[batman] As the Grave
Jesus Christ, I've had this written for-fucking-ever and the combination of an impromptu conversation with worthless_hope and the steady unearthing of an old notebook reminded me of it. I've never been a huge fan but I do think I like it on a technical level. Hope wanted me to post it so this is mostly for her; I won't be advertising it anywhere or anything like that. And hey, it's not creepy introspection and/or porn this time!
Title: As the Grave
Chapter: One: Silent
Pairing: Jonathan Crane/Rachel Dawes, cameo by Gordon
Rating: PG
Summary: Rachel attends a memorial banquet for another of Gotham’s victims - as does a certain doctor of psychopharmacology.
As the Grave
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The banquet hall was quietly lit. Candles circled vases of calla lilies and white roses; the flames sparkled sidelong down silverware, catching and curling along porcelain bowls. They sat atop a clean, creamy tablecloth, folded cards with elegantly penned names on them cradled within the china.
She sat down at the one that read Miss Rachel Dawes. Rachel found it difficult to associate her name (so plain, so ordinary) with the fine calligraphy. The names of those around her seemed much more deserving of the fat loops and thin peaks: Miss Allison Theroux, Mrs. Vivian Katka, Mr. Arnav Katka, Dr. Jonathan Crane…
She paused. Crane?
“Rachel!” She turned at the sound of her name, startled yet unsurprised to see Vivian Katka. At forty-five she hardly looked any older than she had ten years ago. Her brown hair was pinned neatly up, pearls at her throat, wedding band curving happily around her finger. The differences were subtle: the dark color of her dress, the tightness of her smile, the sad lack of laughter in her eyes.
She took Rachel’s hand in both of hers, squeezing gently. “I’m so glad you could come.”
Rachel nodded. Mrs. Katka’s words were sweet, but they were by no means friends. Rachel had last seen her at her mother’s funeral.
“I’m sorry we have to meet under such sad circumstances,” she said - the same words Mrs. Katka had offered her three years ago.
“As am I,” said Mrs. Katka, face suddenly drawn.
Though she and Rachel had never been close, Rachel’s mother had been Mrs. Katka’s good friend. Samantha Dawes was hired as a domestic servant at Katka Manor when Rachel was twelve, and worked there for four years. In which time Rachel had gotten to know their daughter Elizabeth, only one year younger, very well.
Mr. Katka joined them soon, shaking Rachel’s hand but saying nothing. He had always been reclusive and a little brooding; his black suit was nothing unusual, and it darkened his cinnamon skin until Rachel thought her fingers looked ghostly against his. He whispered something and kissed his wife. She smiled, lips thin and hard, and waded away into the milling crowd.
“Please, sit,” he said, motioning to Rachel’s place but not looking at her.
She nodded and pulled out her chair, folding her dress over her legs.
Mrs. Katka’s sparrow-song voice rang from the podium at the front of the room. Elizabeth’s photo hung on it, surrounded by flowers: she looked happy and proud, three chevrons on her sleeve. Rachel, at the head table, was closer to the stage than most of the other three-hundred guests. She could see a flicker of pain on Mrs. Katka’s face, a brief exchange of glances with her husband. All around, chair legs shuffled over the carpet as people hushed and sat down.
“Welcome, everyone. My name, as many of you know, is Vivian Katka. Firstly, my husband and I would like to thank you all for being here this evening. As you know, we arranged this banquet in memory of my daughter, Sergeant Elizabeth Anjali Katka, and in honor of all those brave officers of the Gotham City Police Department who gave their lives for a better Gotham.” A pause, quickly filled with subdued applause.
Mrs. Katka’s speech was jerky in parts, and she blinked rapidly to keep the emotion at bay. Rachel’s eyes watered, her throat raw and tight as Mrs. Katka spoke of her daughter’s death. Rachel had heard so many different accounts of it in the past month - police reports, newspapers, a letter from the Katkas. Elizabeth was on a small, routine drug bust when gunfire broke out. Eventually the criminals were repressed by force, but not before Elizabeth was shot. One of the officers with her sped her to Gotham General. In fact, the banquet hall was only a few streets down from the emergency room where Elizabeth Katka died.
Mrs. Katka’s voice hardened as she neared the end of her speech. She explained the silent auction, and that all proceeds would be donated to the Gotham City Police Department. She thanked everyone again before stepping down to the sound of clapping.
