"You know, Kyle," Victoria Steele comments, spearing a cherry tomato on her fork, "You might have one of the driest senses of humor of anyone I know. I honestly didn't expect it, truly."
He smirks slightly, sipping from his wine glass as they work through a house salad apiece and take in the ambiance of Reggiano's, one of Cosmopolis' most celebrated steakhouses. There was a certain irony to taking his father's prosecutor out to the restaurant where his father was celebrating his own current misfortunes, "I hear the steaks are excellent here," He replies, evading any acknowledgement of her true meaning.
"And I can't
wait to find out," She makes a small toast in his direction with her own wine glass, taking a sip, "Mm! Amazing," She savors her wine, taking full advantage of the situation. She might only be pretending to be interested in him, and he was only pretending to be interested in her, but there was no reason to fake appreciation for good food and wine when a genuine reaction was fully deserved. On any other occasion, Kyle might think himself quite lucky to be sitting across from a beautiful woman like Victoria, but he could not for a second forget that she was likely the one who murdered six men and framed Nighthawk for it. Yes, those men had attacked her and likely planned unspeakable things… But he didn't feel like that was the motivation behind the murders.
He'd had the better part of a day to consider what Ms. Steele was up to, how this whole thing fit together. She was in a high pressure job that demanded a lot of her time and energy, and she blew off steam by going clubbing. That at least explained why she was out so late that night. She could have murdered those men out of simple cynicism - knowing the system would never truly punish them, no matter what vile things they'd had planned for her. She might have secretly harbored some sort of grudge against Nighthawk and was willing to act on the opportunity presented when he saved her. That it undermined her own case was simply collateral damage.
Or…
His fork pushes salad around his plate as he thinks. Or, she was not a simple damsel in distress, those men had some sort of grievance against her, and Nighthawk had misread the entire situation, playing right into her hands. His actions allowed her to obfuscate her own involvement, putting the spotlight on the hawk and turning Dusk Panorama against him. If that was the case, it highlighted a terrifying, calculating intellect. One able to perform as a frightened woman while waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike at her prey, who thought they were the predators.
"You're awfully quiet this evening, Kyle," Victoria says, breaking through his thoughts, "Cat got your tongue?"
"Hmmm," He chuckles, "Long nights. I work hard to keep the company afloat with my dad… Indisposed."
She chews her food thoughtfully, "If he didn't want to be inconvenienced, he shouldn't have broken the law."
"Allegedly-"
"Let's not season our delicious meal with bullshit, Kyle," She interrupts, "We both know exactly what your father is."
Kyle stares at her, smoothing out a wrinkle in the tablecloth as he considers his next words, "I was hoping our date could be more than just another sparring match over my father."
"What, am I making you uncomfortable?" She smirks.
He shakes his head, "No, just bored. My father is hardly the most interesting topic to me. I'd like to know more about you."
"Hmm, hm hm," She chuckles, looking at her salad, "And what do you want to know about me, Kyle?"
"How did you get to my office like that?" He asks, pretending to be fascinated instead of disturbed.
"Pass," She shakes her head.
"Got any hobbies?"
"Ugh, pass," She rolls her eyes.
"..." He interlocks his fingers over his wine glass, "What happened to you during those two years in Europe?" This gets her attention, a measured look that watches him carefully, "You said you found yourself during that time. Who did you find in the mirror?"
Victoria reaches out for her wine, taking a long sip, and setting the glass down before she answers. She taps her finger on the stem, once… Twice… Three times, and looked at him, "Just an animal."
He laughs for a moment, confused, "I don't understand," He responds.
"I doubt you would," She shakes her head, "The wealthy scion of a multimillion dollar business would have a hard time reaching that sort of… Clarity. Transparency with oneself."
Kyle swallows a sarcastic remark, instead pulling on the thread, "Maybe if you explained it to me," He smiles, "I could understand better."
"You've got too much protecting you from the harsh, caustic vitriol of reality," She says dismissively, "You might be less of a bastard than your father, but I think I respect you less for it, honestly. I bet he'd understand what I was talking about in a second."
"I think I already said I was bored talking about my dad," He replies a little heatedly. They stare at each other for a long moment, the pretense of attraction dropped for something a little more… Honest.
"Looks like those salads are finished, how did we like them?" The waiter comes by, "Let me get those for you, what are we thinking for dinner? Hmm?"
"Chateaubriand," Kyle says, handing the menu to the waiter without breaking eye contact with Victoria, "With the caramelized onions."
"
Someone isn't getting a kiss goodnight," She says with another eyeroll, grabbing her menu and studying it again and then handing it to the waiter as well, "The Cosmo Strip, with a lobster tail-" She pauses, smiling, "Make it
two lobster tails. I didn't get lunch today."
Kyle smiles like he wields a scalpel, only pretending to be cutely amused and not underwhelmed by her petty display, "I get the sense
someone will be going dutch tonight."
That got her attention, a genuinely indignant look playing across her face, "That wasn't the nature of our deal, Kyle."
"Then let me lay it out plainly for you," Kyle keeps smiling, even though he's livid, "Don't assume you know me because I grew up rich. Don't assume you know me because of what you know about my dad, and in fact," He swipes his hand through the air, "Leave my father out of it entirely. I'd like at least one night without him ruining my appetite."
"...I suppose I do have you at a bit of a disadvantage," She concedes, leaning back in her chair. She ponders this for a moment before exhaling slowly. "This was years ago, I was twenty-four, just graduated law school and passed the bar. I thought… What the hell, Paris had been nice for a summer, why not try to make a go of it? Just for a little while." She grows distant, and for a moment he wonders what could have happened to her, if she had experienced some sort of trauma.
"It turned into a two year stay," She says, "Best two years of my life."
Kyle blinks in surprise, even more intrigued, "Sounds magical," He replies sardonically.
"Nah, nothing magical about it," She shakes her head, "Pure
id, my friend. I began a journey through the darkest places I could never have imagined. Each level down stripped a pretense, a safety blanket away from the core of my soul, until I reached the end, and there was only me. Before I went on that long walk down," She laughs, "I used to believe all sorts of things."
