thought I heard voices,” he said. “How you feeling?”

“I don't think I'll be running any marathons soon,” I said, “but I'm pretty sure I can function in polite society without embarrassing myself.”

“Good, because dinner's almost ready. Donna made a leg of lamb. The whole first floor smells delicious.”

“If there's one thing Amazons do well, it's cook,” Polly — no, Lyta — said. “Me, I can't microwave a cup of coffee without causing a disaster. I can thank the Trevor family for that. Grandma Buelah was a holy terror in the kitchen. Donna, on the other hand, definitely has that touch, especially with Greek cuisine.”

“It's true,” I chimed in. “Her stuffed octopus is a little slice of heaven.”

“Hey, I don't need convincing,” Mark laughed. “I'm reasonably sure, though, that Val doesn't want to come to the table with mud in his teeth, pillow hair and dressed in his Underoos.”

“Don't let him kid you, Val,” Lyta replied as she moved toward the door. “You were never lovelier. See you in a bit.”

“Would it be considered bad manners if I told you your sister is really hot?” Mark asked as soon as she was out of earshot.

“My sister will rip your favorite limb off and beat you to death with it if you piss her off.”

“That's what I'm saying!”

“Down, boy. She's spoken for, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, Hector Hall. I met him a couple of hours ago. Geez, what a stiff.”

“She loves him, God knows why, so be tolerant. You'll get used to him. Do what we do: laugh at him behind his back.”

As we went through the process of making me look human again, Mark filled in more of the blanks for me.

The caravan had arrived back at Lash House around 10. Thanks to a heads-up from Dick, they came in through a side gate and unloaded at the annex, thus avoiding the few remaining news crews camped out at the main gate. The night shift was sent home with generous bonus checks in their pockets and a gentle reminder regarding the confidentiality clauses of their contracts. The residents were still settling back in. Most were confused and many were frightened, not so much by the “drill” as by the panic they'd seen in Ana's eyes.

Donna, Clark and Bob had combined forces with their squad of plucky teenage volunteers to do an amazing patch job on the mansion. Order was restored everywhere but the hospital: furniture was turned upright, pictures were rehung, breakage cleared away and even — courtesy of the grateful manager of the Corners' foremost glazier — new glass hung in the east windows. Lyta and Hec had arrived at noon and immediately rolled up their sleeves, Lyta clearing debris, Hec installing glass.

A news report came on the radio as Mark dressed me. The lead, naturally, was a recap of this morning's meteor strike. Contrary to initial reports, there had been a fatality. The body of shift supervisor Danny Ikeda, age 26, was found in the rubble of the Lash Center's intensive care unit. He had stayed behind to finish some critical laboratory work and was crushed beneath a wall. No autopsy would be performed in compliance with the deceased's religious beliefs. Etta Candy, spokesperson for the Center, provided a soundbite:

“Losin' Danny is a tragedy. He was a hard worker, had a great sensahumor and got along with everyone. We'll miss him.”

“Etta was pissed about having to give the statement,” Mark said, “about the sheer hypocrisy of it, and yet in a way every word she said was true. Danny did work hard. He will be missed. It's like Danny was another of the real guy's victims, his final victim.”

“You okay?”

“No. After all the times the various Rogues stabbed me in the back during alleged team-ups, I should be used to betrayal but this is different. This one hurts. Danny was my friend. I trusted him. We all trusted him.”

“I know. I liked him too. I presume tying his death to the meteor was Dick's idea?”

“Who else?”

“How many laws do you suppose he's breaking with this fairy tale?”

“I couldn't begin to guess. Does it really matter? The Life as the good guys play it is about what's right, not what's legal.”

He ran a brush through my hair and we were done.

“I think I'll look in on the General before I head downstairs,” I said.

“Works for me,” Mark said. “I need to go change out of my blues anyway. See you down there.”

The door to Ana's suite was wide open. Etta was sitting at the desk, tending to some paperwork. She looked up and smiled.

“Well, look who's out and about,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“Battered but rested. You?”

“Okay. I grabbed a few hours' naptime and a hot bath. That helped.”

“Is she in with him?”

“Where else? She hasn't left his side once since they got him settled in.”

She set her pen down and rubbed her eyes.

“I'm afraid for her, Val. I never seen her so close to breakin', not like this. She's blamin' herself for everythin' an' it's destroyin' her. If she don't...”

She stopped herself in mid-sentence as the bedroom door opened and Ana stepped out. I caught a quick glimpse of Larry Collins adjusting a heart monitor before she shut the door behind her. She looked so tired. No, it was more than that. She looked old.

“Hello, sweetie,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a log,” I replied. “Are you coming down to dinner?”

“I don't think so. I want to sit with Steve a little while longer.”

“Bullshit!” Etta growled, slamming the ledger she'd been writing in down on the desk. “You are gonna haul your butt downstairs an' have dinner with your family!”

She came around the desk and grabbed Ana by the shoulders.

“You listen to me, Diana Trevor. I been your friend for sixty years and I ain't about to stand by an' watch you do this to yourself. Maybe Steve's gonna die an' maybe he ain't but you can't just stop livin' until you know which. There's a roomful of family downstairs who are here because they love you. They want to see you. You need to let 'em see you.”

