Nightwing

“Do you want to go ahead?” Janice glanced at a clock on the far wall.

Barbara Gordon glanced at her own watch. Twenty minutes after nine am. Dick Grayson could usually be counted on to be five minutes late for any appointment. He’d usually show up a little frazzled and rushed, but he’d get there. He was never - ever - twenty minutes late for anything. But he was this morning.

Janice Tedrow gave Babs a patronizing look across the table. “I’m sure he just got held up in traffic or something like that. I’m sure he’s interested in planning your wedding.” Laid out on the table before her were sixteen different styles of invitations. Today had been the day to pick out the wedding invitations. Had been.

Dick wasn’t coming. That much was clear. Would he really be thoughtless enough to blow off an appointment like this without even calling? Would he have so little regard for their wedding, or for her?

Or - was there another reason he wasn’t there? Was he in trouble? Had something happened to Detective Dick Grayson, or Nightwing, that kept him from coming?

“Miss Gordon?”

Babs finally looked up at Janice, as if she’d awakened from a trance. “Oh. I’m sorry, Ms. Tedrow. Look, is it okay if we reschedule this for another date?”

“Well..” Janice checked the wall clock again. “I’m afraid there would have to be a postponement fee..”

“Fine, fine.” Babs was already wheeling for the door. “Send me the bill, okay? I’ll call you to reschedule.” Janice started to say something else, but Babs was already gone.

After the obvious calls - Dick’s apartment, his mobile, and his office - went unanswered, Babs tried the next obvious place, the hospital. Dick had given her the direct dial for Amy Rohrbach’s room at the still-under-reconstruction Crosswhite Memorial Hospital. Amy had been injured on the job two days earlier, and had yet to wake up. She’d lost two fingers due to her injuries, and her doctors were monitoring her for possible signs of infection, which could lead to more amputations. Moreover, there was no way to assess the possibility of brain damage until - and unless - she woke up.

A man’s voice answered the phone, and Babs immediately felt foolish. “Hello?” The voice was strained from stress and lack of sleep.

“Uh, hello.” Babs managed. “I’m trying to reach Dick Grayson. Is he there by chance?”

“He’s not here.” The response was remarkably free of annoyance. “Is this a police matter?”

“No, no I’m sorry to have disturbed you. This is his fiancée.”

“Oh, Barbara.” The voice brightened. “Hi, I’m George Rohrbach. I’ve heard about you from Amy; it’s nice to talk with you.”

Now Babs was truly mortified. “Hi George.” She wanted to say she’d heard a lot about him from Dick, or from her brief dealings with Amy, but she hadn’t. Fumbling for something to say, and trying not to sound completely rude or self-absorbed, she finally managed. “How is Amy doing?”

The weight returned to George’s voice, but not in a mean way. “She’s hanging in there. Still not awake, but we’re hopeful soon.” He paused awkwardly. “I’ve been.. you know, trying to talk to her a lot, act as if she’s awake. The doctors say sometimes coma patients can hear you, even if it’s only subconsciously.”

Babs was suddenly in the awkward position of trying to comfort a complete stranger - over the phone, no less. She was struck by how upbeat George sounded, and told him so. “I don’t know Amy very well, George, but from what I can tell she’s a tough nut. If anyone can pull through this, she can. I’m happy to hear you have such a positive attitude.”

She thought she heard him blush. “Well, it’s been tough, especially on our son. But she needs me to be strong. Going all defeatist isn’t going to help anyone out. Anyway, good luck finding Dick. I’ll let him know you’re looking for him if he comes by here.”

Thanking him, Babs disconnected, suddenly flashing back several years in her mind. She remembered her own “accident” - except it wasn’t an accident at all. Her shooting by The Joker. She remembered coming to in the hospital - alone - and being told she would never walk again. Babs had never considered herself to be an overly emotional person; she was analytical almost to a fault. But that night, and for a lot of nights thereafter, she was incapable of anything except one primordial emotion - rage.

