Mother

A boy's only wish is to please his mother.

First National Bank, June 1st, 5:55 p.m.

 

He watched as the remaining tellers locked up the cash drawers and cleared the countertops for the night. He had been watching them for the majority of the day, as well as the visitors to the bank. Anything to keep his mind off of the pain.

 

She had hurt him. Had bitten him like a savage. Like a dog.

 

He hadn’t been able control himself, couldn’t wait to the return to her apartment. Walking beside her, he had to end it, right then and there. The way she walked and the way she touched his arm infuriated him. She was just like the W***e. Smelling of alcohol and sweet perfume.

 

He remembered the first time he had met the W***e. His mother had been in her room for three days with only muted weeping slipping out. He had come home from school, his pants dirtied after being knocked over by Jacob Drexler, the creep who had told the whole school that he messed the bed. Who had started the nickname Peepee. All he had wanted was to crawl into his mother’s bed and to try make her happy. Instead, he walked into the living room and saw the W***e. His father was on the couch, smoking and talking softly. The W***e sat beside him, sipping from a glass of something amber colored, her fingers tickling the back of his father’s head.

 

He had gasped, causing them to both look at him. She grinned, “Hey, Petie,” and had winked before moving closer to his father. Before she could say anything more, he dashed out of the room and hid in his bedroom for the remainder of the evening. Later, he had learned her name was Angie. His father had tried to explain that she was a good friend of his. But his mother had always referred to her as the W***e.

 

“Ready to call it a night?”

 

He jerked at the sound of Christine’s voice, which originated from behind the counter. She had been one of the tellers he had been watching. She had always been nice to him, to everyone. After checking his watch, he nodded, “Suppose so.”

 

She smiled, waved and then grabbed her purse as she said good-bye to her fellow teller and then walked towards the rear of the bank lobby. His lips briefly mimicked her smile and then returned to their neutral position. He thought coyly, The exception to the rule.

 

After clocking out in the break room and gathering his belongings, he walked to the rear parking lot and made his way to his car. It was a five-year-old SUV, dark blue with only a few dings and scratches, its looks betraying the two hundred and eighty thousand miles that graced the engine. With the rest of the evening free, he took his time settling into the car. Once the door was shut behind him, he removed his nametag and set it in the ashtray. He stared momentarily at the white letters depicting his name, then inserted the key into the ignition.

 

Having stopped at the gas station that morning, the car had a full tank and he had time to spare. After navigating the crowded streets and avenues, fighting for space amidst the other hundreds of commuters, he finally made it to the turnoff for Bergamot Memorial Highway. He fed the accelerator and cruised the four-lane road comfortably, with no destination in mind. Eight minutes later, he crossed the Bristol Bridge and was shortly surrounded by suburban neighborhoods and quiet homesteads. When he went on drives, he liked to go where it was nice looking, where everything seemed in its place.

 

Without looking at any map, he could pinpoint his location. Having traveled every road, street, boulevard and highway in Gotham County, it had become second nature to be able to discern his location at any given moment. He was also wary of traveling on roads he had yet to travel and rarely left the state or even the immediate region. Besides, there were plenty of paths to take in Gotham alone.

 

When he first came to Gotham, over two decades earlier, his first two thoughts had been that he was going to get lost and he was going to die there. His father had told him little about the move from rural suburbs to the massive city, other than that they were going to start a new life in a new city. With the W***e as his new mother.

 

To his surprise, he never got lost and was never in the mortal danger he feared. But the thoughts were always with him, lurking in the shadows. In his own defense, he memorized street maps and names, hoping to learn every inch of the dreadful city. And for his personal safety, he never went anywhere without his Swiss Army knife. Even when he was older, he kept it with him. In a true situation of danger, it would do little, but the fact that it was there in his pants pocket was a sign that nothing would happen.

 

Never a gun. Guns did bad things.

 

After an hour and a half of driving, he noticed the sun had begun its final descent over the horizon. He cleared his throat, searched for the next exit to the Hudson Freeway and took it, carefully checking his rear view mirrors. Not that there was much traffic. As he had been driving, he had come to turn around and was bearing back towards the city, where very few vehicles were headed.