There was no fight left in Ana. It was the most frightening thing I'd ever seen.

“All right, Etta,” she said, “if you think it's that important.”

“Atta girl. C'mon, Val an' I will walk you down.”

We were heading out when Larry poked his head out the door.

“He's awake again, ma'am.”

“Do you want to go in and see him for a minute, Val?” Ana asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Now, Ana...” Etta began.

“I'm still coming with you, Etta. There isn't enough room for more than one visitor at a time anyway. Go on, honey. We won't start eating without you.”

Larry stepped aside as I drove into the impromptu ICU.

“I'll give you some privacy, Mr. Stevens,” he said, leaving the door slightly ajar before stepping out into the hall.

My parents' formerly spacious bedroom was now crowded with monitors and diagnostic equipment and IV stands. The air was close and smelled of sickness. The General lay in his marital bed, tubes and wires running from every orifice, blankly staring at the ceiling. Could he sense my presence? Did he know who I was? Dr. Gupta had said he wouldn't understand if I spoke to him but there was more than one way to talk.

I turned my powers on with barely a conscious thought. Cautiously, I attempted to tune in to the General's empathic wavelength. He wasn't broadcasting static as he would have if he were brain dead. The first impression was of a savage frustration. I drew this frustration into myself, thinking to dispel it as I had Clark Kent's negative emotions. Instead it found common cause with my own repressed feelings of helplessness. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

No! This was not going to beat me.

I set my jaw and forced myself to move, forced myself to take a breath. The paralysis faded. I focused on my father again. The outermost wall of his emotional defenses had been breached. I sent wordless messages of love, respect and comfort his way. His aura changed almost instantaneously. He knew I was there and understood. Now I did speak.

“General... Dad. I'm here. I can feel that you're torn between fighting back and letting go. I want you to fight back because I don't want to lose you but I won't... think less of you if you... let go.”

I had to take a shaky breath before I could go on.

“If you... when... you can count on me to take care of the family.”

I bent over and kissed him on the forehead.

“I'm going to go now, General, but I'll be back. Stay with me.”

I worried as I headed down to dinner. The General was too tired in body, mind and soul to hang on for much longer. If I was the only one who could reach him through the haze the stroke had wrapped around his brain, then it was my responsibility to see that he didn't die alone.

Chapter 50

The dinner party broke up not long after I went looking for Hec. The Stones and Tinkers went home. A restless Mark decided to conduct an impromptu bed check in the annex. Dr. McNider had turned in. Ana made a beeline back to the General's bedside as soon as good manners allowed. Donna, Etta and I joined her in the parlor.

“I wish I'd been there to see it,” Ana said when we told her of Hec's apparent change of heart. “Let's hope he means it.”

“Talk is cheap,” Donna said. “He hasn't done anything yet.”

Lyta came into the room.

“How's Daddy?” she asked.

“Stable,” Ana said, “but he's completely dependent on the respirator, maybe forever. The only mercy is that he doesn't seem to know what's happened to him.”

“I'm sorry but he does know,” I said. “I can feel it.”

“How is he?”

“Confused, angry, frightened and in physical agony.”

“How can you be so detached about this?” Lyta said. “That's our father you're talking about!”

“And euphemisms aren't going to help him or us,” Ana said. “We have some decisions to make. Val's information is a factor.”

“We are not pulling the plug on him!”

“Steve made a living will years ago. In it, he makes it clear that he doesn't want to be kept on life support indefinitely.”

“I don't care! Val says his mind is alive. If there's the slightest chance he might recover, we have to give it to him.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Trevor, but do you know if my relief is on their way? I was supposed to go off duty 45 minutes ago.”

None of us had noticed Larry Collins standing in the doorway of my parents' bedroom. I couldn't blame him for wanting to go home, not after working two shifts back to back. He started his workday sorting through the rubble of the hospital, salvaging the undamaged or easily repairable equipment and helping Dr. Gupta set up my father's makeshift ICU. For the last eight hours, he'd been monitoring the General's condition and doing whatever he could to make him comfortable and keep him calm.

“I'm sorry, Larry,” Ana replied. “I hadn't realized Zoe was late. Etta, would you see what's keeping her?”

There was no need. We heard heavy footsteps running up the stairs. Zoe rushed into the room, greeting and explaining and apologizing in an explosion of jumbled words. It took a few minutes for her to settle in and Larry to pack up.

“Before we decide anything,” I said once we were alone again, “why don't we ask Lia to try to get through to him? Maybe he can tell us what he wants done.”

“That's a swell idea,” Etta said.

“It's at least worth a try,” Donna agreed.

“I would like to talk to him,” Lyta said.

“What do you think, Ana?” Etta asked.

“I think it's late and everyone's tired,” she said. “I suggest we get some sleep and talk about this again in the morning. Now, everybody out.”

And with those words she shooed us from the room.

“Anybody else want another glass of wine?” asked Donna.

“Thanks, hon,” Etta replied, “but I think I'm gonna hit the sack.”

“I'll pass, too,” said Lyta. “It's been a long day.”

“Party poops. How about you, Val?”

“Sorry. I'm going to take a quick flight through the woods, try to sort some things out that are weighing on me.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“Eventually. Right now, I just need a little fresh air.”