Babs had remained extremely bitter for quite some time, even after leaving the hospital, and she’d had no George Rohrbach to lift her spirits. The entire time she was in the hospital, Babs had three visitors. One was Batman, who it goes without saying was not a great source of comfort. One was her father, who mostly sat with his head in his hands and apologized, over and over, as if her shooting had been his fault. The toughest man in Gotham, and all he could do was apologize.

The only visitor who brought her any comfort, oddly enough, was Alfred Pennyworth. Even in her darkest moments, Alfred could always elicit a chuckle with his sarcastic wit. He visited several times per week, always with some new anecdote with which to regale her. Oddly, they never talked about her shooting, her injuries, her future, or any of that. Never even came up. Alfred just chatted with her as if he was visiting her in her home, and nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

It was exactly what she needed. It made her feel like a real person again instead of a victim. People like Alfred and George Rohrbach went unheralded, their contributions overlooked, but they were often the most important people in someone’s time of crisis.

Dick, of course, hadn’t visited or called. It wasn’t his fault. Babs’ shooting occurred at a time when Dick was living in Manhattan, working full-time with the Teen Titans, and distancing himself from all things Gotham. Not that he would have missed calling her, but at the time she was injured, Dick and the rest of the Titans were involved in a prolonged battle with Brother Blood. Dick and Raven, another member of the group, had actually been brainwashed into joining Brother Blood’s church, and thus they were incommunicado.

He’d only found out after she’d gotten home from the hospital. He’d sent flowers and called, of course, but that was it. They’d lost touch in those days. Dick was involved with someone else (as, for awhile, was she). Looking back now, it was hard to believe they’d drifted so far apart.

Maybe that was why she was so paranoid when she couldn’t find him. Was she subconsciously afraid of losing him again, of watching him drift away again? Was she afraid he would find someone else, an alien princess or a perky amazon, and move on? Could that be why he’d missed the appointment?

Whoah, she thought. Slow down, girl. Her paranoia was getting the best of her. Dick wasn’t like that. He wasn’t the kind of person who just ran off at a moment’s notice. He wasn’t the kind of person who would be unfaithful to her (or to anyone, for that matter). She needed to think less like a fourteen year old girl and more like.. Oracle.

Babs pulled her van into the parking garage under the Clocktower. It was time to get to work.

Step one: figure out whether it’s Dick Grayson or Nightwing who’s missing.

“Alfred?” She had a direct line to the Batcave. Bruce would either be asleep in his bed, or asleep in a WayneCorp boardroom, but she could always rely on Old Faithful.

“Yes, Miss Oracle?”

“Can you check something out for me?”

“Certainly, ma’am. If you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll be finished changing the oil on this ridiculous tank the Master parades around in.” Babs watched over her video screens as Alfred finished his work underneath the Batmobile. Wiping his hands on a rag, he walked over to the computer screens lining the Batcave. “Now, madam, how may I assist you?”

“Do you know if The Boss has Nightwing working on anything?”

“Not precisely, but I can tell you whether he called him, or vice-versa yesterday evening.” He paused while checking. “No ma’am. No records of any calls between them, actually over the last few weeks. So I’d say no.”

Babs accessed her personal tracking devices, saw that Nightwing’s was still located in Dick Grayson’s apartment. Wasn’t conclusive, of course - Dick had been known to remove the tracers just to mess with her head. But combined with what Alfred was telling her, it seemed to add up. “Okay, thanks Jeeves.”

“Is anything amiss, Miss Oracle?”

“Dunno. I can’t seem to locate Nightwing..”

“Oh dear..”

“But I needed to figure out which of his id’s I’m looking for. Looks like it’s the one who doesn’t wear a mask.”

“May I be of any assistance, ma’am?”

“Maybe, but sit tight for now, okay? It may be nothing, and I don’t want to get everyone riled up for no reason.”

If it was Dick, and not Nightwing she was hunting, Babs’ search would be made easier, she thought. Accessing surveillance cams in his apartment building, Babs discerned that Dick’s unmarked car was not in its space. She wished he’d let her install the tracking device she’d wanted to put in the car. But he’d have none of it. Apparently the BFPD routinely swept cars for bugs. The dirtier a police force is, the more paranoid it gets. “But Dick,” she’d explained. “You’re underestimating me. If I install the bugs, no one will ever find them.”

