Gardens of Wayne Manor: Weeding (12/37)
Title: Chapter Twelve: Weeding
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth
Rating: PG
Warnings: None needed
Continuity: The Gardens of Wayne Manor is an AU series in which Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne's lives intertwine at an early age. Click here for the complete series and series notes.
Word Count: 4800Summary: A day of research and gardening leads Bruce to some confessions and revelations.
"Your mother didn't mind you coming back?"
"No, it's fine," said Clark. It was mostly true. Martha Kent had gasped at his sodden and salt-crusted clothes, then listened to the story of their rescue--carefully framed to minimize any danger--with narrowed eyes, but had raised no objections to his spending the night at the Manor. No verbal objections, at least. Clark put the memory of her dubious look aside. "You said you found a clue?"
Bruce flipped open a small notebook. "When I hugged Detective Hansen, I got a look at her notes. Most of it was just what we had told her, but in the margins she'd scribbled a couple of other things. I saw--" He broke off at the look Clark was giving him. "What?"
"Were you just pretending to be all upset so you could sneak a look at her notes?"
"Of course!" Bruce scoffed. "You didn't think I was really getting all weepy there, did you?"
"Well, I...no." Clark hadn't been sure what to think, to be honest. Bruce's mood had been so odd since he came back from Milton--kicked out, he said--and he had seemed honestly rattled when he had recognized the police officer pulled from the surf.
"Don't be silly," Bruce said. "Getting all mushy isn't going to help Officer Gordon. See, I saw two phrases in the margins that stood out, because we'd never said them to her." He scratched a couple of words down with his pencil. "King snake and eastern star. But what would a snake have to do with any of this? I didn't see any snakes in that farmhouse--"
"Was 'king snake' capitalized?"
Bruce cast his eyes up, recalling. "It...could have been. Hard to tell from her handwriting."
Clark stood up and paced back and forth across the room, like he'd seen detectives on television do. "Perry White was yelling this week about a story the chief editor had killed. It was about a smuggling ring that was expanding from Hong Kong into Gotham. I'm pretty sure he said the leader of the ring was called King Snake."
"Smugglers?" Bruce whistled. "Do you think maybe Gordon was working undercover to try and catch them? And they caught him at it?" He rested his chin in his hands, staring at nothing. "And those guys in the farmhouse--they might be working with the smugglers too. We--we might have given him right back to the people he was trying to get away from."
Bruce looked so stricken at the thought that Clark couldn't help wincing. "If we hadn't been there he probably would have drowned." But Bruce was scowling, his thoughts drawn into himself. He seemed suddenly as distant as the moons of Saturn, as hard to make out. "Bruce. There's nothing we can do."
"There's always something we can do," muttered Bruce as if he wasn't really listening.
"Well, there's nothing we can do right now," Clark amended. There had to be some way to reach Bruce, get him back in the room. "Tomorrow morning we'll go to the library, we'll try to figure out what Eastern Star is. If what I heard from Mr. White is right, I'm betting it's a ship registered in Hong Kong."
Bruce was still frowning, but nodded. "You should go home, get some sleep," he said. Was that a hint of reluctance in his voice? Clark decided there was.
"Are you kidding? I couldn't possibly sleep."
"The library doesn't open until ten," Bruce pointed out. "What are you planning on doing until then?"
"Well," Clark said, "Ma needs me to weed out the kitchen garden. I could go do that. Or we could talk. Unless you'd rather brood some more?"
For just a second he thought he'd pushed it too far: Bruce glanced at him sharply. Then his mouth twitched in something close to a smile. "We could talk while you weed," Bruce said.
"We can talk while we weed," Clark corrected. "It won't hurt you to get your hands dirty."
Bruce shook his head. His mouth was annoyed, but his eyes were not. Not quite. "I guess it won't," he said.
A half-hour later Clark was tugging at the weeds growing in amongst the basil while Bruce was clearing out the tomato patch nearby. They had a spotlight shining on the garden, but it was slow going in the dark. "Don't pull up any of the tomatoes," he said to Bruce.
Bruce made an exasperated sound. "I think I know the difference between a weed and a tomato plant, Clark."
They weeded in silence for a while. From the oak nearby an owl hooted softly. Then Bruce sputtered as he yanked on a particularly stubborn weed. "Come--out of there--you damn--thing!" A sharp, vicious tug, and a plant was hurled through the air to land with a sodden thud in the growing pile of weeds. "It all just comes back," Bruce muttered.
"Yeah," Clark said, yanking on a deep root.
"No matter what you do, it just comes back," Bruce repeated through his teeth.
"Uh-huh."
"You pull it up and it just comes back and chokes out all the good stuff."
Clark made a wordless sound of agreement, although he wasn't sure Bruce was still talking about gardening.
"What's the damn use of it?" Bruce growled, ripping up another weed. "You try and try and then you find out people don't even care, they don't want things to get better. No one--No one will--" He broke off and scrubbed at his face with a dirty hand, leaving a dark smudge on his cheekbone.
Clark looked back down at the basil. "I care," he said, picking up a clot of dirt and crumbling it between his fingers. He patted the dirt back down around the basil plant, brushing some off its leaves.
Bruce was silent for a long time, though his weeding calmed down a little and became less furious. "There were kids dealing drugs at Milton," he said after a while. "Upperclassmen. They'd get the younger kids hooked on it and then make them regular customers."
"Oh," said Clark.
"They were working with the townie kids--that's what they called them, townies--to keep the supply running. They had a good racket going. Got a kid I knew hooked really bad."
"What did you do?" It was, of course, unthinkable that Bruce hadn't done something.
"I tried to convince some of the younger kids to go to the principal, the police. But the kids running the thing...they paid them all off. Or threatened them into silence. People I thought I could trust turned on me because I didn't have the...status, the connections." He glanced up and snorted at Clark's expression. "You're thinking I have more than enough status. But I don't have unlimited money, not like some of these guys. Mine's tied up in trust funds. I couldn't afford to buy all my 'friends'--" He spat the word down into the loamy ground, "--back. And I don't have powerful parents who can call principals, or threaten to make life miserable for the other kids' families."