I left the women and headed downstairs. With eight recent hours of sleep under my belt, I was in no mood to turn in. Besides, Mark wasn't back from the bed check yet. There were things I could talk to him about that I could never discuss with my sister or my aunts. Funny. Barely a week ago, I had no real friends.

Parking my chair in a pool of deep shadow cast by an oak tree across the mansion's west facade, I willed myself aloft. There was a tinge of fire in my side from my ribs. My abrupt takeoff while experiencing Hector's memories of Metropolis had strained the supporting muscles, doubling my discomfort. Experimenting cautiously, I found that the pain dropped to a muffled throb if I held myself roughly horizontal and settled for slow level flight.

I drifted with no clear direction or destination in mind, sticking to the shadows and avoiding silhouetting myself against light sources, precautions that had become second nature during my midnight explorations of Manhattan. I tried not to think at all. I forced myself to focus on the night's sensations, to appreciate the flight for its own sake.

The wind picked up and the moonlight faded as the clouds rolled in. I looked around to orient myself. I could see the lake to my left, the annex in the distance to my right. Below me lay one of the gazebos, the soft light of a shaded lantern shining through its delicate trelliswork giving it the surreal feel of...

“Now!”

Something long and rubbery uncoiled from the gazebo's interior and wrapped itself around my leg, plucking me from the sky like a dragonfly on a toad's tongue. I tried to break away but the pull of the thick serpentine tendril was not to be denied.

“Thought you could spy on us, huh?” snarled a familiar voice from the shadows below me.

“Wait, Eel!” another voice wheezed in a thick French accent. “That is Valentine!”

“Son of a bitch,” the first voice answered, “so it is.”

Inexorably reeled in by what I now understood was Eel O'Brian's arm, I came face to face with my captor and his cronies. Pat Dugan stood next to him, a slat torn from the trellis clutched tightly in his rawboned fists. Behind them stood Suzette Blanc-Dumont, her arms wrapped protectively around a grinning Captain Andre. They had been seated around a table on which lay a pinochle deck, a score pad, a pen, three bottles of beer, a pack of Chesterfields, an ashtray loaded with butts and a boombox heedlessly playing Harry James. I'd apparently crashed a party.

“What the hell, Val?” Pat said as he tossed his makeshift weapon aside. “Since when can you fly?”

“You did not know?” the old aviator asked. “I have watch him fly many times as he was a child. He learned the theory of flight from his old friend Captain Andre, is that not so, my boy?”

“Them's the facts, Captain. By the time I met you guys,” I told Pat and Eel, “Ana'd decided that it would be better if the family kept my powers a secret, even from the residents. Sorry.”

“No big deal, kid,” Eel said as his arm slithered off from around my thigh and reformed itself into its proper shape. “You took us by surprise, that's all. We're a little jumpy after last night.”

I sat down on the gazebo's railing as they returned to their chairs.

“Is it true?” Pat demanded. “Is that Vandal Savage up there in 2B?”

“What? Where did you hear that?”

“From Karl,” said Eel, “but that's beside the point. We're old, not stupid. We deserve the truth.”

“Yes, you do,” I agreed. “You heard right. John Doe is Savage.”

At this news, Suzette began to swoon, grabbing onto her husband's walker to steady herself. Pat put out a hand to support her.

“What is it, my love?” a distressed Andre asked. “What is Savage to you?”

I held my breath as she answered him.

“He was a john I saw once in Milwaukee. He called himself Alexander... something. I didn't know who he really was, not until I seen the news stories after Metropolis. I know I shoulda told you, Andy, but I was afraid you wouldn't want me if you knew I'd been with that murderin' scum.”

“You did not know, my dear,” he assured her, “and Andre is hardly one to begrudge someone else for their mistakes, especially in matters of the heart.”

“Matters of the heart? He paid me for sex, you silly old fool, it wasn't a goddamn affair!”

She began to cough. We waited.

“That monster,” she continued once the spasm passed. “That filthy beast. He hurt me every step of the way then he beat me up after he was done just for fun. I was in the hospital for a month almost. But that wasn't the end of it. He wasn't the kind of john who was going to wear a rubber. He knocked me up.”

“He was the father of your child?” asked a wide-eyed Andre.

“Yeah, I'm afraid so.”

“Then he was telling the truth, after all,” I said. “He is my father. And you're my mother, aren't you, Suzette?”

The quartet gaped at me.

“Good God, kid!” the old woman exclaimed. “Where did you ever get that fool notion?”

“From Savage. He said... he showed me... he... you and he... shit.”

“My baby boy had perfectly normal arms and legs, for all the good they did him. The poor little thing was stillborn. He's buried right here in the Corners. I put fresh flowers on his tiny grave every Sunday, rain or shine. I don't know why that vile creature wanted you to think otherwise but I promise you I'm not your mother.”

“I'm so sorry, Suzette,” I said. “I'm an idiot. I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know you didn't,” she said, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her windbreaker. “You want to find your real mother. Who wouldn't?”

“What are Dick and the others goin' to do about Savage?” asked Pat. “Surely they aren't goin' to let him stay here?”

“I don't know. They might. You may have to get used to the idea.”

