Draccon stepped forward and shook her head. “We’re going to get them, whether you tell us or not,” she said. “But your confession will mean the difference between a life sentence for you or the death penalty. Your choice.”
Madeleine didn’t deign to respond.
Bruce looked on as the interview continued, fruitless, just like every other interview conducted on Madeleine before he came along.Her crew.He sat in the silence of his room, listening to the storm pound away outside and the muffled sound of the ongoing interrogation, wondering about the other people Madeleine worked with. She had hacked into the prison system when she was only ten years old—sure, she was smart, but she likely had help, too. Then he thought about the murders themselves, the grisly nature of each of them—throats slashed, blood everywhere, the signs of struggle rampant throughout each house.
A ten-year-old girl simply didn’t become an expert murderer in eight years without someone else’s help.And with as many as four accomplices with her…
The video ended. Bruce hit replay, letting it cycle again.
What ifMadeleinehad been there, but not been the actual murderer?Who else was with her?
The video had reached the point again where Madeleine was folding the paper shape in her lap. Bruce narrowed his eyes….Something,somethingabout her movements made him pause the video. He replayed the segment. Sure enough, she would fold the same creases over and over, three or four times, undoing and redoing it before moving on.
Bruce had seen her do this before, of course, but never from the point of view of the security cams. From this angle, a new thought occurred to him.
He and the officers had always thought her origami was just the idle habit of a bored, intelligent mind. But what if it wasn’t trivial at all? What if it was her way of communicating with the outside world? What if she was using it to sendsignalsto whoever was on the other end of the cams?
Bruce sat back in his chair as a wave of nausea hit him. She was perceptive, but sometimes it did seem like she knew more about what went on beyond the walls of her cell than she should. There were others out there who had worked with Madeleine…who mightstillbe working with her.
Hey. Hey.It was Dianne, pinging their chat box.Hey hey hey is Bruce Wayne still awake? Hello?? What the hell is going on outside?
With his new theory about Madeleine still swirling in his mind, it took him a while to realize what she was talking about. Out in the storm, muffled behind the roar of rain and thunder, he heard the faint sound of sirens. Alotof sirens.
The sirens?he typed.
Dianne sent him a video from her phone. The wails and flashing lights were coming from somewhere down her street, close enough to Dianne’s home that they were deafening.
Yeah. Looks like a New Year’s parade.
He rose from his chair and went to his window, then peered through to see if he could catch anything. There, on the curve of the street below his hilltop, was the glow of a mass of police lights.
Something big had happened.
He hurried back to his desk, then picked up the remote for the room’s TV and turned it on. He flipped through several channels before he landed on a morning newsfeed, and there, he stopped. A giant headline was emblazoned over a frantically talking reporter, displaying the newest Nightwalker victim.
TERROR REIGN
Mayor Price Found Dead in Home
Bruce sat frozen before the screen, his hand still hovering, trembling, over the headlines—as if he had the power to swipe it away.
Right below the headlines were photos of the mayor, smiling at the last public event he had attended, his wife and children standing beside him. His youngest, a little girl, had her arms wrapped around his leg. The sight made Bruce’s heart clench. The last time he’d seen Katie, she had still been a toddler, squealing with delight as he tossed her in the air again and again.
His eyes went to Richard in the photo, who was turned in the direction of his father. Bruce remembered the way he had left things between them, the way Richard had glared at him as he wiped the blood from his nose.
He could imagine Richard standing in the foyer of his home now as the police swarmed around him, his sneer gone, his hands hanging loose at his sides. Was he sitting in the back of an ambulance, a blanket draped around himself, staring off into space? Had he witnessed his father’s murder? Was he comforting his mother and little sister?
Bruce tried to call Richard, but the number went immediately to voice mail. He tried again. Same result. It made sense; the last thing his former friend probably wanted right now was to answer the phone.
The article was refreshing every few minutes with updates—the latest one announced that, this time, the Nightwalkers had left behind a note.
Gotham City—Blame the virus, not the fever. You are not under attack from the Nightwalkers. You are under attack from your own rich, and their corrupt system of blood money. Now they will bathe in blood. Do not try to stop us. Death to tyranny.
The Nightwalkers’ symbol was stamped below, the burning coin, further sealing their involvement.
His heart pounding, Bruce threw his clothes on and rushed downstairs. In his pocket was the frequency device he’d taken from WayneTech, the weight of it bouncing with each step. He double-checked that he had his Arkham access card. Since the jailbreak, Dr. James had gone easy on him. She’d probably agree to adjust his hours and let him sign in early today.
Without a backward glance, Bruce opened the door and stepped out into the black.