"So what happened?" Clark asked after a long silence.
"I had to give up on the whistleblower idea. I decided to go it alone. I gathered evidence. Photos. Recordings. Observations. I took them to the principal."
"And he expelled you," Clark said.
A humorless flash of a smile. "Good guess. Yes. He took my evidence and had me booted as a 'troublemaker.' Which I guess I was," he added thoughtfully.
Clark felt his stomach knotting at the injustice of it, but there was no one to confront about it, no battle to be fought. "I'm sorry," he said instead.
Bruce shook his head. "Maybe it's for the best. I was starting to hate Milton. I learned a lot in the classes, and a lot about group dynamics among wealthy white boys." He rocked back on his haunches. "It's not enough. But I don't know. Maybe it's all useless. Maybe I can't..." His voice trailed off and he didn't finish the sentence--not as if he were reluctant to say it, but as if he wasn't sure where it was going himself. He shrugged and bent back to the work.
Clark looked down at the ground and finished working a long, tangled root from the earth. The dirt smelled incongruously clean and fresh, like good dirt can. "I think you can probably do anything you decide to," he said. Bruce snorted, a sound with a self-deprecating edge to it, but didn't respond further. "We need some trash bags for these," Clark said, standing up and dusting off the knees of his jeans. Bruce looked at the heaps of weeds as if he was vaguely surprised to discover that they'd made so much progress before standing and following him.
The air was gray with the pale light before dawn and they left twin trails of darkened grass across the dew-beaded lawn. Clark pulled open the storage shed doors and turned on the weak bulb, casting dim yellow light around the space. Clark opened up one of the cabinets and began to rummage. Behind him he could hear Bruce moving around. "Hey, it's my old wagon," Bruce said, his voice distant. "And that crazy garden gnome Mrs. Elliot gave my mother. Alfred gave it such a look! I never knew where it ended up."
"Yeah," said Clark, "Everything finds its way here eventually, I think. It's like the Bermuda Triangle of missing objects." He pulled out a couple of plastic bags, then paused, biting his lip, unsure whether to say it. Then he blurted nonchalantly: "Though I never found that old letter opener we had as kids. You probably don't remember it."
"I remember it." Bruce's voice was farther way, like he was fading into the back of the shed.
"I looked all over for it," Clark said, keeping his voice studiously casual. "I guess it got thrown out, though. Too bad--it could have been an antique, could have been worth some real money."
"I suppose."
Clark closed the cabinet with a sudden flare of annoyance--at Bruce or himself, he wasn't sure which. "Well, it's not--" He broke off as he realized Bruce wasn't looking at him. Instead, he was standing in front of a statue that was tucked deep into a corner of the shed.
"What's this?" Bruce asked as Clark moved closer. "I never saw it before. I'd...have remembered it."
It was a statue of white marble with two winged figures, entwined as if they were battling--or dancing, or embracing, it wasn't exactly clear. The wings hid parts of them from view, so you could only seem them clearly as you walked around it. One figure was an angel with feathered wings upswept as through attacking or protecting. His face was oddly serene, classically perfect.
The other figure had bat-wings, the leathery texture perfectly captured in pale stone. The marble was so thin on the wings that light could shine through it like alabaster. As you walked around the statue, the face of the bat-winged figure would slowly come into view. Instead of being ugly or demonic, however, it was perhaps even more beautiful than the angel's face, alive with passion and a hint of humor to the lips. The two figures' eyes were locked on each other, frozen and timeless, caught in a transcendent moment of confrontation or illumination.
"It's pretty, isn't it?"
"Pretty," Bruce echoed as if the word had no meaning at all.
"It was for your mother's moon garden."
"My mother's--what?" Bruce looked at Clark as if he'd forgotten he was there.
"Moon garden. She was planning it with my mother. An all-white garden for watching the moon." Martha Kent still took the yellowing, brittle plans out now and then, usually on the anniversary of the Waynes' deaths.
Bruce reached out and touched the outermost wingtip of the angel with one finger. "It shouldn't be sitting here in the dark." He kept looking at the statue until Clark cleared his throat and rustled the trash bag meaningfully. "Oh, right. Weeding." He followed Clark out of the shed, but cast a last look at the statue as it slipped into the darkness once more.
: : :
The low morning sun was making the dew on the grass dazzle like a thousand lights when they finished weeding the garden. As they bagged up the last of the weeds, they heard a car crunching along the gravel driveway. Brushing off his hands, Bruce moved to the front of the house with Clark beside him, to find a police car pulling up.
Detective Hansen pulled something from the seat next to her: the Celestron telescope case. "Found this up on the bluff," she said, handing it to Bruce. "Thought you'd like to know--both the Cobblepot cottage and the farmhouse are empty. There's no sign of--well, there's no sign of violence at the farmhouse." No excessive blood and no body, Bruce mentally translated for her. That meant Gordon was probably alive when he was taken to wherever they took him. A wave of relief unhinged his knees without warning and he wobbled a step as he moved to take the telescope back.
"Thank you," he said.
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't go poking around that crime scene. We'll be taking care of it now, and we need to be able to find you if we have any more questions. Understand?"
It was Clark who responded this time. "We understand, Detective Hansen," he said politely.
She cast them a suspicious look, then put the car into gear once more. "You'd better," she said one more time as the car started to slip away.
"The library will be open soon," Bruce said, turning to Clark as the car disappeared around the bend. "Are you free?"
"You bet."
"Then let's go." Bruce went back in the front door. "Alfred?" he called as he swung open the door. The name echoed around the empty house, and as usual Bruce felt a tightening below his breastbone as he looked around at the furniture covered in white sheets, untouched and hidden. Like the winged statue, wasting its beauty on darkness and emptiness. For perhaps the first time since his parents' death he felt a fierce tenderness toward the house, the empty grounds, the rose garden pouring out its heady fragrance to the vacant air. He stopped still in the morning dimness, remembering laughter and music echoing down the grand stairway. I'll come back for good someday, he thought. I promise.