“Bullshit!” Pat said through grinding teeth. “We all got big bulls-eyes tattooed on our foreheads as long as that shitheel lies rottin' in that bed upstairs. What happens to all these helpless old folks when the Secret Society of Super-Villains comes callin'? Our security's plainly a joke.”

“What do you expect them to do with the bum?” said Eel. “Chain him up in the attic?”

“I expect him to pay for his crimes!”

“A trial is too risky,” I said. “Do you know the furor the news that he survived would create? Ra's isn't the only badass who has a grudge against Savage. Even some of the heroes will want a shot at him. A lot of innocent people could be caught in the crossfire.”

“A lot of innocent people have already died at his hands. His victims deserve justice.”

“So we should just kill him and have done with it?” Eel asked. “The Stripesy I remember prevented lynchings, not led them.”

“Okay, so I don't have an answer,” Pat snarled. “All I know is Ana's gonna have to make a choice between me and Savage because there's no way on God's green earth I'll live under the same roof as that man.”

Snatching a fresh beer from the cooler under the table, he stormed off into the night without another word.

“I know how he feels,” Suzette said.

“We all do,” Eel said, “but I trust Ana and Grayson. They won't do anything stupid. And anyway, better a Savage we can keep an eye on then one we can't.”

“Somebody should be keeping on eye on you three,” I said. “Does Ana know you're out here smoking and drinking this time of night?”

“I was not smoking!” protested Andre.

“Me either!” his wife agreed.

“Really? Then where did the lipstick on those butts in the ashtray come from?”

“Good one, kid,” chuckled Eel. “He's got you there, dollface.”

“Laugh it up, Eel. You're lucky it's me that caught you and not Ana or Mark. If they knew you were helping these two merry pranksters do an end run around their doctors' orders, it might not turn out quite so funny.”

“Enough,” said Andre. “We are not to be scolded like the naughty children. I do as my doctor says six days and twenty-two hours out of every week. If for those other two hours, I wish to enjoy the vices of my youth, even if only vicariously, I shall do so. This is my home, not my prison, yes?”

“Yes, but...”

“Ana's in charge but she's no tyrant,” Eel said. “She understands that people's mental health is sometimes more important than the physical. If that means turning a blind eye to a little mischief occasionally, well then, she turns a blind eye. You don't actually think we're getting away with something here, do you?”

“No, I don't suppose you are.”

“Glad we got that straight. Now we got important things to settle. Last I remember you were down a buck thirty-five, Cap'n. Still think you can beat the master?”

“Shuffle the deck, you old bootlegger, and we shall see whom is the master of who!”

“Have a beer with us, Val?”

“No thanks, Eel. I'm heading back to the house. Don't stay out too long. It's going to rain.”

“Yes, Mother.”

I left them to their card game and headed back for my chair.

Back in the house, I looked around to see who was still up and about. I found Donna curled up and sound asleep on the library davenport, the book she had been reading lying open on the floor. I let her be. My luck was no better elsewhere: the lights were out on the second floor, no sound came from behind the door of my parents' suite, all four tower doors were shut and Mark wasn't back yet. Damn. I was totally out of sync with everyone else. Still too keyed up to sleep, I sat in my room glumly. I tried reading my research material but couldn't muster the concentration. An eternity dragged by before I heard the elevator open.

Mark walked in. He looked tired but was his usual efficient self nonetheless. As we spoke, he stripped my bed and replaced the muddy sheets with fresh linen.

“I just had the most interesting conversation with the Blanc-Dumonts,” he said.

“I feel stupid enough already so spare me the jokes. I made a mistake, okay?”

“Sorry. Didn't mean to hit a sore spot.”

“No, it's all right. I'm upset but not with you.”

“Is it my imagination or do you care a lot more about who your real parents are than you've been letting on?”

“All these years I've told myself I didn't care, it didn't matter, yet as soon as there seemed to be a chance of finally learning the answer, there was nothing I wanted to know more.”

“But do you really want an answer so much that you'll settle for anything? Even Savage? You should be grateful it wasn't true.”

“That's easy for you to say. You know where you come from.”

“That's a point. My old man was a liar, a bigamist and a crook but at least I knew who he was. Still, I don't understand your priorities sometimes. If I were you, I'd be concentrating on the father I do have instead of chasing a phantom.”

It was a slap in the face, a much-needed one, the kind only a friend can deliver.

“He could be gone by this time tomorrow,” I replied after a moment. “Ana's talking about taking him off the respirator. I'm pretty sure it's what he wants too but it feels wrong. I don't know which side I'll take in the crunch. I let myself get distracted so I wouldn't have to face it, I guess.”

“I can dig it.”

The sheets changed, he began helping me get ready for bed.

“You calling Jill before you crash?”

“I don't know.”

“Why not?”

“I'm not sure I should be going down that road.”

“This isn't still about what went down between you two back in high school, is it?”

“No. It's not that.”

“What, then?”

“She knows I can fly. She confronted me with it today.”

I told him about Jill's memorable canoeing trip.

“If she's kept it to herself all these years, what are you worried about?”

“She kept my secret, yes. But that's a far cry from being immersed in The Life. I don't know if she's strong enough to handle it.”