Victoria sips her wine, pauses, and then drains her glass, "Man is an animal," She says with a satisfying sigh, "And I mean all humankind, not just making a dig at men. And every animal is a creature of appetites. And our hungriest appetite is the desire for meaning. We crave it so much we try to apply it to everything in life. It's crazy. Totally, totally crazy. And there's a layer, on the way down, where you realize even an appeal to rationality, to being rational and sensible, that's just another ludicrous attempt to find meaning in something."
"This sounds like your basic case of European nihilism," He replies dryly.
"It would be nice if you could categorize it away so neatly," She retorts, "But it isn't so easy when you have experienced it firsthand. I could torture myself for the rest of my life trying to conform to a lie of rationality… Or I could me, and embrace the hunger and let it be free. Tempered, of course," She raises a finger, "Your appetites are endless. They're bottomless. They'll eat you too if you're not careful. You've got to make sure they don't bite the hand that feeds them."
"So… What, you embrace some Epicureanism?" Kyle was almost disappointed in her speech, "Some tempered form of hedonistic impulse?"
"Don't sound so dismissive," She replies, "Imagine how much happier you would be if you stopped holding back what you want most dearly from life. You have to make some sacrifices, sure… But you can feed the beast and be safe from it, hell, be happy because of it."
Feed the beast, he muses, indulging in the thought of letting loose. The first thought in his mind is the image of his father's face, flattened into a pulp of bone, flesh, blood, and brains, crushed into oblivion with a blow for every rotten thing he had ever done… But he sours on the idea almost immediately. Not because it doesn't feel good, but because he knows it accomplishes nothing for anyone but himself in the very short term.
"So… Meaning, purpose, these are just lies we tell ourselves thinking they'll make us happy?" He asks.
"We're told they're the ultimate answer to our problems," She shrugs, "But they're just another mouth to feed. Better to focus on the ones that truly make you happy, and aren't delusions." She holds out her glass as the waiter comes by to refill it, and when it's topped off with deep, dark red wine, she sips it with closed eyes. She savors the flavor, the intensity of the drink, before looking back at him. "I know this is real. This is something that I can grab with two hands. I can drink it. I can have it. It can have me back. You can't do that with a wish, a dream, or a purpose."
"So why be a prosecutor," He asks, sipping his own wine, "Can't make that much money."
"No," She agrees readily, "But it answers a deeper calling of my soul."
"And that is…?"
She smiles, shark-like, "To be amongst my kind, Kyle. And in our environment, in our rules, it's hunt, or be hunted. I get to pit my mind and my skills against some of the toughest, motivated, and clever bastards this world has to offer… And I do so enjoy beating them, and I get to say I do it under the more challenging conditions. They play with the deck stacked in their favor. Every time I win, I've earned that win."
"...You must have really hated when Nighthawk practically handed you my father on a silver platter, then," He says brashly, "Must have seemed too easy."
Victoria's smile fades, "It did take some of the fun out of it," She murmurs, "But I'll still take it." They sit silently, musing on the matter for a few minutes without talking. Kyle tries to relax, realizing his jaw was clenched.
"What do you think of him?" She asks, swirling her wine in the glass and admiring the way the light catches the red.
"Who?"
She makes a face, "The
Nighthawk," Her tone implies it should have been obvious… And perhaps it should have been to him.
"He's a murderer," He says automatically.
"So?" She asks, "That means nothing to how you think about him."
"You don't dislike
murderers off the bat?" He raises an eyebrow.
She rolls her eyes, "The only people he's accused of murdering are Tyson Raine and those six Dusk Panorama thugs…" She sips her wine, "And if we're going to pretend some other people are only allegedly criminals, then I think we can extend the same benefit to the city's dark protector."
"Protectors don't kill," He replies steadfastly.
"Ha!" She laughs, "How do you square that with soldiers, policemen- That makes no sense."
"It's-" He grits his teeth, "It's different. The Nighthawk is different from those people. He's a freak in a mask, running around in the night beating up people."
"So you don't like him," She pressed.
"Categorically," He agrees, "They should drag him off the streets."
"So why do you think he's trying to help people, then?" She runs her finger around the rim of her glass, "What drives him to go after men like your father
and men like those Panorama gangsters?"
"I think…" Kyle hesitates, "I think he thinks he's trying to help people. But it's crazy."
"Is it?" She asks, "Like I said, you exist in a world where money and power shield you from the dangers of recognizing your own petty existence… But he seems like someone who's been awakened to his true self. You call it crazy, but there's nothing more
rational to me than someone who realized what he wanted and went after it with such… Conviction."
Victoria shakes her head, "The rules that tie one hand behind my back were created to favor the presumption of innocence over guilt… But those rules were written by guilty men," She laughs, "Guilty men are the men with power, and they used that power to protect themselves from ideas like justice or righteousness… They only play along with those ideas because it protects them from what they truly fear."
"...And what's that?" Kyle asks, frowning.
"Vengeance," She says softly. After a few moments, she adds, "I don't resent the rules as they exist. I cavort in the hunting ground they create for me. Everyone needs limitations, like I said… To keep our appetites from eating us."
"And what do you think about Nighthawk?" Kyle asks, noticing their food coming out from the kitchen.
"He's… Different than I originally imagined," She admits.
"In what way?" The way she phrased that makes him frown, but he's not sure what she meant.
"Hmm…" Victoria muses on this for a moment, "I'm honestly surprised he's not more bloodthirsty. Seems to me that if he truly wanted the catharsis he's so obviously hunting, he'd get it much faster by snapping some necks."
"...Snapping some more necks, you mean," Kyle says softly, squinting at her.
"Something like that," She covers up her statement, looking very excited over her approaching dinner. Two plates are set, their wine is topped off again, and the two get to work devouring their meals, though both do so with the etiquette expected of them in such an establishment. They eat silently for a while, and Kyle reflects on how this conversation had gone.