"You will?" He didn't realize until he heard Clark's voice that he'd spoken aloud. He turned to see Clark looking at him, his expression unreadable. "You won't just let all this rot away forever?" A pang of horror at the thought stabbed through Bruce, although he had never seriously considered what would happen to Wayne Manor in the future one way or another. "Alfred and my mother do a lot to keep it from falling apart," Clark went on.
"I want to live here again someday," Bruce said. He heard a note of wonder in his own voice at the words, but knew he meant them. Living at Wayne Manor didn't fit with any of his half-shaped dreams and plans.
And yet there it was.
Clark nodded--not in agreement, but as if he were considering Bruce's words, weighing them. "That's good."
Footsteps echoed down the hallway toward the great hall. "Ah, Master Bruce," said Alfred as he swung upon one of the heavy doors. "I thought I heard your voice. Forgive me for responding slowly."
"No problem," said Bruce. "Clark and I need to go to the library to do some research. Could you give us a ride?"
Alfred's eyes narrowed. "Is this related to that police officer you rescued?"
Behind Bruce, Clark cleared his throat. "Mr. White told me to find some books about the history of the Gotham Knights by Monday."
"I thought I'd help him look," Bruce ad-libbed.
Alfred looked pleased. "I'll bring the car around, sir."
"Nice save," Bruce said as he heard the door close behind Alfred.
"Well, it's actually true, too." Clark looked embarrassed to be caught telling the truth.
Bruce punched him lightly on the arm. "Then I'll help you with that like I said I would."
: : :
The library was steeped in early-morning hush. Bruce looked over at Clark, head bent over a book of maritime registries. Sunlight falling through the stained-glass window touched his hair with red, gold, and blue as he stared at the book, his mouth curved in a thoughtful frown. Bruce put aside one leather-bound volume of History of Gotham Families and reached for another. His eyes skimmed down the pages until he finally stopped and put his finger on a photograph, lips pursing in a silent whistle of triumph. He was about to say something to Clark when Clark made a small sound of excitement. "Got it!" he hissed. He turned the book around so Bruce could see, resting his finger on one column of text. "The Eastern Star, a freighter out of Hong Kong. I bet that's what the note meant."
"Look what I found," Bruce said in turn. He showed Clark the page: on it a group photograph, clearly a family, about twenty people in formal dress.
"That's--" Clark looked up from the photo, excitement kindling in his eyes. "That's the guy from the farmhouse, the boss." Indeed, although younger and better-dressed, he was clearly the beak-nosed man who had taken Gordon prisoner.
"That's Oswald Cobblepot," Bruce said. "I thought he looked familiar. Here's his uncle, standing in the middle. Definite family resemblance, I remembered it from the portrait in the summer cottage."
"So...the cottage with the weird noises coming from it, that's legally his? Why isn't he there? Why all the secrecy?"
Bruce propped his chin in his hand, staring at the photo. "Maybe he doesn't want to be connected to the house? My guess is they're using the area as a base for smuggling. They move the smuggled goods from the ocean up the bluff."
Clark frowned. "That's a long hike to do with boxes up an exposed cliff."
"I know. There's something more going on there." Bruce closed the book and tapped the leather cover thoughtfully. "But I think that's all we can do here."
Clark jumped up. "Okay, let's find Alfred and go home."
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
"Huh?" Clark paused, puzzled. "We found the ship and the Cobblepot connection, what more--"
"--Your Gotham Knights histories?"
A sheepish grin. "Oh yeah, those. But we need to--"
"--I promised I'd help you find some, and I will." Bruce couldn't resist reaching out and poking Clark in the ribs. "Besides, Alfred would find it suspicious if we didn't have anything to show for our visit."
"Oh yeah," Clark said. "You're sneaky," he added admiringly.
"That's nothing," Bruce said as they headed for the card catalog. "You should see me when I'm really trying."
: : :
They found Alfred ensconced in the historical fiction section, reading an old spy thriller. "Ah," he said as the boys drew near. "Did your researches bear fruit?" Clark held up the small stack of sports books and he nodded in approval. "Perhaps the two of you would join me for a bit of luncheon?"
Bruce started to say no. He was anxious to hurry home and get ready for this evening--and the plans he hadn't shared with Clark. Then he stopped.
"I'd like that," he said.
The flicker of pleased surprise in Alfred's eyes was gone almost before it registered. "Very well then, young sirs."
: : :
Bruce watched in some astonishment as Alfred Pennyworth picked up a large hamburger and began to eat it with impossible precision, wiping his fingers on the small paper napkin as if it were linen. Beside Bruce, Clark was heavily involved with his own burger. Bruce wasn't sure what he had expected lunch with Alfred to be--surely not crystal chandeliers and chamber music--but a burger and fries at Biggie Boy certainly had not been conceived as a possibility.
"And what information did you uncover today, Master Clark?"
Clark hastily finished chewing. "Um. I haven't had time to read the books yet, but--"
"--I was not referring to your baseball research." Alfred arched his eyebrows blandly as he lifted a french fry. "I meant the real reason you were so eager to get to the library."
Bruce glanced over to see Clark's jaw hanging ajar; apparently Clark's ability to lie ran dry when faced with Alfred Pennyworth. "It was my idea," he said to distract the butler's gimlet eyes from Clark.
The look Alfred turned on him was neutral, but Bruce fought an urge to squirm like a young boy in his seat. "Your idea to..." Alfred let the question hang in the air.
"To...find some information about the Gordon case," Bruce said as steadily as he could. "We were looking up information about the cottage on the bluff, the Cobblepot one."
"Oswald Cobblepot is running a smuggling ring!" blurted Clark.
Alfred frowned. "That's a serious accusation," he said.
"He was the man in charge of the thugs who took Gordon," Bruce said. "But we don't understand why he doesn't just claim his uncle's property."
Alfred's eyes narrowed. "It's not publicly known that Egbert Cobblepot died with a great amount of debts, but it's true. Oswald might not be willing to assume responsibility for them."
"Or he can't pay them off and got into the smuggling to make enough money so he can," put in Clark.