 

With his right hand on the wheel, he studied the small wound on his left forearm. It had reddened during the course of the day, and he made a note to wash it out with peroxide as soon as he got home. Her filth had infected him. He suddenly wondered if she had been rabid, then dismissed the foolish and irrational thought. Rabid or not, she had been destroyed. It had been necessary. She would have done great harm if she had been given the opportunity.

 

Just like the others.

 

He had absentmindedly switched hands on the steering wheel and had begun to pick at the cut. The dried skin had given way to a slow trickle of blood. He watched with a slight smile as the blood traveled in a thin rivulet across the tendons of the inside of his arm and then dripped off, landing in small droplets on his thigh. The fingers that had removed the scab were bloodied.

 

His smile faded and he thought of his mother.

 

As a six year old, he had bore her blood on his fingers. At the time, he could only think about how bright and red the blood was and how slick it was on his fingertips. He was hardly concerned with the fact that his mother was laying face down in a pool of blood and gore. After, when his father had found him, kneeling beside his mother, he had grabbed the back of his shirt and flung him out into the hall, calling out his wife’s name over and over.

 

He had mumbled, “She can’t hear you,” but his father had been too preoccupied as he dialed the phone for an ambulance.

 

As he crossed over Gotham River once more, he thought back on that warm May afternoon. He was supposed to go to little league practice, but seeing as how his mother had shot herself, he deemed it as a reasonable excuse not to attend. He had never liked baseball anyway. While the ambulance had come and gone, taking his mother’s body and his father’s agitated form, he had been left alone in the house, forgotten in the heat of the moment.

 

He had stared at his reddened fingertips for most of the night and thought quietly to himself. He wondered how much blood was on the floor in the room next door, what blood was made of and if a vampire would smell it and break into his house.

 

Before he could drift too far back into the past, he found himself pulling on to his street. He had traveled the last forty miles on automatic. To any other person, it may have been frightening, not to be able to remember driving such a distance. But to him, it was interesting, if not amusing.

 

Very few things frightened him.

 

^V^

 

Wayne Manor, June 15th, 8:41 p.m.

 

Despite the fact that the Cave housed the basic exercise equipment that I used in my daily training, I found myself up in the Manor, burning away calories and my frustrations in the gym. I had never used any of the equipment, of which had nearly cost a fortune and was practically useless for any meaningful workout. So when Alfred knocked on the door, he had interrupted my fiftieth one-handed pushup on the hardwood floor.

 

I muttered my acknowledgement. Alfred opened the door quietly, located me on the floor beside the rowing machine and then spoke, “Master Bruce, if I had known that you had intentions of finally using this room, I would have given it a good scrubbing this morning.” He stepped into the room and paused at a cycling machine and proceeded to run a finger over a handle bar.

 

Since the beginning of the month, I had been “noticeably more frustrated” as Alfred had termed it. I had missed six days of work in order to pursue leads that led nowhere. I had even gone as far as to going undercover and visiting a few of the “hot spots” in Gotham, and had visited the crime scenes in order, hoping to get a feel for the killer. Still, nothing.

 

After a moment of ignoring one another, he sighed and left, surprisingly without comment. I was about to call after him when I heard a different pair of footfalls enter the room. High-heeled footfalls that clicked loudly and quickly on the floor. I supposed I should have stopped and given my complete attention, but I was ten short of my goal of seventy-five pushups and she could wait.

 

“It was so nice of Alfred to keep me company during dinner.”

 

Or not.

 

I took a deep breath as I finished the last three pushups. Afterwards, I allowed my knees to come to the floor, kneeled, and then rocked back onto my feet. A moment later, I was standing and staring at her, trying my best to look apologetic.

 

My efforts became futile as she glared at me and spoke softly, “It was also so nice of Alfred to leave your meal on the table, in front of the chair your a*s was supposed to have been in a half-hour ago.”