"You're being more open than I expected," He comments, "You're not afraid I might use any of this to help my father?"
"Mm…" She chews her lobster, and swallows, "Less so, now."
He raises an eyebrow, and she shrugs, pointing her steak knife at him, "You clearly despise the man. Doesn't surprise me much, I doubt he was that great of a father. You have to do what you have to do to not get written out of the will, of course, but I bet you're secretly begging for the moment he's gone and you're the one in control."
"Is it that obvious?" He asks, sipping his wine.
"No," Victoria responds honestly, "It isn't. You keep up a pretty good poker face. Might be the most attractive thing about you."
He's almost taken aback by that comment. He hadn't expected any sort of admission of actual attraction for him, and the context was… Surprising, to say the least. He stares at her for a moment, watching as a sly grin splits her face.
"You know I was only
pretending to find you attractive," He responds, "Because I thought it could get me something I wanted."
"No, you weren't," Her eyebrows went up.
"I think I'd know-"
"You found me attractive," She asserts, "But there's also something you want.
I was pretending to find you attractive because I wanted you to turn on your father."
"So you don't find me attractive," He responds.
"I didn't…"
"...But you do now?"
She stares at him before giving a coy shrug, "Maybe I do?"
Kyle gazes at her for a long moment, leaning forward, "And what do you think it is I want from you?" He asks, almost whispering. Victoria smiles, leaning forward as well.
"To know what I am," She says, her eyes boring into him, "I am an animal, Kyle. A creature of
many appetites."
"...If anyone found out-" He begins to say, but she shakes her head.
"No one will."
The rest of the night is a blur - He finds himself in her apartment in midtown, pressing her against the wall as they hungrily explore each other's passion. Her hands reach up to his shoulders, gripping him tighter than he could have expected, drawing red lines of fire down his back and reopening old wounds from another encounter. Her appetites are deep, and how she fuels herself is through more illicit means than he would have initially expected… But during the course of the night spent together, he begins to learn her hungers, see the animal within. Uppers, downers, an overly intoxicating blend that would threaten to rob him of his senses. It makes sense, given how she cruises through the city's club scene. If anyone found out, her career would be over. Justice is not a word in her vocabulary, it is an endstate to her games, just another thing to fuel her urge for more. Whatever feeds the beast inside.
***
A dim, gloomy morning greets Kyle as he wakes up in Victoria's bed, caught up in a tangle of purple silk sheets. He lifts himself out of bed gingerly, extracting his legs and swinging them around to sit up. Victoria sleeps soundly beside him, her face smeared with makeup and her lips almost bruised from the intensity of their time together last night. He raises a finger to his own face, which throbs slightly from pain inflicted by her. Taking a breath, he stands and begins to collect his clothes… Or that is how he makes it seem, using his cover of trying to quietly put himself back together to instead scope out her apartment, and look for any other evidence that might explain why she might have framed Nighthawk. He had to be careful, if she caught him snooping through her things…
"Mm…" She groans softly, turning over in bed. He freezes, cursing his luck as she speaks, "You must really like your lovers on the wild side," She says with a wry, sleepy grin.
"How do you mean?" He asks, feigning a smile as he pulls on his pants.
"Your back," She says, "I'm not the first woman to leave her mark on you… And not too long ago either."
"Yeah, she was… Intense," He mutters, thinking back to the fight in the department store.
"Heheh," She chuckles, stretching languidly, "You could at least buy me breakfast before ditching me."
"I bought you dinner last night," He points out.
"I bared my soul to you," She pouts, "That's worth dinner
and breakfast."
"Some other time, I've got meetings to get to," Kyle responds, "Mind if I get another bump, for the road?" He points at her closet, where she had stashed her drugs. Victoria makes a face at the rich playboy helping himself to her expensive goods, but rolls her eyes and nods. Kyle wanders over while buttoning up his pants, opening the door to quickly assess the contents. Nothing too out of the ordinary, he thinks, reaching up to grab the hidden basket of drugs and rifle through them. There are dresses, other designer clothes, a few fur coats.
"Bet these get hot in the summer," He makes a lame joke, pulling on the sleeve of a coat while pretending to prepare a hit.
"Hilarious," She responds, getting more comfortable sitting up in bed, "I keep those ones here because they don't require special storage. Artificial fur. Not really to my taste, I prefer the real stuff, like mink."
Kyle pauses for a half-second, nods, and does a powerful snort before shaking his shoulders out with a big, goofy grin, "Maybe I can find some for you then," He says, coming back to kiss her on the cheek, but she puts up a hand to block him.
"Let's not and say we did. I don't need anyone accusing me of impropriety."
"I thought you said no one is going to find out?" He responds.
She looks unamused, "Only if we're smart, Mr. Richmond. Now if you're not going to buy me breakfast, I suggest you get dressed and get your toned ass out of my apartment.
"Owch," He laughs, grabbing his shirt and shoes, "Ok then, Victoria." He hurriedly dresses himself and leaves with little fanfare, still pretending to be high until the door closes behind him. His expression immediately drops into a stern frown.
Not really to my taste, I prefer the real stuff, like mink. He paces in a circle for a second before heading to the elevator, his suspicions not confirmed, but definitely heightened. He hadn't found anything that helped Nighthawk clear his name, but something she had said back there had definitely tipped him off to something he hadn't expected to discover about Victoria Steele… His mind races back to the night in the department store, remembering…
...I've always preferred mink to the artificial stuff.
***
"So what sort of work was your mother doing with the order of St. Berchard?" Charles asks as the Nighthawk streaks across the sky, leaving the skyline of Cosmopolis behind while traveling north along the river. Towering skyscrapers give way to brick apartments, industrial parks, docks, and shipping centers. All of it a teeming warren for people living basic lives, the city turning into a claustrophobic tangle around them as the decades went by.
"The usual," Nighthawk says quietly, "She did some charity work with them. Had a ring with their symbol on it." He keeps an eye on his HUD, tracking the path to the St. Berchard monastery where he hopes to find some answers.