Her husband took her hand as soon as she was seated. Rachel cast her a reassuring smile and left her and her husband to their private moment, turning her eyes to the rest of the table.
And there he was: combed hair, pressed suit, wire-rimmed glasses.
“Doctor Crane,” she said, allowing only the slightest hint of surprise to trickle through. “How unexpected.”
“Miss Dawes.” He paid her as much attention as the man ladling soup into his bowl. “I’m here on behalf of Arkham. The Katkas are benefactors of the asylum.”
Rachel wanted to snort. Of course, PR. This table was as much for friends as it was for colleagues, and Crane had done the Katkas a personal favor by not committing the dealer who’d murdered Elizabeth. They saw this as justice. Rachel knew Arkham simply couldn’t afford to lose the graces of two wealthy contributors.
“Thank you, I’m aware.” A waiter tapped her on the shoulder; she glanced down and hastily plucked the name card from her bowl and tucked it into her purse, apologizing. Hot soup poured in.
“Did you know Elizabeth?” she asked, dipping her spoon into her soup.
“Sadly, no.” His flat tone suggested anything but emotion. “And you?”
She suspected he didn’t care - just as she suspected that representing Arkham well meant having pointless, insipid conversations.
“Since I was twelve,” she said. “We were… close.”
“You must be very upset.” He sounded almost bored - not the least bit sympathetic. He didn’t even try for an insincere I’m sorry for your loss.
Rachel had been upset for a long time, but for the night she did what the Katkas had done and muted it to a dull pain. Crane’s indifference, however, his sickening apathy was making something in her flare. She blinked to keep her lashes dry and said shortly, “I am, actually.”
Crane nodded and ate his soup.
When everyone had finished their first course, conversation started up again. Mrs. Katka turned to Rachel and asked her what she’d been doing recently - and from there conversation spiraled, as it always invariably did, to the state of Gotham’s streets and system.
Miss Allison Theroux, whom Rachel discovered was the daughter of one of Mr. Katka’s business partners and who lived in California the majority of the year, fired questions at Rachel one after the other. Most were bland and repetitive, yet Allison kept talking. Her lips were aimed at Rachel, but her eyes were on Crane, as though waiting for his approval. In all honesty, she didn’t sound very intelligent - perhaps that was why Crane’s attention stayed with Mr. Katka as they made silent conversation.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” said Rachel after a while, tone congenial, “but I’m really not here to discuss my work. I have Monday to Friday to do that.”
“Oh, right!” Allison said. “I’m so sorry. It just sounded so interesting.”
Rachel knew for a fact that no one thought a district attorney’s job was interesting except another district attorney.
Punctuating her weak lie with a sip of champagne, Allison turned her full attention to Crane. “And how about your work, Doctor Crane?” She said the word “doctor” with a seductive purr that made Rachel’s skin prickle on principle. “What are you a doctor of, exactly?”
Crane had finished his conversation with Mr. Katka, which left him no feasible reason not to answer. “Psychiatry. Psychopharmacology, more precisely.”
“Wow,” Allison clucked her tongue. Rachel was almost certain Allison had never heard the word in her life. She awaited another boring barrage of halfhearted questions, but instead Allison asked, “So how do you and Rachel know each other?”
“Miss Dawes and I are often on opposite ends of the courtroom.”
Allison twirled her glass, the way she might after having heard a bit of juicy gossip. She looked pleased. “How’s that? Her being an attorney and you being a doctor of psychology, I mean.”
“I evaluate many of the people brought in by Gotham’s finest.” Was she hallucinating, or was there a hint of condescension in his tone? The others would have missed it, but for a moment Crane sounded exactly as he did in the witness box, and exactly as he did whenever he defended his judgment against hers. He glanced at Rachel, catching her off-guard. “It comes as a surprise to some that many criminals are mentally unwell.”
“To put it simply,” Rachel said, fingers white-knuckling the purse in her lap, “I represent the law, and he mocks it.”
“The law is a rather broad subject,” Crane said airily. By this point, his voice was low, and Allison wasn’t listening - no one was, aside from Rachel. “I prefer to target one person, and let the ripples do the rest of the work.”
She growled, her hands slamming on the table. Her glass rattled dangerously. “I’ll tell you what you can target, Crane!”