"Young Oswald was always a shady type," Alfred said. "I wouldn't be surprised if his illicit activities stretched back quite a long way." He took another fastidious bite of burger, looking thoughtful. Bruce was trying not to let his surprise show. Not only were they not being chastised by Alfred, he was taking them seriously, discussing their theories about the case like they were adults. Bruce felt a sudden warmth kindle in him, a sense of validation he hadn't felt in a long time.
"Have you ever heard of King Snake?" Bruce asked before he could think better of it.
Alfred's face darkened. "A Hong Kong kingpin and crime lord. I've heard of him, yes."
"Wow, how do you know so much?" Clark sounded impressed.
"A butler is an expert at keeping his ears open and his mouth closed," Alfred said. Bruce didn't feel that was a very satisfactory answer, but it was clearly all they were getting from him.
"So Oswald Cobblepot is working with King Snake to smuggle drugs into Gotham," Clark said, fiddling with his straw.
"Perhaps," said Alfred. He gave Bruce a warning look. "And although I understand and commend the desire to gather information, I do hope you will have the good sense to leave it at that."
"Don't worry," Clark said cheerfully. "We're not going to go running off looking for him or anything."
Bruce stretched his lips in a smile that he hoped was reassuring, counting on Clark's patent sincerity to carry him through the moment.
Alfred looked at Bruce for a long moment, his sharp gaze softening. "Master Bruce, I remember Officer Gordon well myself." Bruce looked down at the placemat, feeling heat burn his cheeks as Alfred went on. "He's a good man. I fully understand wanting to see him safe." There was a light touch on Bruce's hand, clenched into a fist on the checkered tablecloth. Bruce looked up, surprised, but Alfred's hands were already tidily folded in front of him again. "Your instincts do you credit. But you must understand that--" Alfred broke off for a moment. "--That it would be tragic indeed for all of us if something were to happen to you. I know that we have seen you little in the past years, but rest assured you have people who care about you deeply." His voice was as stiff and formal as if he were reciting a menu, but Bruce bit his lip, unable to meet his eyes.
"I'm--I'm sorry I haven't come home much," Bruce muttered.
"My dear boy, it's perfectly understandable--"
"--But I will," Bruce spoke over his words, lifting his eyes. "I promise I will someday. I'll come back and live in the Manor and it will be--not like it used to be, but--but--"
Alfred blinked at him as he stammered into silence, unable to articulate his words. "I shall be looking forward to the day, Master Bruce," he said gently.
"Cool," Clark announced as he wolfed down his last fries. "Are you going to eat those?" he asked, pointing at Bruce's plate of fries.
Bruce snorted a laugh and some of the tension seemed to leak out of him. "Help yourself," he said, shoving the plate over to him.
: : :
Bruce slipped through the shadows of the great hall and out the kitchen door, picking his way through the vegetable garden, weedless and tidy in the darkness. Alfred's bedroom window was dark, and Bruce felt a brief pang as he glanced at it. I'm sorry, Alfred. But there are things more important than safety. Nestled into the trees nearby, the Kents' cottage was also lightless and still.
Bruce looked at the darkened windows for a moment, then hurried down the hill toward the boathouse.
There was one piece of information on Detective Hansen's notepad he hadn't shared with Clark: 23:50. Military time. The time, Bruce suspected, when the Eastern Star would pass by Gotham and drop cargo to be picked up by Cobblepot and his gang. The time when Gordon might be handed over to King Snake's men.
He slipped slightly on the stony path in the dark and cursed to himself. He wasn't feeling badly he hadn't told Clark, he wasn't. Clark didn't owe anything to Gordon, and Bruce wasn't going to endanger him too. It wasn't because he was friends with Clark or anything--he'd destroyed that bond years ago, he knew that. It was just...when he was with Clark, digging weeds or doing research, he didn't feel like an alien anthropologist noting primate hierarchy rituals. He didn't feel like he was always observing himself and his effect on the other person, calculating his next statement. He was simply...with Clark.
The boathouse was silent in the inky, moonless night. The lapping of waves echoed inside the building as Bruce groped for the light switch. "Damn it," he muttered.
"Let me get that," said another voice, and the lights came on.
Clark Kent stood with his hand on the light switch, his jaw set in annoyance.
"What are you doing here?" said Bruce.
"I was planning on asking you the same thing," Clark retorted. "I could tell something was up, and it seemed a good guess you might try to take the motorboat. I just didn't know when." The severe line of his mouth tilted into a sudden, wry smile. "I've been here for about three hours now."
"This has nothing to do with you--"
"--Oh, screw that, Bruce," Clark said, exasperated. He rolled his eyes at Bruce's raised eyebrows. "What? Don't tell me I've shocked you with my language. I'm not a child, you know. And I helped save Gordon too. I did that research with you. There's no way I'm letting you do something stupid like this on your own."
"It could be dangerous," Bruce muttered, looking away.
"All the more reason," Clark said. He shrugged when Bruce didn't answer and started untying the ropes holding the smaller of the two motorboats to the mooring. "Look," he said with a quick glance over his shoulder. "Either I waste your time trying to talk you out of it, or we save time and I come along."
"I could just knock you out and go without you."
This time Clark's smile was bemused and amused at the same time. "That doesn't seem a very friendly thing to do."
"I'm not a very friendly person," Bruce said. The words sounded unexpectedly sullen and defensive as they echoed with the lapping water. "I would think that would be obvious by now."
Clark straightened, still holding the rope, and gave Bruce a long look. "Do you still like the Gray Ghost?"
Bruce considered possible answers. The Gray Ghost is for children. It's a silly, unrealistic story. I'm not a child. "Yeah," he heard himself say.
"Well, there you go," said Clark as if Bruce's answer settled everything. He put a foot on the prow of the boat and looked back at Bruce. "Let's go do something stupid and ridiculous and heroic together."
A few minutes later, Bruce started to back the boat out of the boathouse.
"You do have a license to drive this, right?" Clark asked suddenly.
"Um..."
"Oh boy."
The night was moonless and full of stars, the little inlet as smooth and clear as glass.