“Jill is stronger than you or she knows. What does your empathy tell you?”

“That she's sincere. She wants to be with me. It isn't about money or celebrity, like Lyta thinks. Some of it is about guilt and obligation, some of it is the allure of the superhuman and some of it, thank goodness, is simply that she likes me.”

“Then what's the problem? These are lame excuses so far. Level with me. What's really bothering you?”

I took a moment to consider my answer.

“I've learned an awful lot about myself in the last few days but nothing I've learned changes the one inescapable fact of my life: I'm a cripple. Sure, I can fly but I can't take care of myself in a million important ways. I accept that. I have to. But it's asking a hell of a lot of someone to voluntarily share that burden. Jill is a vital, beautiful young woman. I can't ask her to live within my boundaries.”

“Jumpin' Jesus on a pogostick, Val! For such a smart guy, you sure are thick sometimes. The only person who has a problem here is you. That girl thinks the sun shines out your ass, buddy boy. You're her hero. Don't be a moron. Take your shot.”

“Don't be shy, Mark. Tell me what you really think.”

He laughed.

“It's raining,” he noted. “Should I close the window?”

“Leave it. Rain or not, it's too hot to be shut in.”

“You must be hurting. You want something to help you sleep?”

“You got anything that'll keep me from dreaming?”

“Nothing that you don't need a prescription for. My hands are tied there. What's wrong with dreaming?”

“Savage said the only time he can communicate with me is when I'm in a dream state. I don't want him creeping around in my head anymore.”

“Between Danny's abuse and getting tossed out of bed when the house got trashed, Savage was banged up enough that Ana had me sedate him. He won't be doing any dreaming tonight.”

“Okay, then. I will take something.”

He brought an anti-inflammatory and a mild sedative. I washed them down with tapwater.

“So that takes care of Savage for tonight,” I mused. “What happens tomorrow?”

“I don't know. We can't keep him drugged forever. Well, we could but it'd be unethical. This is something you're going to have to hash out with Ana and the chief.”

“I can't help feeling we're screwed either way.”

“Yeah, well, I'm glad I don't have to make the decision. Listen, if you're set, I'm gonna sack out. I'm beat.”

“I'm fine. Have a good night and thanks for the kick in the ass.”

“No sweat. See you in the morning.”

I settled back in the dark and listened to the steady drumming of the rain against the side of the house. Calling Jill could wait until tomorrow. Maybe I'd know what I wanted to do by then. I don’t know when I fell asleep. The sedation crept up on me while I was still fretting over one worry or another.

Only one eerily vivid dream disturbed my rest. In it, I awoke to see Bat Lash — transparent, as if he'd been blown from glass, and silent as the tomb — standing by the open window and gesturing for me to look outside. Floating wobbily to the window, I saw a figure on the back lawn. He was dressed in raingear and headed in the general direction of the lake, a large bundle crudely wrapped in a tarpaulin in his arms. I say “he” but I had no way of knowing the figure's gender or even to judge his size. He was in an open area with nothing near enough to him to provide a sense of scale, nor did enough moonlight penetrate the cloud cover to allow me to compare shadow lengths. I turned to Bat to ask him what it meant but he was gone. What seemed like an hour crawled by but nothing more happened. My dream self grew impatient and slipped back under the covers and into blissful unconsciousness.

(Damn, but this is a good story!!!)

Chapter 53

He stood with his back to the stone fireplace that filled the west wall of the rec room, staring out at friends turned enemies, unmasked and with no place left to run. His right hand held Danny Ikeda's .45. His left hand held the Old Timer.

“Stay away,” he said in a small, scared croak, “or I won't be responsible for what happens.”

* * * * *

The squad car hurtled down Lakeside Drive doing 85, lights flashing, siren wailing, tires threatening to lose their grip on the rain-swept blacktop at every turn. I caught a glimpse in the mirror of two more cruisers following far behind.

Larry Collins, the so-called Mind-Grabber, had broken a cardinal rule of The Life:

Never piss off the Batman.

As we approached the property, Dick cut the lights and siren. We entered through the north gate, which Ana opened by hand. She was quickly soaked to the skin. The car crept forward cautiously. The usually bustling annex was as still as death. The front door gaped wide open. Dread rose in a sickly-hued steam from the building.

We rolled to a stop on the front lawn alongside another DCPD cruiser. Its passenger door stood open. Sgt. Peterson lay half in and half out of the car, alive but fading, the radio mike in his hand and an ugly bullet wound in his thigh. The grass beneath him was soaked with blood, his uniform black with it. Ana was out of the squad car in an instant, tying a tourniquet around his leg faster than the eye could follow. She picked the stricken policeman up and ran with him toward the annex.

“The bullet nicked the femoral artery,” she called back over her shoulder. “He's bleeding out. We have to get him inside or he'll die.”

She was halfway to the door when Etta and Nancy Hutton came running out to help.

“Oh, Di, it was terrible,” gasped Etta. “The cops tried to arrest Larry an' he, he, he made them draw their guns and, and shoot each other. It's him, he's the one. Larry killed Steve!”

“We know,” Dick said. “Pull yourself together, old girl. I need to know what's going on. Where's my other officer?”