“Rachel!” Mrs. Katka hissed. Rachel glanced around the table to find all eyes on her, and the hint of smirk on Crane’s face. “Please, control yourself!”
“I’m sorry,” she said, face and hands hot. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”
She tucked in her chair and kept her eyes anywhere but Crane, weaving between tables and into the hallway. She walked until she could more clearly hear the flush of toilets than the whisper of wagging tongues.
Rachel pressed her head to the wall and breathed in slowly. Had she really just lost her temper to Crane at a memorial banquet? Had he really just provoked her? How could he so easily slip under the radar, so that she was the one making a scene?
“Pompous, arrogant bastard,” she muttered, teeth clenched.
“Rachel?”
She glanced up, instantly relieved to see Sergeant Gordon. The men’s room door swung softly shut behind him.
“Gordon! I didn’t know you were here,” she said. Rachel leaned her head off the wall, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears. “It’s nice to see you.”
“You too,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Of course!” she lied. “Why?”
“The wall’s imprinted on your forehead.”
Rachel ran fingers along her brow, feeling the slight stamp left by the wallpaper.
“Something bothering you?” he asked.
She sighed. “I’m sitting across from Jonathan Crane.”
Gordon gave a subtle wince. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Mmm,” she muttered, nodding. “I thought we could at least be civil out of court, but he’s trying his best to…” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“Push your buttons?” he asked. “Purposely?”
“I’d say so,” she said, rubbing her forehead with her wrist before giving up.
Gordon hummed in thought. “He struck me as a pacifist.”
“Yeah, or at least apathetic enough not to bother. It’s not like he’s being rude to anyone else. And there are people at that table, Gordon, that even I want to be rude to.” Her thoughts flashed to Allison, in her pink lipstick and dress too bright and tight for such a dour affair.
He chuckled. “Maybe he’s pulling your pigtails then.”
“Pardon?”
“Like grade school. My son was sent home last week for teasing a girl in his class. I asked him why he did it, and he told me, ‘Because she thinks she’s so cute.’”
“And you told him?”
“‘No, it’s because you think she’s so cute.’”
Rachel’s face contorted in disgust, but when Gordon laughed she laughed with him.
“It’s something we never really grow out of, even the smart ones.”
“Thanks, Gordon,” she said. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever hoped you’re wrong.”
“Me too,” he said. “But my wife is probably missing me, and your forehead looks fine. Back into the tiger pit?”
“You know us,” she said, falling in step with him. “Gluttons for punishment.”
Through dinner, Rachel kept conversation far away from her work and from Crane. She distracted Mrs. Katka with accounts of her and Elizabeth’s more ridiculous escapades, until even Mr. Katka’s lips quirked slightly upward. From the corner of Rachel’s eye, Allison continued to make passes at Crane, who pointedly absorbed himself in conversation with the man beside him. Rachel took sparing sips of champagne, fueling herself in case he had more poison darts to throw at her.
Once everyone’s plate was cleared away, Mrs. Katka took to the podium again. The wrinkles at her eyes and mouth were softer from laughing; her voice was less frail. She announced the silent auction in the room down the hall - it would be open for one hour, in which time guests were free to excuse themselves to smoke or mingle. The auction winners would be announced over dessert.
People bottlenecked out tidily. Rachel found Gordon and his wife on their way to the auction room and politely accompanied them.
The room was wide. Tables lined the walls, objects and lists dotting them. All those on the left were donated by Katka’s sister companies, and all those on the right were items of the deceased police officers, donated by their families. Rachel kept to the right. There were a few newer items: home entertainment systems or cars. What caught Rachel’s eye were the little things: music boxes and old chess sets, heirloom jewelry and first edition books.
She recognized some of Elizabeth’s old possessions: her antique dollhouse, which she never played with (her Tonka trucks and G.I. Joes were strangely absent); a porcelain tea set her grandmother had given her; a pair of diamond earrings she wore to prom. Rachel’s heart thudded in her chest to see all the remaining pieces of her friend - of another of Gotham’s victims.
She felt her pulse freeze when her gaze ghosted over a locket, tarnished at the hinges, sitting in a velvet box. With the dollhouse, the tea set, everything else, the memories has been hazy and gauze-covered. The locket brought it all back to life: seventeen-year-old Rachel in sixteen-year-old Elizabeth’s room, their high voices shredding the rock star posters on the wall.