Bruce steered them out toward the open sea.
( Chapter Thirteen)
Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth
Rating: PG
Warnings: None needed
Continuity: The Gardens of Wayne Manor is an AU series in which Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne's lives intertwine at an early age. Click here for the complete series and series notes.
Word Count: 4800Summary: A day of research and gardening leads Bruce to some confessions and revelations.
"Your mother didn't mind you coming back?"
"No, it's fine," said Clark. It was mostly true. Martha Kent had gasped at his sodden and salt-crusted clothes, then listened to the story of their rescue--carefully framed to minimize any danger--with narrowed eyes, but had raised no objections to his spending the night at the Manor. No verbal objections, at least. Clark put the memory of her dubious look aside. "You said you found a clue?"
Bruce flipped open a small notebook. "When I hugged Detective Hansen, I got a look at her notes. Most of it was just what we had told her, but in the margins she'd scribbled a couple of other things. I saw--" He broke off at the look Clark was giving him. "What?"
"Were you just pretending to be all upset so you could sneak a look at her notes?"
"Of course!" Bruce scoffed. "You didn't think I was really getting all weepy there, did you?"
"Well, I...no." Clark hadn't been sure what to think, to be honest. Bruce's mood had been so odd since he came back from Milton--kicked out, he said--and he had seemed honestly rattled when he had recognized the police officer pulled from the surf.
"Don't be silly," Bruce said. "Getting all mushy isn't going to help Officer Gordon. See, I saw two phrases in the margins that stood out, because we'd never said them to her." He scratched a couple of words down with his pencil. "King snake and eastern star. But what would a snake have to do with any of this? I didn't see any snakes in that farmhouse--"
"Was 'king snake' capitalized?"
Bruce cast his eyes up, recalling. "It...could have been. Hard to tell from her handwriting."
Clark stood up and paced back and forth across the room, like he'd seen detectives on television do. "Perry White was yelling this week about a story the chief editor had killed. It was about a smuggling ring that was expanding from Hong Kong into Gotham. I'm pretty sure he said the leader of the ring was called King Snake."
"Smugglers?" Bruce whistled. "Do you think maybe Gordon was working undercover to try and catch them? And they caught him at it?" He rested his chin in his hands, staring at nothing. "And those guys in the farmhouse--they might be working with the smugglers too. We--we might have given him right back to the people he was trying to get away from."
Bruce looked so stricken at the thought that Clark couldn't help wincing. "If we hadn't been there he probably would have drowned." But Bruce was scowling, his thoughts drawn into himself. He seemed suddenly as distant as the moons of Saturn, as hard to make out. "Bruce. There's nothing we can do."
"There's always something we can do," muttered Bruce as if he wasn't really listening.
"Well, there's nothing we can do right now," Clark amended. There had to be some way to reach Bruce, get him back in the room. "Tomorrow morning we'll go to the library, we'll try to figure out what Eastern Star is. If what I heard from Mr. White is right, I'm betting it's a ship registered in Hong Kong."
Bruce was still frowning, but nodded. "You should go home, get some sleep," he said. Was that a hint of reluctance in his voice? Clark decided there was.
"Are you kidding? I couldn't possibly sleep."
"The library doesn't open until ten," Bruce pointed out. "What are you planning on doing until then?"
"Well," Clark said, "Ma needs me to weed out the kitchen garden. I could go do that. Or we could talk. Unless you'd rather brood some more?"
For just a second he thought he'd pushed it too far: Bruce glanced at him sharply. Then his mouth twitched in something close to a smile. "We could talk while you weed," Bruce said.
"We can talk while we weed," Clark corrected. "It won't hurt you to get your hands dirty."
Bruce shook his head. His mouth was annoyed, but his eyes were not. Not quite. "I guess it won't," he said.
A half-hour later Clark was tugging at the weeds growing in amongst the basil while Bruce was clearing out the tomato patch nearby. They had a spotlight shining on the garden, but it was slow going in the dark. "Don't pull up any of the tomatoes," he said to Bruce.
Bruce made an exasperated sound. "I think I know the difference between a weed and a tomato plant, Clark."
They weeded in silence for a while. From the oak nearby an owl hooted softly. Then Bruce sputtered as he yanked on a particularly stubborn weed. "Come--out of there--you damn--thing!" A sharp, vicious tug, and a plant was hurled through the air to land with a sodden thud in the growing pile of weeds. "It all just comes back," Bruce muttered.
"Yeah," Clark said, yanking on a deep root.
"No matter what you do, it just comes back," Bruce repeated through his teeth.
"Uh-huh."
"You pull it up and it just comes back and chokes out all the good stuff."
Clark made a wordless sound of agreement, although he wasn't sure Bruce was still talking about gardening.
"What's the damn use of it?" Bruce growled, ripping up another weed. "You try and try and then you find out people don't even care, they don't want things to get better. No one--No one will--" He broke off and scrubbed at his face with a dirty hand, leaving a dark smudge on his cheekbone.
Clark looked back down at the basil. "I care," he said, picking up a clot of dirt and crumbling it between his fingers. He patted the dirt back down around the basil plant, brushing some off its leaves.
Bruce was silent for a long time, though his weeding calmed down a little and became less furious. "There were kids dealing drugs at Milton," he said after a while. "Upperclassmen. They'd get the younger kids hooked on it and then make them regular customers."
"Oh," said Clark.
"They were working with the townie kids--that's what they called them, townies--to keep the supply running. They had a good racket going. Got a kid I knew hooked really bad."
"What did you do?" It was, of course, unthinkable that Bruce hadn't done something.
"I tried to convince some of the younger kids to go to the principal, the police. But the kids running the thing...they paid them all off. Or threatened them into silence. People I thought I could trust turned on me because I didn't have the...status, the connections." He glanced up and snorted at Clark's expression. "You're thinking I have more than enough status. But I don't have unlimited money, not like some of these guys. Mine's tied up in trust funds. I couldn't afford to buy all my 'friends'--" He spat the word down into the loamy ground, "--back. And I don't have powerful parents who can call principals, or threaten to make life miserable for the other kids' families."