“She's okay,” Etta said, calmer now. “This fella's shot missed her. She an' some of the others got Larry pinned down in the rec room, sorta.”

“What does ‘sorta’ mean?”

“He's got a gun... an' a hostage.”

“Who?” Ana demanded.

“The Old Timer.”

“God damn it,” Dick growled, “I told these chowderheads not to approach him until I got here. I keep forgetting these are farm kids, not Gotham's lean, mean policing machine. If I got this boy killed today...”

Three policemen came running up, diverting their commander from his recriminations.

“I want a man covering every entrance,” Dick told them. “Gibson, you take the west door. Bjornstad, the north. Carlson, you guard the access tunnel. Watch your step down there, there's still a lot of debris. We'll go in the front. The man we're after is armed and dangerous, boys, and there are innocent people in harm's way. If it comes down to a choice between him escaping and a civilian's safety, let him go.”

The officers ran off to assume their assigned posts. Dick stepped back to the car long enough to release me from the seatbelt. I hesitated, not sure whether to wait until someone returned to unload my wheelchair or follow him in. A quick nod of his head made up my mind. I was drenched by the time I was inside.

“This kid's got a lotta guts, Dickie,” Etta said as we entered the house. “He was bound an' determined to call for backup. He musta slipped outta the room when we were evacuatin' the residents. As soon as I noticed he was gone, I grabbed Nancy and went after him. We been followin' the blood trail.”

Ana carried Peterson into one of the small examination rooms and laid him carefully on the table. He moaned pitifully.

“Easy, Tony,” the chief said. “You're in good hands.”

“Nancy an' I can take it from here,” said Etta, her expert hands already at work cutting away his pantleg while Nurse Hutton set up an IV, “an' Gupta should be here any second. They need you guys in the rec room.”

“Where's everyone else?” asked Ana.

“Mark talked Larry into lettin' the other residents go. He took 'em all to the mansion. The staff are either helpin' Mark or waitin' it out in the dinin' hall. Donna an' the kids are right where you'd expect 'em to be. So's Vic. Pat an' Karl too. They say they ain't leavin' til the Old Timer's safe. Nobody knows where Eel is.”

“What are we going to do, Dick?” Ana asked, her voice edging dangerously close to panic. “If he can do this, how do we stop him? What if he possesses the girls? Or me? Or, Hera help us, Clark? Or all of us at once? We could be facing an enormously destructive force.”

“If he can possess the girls, why hasn't he?” I asked. “He could've used their muscle to clear him an exit long before we got here. Hec and Vic are tough guys but they're no match for a pair of Amazons, even with Pat and Karl in the mix. So why is he still here?”

“That's a good question,” Dick replied. “Got a theory?”

“Maybe. Etta, did you notice if Larry displayed any sort of physical manifestation when using his power?”

“I wasn't lookin' at him.”

“I was,” Nancy said, “and there was something strange. Just before the police shot each other, Larry's face went all slackjawed like his brain shut down. It was only for a second but it was very pronounced.”

“I thought it might be something like that,” I said. “Where was he at the time of the murders?”

“Collins' landlady and next door neighbor reported that he was in his apartment, apparently asleep, at the times of Magnus and Ivy's deaths,” said Dick. “And he was unconscious on the floor of the Saddle Tramp during Snapper's murder. Where is this going?”

“What happened to Sgt. Peterson and his partner tells us that Larry can still plant specific compulsions as he did in his Mind-Grabber days. But Ana's actions while under his control strike me as too involved and too precise to be the result of a string of discrete commands. He must've completely possessed her. Now I don't know much about possession but if there's an actual transfer of consciousness, wouldn't his body be left helpless?”

“Yes,” Ana said, “that's how it usually works.”

“If so, then maybe for the brief time he was commanding Sgt. Peterson and his partner to shoot, there was nobody home in Larry's head. That would explain what Nancy saw. It also means that any action he takes with his power leaves him vulnerable.”

“It makes sense,” said Dick.

“No wonder the brawl seemed to come out of nowhere,” Etta said. “Larry musta triggered it.”

“But why bother?” asked Ana. “Why not do it from home like all the other times?”

“Probably to give himself an airtight alibi,” Dick answered. “Try to imagine a jury listening to Val's explanation of Larry's powers. Our experience tells us these things are possible but to Joe Average, it's fantasy. Proving his crimes in open court would be an uphill battle... assuming we can get him to court.”

“That's my point,” I said. “I think we can. Your officers must've really put the fear of God in him. In lashing out at them, he lost the element of surprise. He's used to striking from the shadows. He knows his powers are no good in a fair fight, especially not against pros like Lyta and the others. For all intents and purposes, we're facing an ordinary human being, armed and dangerous, yes, but nothing we can't deal with.”

“If you're right, this may be manageable. I'll take hostage negotiations over super-villain showdowns any day.”

“Negotiating could take hours,” Ana protested. “The Old Timer can't handle this kind of stress for that long. We have to put an end to this now.”

“Diana, be realistic. Even if he escapes, Larry knows he's a marked man. He'll be running from super-heroes for the rest of his life. He's lost everything and that makes him dangerous. If we rush him, we could have a bloodbath on our hands.”