The locket had been her gift to Rachel on her seventeenth birthday. Months later, she’d ripped it off her neck and thrown at Elizabeth with a scream. She couldn’t remember why they’d fought - probably a boy. Boys were all they ever fought about. As usual, they made up two weeks later - but the locket was lost, and though they looked neither could find it. Back then, Rachel had felt like she’d lost a bit of herself.
She kept her eyes glued to the clock and waited until five minutes before the hour was up, then took her name card out of her purse. The auction was anonymous - too many blue bloods carried grudges against one another, and though competition was usually embraced at an auction, the Katkas didn’t want feuds at their daughter’s memorial. The name card had a number inside it that would identify the bidder. Rachel copied hers onto the paper along with three-hundred dollars. There had been no bids so far, and it was at least twice what the locket was really worth, but she didn’t want to take chances. No one in their right mind would pay three hundred dollars unless, like Rachel, it meant something to them.
The guests poured back into the banquet hall. The vases of white flowers were gone, replaced with towering platters of sweets. Twin jugs of chocolate and strawberry sauce were at each table. Bowls were filled with fat globes of vanilla ice cream.
Guests eagerly resumed their seats while Mrs. Katka took the podium. She had never been very fond of dessert, as Rachel remembered. Always gave the last truffle to her daughter - as well as the first, second, and third.
Mrs. Katka began to announce the winning bids, beginning with the company-donated items. Rachel ate her ice cream slowly and feigned interest in hopes of avoiding conversation with Allison or Crane. A lot of items went to #296, Mister Barlow at table seven. Every time his name was called, he clapped loudly and had another big gulp of champagne. Rachel wondered if he’d wake up in the morning surrounded by expensive things and be nonplussed as to how he had obtained them.
A woman near the back won the dollhouse, an elderly man the tea set, and Allison the earrings (which Rachel forced herself not to think about, lest she cause another scene). Nervously, Rachel folded her hands under the table, wringing her dress, and waited for Mrs. Katka to announce the winner of the locket.
“And item number eighty-three, silver locket belonging to Elizabeth Katka, goes to…” Mrs. Katka paused as she did with every item, allowing the room to stir in anxiety a moment. Rachel’s number tripped over itself in her head: #403, #403, four-oh-three, four-hundred-three, four-oh-three. Finally, Mrs. Katka inhaled and exclaimed, “Bidder four-oh-two, Doctor Jonathan Crane!”
Light applause bubbled; Crane nodded imperceptibly and checked his watch.
Rachel barely kept herself from gaping.
After the locket, she stewed in anger as the last seventeen winners were announced and Mrs. Katka thanked everyone for their attendance and patronage, wishing them a wonderful evening and a safer city. People left table by table and when it came to them, Allison was the first to stand up. She tipped forward and back, proclaimed loudly that she was leaving, cast an annoyed glance at Crane (who was cleaning his glasses), and marched away.
Rachel shook both Mr. and Mrs. Katka’s hands and wished them well. The moment she was out of sight, she hurried outside to catch up with Crane, who’d said his goodbyes before her.
She caught him at the base of the steps. The night air hit her in sudden gust, though the leaves were still. The concrete shone like black marble, wet and illuminated by street lamps. She hadn’t realized how late it was; the street was mostly empty, aside from town cars and taxicabs.
“Crane!” she called, marching up to his side. There was no pretense to keep up anymore, no need to be polite. “That locket was Elizabeth’s.”
“Thank you,” he said, mimicking her tone earlier. “I’m aware.”
“Then why do you want it? Why would you pay seven-hundred dollars for a necklace barely worth one-fifty?”
“As it happens,” he said, eyebrows perking as a cab pulled up, and falling just as quickly when a woman rushed into it, “Arkham is creating a small memorial in Sergeant Katka’s honor. Something personal of hers would be a nice addition.”
Rachel glowered, fingers curling into a fist. “In court, you lie. At a memorial, you lie. Is any place sacred?”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t make baseless allegations,” he told her, locking eyes. She felt the instinct to step back - something was piercing, something was wrong. But she kept her ground and glared. “It invalidates you as an attorney.”
“You don’t want that locket,” she said, words slurred with anger. “I know you don’t and -”
He turned toward the street again, hailing a cab. “Miss Dawes, if you would like to reclaim property I suggest you settle it like everyone else - in court.”