 

I turned my back to her and reached for a towel I had set out an hour earlier. The handlebars of the ski machine had done a great job of holding while I had worked. After wiping my face off, I draped it over the handlebar/towel rack and ran a hand through my hair. When I turned to face her, I spoke, “I’ll be down shortly.”

 

She made a noise that sounded like a growl and then seated herself on the cycling machine near the door. I repeated that I would be down shortly and she nodded, “I heard you. I’m just making sure you follow through.”

 

In a few strides, I stood in front of her, mere inches away, “You don’t trust me?”

 

She smirked, “I don’t trust anyone who wears a mask.”

 

I shrugged, “I’m not wearing a mask now.”

 

She covered my eyes and nose, sighed and then said, “Five minutes. I want to at least have dessert with you for once.”

 

With four seconds to spare, I entered the smaller dining room, dressed in clean jeans and an unbuttoned shirt, only to see a cleared table and a small scrap of paper. In Selina’s curvaceous penmanship, it read: In the den, with the candlestick holder. I pocketed the note and passed through the door and paced down the hall. She had left the lights off and when I entered, I saw that she had seated herself in a large leather chair that faced the bay windows. On the end table beside her, were two glass dishes of sorbet but I only saw one spoon.

 

As I stood beside the chair, she patted the arm of it and took the dish that had the spoon in it. When I didn’t sit, she sighed and stood, motioning to the chair with her eyes. After settling into the chair, I was about to reach for my own dish when she literally plopped down on my lap. I let my breath out slowly, but she didn’t seem to care.

 

Since he had suffered my moods for years, Alfred was able to accept the fact that I would refuse his meals, ignore him or even worse, lash out at him without warning. Selina, however, had not and was not as accepting of my recent behavior. I had cancelled more dinners than I cared to admit and had left more than a dozen of her calls unreturned. As I sat there, with her on my lap, I was uncertain as to the last time we had even been together for more than thirty minutes.

 

“Where’s my spoon?” I asked suddenly.

 

She shrugged and took a bite of her sorbet. Then another. When she filled the spoon again, she held it before my lips and waited with a half smile. I opened my mouth and she slid the spoon in. The taste of zesty orange filled my mouth as I let her take the spoon back. She intermittently offered me some of the chilled dessert as she cleared her own dish. Once both bowls were empty, she set them on the table and then leaned against my chest. I opened my mouth to speak when she shook her head and made a shushing noise.  Then, she tilted her head towards mine, lips parted. As I moved mine to hers, Alfred knocked on the door.

 

She moaned in distress and I rested my brow on her chin, “Yes, Alfred?”

 

“Sir, I do hate to interrupt, but your services have been requested elsewhere.”

 

Selina and I looked towards the window and immediately understood his announcement. Hell, half of Gotham knew as well. I motioned for Selina to get off and reluctantly, she did. I kissed her on the cheek, said that we would talk later and then left her, alone, in the den.

 

Suave. Real suave.

 

^V^

 

State Highway 34, June 15th, 11:23 p.m.

 

“Idiot,” he mumbled.

 

He had called himself that and other similar names repeatedly for over two hours as he drove as far and as fast away from the city as possible. He had convinced himself that it was a normal drive, just like the thousands of other times that he had gotten behind the wheel. That his hands were slick with sweat and not blood.

 

He rolled up the driver side window with the touch of a button and then returned his focus to the double solid yellow lines. After a few deep breaths, the pulse that throbbed at his temples slowed and he was able to finally relax and reflect.

 

When he had left for his routine dinner at Mimi’s, he had no intention of choosing one. It had been the last thing from his mind, actually. He had his usual drink, his usual dinner at his usual stool. Everything had gone smoothly that day and he had been looking forward to a quiet night. The bar had been practically empty, minus the regulars who domineered the rear booth. Actually, the only new face had been a tall blonde who sat three stools down from him.