"Huh, lucky break. I guess the name does sound kinda familiar, but that was over a decade ago."
Nighthawk doesn't respond, focused on the task at hand. It'd been two days since he discovered Oliver Norton's identity, and the find had turned up very little. Detective Solomon had been working night and day to follow up on the lead that came via Kurt Westwood, but police had found his apartment in the heights empty and were having to work through state agencies to track down more information. Norton had been a lifelong resident of the city, with some stints in the health system for disturbing episodes of psychotic breaks… But never linked to the murders of the past twenty-four years. He had no known living relatives, no friends, even his neighbors barely knew the man. He hadn't filed income taxes in fourteen years, had no known employer… Almost a ghost. But what they did know about the man fit the profile they had for the Doll-Face killer.
"How's our search for Norton going?" He asks Charles, banking slightly east to align with his GPS.
The inventor grunts, "73% collated. Shouldn't be much longer now."
"I want to know as soon as it's done so we can start pulling the data apart," Nighthawk responds, "He's somewhere in this city, planning his next kill. We're as close as anybody has ever gotten in twenty-four years to ending this, we are not failing at the finish line."
"Yeah, yeah," Greyburn acknowledges tersely, "You'll be the first to know."
Nighthawk begins to descend, landing on the roof of a nearby building to the monastery. It was composed of three buildings, a classic stonework catholic church, a connecting building that looked to contain office space, and a dormitory, all enclosed by a stone and iron fence. At this late hour, it was surprising to Nighthawk to see light within the sanctuary of the church.
Charles sighs, "Sometimes I'm glad your mother isn't around to see this sort of thing," He remarks. Nighthawk feels a small flash of anger in response to the comment, but bites down on it.
"Why?" He asks bluntly.
"I think it would have broken her to see the things she placed her trust in turn out to be awful and broken," He remarks, "Your father, the company… This stupid church."
Nighthawk almost laughs, bitterly replying, "You talk like you knew her."
Greyburn is silent for a moment, almost confused, "I did, Kyle. She was my best friend, once." A light misting rain begins to descend on the neighborhood, coating Nighthawk's suit with a thin sheen.
The vigilante pauses, a bit surprised by the admission. He and Greyburn hadn't exactly become close since they started working together the year prior, and he hadn't inquired much into the older man's past. Greyburn had been co-owner of Richmond Corp, back when it was Richmond-Greyburn, until Arthur had forced the man out. He'd been the talent, the inventive mind behind many of the company's products, but Arthur was the canny businessman who took control and forced him out. Nighthawk hadn't really required any deeper reason to rely on the man who provided him with the tools he needed to gain retribution for his mother's death.
"You've never mentioned it before," He finally says, clenching and unclenching his fists.
"Never had any reason to bring it up," Charles replies distantly, "It was a long time ago. But your mother is the reason Arthur and I even met. What she saw in him, I'll never really know… But I guess I can't say much, when he suckered me into starting that company with him."
"Story for later," Nighthawk mutters, engaging his wings and gliding over to the roof of the monastery. He clambers over the rain-slicked, precipitously angled eaves and finds a window, carefully cutting it open and making an entrance for himself. He climbs inside the sanctuary of the church, dropping onto a wooden beam and walking along it carefully. The interior was all stone, with rows of pews leading to a pair of pulpits. The sanctuary is lit by banks of candles, each one burning gently, with the great amount clustered around a statue of a man with his head bent down. Nighthawk gently drops down to the floor of the sanctuary and begins to explore the area.
His investigation first takes him through the sanctuary and down a corridor to the adjoining office building. Thunder rumbles outside, the gentle mist descending from the clouds turning to a more consistent pelt of rain against the windows. There was a library on the first floor filled with old, dusty tomes, and stairs leading up to two levels of office spaces filled with cases of files and accounts. It'd take months to go through them all. He continues on, his goggles providing all the illumination he requires. A crucifix hangs on the wall nearby, next to a portrait of the pope and a letter of congratulations from a bishop of the local diocese… At least, thirty years ago. He finally finds a dedicated office to a Father Benjamin Leonard, which appears to be normal for a priest's use: a desk, more bookshelves, some filing cabinets.
"I think this is a dead end," Nighthawk mutters tiredly, but pauses when he comes around to the other side of the desk. The carpet was threadbare and scuffed from years of feet trodding over it and a rolling chair going this way and that, but a strange glint was coming through the carpet. Getting on his knees, he taps the spot where he can see the glint, and hears an odd hollow report.
"That's a hidden compartment," Charles says eagerly. Nighthawk agrees, feeling around with his talons until he brushes aside another part of the carpet, revealing a divot he can get a grip on. Opening it up, he reveals a glass bottle, an ornate cross on a spiked chain, and a book. Nighthawk pulls them out one by one, inspecting them carefully. The bottle contained some sort of clear liquid… Holy water? He uncorks it and pulls a small siphon from his utility belt, getting a sample and putting it away. The spiked chain had residues of dried blood on it, concentrated around the thorns… And the book was old, very, very old, and delicate to the touch. He lifts it gently, looking at the cover.
"Sacra Secreta Sancti Berchardus…" He mumbles, opening it up. Inside was pages of wrinkled, yellowed paper with dense latin script, but more interesting to him was the ornately hand drawn graphics and images… Red-skinned devils, winged angels, magic circles, ancient runes… This warranted further investigation, and he pulls a plastic bag out of his pack and carefully seals up the book, placing it in his pack for later reading. He finally takes samples of the dried blood from the chain and places it in his belt. He carefully placed the other two items in the compartment and closes it up, moving everything back the way he found it… Minus the book he was stealing. Outside, the rain begins to come in a steady downpour, a late-night summer thunderstorm. Streams pour through the gutters and into the courtyard, forming deep pools over the flagstones.
Heading back down to the library, he looks around for a few minutes, noting another tell-tale clue on the floor near the back of the room… A wide sweeping arc of scuff marks had been worn into the carpeting. He feels around the edges of a nearby bookcase before finding a latch, allowing it to swing open with a bit of effort. On the other side is a heavily barred and locked metal door, which looks to be too much effort to open it.