She watched him walk away, watched him get into a cab and watched that cab shrink down the street, turn a corner, disappear. It was all she could do not to go crazy herself.
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PART ONE || silent
PART TWO || still
Title: As the Grave
Chapter: One: Silent
Pairing: Jonathan Crane/Rachel Dawes, cameo by Gordon
Rating: PG
Summary: Rachel attends a memorial banquet for another of Gotham’s victims - as does a certain doctor of psychopharmacology.
As the Grave
_______________________________________________
The banquet hall was quietly lit. Candles circled vases of calla lilies and white roses; the flames sparkled sidelong down silverware, catching and curling along porcelain bowls. They sat atop a clean, creamy tablecloth, folded cards with elegantly penned names on them cradled within the china.
She sat down at the one that read Miss Rachel Dawes. Rachel found it difficult to associate her name (so plain, so ordinary) with the fine calligraphy. The names of those around her seemed much more deserving of the fat loops and thin peaks: Miss Allison Theroux, Mrs. Vivian Katka, Mr. Arnav Katka, Dr. Jonathan Crane…
She paused. Crane?
“Rachel!” She turned at the sound of her name, startled yet unsurprised to see Vivian Katka. At forty-five she hardly looked any older than she had ten years ago. Her brown hair was pinned neatly up, pearls at her throat, wedding band curving happily around her finger. The differences were subtle: the dark color of her dress, the tightness of her smile, the sad lack of laughter in her eyes.
She took Rachel’s hand in both of hers, squeezing gently. “I’m so glad you could come.”
Rachel nodded. Mrs. Katka’s words were sweet, but they were by no means friends. Rachel had last seen her at her mother’s funeral.
“I’m sorry we have to meet under such sad circumstances,” she said - the same words Mrs. Katka had offered her three years ago.
“As am I,” said Mrs. Katka, face suddenly drawn.
Though she and Rachel had never been close, Rachel’s mother had been Mrs. Katka’s good friend. Samantha Dawes was hired as a domestic servant at Katka Manor when Rachel was twelve, and worked there for four years. In which time Rachel had gotten to know their daughter Elizabeth, only one year younger, very well.
Mr. Katka joined them soon, shaking Rachel’s hand but saying nothing. He had always been reclusive and a little brooding; his black suit was nothing unusual, and it darkened his cinnamon skin until Rachel thought her fingers looked ghostly against his. He whispered something and kissed his wife. She smiled, lips thin and hard, and waded away into the milling crowd.
“Please, sit,” he said, motioning to Rachel’s place but not looking at her.
She nodded and pulled out her chair, folding her dress over her legs.
Mrs. Katka’s sparrow-song voice rang from the podium at the front of the room. Elizabeth’s photo hung on it, surrounded by flowers: she looked happy and proud, three chevrons on her sleeve. Rachel, at the head table, was closer to the stage than most of the other three-hundred guests. She could see a flicker of pain on Mrs. Katka’s face, a brief exchange of glances with her husband. All around, chair legs shuffled over the carpet as people hushed and sat down.
“Welcome, everyone. My name, as many of you know, is Vivian Katka. Firstly, my husband and I would like to thank you all for being here this evening. As you know, we arranged this banquet in memory of my daughter, Sergeant Elizabeth Anjali Katka, and in honor of all those brave officers of the Gotham City Police Department who gave their lives for a better Gotham.” A pause, quickly filled with subdued applause.
Mrs. Katka’s speech was jerky in parts, and she blinked rapidly to keep the emotion at bay. Rachel’s eyes watered, her throat raw and tight as Mrs. Katka spoke of her daughter’s death. Rachel had heard so many different accounts of it in the past month - police reports, newspapers, a letter from the Katkas. Elizabeth was on a small, routine drug bust when gunfire broke out. Eventually the criminals were repressed by force, but not before Elizabeth was shot. One of the officers with her sped her to Gotham General. In fact, the banquet hall was only a few streets down from the emergency room where Elizabeth Katka died.
Mrs. Katka’s voice hardened as she neared the end of her speech. She explained the silent auction, and that all proceeds would be donated to the Gotham City Police Department. She thanked everyone again before stepping down to the sound of clapping.
Her husband took her hand as soon as she was seated. Rachel cast her a reassuring smile and left her and her husband to their private moment, turning her eyes to the rest of the table.