“Maybe there is a way,” I said. “If I can engage him empathically, I may be able to calm him down enough to give up. At the very least, I might hold his attention long enough for one of you to get the Old Timer to safety.”

“That may be our best bet at that,” Dick mused.

“I don't suppose there's any way I can talk you out of going in harm's way again?” Ana asked me, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

“Did that ever work on Dad?”

“Not once.”

“Well then, I'm just carrying on a family tradition.”

We left Peterson in Etta's competent care and made our way to the rec room. The door was shut and locked. Dick knocked loudly. The muffled sound of voices arguing leaked through. They went on for what felt like an eternity.

“Who is it? Identify yourself,” a woman's strained voice demanded.

“It's Chief Grayson, Van Ettan. Let us in.”

There was another buzz of debate.

“Who's with you? He won't let you in without knowing.”

“Ana and Val.”

After an interminable pause, the door swung open. Karl waved us in and closed it once more behind us. Larry and the Old Timer stood against the fireplace, both with eyes rounded by terror. Lyta and Donna stood closest to him, prepared to deflect his bullets with their Amazon bracelets. The others were scattered around the room, each positioned to have a clear path through the maze of furniture, ready to jump into action at a moment's notice. Margaret Van Ettan, who I remembered as the prissy little sister of a classmate, crouched behind an overturned sofa, her service revolver aimed squarely between Larry's eyes. The talking heads of CNN silently mouthed their pearls of wisdom on a muted television, oblivious to the drama playing out before them.

Dick motioned to Ana and I to stay back. He began slowly moving toward Larry, hands raised and jacket open to show he was unarmed. As he passed Van Ettan, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Holster your weapon, Meg.”

“He's some kind of freak, sir. He made me shoot my partner.”

“I know. Do it anyway.”

She took her eyes off the suspect to look at her boss.

“But Peterson...”

“Peterson's alive. He's getting medical help. Now obey my order, patrolman.”

She lowered the Smith & Wesson reluctantly and put it back in its holster. Her hand remained on the grip. If this was meant as an act of defiance, Dick let it go. He took a step toward Larry.

“Get back,” Larry shouted, jamming the gun's muzzle against the Old Timer's temple.

“Take it easy, son,” Dick said gently. “Nobody here wants to hurt you. Just tell me what you want.”

“I want everything to be like it was.”

“I can't turn back time. I would if I could. I bet you would too.”

“Don't talk down to me. I'm not stupid.”

“Lucius...”
“Don't call me that!”

“All right, Larry, don't get upset.”

“Upset? Why shouldn't I be? You're all acting like I'm some sort of criminal. Oh, what's the use? You wouldn't understand.”

“Maybe not but I know someone who might.”

“Don't you bring in a shrink. I've talked to plenty of shrinks. They don't know shit.”

“No, not a shrink. Val wants to talk to you.”

The .45 wavered away from his hostage's head as Larry weighed the risks.

“Well... okay. But the rest of you keep your distance!” he added with a threatening flourish of the pistol.

Dick waved for me to join him. I floated forward, eliciting a gasp from Meg Van Ettan. Larry's eyes grew wide at the sight of me hovering in mid-air.

“You're one of us too,” he exclaimed.

“I sure am, Larry. Is that a problem?”

“No. You know what it's like to have a special power. These cops don't.”

“That's right. I also know there's a right way and a wrong way to use those powers.”

“They're an awesome responsibility. They aren't meant to be shown off or used for personal gain. Superman himself told me that.”

“Do you think Superman would approve of what you've been doing?”

“I was helping those people. I ended their suffering. I gave them peace. What I do, I do out of love. Don't you know who I am? I'm the Angel of Mercy.”

“Angel of Mercy? That's what Snapper Carr saw in those last violent moments of his life? From the way he fought back, you'd think he saw the Angel of Death instead.”

“I'm not evil!” he screamed, making me jump. “I do good deeds! I help people!”

“Is that what you're doing to the Old Timer? Helping him?”

That struck a chord. He looked down at the little man under his arm as if seeing him for the first time. His eyes grew moist. This was the moment to strike. I opened myself to his emotional aura. I was immersed in a boiling cauldron of paranoia and panic in which the newly broken shards of his heroic self-image were rapidly melting to nothingness. Swimming through this viscous pool of violent emotion in search of some remaining spark of sanity to fan back to life, I sensed a faint glimmer of conscience holding on in a distant corner of...

My concentration wavered. Something was moving on the edge of my peripheral vision. My eyes darted away from Larry's long enough to register a head and a pair of hands slowly and stealthily emerging upside-down from the chimney flue behind him. It was Eel O'Brian. If I could hold Larry's attention just a few more seconds...

Too late.

Larry half-turned to see what was happening behind him, gave an inarticulate scream and opened fire. The first bullet ricocheted off the flagstone hearth. The second punched through the palm of Eel's left hand. There was no time for a third. A small red hole appeared above the bridge of Larry's nose. At the same time, a cloud of pink mist exploded out the back of his skull, blood and brain matter painting the stones of the fireplace with a nauseating splash. The automatic fell from his nerveless fingers to the floor. A long second later, the corpse of my father's murderer spiraled down to join it.

I got my wish. I watched him die.