 

As he took his seat, he hadn’t noticed her at first. Then, as she had ordered another mixed drink, her voice had stood out like a gunshot’s rapport. Husky, flirtatious and tainted with light intoxication. A voice that shockingly resembled one he had heard for ten years. The W***e. At that moment, his entire body had gone on full alert and it took every ounce of his strength to manage himself.

 

The sudden urge to do away with the thing that sat mere feet away was rather difficult to control. He had to practically force food down a dry throat and did his best to seem amiable to Miranda as she topped off his drink once more and when she brought him a bill. He had smiled, pleased at himself once he had returned to his normal and balanced state, and had tipped Miranda well before leaving.

 

He had parked in the rear of the small gravel lot and his dark vehicle was practically invisible to the sober eye. One by one, the bar emptied and he watched each person carefully. She had been the sixth person to leave and the wait had nearly driven him over the edge. Maybe it had.

 

For that would have explained why he had been so violent, releasing explosive rage that left the pretty blonde thing nothing more than a bloody, savaged corpse.

 

He had grabbed her from behind as she struggled with her keys, quickly sealing off her air and silencing her as his fingers dug deeply into her throat. He dragged her away, towards the darkened corner of the lot, still keeping a tight hold on her neck as she pathetically tried to defend herself. Her scream for help came out as muted squeaks.

 

The knife he’d been carrying in his coat for the last few months had torn through her hide easily even though he hadn’t sharpened since its last use. When he turned her so that they were face to face, he saw the fear in her teary eyes. Pleading for mercy. It wasn’t difficult to finish her, knowing that he had never been given any mercy as a child, when another pretty blonde thing had ruined his life.

 

“Fool,” he muttered, feeling the stickiness as the blood dried on his hands.

 

In a few short turns, he would be on his street. He would be able to wash up, write the day in his journal and to hopefully get some rest. Unfortunately, as his mind settled in on finishing off the night, he had passed through a quiet intersection, moving through a red light without hesitation.

 

He stopped abruptly, looked in the rear view mirror and then continued slowly, carefully paying attention to his navigation. His father had taught him to drive and had stressed over and over how important it was to obey the traffic laws. When he had taken his driver’s test, he had a perfect score and his father had taken him out for dinner, just the two of them.

 

Shortly, he had pulled up into his drive, parked within the garage and entered his house through the seclusion of the side entrance. Although he lived in a nice area, neighbors were still nosy. And for them to see one of their friendliest, nicest neighbors covered in blood

 

As he removed his shoes after closing the door behind him, he heard it.

 

Someone calling his name softly.

 

His hands flew to his temples and rubbed vigorously, in an attempt to shake the voice from his head. A futile attempt, for a moment later, the voice returned, “Peeee-ter.”

 

“No,” he shook his head, but instead of heading to the bathroom where he had all intentions of showering and changing his clothes, he instead stepped slowly towards the guest bedroom, where the voice had grown louder. He paused in front of the closed door, already associating the voice with an image that was decades old.

 

Whenever his mother was about to come out of her bad days, she would find the energy to call for him. Usually, he would have to fetch her a glass of water or get her the ebony handled hairbrush from her dresser. But as she worsened, he would have to sit and listen to her. She could talk for hours, her voice so quiet and even.

 

He opened the door as the voice said, “Peter, tell me. Where is she?”

 

With the light off, he could still make out the shape of the empty bed. His finger itched to flip the switch, but he didn’t want to dirty it. He suddenly wished he had washed up, even at least his hands.

 

“She’s gone,” he mumbled.

 

A dry laugh echoed in the room, “That w***e got what she deserved. She’ll never hurt him or us anymore, will she?” He shook his head in response. The voice continued, “Peter, you are my good boy. My special boy. You make me so proud.”

 

He felt a tightness in his chest as he listened to his mother’s voice. His breaths became ragged and he did his best to choke back the tears. As his cheeks grew wet and hot, he stepped back into the hall, bottling his emotions. After he wrote the entry, then he could wash up. Then he could sleep, and possibly dream of his mother’s happiness.

 

^V^

 

Mimi’s Bar & Grill, June 15th, 11:45 p.m.