"What the hell is going on at this church?" Charles asks quietly as Nighthawk closes the bookcase.
"Not sure. Raising more questions than answering them," The vigilante mutters, wandering back into the sanctuary. He investigates the pulpit, but only finds boxes of candles and a Bible. Wandering around, he could almost imagine the rows of monks in the pews, modern castaways trying to find some meaning or purpose for their lives in service to God… A God who, in Nighthawk's opinion, was completely willing to let them live their lives in stumbling ignorance. He wanders over to the candlelit statue, his head cocked to the side as he examines it. It depicts a haggard and bony fellow with a downcast expression. The tilt of his body and posture of his hands are curious, as if he's meant to be leaning on some object for support, which is now missing…
"Morning mass isn't for eight hours," A hoarse voice echoes through the sanctuary, and Nighthawk's hand immediately pulls out a night-a-rang, ready to throw it… An elderly man in black robes stands in one of the doorways to the sanctuary, his hands tucked into his sleeves. He's tall, with a balding pate and a thin white beard. "But I don't think you came for religious enlightenment."
"Time to leave, kid," Charles mutters, but Nighthawk subtly shakes his head.
"Not yet," He murmurs, stepping down the row of pews, his gaze locked on the priest, who stares at him placidly, "I have questions."
"So do many who find themselves in the house of God," The priest chuckles.
"You're up awfully late tonight," Nighthawk states.
"So are you, Nighthawk," The priest reflects the vigilante's movements, taking the opposite track around the pews. "I have old bones. Aching joints. Makes it hard to sleep sometimes. So I keep the candles lit, and I pray for this beautiful old city of ours."
"The symbol of St. Berchard has been popping up around the city," Nighthawk adds, "Graffitied on walls above the torched bodies of murdered men."
"Is that so," The priest nods.
"It's been in the newspapers, on the news, you had to have seen it," He growls, "Why didn't you say anything?"
"Would you wish
your good works associated with heinous murder?" The priest pauses, putting his hand to his mouth, "Oh, wait…"
Charles swears angrily, "This
bastard…"
Nighthawk's hand itches to throw the bladed weapon right between the priest's wrinkled eyes, and he feels nauseous at his own anger. They arrive at opposite ends of the sanctuary and start walking towards each other slowly.
"Who
are you," Nighthawk demands.
"Father Benjamin Leonard," The priest supplies with ease, "I am the head of this branch of St. Berchard's order."
"Someone in your order is murdering people in cold blood."
"And you have evidence to prove this?"
He points a finger at the priest, "I have enough to know you aren't as holy as you claim."
The priest stops, his expression darkening for a moment, "I have no claim to holiness, son of darkness," He says softly, "I am but a filthy beggar on the street, calling out for a single cent of righteousness. It is
God who is holy, who washes us
clean of
sin." There's a flash outside, illuminating stained glass windows depicting the torture of Christ by the Romans. A rolling peal of thunder sweeps over the church, culminating far out over the bay.
"There is no God," Nighthawk replies callously, standing with his back to the pulpit, "You only have to look outside to know that we're on our own down here. The city is all polished and pretty, but down below its festering and rotten. No
just God would allow this to happen."
"..." Father Leonard regards Nighthawk coolly, "The world is a terrible place, this is true. It requires purification. Guidance. Discipline. But the people of the world hate these things, even if they sorely need them. They need examples, guiding lights to show them the way."
"Guiding lights like the order who has unleashed a murderer," Nighthawk almost laughs, "Why are you targeting the Jenkins crime ring? What did they do to you?"
Father Leonard extends his hands in a gesture of openness, "Nothing at all! I have no grudge against those men. I have never even met them before in my life."
"Then why is your order's symbol being drawn over their dead bodies?!"
"Who can say, Nighthawk? The world is a strange place, and God works in
mysterious ways. Who are we to question his methods, or try to understand his subtleties? It is folly." The priest walks by Nighthawk, who clenches his fists with rage.
"I feel like your anger is misplaced, though- weren't these men a gang of thieves and crooks? Surely you have better things to place your focus on," The priest asks.
"A life is a life and murder is
murder," Nighthawk spins around, his orange lenses blazing with orange flame.
"Perhaps," The priest nods, staring at the pulpit, "But the wages of sin are death, my strange new friend, and death seems to be dogging their heels quite closely. Again, I wish them no particular ill-will, but I find this little quest to be perplexing indeed. There will be no reward, no ticker-tape parade waiting for you when you catch the killer of these men. This city, its people, will simply look at you with incurious, confused expressions, not certain what,
exactly, you were trying to accomplish. It seems to me this could be some misplaced sense of jealous-" He turns around with a gentle, mocking smile, which falters when he sees the Nighthawk has vanished without a trace. He looks around, confused, when the door to the sanctuary opens slowly, with a prolonged, agonizing creak. Detective Effie Solomon steps inside, beating the flaps of her coat aggressively to shake off the rain.
"Ah," She pauses, looking at the priest staring back at her, "Well, that makes this easy." She reaches into her pocket, producing a badge that she flashes at Father Leonard, "Detective Efigenia Solomon, Cosmopolis Police Force, 13th Precinct. Got a few questions for you sir."
"You're coming by rather
late, detective," Father Leonard replies a bit waspishly, his gaze roving the shadowy rafters.
"I was waylaid, actually, for reasons relevant to why I'm here," She replies brightly, "And you seem to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, so no time like the present, is there?"
"This is private property, detective," He smiles plainly, "I could ask you to leave."
"Mm, but I'm not searching the property… Yet. Just here to ask a few questions," Effie's gaze hardens, "But I could come back
later."
Father Leonard ways her implied threat for a moment, glancing at the rafters once more. Effie raises an eyebrow, looking up slightly, before pressing her investigation.
"Something on your mind, brother?