Van Ettan lowered her smoking revolver and proceeded to vomit violently on Dick's shoes. He took the gun from her with one hand and rubbed her back consolingly with the other. Pat and Karl rushed forward to help Eel pull the rest of his elongated body into the room. The wound in his hand had already closed. It hadn't even bled. Ana went to the aid of the Old Timer, who hadn't moved from where he fell when Larry dropped him.

“He's been hit!” she cried. “Send for Gupta! Hurry!”

I flew closer and saw for myself the bloodstain rapidly spreading across his shirtfront. Larry's deflected first shot caught the ancient alien square in the chest. Bloody foam bubbled on his lips and in his nostrils. He would be dead before the doctors could get to him. He noticed me and feebly gestured for me to draw closer.

“I would ask you a favor, Valentine Stevens,” he whispered.

“Anything.”

“It seems that I am not as sanguine about the approach of death as I believed myself to be. In truth, I am terribly afraid. How very mortal of me. Oans...”

He winced as he fought to draw breath.

“Oans share a collective consciousness. We never die alone. But I am abandoned...”

He coughed, forcing dark blood from his throat.

“...abandoned by my brethren. I am to be the first Oan in ten billion years to die alone unless...”

I understood what he was asking of me. I looked up at Ana, uncertain what to do.

“Can you do it?” she asked.

“I can get him there,” I said, “but I don't know if I can take turning away again.”

I looked back at the Old Timer, now too weak to plead with anything but his eyes. How could I say no and live with myself afterward? I sighed then lowered myself to the floor next to him.

“I'm with you,” I said. “You won't be alone.”

He smiled contentedly as I dropped all psychic barriers between us.

We became one mind at the exact moment he died and crossed the border between life and death together. Once more I experienced the indescribable: the timeless silence of the void, the exhilarating liberation from the drag of flesh and weight of bone, the eerie feeling of velvet creeping up our phantom limbs. Pure white light beckoned to us from the end of a tunnel of memory. There was no way for me to connect to those memories as I had to Jose Delgado's, not with billions of years of experience speeding past in an overwhelming blur. The Old Timer showed no interest in his past. His attention was focused entirely on the light. As we rose toward it through the cylinder, I felt his fear evolve into wonder and anticipation.

“All is exactly as you said it would be.”

“Good thing. I was half-convinced my first journey was a hallucination. I wasn't sure this would work.”

“I am excited. We are to learn what even the wisest Guardian does not know. We go to learn the ultimate answer.”

“Not me,” I replied, “not yet. I'll be going back.”

“I was selfish to ask you to make such a sacrifice. I apologize.”

“Forget it. I was honored that you asked.”

We arrived at the light. Vague shapes, many not remotely human, greeted us. The Old Timer rushed forward, crying out names impossible to transcribe. As they enveloped him in their arms, his spirit abandoned its mortal shape and, glowing like a thousand suns, merged with them and faded from sight. I felt his last surge of happiness and peace fill me. To feel such joy for all eternity...

With a greater effort than I dreamt myself capable of, I prepared to return to the mortal realm.

“What, no argument?” a familiar voice asked. “You've wised up since your last visit.”

Jim Corrigan appeared from nowhere.

“It's not my time,” I said, “and I still have that destiny to fulfill.”

“That's a snarl I hear in your voice. You got a problem with your fate?”

“Let's just say I liked the universe better when I believed in free will.”

“Free will? You're here now talking to me of your own free will. When did anybody bar the exit? You had chance after chance to walk away but you never did. You and you alone, by choosing the path of integrity and sacrifice, fulfilled your appointed task. Congratulations, bud. Your destiny is your own again.”

“I'm free? Really?”

“Really. The One Above All isn't a puppeteer. A door is opened. It's up to us whether we walk through it or not.”

“What door did I walk through? What did I do?”

“You'll find out soon enough. Now you gotta go.”

“Can I ask you something personal first?”

“Go ahead.”

“Why do they send you to deal with me each time?”

“Simple: I volunteered to greet you out of respect for your mother. See, I'm what you might call a gatekeeper. My job is to greet new arrivals and turn away those whose time isn't up yet.”

“You're Saint Peter?”

“Don't be glib about this.”

“I'm sorry, there's just so much I don't understand.”

“Yeah, I know, but it has to stay that way. You aren't ready for the truth. All I can tell you is there are lots of gatekeepers because there are lots of gates.”

“What's beyond them?”

He turned to look over his shoulder at the light.

“I don't know. Gatekeepers aren't allowed inside until they've paid their penance. You see, if an agent of providence, like I was, fails in his mission through his own actions and decisions, he can't enter Paradise until a penance is paid.”

“What did you do wrong? What was your failure?”

“I was given a mission of justice. I perverted it into a mission of vengeance.”

“But what about—?”

“I'm sorry but you really got to go now. Do you want your memory wiped again?”

“If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not. It didn't work out so well last time.”

“All was as it was meant to be.”

“I knew you'd say that.”

He laughed.

“I shouldn't be doing this but I have a message for Diana in her hour of grief. Tell my old friend that Steve has joined the Host and will be well seen to until such time as the Almighty chooses to reunite them.”

“She'll be glad to hear it. I know I am.”

“So long, Val Stevens. God only knows if we'll meet again but I hope and believe we will.”