And there he was: combed hair, pressed suit, wire-rimmed glasses.
“Doctor Crane,” she said, allowing only the slightest hint of surprise to trickle through. “How unexpected.”
“Miss Dawes.” He paid her as much attention as the man ladling soup into his bowl. “I’m here on behalf of Arkham. The Katkas are benefactors of the asylum.”
Rachel wanted to snort. Of course, PR. This table was as much for friends as it was for colleagues, and Crane had done the Katkas a personal favor by not committing the dealer who’d murdered Elizabeth. They saw this as justice. Rachel knew Arkham simply couldn’t afford to lose the graces of two wealthy contributors.
“Thank you, I’m aware.” A waiter tapped her on the shoulder; she glanced down and hastily plucked the name card from her bowl and tucked it into her purse, apologizing. Hot soup poured in.
“Did you know Elizabeth?” she asked, dipping her spoon into her soup.
“Sadly, no.” His flat tone suggested anything but emotion. “And you?”
She suspected he didn’t care - just as she suspected that representing Arkham well meant having pointless, insipid conversations.
“Since I was twelve,” she said. “We were… close.”
“You must be very upset.” He sounded almost bored - not the least bit sympathetic. He didn’t even try for an insincere I’m sorry for your loss.
Rachel had been upset for a long time, but for the night she did what the Katkas had done and muted it to a dull pain. Crane’s indifference, however, his sickening apathy was making something in her flare. She blinked to keep her lashes dry and said shortly, “I am, actually.”
Crane nodded and ate his soup.
When everyone had finished their first course, conversation started up again. Mrs. Katka turned to Rachel and asked her what she’d been doing recently - and from there conversation spiraled, as it always invariably did, to the state of Gotham’s streets and system.
Miss Allison Theroux, whom Rachel discovered was the daughter of one of Mr. Katka’s business partners and who lived in California the majority of the year, fired questions at Rachel one after the other. Most were bland and repetitive, yet Allison kept talking. Her lips were aimed at Rachel, but her eyes were on Crane, as though waiting for his approval. In all honesty, she didn’t sound very intelligent - perhaps that was why Crane’s attention stayed with Mr. Katka as they made silent conversation.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” said Rachel after a while, tone congenial, “but I’m really not here to discuss my work. I have Monday to Friday to do that.”
“Oh, right!” Allison said. “I’m so sorry. It just sounded so interesting.”
Rachel knew for a fact that no one thought a district attorney’s job was interesting except another district attorney.
Punctuating her weak lie with a sip of champagne, Allison turned her full attention to Crane. “And how about your work, Doctor Crane?” She said the word “doctor” with a seductive purr that made Rachel’s skin prickle on principle. “What are you a doctor of, exactly?”
Crane had finished his conversation with Mr. Katka, which left him no feasible reason not to answer. “Psychiatry. Psychopharmacology, more precisely.”
“Wow,” Allison clucked her tongue. Rachel was almost certain Allison had never heard the word in her life. She awaited another boring barrage of halfhearted questions, but instead Allison asked, “So how do you and Rachel know each other?”
“Miss Dawes and I are often on opposite ends of the courtroom.”
Allison twirled her glass, the way she might after having heard a bit of juicy gossip. She looked pleased. “How’s that? Her being an attorney and you being a doctor of psychology, I mean.”
“I evaluate many of the people brought in by Gotham’s finest.” Was she hallucinating, or was there a hint of condescension in his tone? The others would have missed it, but for a moment Crane sounded exactly as he did in the witness box, and exactly as he did whenever he defended his judgment against hers. He glanced at Rachel, catching her off-guard. “It comes as a surprise to some that many criminals are mentally unwell.”
“To put it simply,” Rachel said, fingers white-knuckling the purse in her lap, “I represent the law, and he mocks it.”
“The law is a rather broad subject,” Crane said airily. By this point, his voice was low, and Allison wasn’t listening - no one was, aside from Rachel. “I prefer to target one person, and let the ripples do the rest of the work.”
She growled, her hands slamming on the table. Her glass rattled dangerously. “I’ll tell you what you can target, Crane!”
“Rachel!” Mrs. Katka hissed. Rachel glanced around the table to find all eyes on her, and the hint of smirk on Crane’s face. “Please, control yourself!”