"
Father," He corrects, "Father Benjamin Leonard. And… No. Just thought perhaps some pigeons got in the rafters…"
Above them, Nighthawk dims the fiery burn of his goggles, watching Effie work with great interest. He creeps along one of the wooden beams towards the opening he cut in the window, noting how raindrops trickled down and pooled atop the old wood.
"Well, Father, I thought I'd stop by because a concerned citizen gave us a tip-off that the strange symbol we've found, often written in blood, over the bodies of scorched ex-cons happened to be the seal of the Order of St. Berchard," Effie slaps her hands against her sides, "And seeing as this is the only building in over five hundred miles associated with that order, I thought I'd come by, get to know ya."
Leonard's eyebrow twitches, "I think I can safely say there must be some sort of mistake, detective… My order and its brothers are peaceful, God-fearing men who only want to help make the world a better place."
"Really? Because this was drawn in the blood of Abraham Hogan in the Old Gemwood Chancery building," She holds up a photograph of the seal of St. Berchard, "It is an
uncanny resemblance. Hogan was hiding there, really burrowed in, to escape someone who had been hunting down him and his associates from the Jenkins crime ring."
Nighthawk pauses, studying Effie. He had heard there had been a murder in the Old Chancery building, but hadn't picked up that there had been a positive ID on the victim. He wonders lightly if Effie kept that information off the police channels to prevent him from detecting another member of the Jenkins crime ring had been picked off. This left only two living members…With Allen Trey, Zach Jenkins, Rob Bowe, and Abe Hogan all dead, only Ed Hope and Lonnie Cole were left. Nighthawk may have to pivot his efforts to find them before it was too late, because they were the only ones who could provide some sort of final clue as to why these murders were taking place.
"Kid," Charles says in his earpiece, "The results of the data sweep on Norton are collated. I think there's something here you should see, putting it on your HUD now," Nighthawk looks away from the conversation unraveling below him to see his GPS highlighting a warehouse almost an hour west outside the city.
"What am I looking at?" Nighthawk mutters.
"A derelict warehouse on the books of Leonetti Entertainment Designs, a subsidiary of a much larger company that gobbled them up back in the '90s. They kept the building but never renovated it or put it to other use. Leonetti used to be one of Norton's employers."
"So?"
"So, I cross-referenced with the local utility company - The building is still drawing power, despite being shut down. Someone is there."
Nighthawk grits his teeth, nodding in satisfaction, "Great work, we might just have him, at last. I'm leaving now." He looks back down at Effie, wanting to say something to her… But ultimately decides it will be another fruitless conversation - He had already missed his deadline to provide evidence of his innocence, and she had a job to do after all. Slipping out the window, he seals the hole up with plastic, and takes off into the stormy night.
***
Trepidation and anticipation weigh in Nighthawk's chest as he soars across the city, banking around skyscrapers and ascending over towers as lightning roils and snakes across the sky. Tonight he has the chance to end twenty-four years of sorrow, to find the Doll-Face Killer and take him down once and for all. Images of Oliver Norton, the abortive ventriloquist, flicker across his HUD as he crosses the river, heading west towards the location of Norton's haunt. Curtains of rain sweep over the city, drenching it in the downpour.
Nighthawk drops out of the sky, landing heavily on a nearby rooftop as he adjusts the mode of his goggles. His flight pack's thrusters click and steam as raindrops trickle down the metal shell and into the repulsors. Even without night vision, he can see the dim green light glowing out the high windows of the derelict warehouse. An old truck from the late '80s was parked outside, which Nighthawk flagged before gliding over. He pops the doors open slowly, looking through the cab to see if there's anything that Norton might carry on his person. He pulls a tracker tag out of his belt, affixing it to a leather bag before noting there was a handgun shoved in the glove compartment… Illegal in the city. He removes the pistol and quietly disables it, placing it back in the compartment before carefully shutting the doors. Taking a moment to judge the direction where Oliver might be most likely to approach, Nighthawk goes to the opposite side and quietly cuts a slit in the tire with one of his weapons. His preparations complete, Nighthawk bursts upwards, spiraling through the air and landing on the warehouse roof, his wings folding into place as he strides towards a skylight. He gets down on one knee, staring through the skylight into the warehouse below… A flickering green light illuminates a workbench, affixed directly over an effigy of a young woman, another doll. Nighthawk takes a hissing breath, searching the room for Norton, but not seeing him.
He prowls the rooftop, looking through other windows, trying to sight his prey… But Norton is nowhere to be seen. The anticipation begins to give way to frustration, his heavy footfalls splashing in the collecting puddles of rainwater. Finally, he opens the first skylight, dropping down to the floor of the warehouse and rising slowly. Rain follows him down, pattering on the concrete floor around him as he looks around. The building was divided into six sections with large doors you could drive a truck through connecting each one. Catwalks on an upper floor hug the perimeter of the room, connecting to a gantry system to lift and move heavy crates. Around the workbench are boxes of doll parts, fabric, wigs, spools of some kind of thread, all the materials and tools Norton would need for his craft.
Alongside one wall there seems to be a mock-up of a stage, a raised platform about a foot off the floor of the warehouse with paint-splattered tarps serving as curtains. A dummy was sitting, mouth ajar, on a stool. It stares sightlessly at the floor of the stage, a disturbing looking thing whose smile was too wide, whose eyes were too beady, who bleeds a sinister aura.
Is this where he brings his victims? Nighthawk absently wonders, wandering over to the workbench. He picks up the doll with nervous hands, noting how she's dressed for a day in the park under a sunny summer sky… She was painted with tanned skin, green eyes, and reddish-brown hair. He wonders who she is, where she is in the city, how long he's been following her… What's most disturbing is the criss-crossing scars etched into her cherubic face. And then looks over, seeing a photograph taped to the stand of the lamp. He carefully pulls it off, inspecting the photo carefully. It was old, a polaroid, with significant color distortion and what looked like heat damage. Leaning in, he recognizes the interior of the Old Cosmo Theater, with a rather large crowd of adults and children in the seats. It was remarkable how clearly he could make out some of the faces, while others looked… Melted, like wax.