But she’d lost that battle, so now Babs needed to find Dick on her own. She called the general number for Dick’s precinct.

“BFPD, Delilah speaking.” came the airheaded voice over the phone.

“Detective Grayson, please.”

“Ah, sorry. He’s off-duty. Would you like his voice mail?”

“When is he scheduled to come back on?”

A pause. “Lessee… tomorrow at four. pm.” No concern or worry in her voice.

“Thanks.” Babs hung up. BFPD did not know Dick was missing. Not unusual - Amy was the only other competent cop there. Dick had a good bit of freedom in his new role as a Detective, and he liked to get out of the office as much as possible. So it wasn’t entirely out of the ordinary for the precinct not to have his exact locale. But you’d think they’d notice if he didn’t clock out after his shift - money for overtime doesn’t grow on trees, after all. So he must have clocked out.

But he didn’t make it home. Babs was liking this less and less.

Finding out what Dick was working on wouldn’t necessarily lead her to him, but it was a good start. Luckily the outdated BFPD was making efforts to become more technologically astute, meaning they had gotten computers for the high-ranking officers and connected them on a network. Virtually all of the archives were still on paper, but if Dick was working on a fresh case the day before, it might be on his computer. Notes, scribbles, anything.

The great thing about the nouveau computerized was that their systems were absurdly easy to hack. Babs was into the BFPD network in minutes.

Dick had updated three files on the previous day. Two files were administrative only at this point, as they involved the two Electrocutioners recently arrested. The BFPD was preparing those files for submission to the DA’s office for prosecution, and as one of the Detectives involved in the case Dick’s notes were needed to complete the file. Nothing to see there. Even if someone were motivated by revenge, Dick’s involvement - as Detective Grayson - hadn’t been all that substantial.

The third file was relatively new. It was an investigation into a convenience store robbery from two nights ago. Amy had been working on the case originally, but it was reassigned to Dick when she was injured. Surveillance video, which was consistent with eyewitness reports, showed two men, one white one black, both wearing ski masks and carrying shotguns, did a smash-n-grab at an Amoco off Rosado Road. The clerk and one customer were made to crouch behind the counter at gunpoint while the two toughs made off with the contents of the register.

All pretty nondescript, except one of the robbers was a whopping moron. Neither of the Einsteins were wearing gloves, and during the crime one of them had decided he wanted a carton of milk. So he’d opened the freezer - with his bare hands - and partaken. Left prints all over the freezer. The BFPD had gotten a clean set. They belonged to Tobias Christopher. Christopher had one prior arrest, less than a year earlier when he’d tried to lick the green cheesy discharge from the rectal warts of a dead cow. He’d pled to disturbing the peace, and got off with community service.

Hardly the kind of fellow who’d give Dick much trouble, but worth looking into.

Another few keystrokes, and Babs knew that Christopher lived in a run-down apartment in Bludhaven’s projects, also known as McCarthy Place. He lived there with a roommate named Greg Yeary. Christopher was Caucasian. Yeary was black.

Racial profiling of the worst kind, Babs thought to herself as she hacked. But a lead’s a lead, PC or no.

Yeary had no priors, and nothing turned up on Bludhaven’s limited police database. On a whim, Babs hacked into the more sophisticated Gotham system, and turned up a hit. Yeary had been arrested, three years earlier, working for Jonathan Crane, a.k.a. The Scarecrow.

Allright, quick check on ‘Crow. Still in his cell in Arkham Asylum. Rogues had been known to run operations from their cells, but Crane didn’t really fit that profile. Plus, what could he have to gain by knocking over an Amoco in Bludhaven? Out of the question? - maybe not entirely, Babs thought with a sigh. But it seemed unlikely that Crane was involved.

But of course now she knew Yeary was dirty. A detailed check of his file showed that he turned state’s on Scarecrow after his arrest. If Babs hadn’t already ruled out Crane’s involvement, that did it. And it made it unlikely that Yeary would get work on the string for any of Gotham’s other bad guys. When someone turned state’s, word traveled fast. In fact, that was probably why Yeary had moved to Bludhaven - he’d probably been frozen out in Gotham.