 

“Oh boy.”

 

I glanced over at Robin as we stood at the edge of the roof. We had met up an hour earlier in order to visit the scene of what might have been a new slasher victim. Batgirl, who had showed minimal interest in joining, had optioned to work on patrols on the East end.

 

Upon arriving at Jim’s office, I was shocked to hear the reason he had called. He had few details to offer other than the fact that a young female had been found outside of a bar, stabbed, strangled and raped. Instead of being inside her car, however, she had been located behind it. In addition, the intensity of the wounds suggested more rage then what had been found in the previous victims. Even still, he felt that “this was our guy” even though he had forgone the usual one month layover.

 

My first thought had been that this was a sign. The boldness that had allowed the killer to attack in the open with the last victim was not under complete control. And with my experience in the past, whenever a killer lost control, the victims were made to suffer for it.

 

Police were still on the scene, wrapping up interviews, one last look through the bar and already starting a door-to-door canvass in search of any witnesses. Noble efforts, but useless. There was only one witness and she had left in a black bag in the back of the coroner’s van.

 

Robin shifted beside me, uneasily. He had never fully adjusted to the darker side of business and probably never would. I would never wish it upon him either, for when a meaningless death becomes every day busy work

 

“Anything?” the comm. link provided Barbara’s concerned voice.

 

“No,” I replied and stepped towards the center of the roof. Robin gazed towards the ground once more, then followed my steps quietly. When he was two and a half feet away, I spoke to him, “Check in with Batgirl, I’ll handle things from here.”

 

I heard him mutter “Yes, sir” before slowly leaving. In the last few weeks, I had hardly let him in on the case. He wanted the experience, I was sure, but this was my burden to bear alone. I had let this killer remain free for this long, and I would see to it that he was brought to justice. And not at the cost of endangering him or anyone else besides myself.

 

Barbara said, “They clear out yet?”

 

“No, shortly.” My curt conversational skills had annoyed her for years, but she no longer tried to get me to say anything more than necessary.

 

“I’ll keep tabs on the scanners. Any particular flags you want?”

 

Flags were markers placed on key words or statistics broadcasted on countless radio and television frequencies. I paused and told her to just keep an eye and an ear out for anything. She had sighed, “Right-o. Didn’t want to get any sleep tonight anyway.”

 

After closing the connection, I waited another ten minutes for the scene to clear. When it appeared that no one was about to move on and that the flood lights that bathed the scene in bright white light were on for good, I decided I would have to wait my turn.

 

It took twenty minutes to travel the eight blocks between the bar and the ‘Mobile. Once in, I called Selina using the car’s phone. Her apartment phone rang four times before her machine picked up. Instead of leaving a message, I dialed home and was not surprised to hear her voice, “Let me guess. ‘It’s going to be a late night, hon’.”

 

“There’s been another victim. Worse than before. So it will be a late night.  Hon.”

 

I heard her take a quick breath before allowing a moment for shame, “Sorry. I’ll be here, wake me when you get home.”

 

Home.

 

After ending the call, I searched the computer for the address on the late Ms. Valerie Sykes. She was listed as living in the residential area of central Bryanttown. The other resident listed was a Mrs. Joanna Sykes. Her mother. I drove slowly, moving along darkened avenues and shifting my gaze from one side of the street to the other. Always looking for something. Anything, at this point.

 

It took exactly thirty-one minutes to drive in front of the one-story home that was one resident less. A police cruiser was out front and through a lit window, I recognized two uniformed officers standing.

 

Slowing to a near stop, I focused my vision and noticed a small form sitting on a couch. A woman whose pride and joy had been violently torn from her being.

 

After my parents’ deaths, Alfred had always been available to console me during that dark period in my life. I recalled him saying numerous times that it was unjust for a child to bury his parents. At the time, I had agreed, knowing that what had been mine was lost forever. But as I looked through the picture window, into the quaint den of a daughterless mother, I knew that it was just as wrong, if not more so, for parents to lose their child.

 

^V^