"So what happened?" Clark asked after a long silence.
"I had to give up on the whistleblower idea. I decided to go it alone. I gathered evidence. Photos. Recordings. Observations. I took them to the principal."
"And he expelled you," Clark said.
A humorless flash of a smile. "Good guess. Yes. He took my evidence and had me booted as a 'troublemaker.' Which I guess I was," he added thoughtfully.
Clark felt his stomach knotting at the injustice of it, but there was no one to confront about it, no battle to be fought. "I'm sorry," he said instead.
Bruce shook his head. "Maybe it's for the best. I was starting to hate Milton. I learned a lot in the classes, and a lot about group dynamics among wealthy white boys." He rocked back on his haunches. "It's not enough. But I don't know. Maybe it's all useless. Maybe I can't..." His voice trailed off and he didn't finish the sentence--not as if he were reluctant to say it, but as if he wasn't sure where it was going himself. He shrugged and bent back to the work.
Clark looked down at the ground and finished working a long, tangled root from the earth. The dirt smelled incongruously clean and fresh, like good dirt can. "I think you can probably do anything you decide to," he said. Bruce snorted, a sound with a self-deprecating edge to it, but didn't respond further. "We need some trash bags for these," Clark said, standing up and dusting off the knees of his jeans. Bruce looked at the heaps of weeds as if he was vaguely surprised to discover that they'd made so much progress before standing and following him.
The air was gray with the pale light before dawn and they left twin trails of darkened grass across the dew-beaded lawn. Clark pulled open the storage shed doors and turned on the weak bulb, casting dim yellow light around the space. Clark opened up one of the cabinets and began to rummage. Behind him he could hear Bruce moving around. "Hey, it's my old wagon," Bruce said, his voice distant. "And that crazy garden gnome Mrs. Elliot gave my mother. Alfred gave it such a look! I never knew where it ended up."
"Yeah," said Clark, "Everything finds its way here eventually, I think. It's like the Bermuda Triangle of missing objects." He pulled out a couple of plastic bags, then paused, biting his lip, unsure whether to say it. Then he blurted nonchalantly: "Though I never found that old letter opener we had as kids. You probably don't remember it."
"I remember it." Bruce's voice was farther way, like he was fading into the back of the shed.
"I looked all over for it," Clark said, keeping his voice studiously casual. "I guess it got thrown out, though. Too bad--it could have been an antique, could have been worth some real money."
"I suppose."
Clark closed the cabinet with a sudden flare of annoyance--at Bruce or himself, he wasn't sure which. "Well, it's not--" He broke off as he realized Bruce wasn't looking at him. Instead, he was standing in front of a statue that was tucked deep into a corner of the shed.
"What's this?" Bruce asked as Clark moved closer. "I never saw it before. I'd...have remembered it."
It was a statue of white marble with two winged figures, entwined as if they were battling--or dancing, or embracing, it wasn't exactly clear. The wings hid parts of them from view, so you could only seem them clearly as you walked around it. One figure was an angel with feathered wings upswept as through attacking or protecting. His face was oddly serene, classically perfect.
The other figure had bat-wings, the leathery texture perfectly captured in pale stone. The marble was so thin on the wings that light could shine through it like alabaster. As you walked around the statue, the face of the bat-winged figure would slowly come into view. Instead of being ugly or demonic, however, it was perhaps even more beautiful than the angel's face, alive with passion and a hint of humor to the lips. The two figures' eyes were locked on each other, frozen and timeless, caught in a transcendent moment of confrontation or illumination.
"It's pretty, isn't it?"
"Pretty," Bruce echoed as if the word had no meaning at all.
"It was for your mother's moon garden."
"My mother's--what?" Bruce looked at Clark as if he'd forgotten he was there.
"Moon garden. She was planning it with my mother. An all-white garden for watching the moon." Martha Kent still took the yellowing, brittle plans out now and then, usually on the anniversary of the Waynes' deaths.
Bruce reached out and touched the outermost wingtip of the angel with one finger. "It shouldn't be sitting here in the dark." He kept looking at the statue until Clark cleared his throat and rustled the trash bag meaningfully. "Oh, right. Weeding." He followed Clark out of the shed, but cast a last look at the statue as it slipped into the darkness once more.
: : :
The low morning sun was making the dew on the grass dazzle like a thousand lights when they finished weeding the garden. As they bagged up the last of the weeds, they heard a car crunching along the gravel driveway. Brushing off his hands, Bruce moved to the front of the house with Clark beside him, to find a police car pulling up.
Detective Hansen pulled something from the seat next to her: the Celestron telescope case. "Found this up on the bluff," she said, handing it to Bruce. "Thought you'd like to know--both the Cobblepot cottage and the farmhouse are empty. There's no sign of--well, there's no sign of violence at the farmhouse." No excessive blood and no body, Bruce mentally translated for her. That meant Gordon was probably alive when he was taken to wherever they took him. A wave of relief unhinged his knees without warning and he wobbled a step as he moved to take the telescope back.
"Thank you," he said.
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't go poking around that crime scene. We'll be taking care of it now, and we need to be able to find you if we have any more questions. Understand?"
It was Clark who responded this time. "We understand, Detective Hansen," he said politely.
She cast them a suspicious look, then put the car into gear once more. "You'd better," she said one more time as the car started to slip away.
"The library will be open soon," Bruce said, turning to Clark as the car disappeared around the bend. "Are you free?"
"You bet."
"Then let's go." Bruce went back in the front door. "Alfred?" he called as he swung open the door. The name echoed around the empty house, and as usual Bruce felt a tightening below his breastbone as he looked around at the furniture covered in white sheets, untouched and hidden. Like the winged statue, wasting its beauty on darkness and emptiness. For perhaps the first time since his parents' death he felt a fierce tenderness toward the house, the empty grounds, the rose garden pouring out its heady fragrance to the vacant air. He stopped still in the morning dimness, remembering laughter and music echoing down the grand stairway. I'll come back for good someday, he thought. I promise.