“I’m sorry,” she said, face and hands hot. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”
She tucked in her chair and kept her eyes anywhere but Crane, weaving between tables and into the hallway. She walked until she could more clearly hear the flush of toilets than the whisper of wagging tongues.
Rachel pressed her head to the wall and breathed in slowly. Had she really just lost her temper to Crane at a memorial banquet? Had he really just provoked her? How could he so easily slip under the radar, so that she was the one making a scene?
“Pompous, arrogant bastard,” she muttered, teeth clenched.
“Rachel?”
She glanced up, instantly relieved to see Sergeant Gordon. The men’s room door swung softly shut behind him.
“Gordon! I didn’t know you were here,” she said. Rachel leaned her head off the wall, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears. “It’s nice to see you.”
“You too,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Of course!” she lied. “Why?”
“The wall’s imprinted on your forehead.”
Rachel ran fingers along her brow, feeling the slight stamp left by the wallpaper.
“Something bothering you?” he asked.
She sighed. “I’m sitting across from Jonathan Crane.”
Gordon gave a subtle wince. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Mmm,” she muttered, nodding. “I thought we could at least be civil out of court, but he’s trying his best to…” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“Push your buttons?” he asked. “Purposely?”
“I’d say so,” she said, rubbing her forehead with her wrist before giving up.
Gordon hummed in thought. “He struck me as a pacifist.”
“Yeah, or at least apathetic enough not to bother. It’s not like he’s being rude to anyone else. And there are people at that table, Gordon, that even I want to be rude to.” Her thoughts flashed to Allison, in her pink lipstick and dress too bright and tight for such a dour affair.
He chuckled. “Maybe he’s pulling your pigtails then.”
“Pardon?”
“Like grade school. My son was sent home last week for teasing a girl in his class. I asked him why he did it, and he told me, ‘Because she thinks she’s so cute.’”
“And you told him?”
“‘No, it’s because you think she’s so cute.’”
Rachel’s face contorted in disgust, but when Gordon laughed she laughed with him.
“It’s something we never really grow out of, even the smart ones.”
“Thanks, Gordon,” she said. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever hoped you’re wrong.”
“Me too,” he said. “But my wife is probably missing me, and your forehead looks fine. Back into the tiger pit?”
“You know us,” she said, falling in step with him. “Gluttons for punishment.”
Through dinner, Rachel kept conversation far away from her work and from Crane. She distracted Mrs. Katka with accounts of her and Elizabeth’s more ridiculous escapades, until even Mr. Katka’s lips quirked slightly upward. From the corner of Rachel’s eye, Allison continued to make passes at Crane, who pointedly absorbed himself in conversation with the man beside him. Rachel took sparing sips of champagne, fueling herself in case he had more poison darts to throw at her.
Once everyone’s plate was cleared away, Mrs. Katka took to the podium again. The wrinkles at her eyes and mouth were softer from laughing; her voice was less frail. She announced the silent auction in the room down the hall - it would be open for one hour, in which time guests were free to excuse themselves to smoke or mingle. The auction winners would be announced over dessert.
People bottlenecked out tidily. Rachel found Gordon and his wife on their way to the auction room and politely accompanied them.
The room was wide. Tables lined the walls, objects and lists dotting them. All those on the left were donated by Katka’s sister companies, and all those on the right were items of the deceased police officers, donated by their families. Rachel kept to the right. There were a few newer items: home entertainment systems or cars. What caught Rachel’s eye were the little things: music boxes and old chess sets, heirloom jewelry and first edition books.
She recognized some of Elizabeth’s old possessions: her antique dollhouse, which she never played with (her Tonka trucks and G.I. Joes were strangely absent); a porcelain tea set her grandmother had given her; a pair of diamond earrings she wore to prom. Rachel’s heart thudded in her chest to see all the remaining pieces of her friend - of another of Gotham’s victims.
She felt her pulse freeze when her gaze ghosted over a locket, tarnished at the hinges, sitting in a velvet box. With the dollhouse, the tea set, everything else, the memories has been hazy and gauze-covered. The locket brought it all back to life: seventeen-year-old Rachel in sixteen-year-old Elizabeth’s room, their high voices shredding the rock star posters on the wall.
The locket had been her gift to Rachel on her seventeenth birthday. Months later, she’d ripped it off her neck and thrown at Elizabeth with a scream. She couldn’t remember why they’d fought - probably a boy. Boys were all they ever fought about. As usual, they made up two weeks later - but the locket was lost, and though they looked neither could find it. Back then, Rachel had felt like she’d lost a bit of herself.