"What the hell is this…?" He mutters, focusing the lenses of his goggles. Looking between the photo and the doll, he sees a young girl, probably no older than five or six when the picture was taken, sitting in the front row. Her appearance could almost match the doll that he sees on the workbench, "But how is he finding them…?" Nighthawk wonders, knowing from his time at Westwood's house that there was no record of who attended the performance of Ollie and Mr. Charlie that night. Tickets were handed out in cash transactions back then, and it's not like they were keeping a guest list… So how did Oliver know who this little girl was and hope to find her, twenty-four years later, when she's an adult in her thirties…? She could very well not even be in the city.
"...I think he's targeting the people… Who were at his show in 1981," Nighthawk realizes slowly, utterly baffled by the logistics of the ventriloquist's insane quest, even the motive was strange and confusing to him.
"Collect what you can, but keep searching," Greyburn replies grimly, "His vehicle is right outside, we both saw that. He's not going anywhere with that popped tire, so grab him and end this. Keep your focus up, Nighthawk."
The vigilante nods firmly, pocketing the photograph and setting the doll aside for a moment. Norton had to be here somewhere, but Nighthawk hadn't seen any sign of him when doing recon from above… Perhaps he was hiding? But how would he know to hide? How would he know anyone was coming to find him? Nighthawk hadn't seen any security cameras on the perimeter…
Floodlights suddenly cut on with a tinny recording of applause, Nighthawk instantly reaching for his weapons of choice as the noise echoes in the confined space. The lights focus down on the dummy, which begins to sit up slowly, its eyes fixed on Nighthawk as it rises seemingly under its own power.
"How the hell-" Nighthawk begins to say.
"Hell, indeed," The dummy cackles, "Welcome to my humble abode, Nighthawk. I'm afraid it's not much to look at, but I've always been one for the poor, starving artist chic." His voice has a soft crackle to it, and every movement is a jerky twitch, accompanied by a soft whirring noise.
"...Norton?" Nighthawk approaches slowly, "Norton, I suggest you come quietly-"
The dummy cackles again, his head moving from left to right as his mouth flaps, "YOU THINK OLLIE IS IN CHARGE, HERE?!" His laughter echoes through the room, "No sir, no, poor little Ollie isn't calling the shots tonight, or any night really, it's me, me," The dummy jerks slightly, turning back to stare at Nighthawk, "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Vigilante-Man… Call me Mr. Charlie."
"..." Nighthawk's gaze narrows, realizing the dummy is an animatronic, wires running down his leg and taped to the stool he sits on powering his motored movements, "I'm not here to play games with you, Norton." He looks around the room with a dangerous gleam in his eye, "Your murderous reign of terror is ending tonight."
"Ooh, and you seem so confident of it, too," The dummy laughs, broadcasting Norton's mockery from afar, "But I think after twenty-four works of beautiful art, I'm just getting started, birdbrain!"
"Keep him talking," Charles urges Nighthawk, "Keep looking."
Nighthawk stares at the dummy for a moment before turning away, wandering to the next section of the warehouse. The dummy's head slowly follows him, "Hey, where are ya going? We was having a conversation!"
"...I'll admit, you're a more clever opponent than I gave you credit for, Norton," Nighthawk scans the rafters, the gantries, the catwalks, "I didn't expect you to be ready for me… How did you know I was coming?"
"Like I said, Norton isn't the one in charge around here, Hawko, it's me, so-"
"Drop the act, I'm not in the mood," Nighthawk says waspishly, "How did you know I was coming?"
"You were breathing fast,
gyahahaha!" The dummy cackles at his own jape, causing Nighthawk to whirl around, unleashing a night-a-rang at it and landing the projectile in the thing's head.
"Eesh," The dummy slowly pivots to look at him, "Tough audience."
"I'm losing my patience, Oliver," Nighthawk responds, "Come out now, and let's end this."
"Feeling is mutual, birdbrain," Mr. Charlie responds, his voice dropping further and further into an east-side drawl, "I'm getting a little tired of your disrespect. I'm the brains of this operation, the artist, the star of the show! Just because you can't see my genius just means you're another goddamn plebeian philistine like every other pig-headed mook in this goddamn city!"
"Is that why you're killing people, Norton? Because they don't appreciate your art?" Nighthawk demands incredulously.
"STOP CALLING ME
NORTON!" The dummy roars, causing Nighthawk to pause mid-stride.
"Oliver…?" He mutters, turning around.
"You've got no idea what it's like, being chained to this witless, talentless little piece of shit, without me he'd have ended up nothing! No one! EVERYTHING HE HAS IS THANKS TO ME!
ME!" Mr. Charlie howls, enraged, "You know-" He pauses, laughing and catching his breath, "I was beginning to hope you'd be what I needed, Nighthawk. The foil to elevate my art to the next level, but I'm beginning to think- I am beginning to think you're just another nobody."
"Oliver, it's time to drop the
act-"
"THIS AIN'T NO ACT, DUMMY!" Charlie responds, "This is real, and this is happening, oh boy is it happening… You wanna know how I saw you coming, I saw you coming from a mile away. You think you're gonna swoop in here, punch up the bad guy, save the city, well you're wrong, birdbrain,
dead wrong!"
The ranting continues and Nighthawk picks up the pace, exploring as much as he can, trying to find out where Norton is broadcasting from. "Is there anyway we can pick up on a signal, find where he is?" He asks Charles in a harsh whisper.
"Not if it's hard-wired from a mic to a speaker, kid," The inventor grunts, "If it was a radio signal, we might be able to catch it."
"Guess what Hawko, I got a surprise for you," Charlie laughs as Nighthawk circles back into the first section with the workbench, coming up short. Norton had to be up on the catwalk, hiding somewhere out of sight. "This ain't your story, birdbrain, this ain't no fairy tale happy ending. I've been with little Ollie for over fifty years and ain't nothing stopping me now. I knew you was coming like I knew how to find all those philistines who booed at my art, how I know that my art will stand the test of time- You think this is an act, ha!" His barking laugh echoes around Nighthawk, who storms back to the dummy to retrieve his night-a-rang and destroy the mocking animatronic.