"You will?" He didn't realize until he heard Clark's voice that he'd spoken aloud. He turned to see Clark looking at him, his expression unreadable. "You won't just let all this rot away forever?" A pang of horror at the thought stabbed through Bruce, although he had never seriously considered what would happen to Wayne Manor in the future one way or another. "Alfred and my mother do a lot to keep it from falling apart," Clark went on.
"I want to live here again someday," Bruce said. He heard a note of wonder in his own voice at the words, but knew he meant them. Living at Wayne Manor didn't fit with any of his half-shaped dreams and plans.
And yet there it was.
Clark nodded--not in agreement, but as if he were considering Bruce's words, weighing them. "That's good."
Footsteps echoed down the hallway toward the great hall. "Ah, Master Bruce," said Alfred as he swung upon one of the heavy doors. "I thought I heard your voice. Forgive me for responding slowly."
"No problem," said Bruce. "Clark and I need to go to the library to do some research. Could you give us a ride?"
Alfred's eyes narrowed. "Is this related to that police officer you rescued?"
Behind Bruce, Clark cleared his throat. "Mr. White told me to find some books about the history of the Gotham Knights by Monday."
"I thought I'd help him look," Bruce ad-libbed.
Alfred looked pleased. "I'll bring the car around, sir."
"Nice save," Bruce said as he heard the door close behind Alfred.
"Well, it's actually true, too." Clark looked embarrassed to be caught telling the truth.
Bruce punched him lightly on the arm. "Then I'll help you with that like I said I would."
: : :
The library was steeped in early-morning hush. Bruce looked over at Clark, head bent over a book of maritime registries. Sunlight falling through the stained-glass window touched his hair with red, gold, and blue as he stared at the book, his mouth curved in a thoughtful frown. Bruce put aside one leather-bound volume of History of Gotham Families and reached for another. His eyes skimmed down the pages until he finally stopped and put his finger on a photograph, lips pursing in a silent whistle of triumph. He was about to say something to Clark when Clark made a small sound of excitement. "Got it!" he hissed. He turned the book around so Bruce could see, resting his finger on one column of text. "The Eastern Star, a freighter out of Hong Kong. I bet that's what the note meant."
"Look what I found," Bruce said in turn. He showed Clark the page: on it a group photograph, clearly a family, about twenty people in formal dress.
"That's--" Clark looked up from the photo, excitement kindling in his eyes. "That's the guy from the farmhouse, the boss." Indeed, although younger and better-dressed, he was clearly the beak-nosed man who had taken Gordon prisoner.
"That's Oswald Cobblepot," Bruce said. "I thought he looked familiar. Here's his uncle, standing in the middle. Definite family resemblance, I remembered it from the portrait in the summer cottage."
"So...the cottage with the weird noises coming from it, that's legally his? Why isn't he there? Why all the secrecy?"
Bruce propped his chin in his hand, staring at the photo. "Maybe he doesn't want to be connected to the house? My guess is they're using the area as a base for smuggling. They move the smuggled goods from the ocean up the bluff."
Clark frowned. "That's a long hike to do with boxes up an exposed cliff."
"I know. There's something more going on there." Bruce closed the book and tapped the leather cover thoughtfully. "But I think that's all we can do here."
Clark jumped up. "Okay, let's find Alfred and go home."
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
"Huh?" Clark paused, puzzled. "We found the ship and the Cobblepot connection, what more--"
"--Your Gotham Knights histories?"
A sheepish grin. "Oh yeah, those. But we need to--"
"--I promised I'd help you find some, and I will." Bruce couldn't resist reaching out and poking Clark in the ribs. "Besides, Alfred would find it suspicious if we didn't have anything to show for our visit."
"Oh yeah," Clark said. "You're sneaky," he added admiringly.
"That's nothing," Bruce said as they headed for the card catalog. "You should see me when I'm really trying."
: : :
They found Alfred ensconced in the historical fiction section, reading an old spy thriller. "Ah," he said as the boys drew near. "Did your researches bear fruit?" Clark held up the small stack of sports books and he nodded in approval. "Perhaps the two of you would join me for a bit of luncheon?"
Bruce started to say no. He was anxious to hurry home and get ready for this evening--and the plans he hadn't shared with Clark. Then he stopped.
"I'd like that," he said.
The flicker of pleased surprise in Alfred's eyes was gone almost before it registered. "Very well then, young sirs."
: : :
Bruce watched in some astonishment as Alfred Pennyworth picked up a large hamburger and began to eat it with impossible precision, wiping his fingers on the small paper napkin as if it were linen. Beside Bruce, Clark was heavily involved with his own burger. Bruce wasn't sure what he had expected lunch with Alfred to be--surely not crystal chandeliers and chamber music--but a burger and fries at Biggie Boy certainly had not been conceived as a possibility.
"And what information did you uncover today, Master Clark?"
Clark hastily finished chewing. "Um. I haven't had time to read the books yet, but--"
"--I was not referring to your baseball research." Alfred arched his eyebrows blandly as he lifted a french fry. "I meant the real reason you were so eager to get to the library."
Bruce glanced over to see Clark's jaw hanging ajar; apparently Clark's ability to lie ran dry when faced with Alfred Pennyworth. "It was my idea," he said to distract the butler's gimlet eyes from Clark.
The look Alfred turned on him was neutral, but Bruce fought an urge to squirm like a young boy in his seat. "Your idea to..." Alfred let the question hang in the air.
"To...find some information about the Gordon case," Bruce said as steadily as he could. "We were looking up information about the cottage on the bluff, the Cobblepot one."
"Oswald Cobblepot is running a smuggling ring!" blurted Clark.
Alfred frowned. "That's a serious accusation," he said.
"He was the man in charge of the thugs who took Gordon," Bruce said. "But we don't understand why he doesn't just claim his uncle's property."
Alfred's eyes narrowed. "It's not publicly known that Egbert Cobblepot died with a great amount of debts, but it's true. Oswald might not be willing to assume responsibility for them."
"Or he can't pay them off and got into the smuggling to make enough money so he can," put in Clark.