So what had he been up to since moving? Babs didn’t have a good way of finding out via computer. Could Christopher and Yeary have found out about Dick’s involvement in the case, and attacked him somehow? How would they have known he was involved?

It was probably time for some.. legwork, and that was the area Babs hated. She could overcome her physical limitations to a point, but only to a point. Sometimes someone had to actually bust some heads, or at least do some door-to-door snooping.

This is where Babs utilized her network of operatives. Dinah Lance - Black Canary - was her top operative, and arguably her best friend. But Dinah was on a mission with the JLA, and she’d had a little run-in with Dick the last time they’d met. Not that a little spat would keep Dinah from helping someone in trouble, but maybe this was one to let her pass.

Power Girl - Karen Starr - was also busy, and still didn’t like Babs too much. Not pleasant to work with, that one. Pass.

The new Batgirl might be available, and was perfect for sneaky work. Babs dialed her at her Batcave, but got no answer. Cassie had recently become active with Batman again after a lengthy suspension, so she might be out. Pass.

Tim Drake - Robin - was away with the Teen Titans. Pass.

Helena Bertinelli - The Huntress - was an option, but like Power Girl, Huntress wasn’t really someone Babs relished dealing with. Plus, Huntress knew Oracle was involved with Nightwing, and had seen Nightwing out of costume. If she ran across Detective Dick Grayson, she’d cotton to his i.d. Bad choice. Secret identities were such a bitch sometimes.

Babs ran through the rest of her operatives, rejecting them all for one reason or another. Get your coat, girl, she thought. It’s time to do this the old-fashioned way.

McCarthy Place was, quite literally, a dump. The buildings looked as if they could collapse at any moment. Refuse littered the walkways. Grass grew unchecked in some places, including parts of the sidewalks, but was nonexistent in others. Two women were having a loud argument in the parking lot.

Opting for the direct approach, Babs knocked on the door of Apartment 132-Q, thanking heaven it was on the first floor. A man matching Christopher’s description answered, a dull expression on his face. “Yeah?”

“Hi,” Babs said politely, extending her right hand. “I’m Amy Beddoes, from The Bludhaven Courier. I’m doing a story on folks who have moved from Gotham to Bludhaven. City pride, and all that.” She grinned conspiratorially. “I understand your roommate Mr. Yeary has moved her within the last few years, and I thought I might speak with him.”

As soon as the handshake ended, Christopher got a puzzled look. “Howcum you know I’m not Greg?”

“Oh, I checked out Mr. Yeary in the.. archives, and learned he was an African-American.”

“Well, he ain’t here.”

“Do you mind if I..”

“I said he ain’t here!”

Babs was swinging the escrima stick before Christopher knew what was coming. One shot to the head, and he dropped, barely missing the wheelchair on his way down. Babs had just enough room to scoot past him and into the apartment.

A Playstation game lit up the TV screen. Pizza boxes and Colt ‘45 cans littered the room. Allright, Mr. Yeary, Babs thought, let’s learn all about you.

Ninety minutes later

She had no business doing this, she knew. She should call someone - anyone - in. Even the BFPD. But what would she tell them? My detective fiancée is being held hostage by the nephew of a rumored Bludhaven mob figure, and I know where he is, but I can’t tell you how I know? Lame. So Babs had made just one call after leaving Yeary’s apartment, to Alfred Pennyworth. He stood beside her now, fidgeting with his umbrella even though the sky was cloudless.

Turns out Yeary’s uncle was a guy by the name of Daugo Meekins, an officer in the Indrale crime family. Odd to find a mixed-race family in Bludhaven, which wasn’t known as the most progressive place on Earth, but Meekins’ sister had married a black man named Lyle Yeary. Neither the sister nor her husband, as far as Babs knew, were involved in any of Meekins’ enterprises, but Greg Yeary apparently was. When Yeary had gotten busted in Gotham, his mom had sent him to Bludhaven to live with his uncle.