She kept her eyes glued to the clock and waited until five minutes before the hour was up, then took her name card out of her purse. The auction was anonymous - too many blue bloods carried grudges against one another, and though competition was usually embraced at an auction, the Katkas didn’t want feuds at their daughter’s memorial. The name card had a number inside it that would identify the bidder. Rachel copied hers onto the paper along with three-hundred dollars. There had been no bids so far, and it was at least twice what the locket was really worth, but she didn’t want to take chances. No one in their right mind would pay three hundred dollars unless, like Rachel, it meant something to them.
The guests poured back into the banquet hall. The vases of white flowers were gone, replaced with towering platters of sweets. Twin jugs of chocolate and strawberry sauce were at each table. Bowls were filled with fat globes of vanilla ice cream.
Guests eagerly resumed their seats while Mrs. Katka took the podium. She had never been very fond of dessert, as Rachel remembered. Always gave the last truffle to her daughter - as well as the first, second, and third.
Mrs. Katka began to announce the winning bids, beginning with the company-donated items. Rachel ate her ice cream slowly and feigned interest in hopes of avoiding conversation with Allison or Crane. A lot of items went to #296, Mister Barlow at table seven. Every time his name was called, he clapped loudly and had another big gulp of champagne. Rachel wondered if he’d wake up in the morning surrounded by expensive things and be nonplussed as to how he had obtained them.
A woman near the back won the dollhouse, an elderly man the tea set, and Allison the earrings (which Rachel forced herself not to think about, lest she cause another scene). Nervously, Rachel folded her hands under the table, wringing her dress, and waited for Mrs. Katka to announce the winner of the locket.
“And item number eighty-three, silver locket belonging to Elizabeth Katka, goes to…” Mrs. Katka paused as she did with every item, allowing the room to stir in anxiety a moment. Rachel’s number tripped over itself in her head: #403, #403, four-oh-three, four-hundred-three, four-oh-three. Finally, Mrs. Katka inhaled and exclaimed, “Bidder four-oh-two, Doctor Jonathan Crane!”
Light applause bubbled; Crane nodded imperceptibly and checked his watch.
Rachel barely kept herself from gaping.
After the locket, she stewed in anger as the last seventeen winners were announced and Mrs. Katka thanked everyone for their attendance and patronage, wishing them a wonderful evening and a safer city. People left table by table and when it came to them, Allison was the first to stand up. She tipped forward and back, proclaimed loudly that she was leaving, cast an annoyed glance at Crane (who was cleaning his glasses), and marched away.
Rachel shook both Mr. and Mrs. Katka’s hands and wished them well. The moment she was out of sight, she hurried outside to catch up with Crane, who’d said his goodbyes before her.
She caught him at the base of the steps. The night air hit her in sudden gust, though the leaves were still. The concrete shone like black marble, wet and illuminated by street lamps. She hadn’t realized how late it was; the street was mostly empty, aside from town cars and taxicabs.
“Crane!” she called, marching up to his side. There was no pretense to keep up anymore, no need to be polite. “That locket was Elizabeth’s.”
“Thank you,” he said, mimicking her tone earlier. “I’m aware.”
“Then why do you want it? Why would you pay seven-hundred dollars for a necklace barely worth one-fifty?”
“As it happens,” he said, eyebrows perking as a cab pulled up, and falling just as quickly when a woman rushed into it, “Arkham is creating a small memorial in Sergeant Katka’s honor. Something personal of hers would be a nice addition.”
Rachel glowered, fingers curling into a fist. “In court, you lie. At a memorial, you lie. Is any place sacred?”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t make baseless allegations,” he told her, locking eyes. She felt the instinct to step back - something was piercing, something was wrong. But she kept her ground and glared. “It invalidates you as an attorney.”
“You don’t want that locket,” she said, words slurred with anger. “I know you don’t and -”
He turned toward the street again, hailing a cab. “Miss Dawes, if you would like to reclaim property I suggest you settle it like everyone else - in court.”
She watched him walk away, watched him get into a cab and watched that cab shrink down the street, turn a corner, disappear. It was all she could do not to go crazy herself.
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PART ONE || silent
PART TWO || still