"Young Oswald was always a shady type," Alfred said. "I wouldn't be surprised if his illicit activities stretched back quite a long way." He took another fastidious bite of burger, looking thoughtful. Bruce was trying not to let his surprise show. Not only were they not being chastised by Alfred, he was taking them seriously, discussing their theories about the case like they were adults. Bruce felt a sudden warmth kindle in him, a sense of validation he hadn't felt in a long time.
"Have you ever heard of King Snake?" Bruce asked before he could think better of it.
Alfred's face darkened. "A Hong Kong kingpin and crime lord. I've heard of him, yes."
"Wow, how do you know so much?" Clark sounded impressed.
"A butler is an expert at keeping his ears open and his mouth closed," Alfred said. Bruce didn't feel that was a very satisfactory answer, but it was clearly all they were getting from him.
"So Oswald Cobblepot is working with King Snake to smuggle drugs into Gotham," Clark said, fiddling with his straw.
"Perhaps," said Alfred. He gave Bruce a warning look. "And although I understand and commend the desire to gather information, I do hope you will have the good sense to leave it at that."
"Don't worry," Clark said cheerfully. "We're not going to go running off looking for him or anything."
Bruce stretched his lips in a smile that he hoped was reassuring, counting on Clark's patent sincerity to carry him through the moment.
Alfred looked at Bruce for a long moment, his sharp gaze softening. "Master Bruce, I remember Officer Gordon well myself." Bruce looked down at the placemat, feeling heat burn his cheeks as Alfred went on. "He's a good man. I fully understand wanting to see him safe." There was a light touch on Bruce's hand, clenched into a fist on the checkered tablecloth. Bruce looked up, surprised, but Alfred's hands were already tidily folded in front of him again. "Your instincts do you credit. But you must understand that--" Alfred broke off for a moment. "--That it would be tragic indeed for all of us if something were to happen to you. I know that we have seen you little in the past years, but rest assured you have people who care about you deeply." His voice was as stiff and formal as if he were reciting a menu, but Bruce bit his lip, unable to meet his eyes.
"I'm--I'm sorry I haven't come home much," Bruce muttered.
"My dear boy, it's perfectly understandable--"
"--But I will," Bruce spoke over his words, lifting his eyes. "I promise I will someday. I'll come back and live in the Manor and it will be--not like it used to be, but--but--"
Alfred blinked at him as he stammered into silence, unable to articulate his words. "I shall be looking forward to the day, Master Bruce," he said gently.
"Cool," Clark announced as he wolfed down his last fries. "Are you going to eat those?" he asked, pointing at Bruce's plate of fries.
Bruce snorted a laugh and some of the tension seemed to leak out of him. "Help yourself," he said, shoving the plate over to him.
: : :
Bruce slipped through the shadows of the great hall and out the kitchen door, picking his way through the vegetable garden, weedless and tidy in the darkness. Alfred's bedroom window was dark, and Bruce felt a brief pang as he glanced at it. I'm sorry, Alfred. But there are things more important than safety. Nestled into the trees nearby, the Kents' cottage was also lightless and still.
Bruce looked at the darkened windows for a moment, then hurried down the hill toward the boathouse.
There was one piece of information on Detective Hansen's notepad he hadn't shared with Clark: 23:50. Military time. The time, Bruce suspected, when the Eastern Star would pass by Gotham and drop cargo to be picked up by Cobblepot and his gang. The time when Gordon might be handed over to King Snake's men.
He slipped slightly on the stony path in the dark and cursed to himself. He wasn't feeling badly he hadn't told Clark, he wasn't. Clark didn't owe anything to Gordon, and Bruce wasn't going to endanger him too. It wasn't because he was friends with Clark or anything--he'd destroyed that bond years ago, he knew that. It was just...when he was with Clark, digging weeds or doing research, he didn't feel like an alien anthropologist noting primate hierarchy rituals. He didn't feel like he was always observing himself and his effect on the other person, calculating his next statement. He was simply...with Clark.
The boathouse was silent in the inky, moonless night. The lapping of waves echoed inside the building as Bruce groped for the light switch. "Damn it," he muttered.
"Let me get that," said another voice, and the lights came on.
Clark Kent stood with his hand on the light switch, his jaw set in annoyance.
"What are you doing here?" said Bruce.
"I was planning on asking you the same thing," Clark retorted. "I could tell something was up, and it seemed a good guess you might try to take the motorboat. I just didn't know when." The severe line of his mouth tilted into a sudden, wry smile. "I've been here for about three hours now."
"This has nothing to do with you--"
"--Oh, screw that, Bruce," Clark said, exasperated. He rolled his eyes at Bruce's raised eyebrows. "What? Don't tell me I've shocked you with my language. I'm not a child, you know. And I helped save Gordon too. I did that research with you. There's no way I'm letting you do something stupid like this on your own."
"It could be dangerous," Bruce muttered, looking away.
"All the more reason," Clark said. He shrugged when Bruce didn't answer and started untying the ropes holding the smaller of the two motorboats to the mooring. "Look," he said with a quick glance over his shoulder. "Either I waste your time trying to talk you out of it, or we save time and I come along."
"I could just knock you out and go without you."
This time Clark's smile was bemused and amused at the same time. "That doesn't seem a very friendly thing to do."
"I'm not a very friendly person," Bruce said. The words sounded unexpectedly sullen and defensive as they echoed with the lapping water. "I would think that would be obvious by now."
Clark straightened, still holding the rope, and gave Bruce a long look. "Do you still like the Gray Ghost?"
Bruce considered possible answers. The Gray Ghost is for children. It's a silly, unrealistic story. I'm not a child. "Yeah," he heard himself say.
"Well, there you go," said Clark as if Bruce's answer settled everything. He put a foot on the prow of the boat and looked back at Bruce. "Let's go do something stupid and ridiculous and heroic together."
A few minutes later, Bruce started to back the boat out of the boathouse.
"You do have a license to drive this, right?" Clark asked suddenly.
"Um..."
"Oh boy."
The night was moonless and full of stars, the little inlet as smooth and clear as glass.
Bruce steered them out toward the open sea.
( Chapter Thirteen)