It stares up at him callously as he wrenches the weapon free, "This has no happy ending, Nighthawk. You think you can stop me? No one can stop me," The vigilante reaches out, grabbing the head as its mouth flaps, "I'm the Devil-"
With a burst of sparks, Nighthawk wrenches the head off the animatronic, tossing it aside to clatter across the floor towards the workbench… And as he looks over, he sees the doll of the little girl has gone missing.
"You think that's gonna stop me, Hawko?" Charlie's voice echoes again, now a more sibilant hiss, "Think again. Stay tuned for my next performance, buddy-" He chuckles darkly, "It'll be
a real gas."
Nighthawk looks up as a strange creaking noise fills the warehouse, and then the pipes to the sprinkler system start to wobble as they open up, releasing a pale mist into the air that descends in thick clouds. Nighthawk begins to back away worriedly, but Greyburn's voice comes through assuring him.
"Bastard probably hooked some kind of acid or poison to the water supply going into your sprinklers, don't worry about it, your suit will protect you!" He growls, "I bet he's making a run for his car now, get him before he realizes you cut his tire!"
Nighthawk extends his wings with a quick gesture, pointing them up in a knife-like gesture and rocketing up and through the skylight, glass shattering around him as he launches up into the sky. His nightvision easily picks up on a figure running through the rain to the truck, carrying two bundles in his arms as he fumbles with his keys. Nighthawk opens up his wingspan, tucking and angling downward to land heavily atop the truck, denting the roof as the man squeaks in terror, backing away slowly as his nervous hands drops the doll of the girl and his truck keys. In his left hand he carries another doll, a ghoulish-looking thing that glares cruelly at Nighthawk.
Oliver Norton is a tall, balding man in his early fifties, his face pockmarked with acne scars and small keloids around a button nose that'd been obviously broken earlier in life. He was pear-shaped, unhealthy, and generally unpleasant to look at. He wore wire-rim glasses too big for his face, which were misting over in the rain as he backs away from the menacing glare of the Nighthawk.
"I'm-" Oliver stumbles, "I'm sorry! I never wanted to do it!" His voice is weirdly high-pitched and squeaky for someone so tall, a pathetic mewl for mercy, "Charlie made me do it, I never wanted to- to hurt those people, but-"
"Shut up," Nighthawk growls, dropping down from atop the truck and striding forward to grab Oliver by the lapels, "Just shut up-"
"I swear it's true!" Oliver cries out, barely fighting back, "All my life, he's been tormenting me, and after our performance, he said he was tired of me holding him back! He said if I- if I didn't kill those people, he'd kill me instead!"
"I SAID SHUT UP!" Nighthawk roars, lifting Oliver bodily into the air, "I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR GAMES!"
There's a small click as the doll of Mr. Charlie suddenly moves, putting a two-shot beretta to the side of Nighthawk's head, "Don't touch the merchandise, wise guy," He drawls, pulling the trigger. A rumble of thunder louder than anything Nighthawk has ever heard cuts through his head, causing the vigilante to drop Oliver and crumple to the ground.
"Oh god," Oliver drops to his knees, "What have you done, what-" He scrambles over to Nighthawk's side, groaning as he watches blood seep out of the cracked helmet, "You've killed him!"
"He's not the foil we're looking for, dipshit," Charlie grunts, pumping another shot of his beretta into Nighthawk's back, "He's just another philistine. He wouldn't have elevated my art at all."
"You
killed him!" Oliver moans in despair, "I could have been free, finally free- AAH!" He cries out as Charlie cracks the handle of the pistol over the ventriloquist's head, drawing a thin bead of blood.
"Shut up! You ain't never gonna be free if I've got anything to say about it! We're only just getting started, you and me. Fifty years of fun is only the warm-up, the opening act!" He makes Oliver stand up as he pulls out a cigarette and lights it, enjoying the warmth of it in the rain as he admires the gleaming skyline of Cosmopolis in the distance, "Oh the beautiful things we are gonna do to this place, Ollie m'boy. It'll make your spine positively quiver."
Tears spill down Oliver's cheeks, lost in the rain as he stares at Nighthawk's body. A coward's tears are meaningless against all the lives paid for his lack of courage. He wants to throw the doll away, throw it in the river… But he can't. He's never been strong enough to let Mr. Charlie go.
The mad artist sighs contentedly, taking a long drag on his cigarette before looking back at Nighthawk's bleeding body, "Look at that," He comments, "Pretty as a picture. Makes ya wish you had a camera."
"C'mon," Charlie tucks his lighter away, "Let's get the hell outta here before the cops come. With our luck, someone heard the gunshots." Oliver nods pathetically, walking away and bending down to pick up the doll of Marie.
"Oh, and if you ever drop another one of these again, I'll make you dip your dick in sulphuric acid, you get me? Never again!" Charlie warns, cuffing Oliver over the head again. He whimpers in fear, acknowledging the threat as he tries to dry her off as best he can.
They get behind the wheel of the truck and drive off, fishtailing badly enough that they get out and inspect the damage, finding the popped tire.
"Well, shit," Mr. Charlie mutters, "Guess we're walking then." He rubs his hair dramatically and walks off into the rain, "C'mon, ya useless turd. We gotta find a new hideout."
"Yes sir, Mr. Charlie…" Oliver replies miserably, following behind.
A/N: This chapter took a few twists and turns that surprised me. When I originally outlined it, I didn't expect that Steele's mood would shift and her desire would overcome her apathy. But she is a creature of impulse first and foremost, so I rolled with it. Chapter 7 and 8 are Nighthawk's lowest point in the series as he takes a series of truly painful hits from the villains. I lean into a sense of dramatic convenience that is justified by the story's own mystique... Nighthawk is a rational person in an irrational world, discovering the things he considers to be iron-clad and true aren't as true as he first believed. Oliver and Charlie aren't just crazy, there's something almost paranormal to them.
Anyhow, if you liked this chapter, please drop a comment to let me know!