Yeary wasn’t all that bright. He’d taken a phone message the day before, and written down a phone number on a notepad. The number had made an indentation on the page behind it. Using the reverse phonebook on her palm pilot, Babs had traced the number to a warehouse outside of town. Easy.

There were no guards posted outside the warehouse. Whoever was inside didn’t plan on being disturbed. Alfred did his best reconnaissance, as Babs watched. Sneaking on his tiptoes, he returned to her.

“Master Richard is inside,” he said. “There are three hoodlums who have him tied to a chair. The Master appears to be unconscious, although it could be an act.”

“Is he hurt?”

“He.. appears to be bruised. But nothing serious, I’m sure.”

“Okay. So how do you want to handle going in?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Going in. We have to go in there and get him.”

“Out of the question. We need to contact the police.”

“Alfred, if we call the police, we’ll create a hostage situation. They’ll use Dick as a bargaining chip.”

“But how can we.. Miss Gordon, I appreciate your spunk, but..”

Babs dismissed him with a wave of the hand. “I’m doing this, Alf. Either help me or don’t, but decide.”

Alfred looked around from left to right. “Master Bruce? Is that you? I could have sworn I heard someone say exactly the thing you would have said.”

“Very funny. Come on.”

Greg Yeary watched the two nameless hoodlums work on the captive officer. “Dude, you’ve been at it all night and all morning. He ain’t gonna crack.” It was too bad his uncle had gotten wind of the Amoco robbery. He’d pulled strings in the department, found out Detective Grayson was assigned to the case. Dick had been ambushed as he’d left Yeary’s apartment complex the afternoon before. He’d fought expertly, but he’d been outnumbered. Meekins had left nothing to chance. Two hours after Grayson was hauled away, Meekins had called Yeary, giving him instructions for dumping Grayson’s car and telling him where to meet the others. They’d gotten lucky. Unbeknownst to them, Dick was off-duty when he visited the complex, having already clocked out. So no one would be looking for him.

One looked at Two, then back at Dick, slumped in the chair. “Yeary, you maybe gotta point. This guy can’t be bought, can’t be tortured.” He pulled out a gun. “But he can be killed.”

It was then that the van crashed through the large front window. Glass flew everywhere, and Yeary ducked for cover. One fired his weapon wildly at the approaching vehicle, hitting it several times, but to no effect. “Throw down your weapons!” came a computerized voice from the van.

Yeary ran for it, racing out the back. As he reached the back of the warehouse, an umbrella appeared from nowhere, and tripped him. “Not so fast, young fellow” smarted an English voice.

One and Two ran in the opposite direction, suddenly oblivious to their prisoner. They disappeared into the sunset.

Babs rolled out of the van, and wheeled hurriedly to Dick. Pulse intact. Heart beating. Breathing fine. Just bruised and battered. “Dick. Dick, are you okay?”

His right eye opened, the left swollen shut. “Hey there.” he slurred. “Whas a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

Alfred joined them, Yeary tied up in the corner of the warehouse. Dropping his umbrella, he checked Dick over quickly. “He’s been drugged, apparently. Otherwise he would no doubt have escaped on his own by now. But I don’t see any evidence of serious injuries.

“Those guys..” Dick said. “Minor league torturers. I’ve been tortured by much better.”

Babs stifled a tear, relief flooding her system. “You missed the invitation appointment, you goof.”

“Oh no. Well, at least some good came out of all this.”

“Watch it, Boy Blunder. I’m much better with torture than Beavis and Butthead back there.” Dick chuckled.

“Let me get the van back in gear, sir.” said Alfred, heading for the idling vehicle. “Then we can get you off for proper medical attention, young sir. By the way, Miss Gordon, what is that vehicle made of that allows it to penetrate a wall like that?”

“Like it?” grinned Babs. “Power Girl got it for me.”

“Hey Batgirl.” said Dick, slipping back into sleep. “Thanks for saving me..”

Not Batgirl anymore, she thought. But none the worse for wear. “You bet, sweetie.”

The End...

Previous Issue | Next Issue