CHAPTER 11

Bells rang in his head. Then, Gordon realized it wasn’t bells, it was his cell phone. Gordon woke up, pulled away from Barbara in the bed, and instinctively reached over to the nightstand, thinking himself on call. It was only a second before he looked at the text message that he realized he wasn’t either a beat cop or a lieutenant anymore.

He flipped the phone open, saw the message, and raised quickly out of bed to put his glasses on to read it again: Theresa Fuller. Old Parker Station. I think she’s there.

Gordon texted quickly back: Are you sure?

Twenty seconds passed before he got his answer: Pretty sure.

Gordon thought, not for the first time, How does he know these things? He texted back, saying that he could be there in fifteen or twenty minutes with some units—Gordon wasn’t sure about that last part; Parker Station was near the Bowery, and there might be one or two units patrolling that area outside of the heavily neglected area, but Old Parker Station was huge and expansive, at least two or three acres, and they could enter from many different sides. If she’s there, where do we start? Especially since we’re so shorthanded?

He sent the text away and figured it wasn’t actually going to the bat himself. For a couple of years now, Gordon had come to suspect that he wasn’t the bat’s only confidant. Surely a person with operations as far-reaching as he must have other connections, other people supporting him and helping him to keep his secret.

He tore the sheets off of him and groped for his pants in the dark. Behind him, he heard Barb stirring. “Mmmmnnnnn…nnnnnnwhere are you goinnnnn?”

Gordon pulled on his pants, and started looking for his gun belt. “I gotta go out really quickly, sweetheart. An emergency.”

“Now?” she said, in a whine he didn’t particularly like. “Jim…Jesus, it’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“I know, Barb, but I gotta see to this. It may be a break in a case.”

“Jim, you’re not on the force anymore!”

“Yeah, well, right now they need all the help they can get.” He reached out, grabbed her hand up, and kissed it before he bolted out the door with his coat thrown over his shoulder. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, I just have to see about something.” She said nothing, just laid back down on the bed.

Out the door, Gordon immediately called Chief Chapman and woke him up. He sounded as groggy as Barbara. “Whaaaa…Commissioner? What’s up?”

“Clay! Old Parker Station! That’s where Theresa Fuller’s at!”

“What?” All of a sudden, his voice was crystal clear, his need to complete the hunt had hold of him. “Jim…Commissioner, are you sure about that?”

“Sure enough,” he said, sliding into his car. “I need units over there right now, as many as you can spare!”

“Jim, I’ll try—”

“Don’t try, Clay, do!” He hung up the phone, hating having to make such a harsh demand of an old friend, but they had to move. Even as Gordon backed out of his driveway and turned on the siren, the police scanner he kept in his car was calling in a 211 in progress, and he knew that was just one more car that couldn’t be spared. Five years ago, that hadn’t been the problem. Getting rid of all those corrupt cops, and leaving all those empty desks to be filled with nothing but what rookies we could get, that’s the damn problem!

He looked in his rearview mirror, felt a pang of guilt for leaving his family like this, so soon after the riddles had come in and terrified Barbara. A patrol car will come by later to look in on them, he convinced himself, thinking again of just how thin the force were getting.

Somebody had to keep the monsters at bay, and, at least for tonight, it was still Jim Gordon’s job.

* * *

OLD PARKER STATION was a large, open, and mostly forgotten rail yard just outside of the Bowery. It had once been a place to stable and restore old railroad cars, but a larger rail yard had opened on the other side of the city with smaller storage fees and bigger yards, and very soon Parker Station became irrelevant. Wayne Enterprises had considered buying it many times, but for various reasons the talks with the city had always fallen through.

The chain-link fencing was bent and broken in most places, the barbed wire that had once topped it was torn free and twisted all throughout the small forest that had started encroaching on the area. Broken bottles and old, used syringes were littered throughout. The Batcycle trundled quietly into the yard, its driver not knowing what to expect.

This particular Batcycle was modeled after the Yamaha FJR1300, the motorcycle preferred by French police, but Bruce Wayne had a lot of time to tinker in the cave, so it had seen some improvements, such as a stronger chassis and specialized run-flat tires that used a pneumatic, self-supporting system from projects WayneTech had created for law enforcement—though, ever since Mayor Walden had taken office, the city didn’t seem enthusiastic about buying them anymore. But it meant that the Batman now didn’t have to worry so much about the nails and other sharp detritus he drove over.

The Batcycle trundled quietly around the engine house, where trains had once gone for refueling and service. All the windows were either cracked or broken. It was incredibly quiet here, not a creature stirred, not even when he used IR vision to scan for heat signatures. Nothing, and no one so far. A perfect place for him to bring someone. Lots of space between this and the next neighborhood over. There’s nowhere for anyone to run to for immediate safety, and you can scream as loud as you want to out here, and nobody would hear.

The perfect place to do lots of things in secret, indeed, but for what purpose did the Riddler have, exactly? To dump Theresa Fuller’s body? No, he didn’t want to think about that. Batman was hopeful, because the Riddler had said, I’ve given you everything you need, and the means to rescue them all. He didn’t yet know who he meant by “them”, but the Riddler seemed to be indicating that there was still time.

Batman drove around the engine yard with his lights off, searching in night-vision mode. Still no sign of anyone. Through the monochromatic green display, the train yard was revealed to him in great detail. There were three main types of rail yards: a hump yard, a gravity yard, and a flat yard. Parker Station had been a hump yard, with one major hill constructed where freight cars were shoved around by shunters, and then released to allow gravity to take over, where they rolled freely onto their next assigned track.

Because many of the train cars and old shunters littered the yard, it made certain areas impassable, even for a motorcycle. Batman had to pull the Batcycle over. He drove it in towards the bottom of the big hill, which was still populated by a number of trains at the foot of it, and even two that were sitting atop the hill, waiting eternally for sorting and deployment. He zoomed in, looked at the cars, saw that one was labeled AA00031 and the other was AB00124, both of them marked as being from MKX Transportation.

He parked the Batcycle and hopped off, and then stood there, slowly turning around and around, getting a real feel for the cluttered expanse. A number of trees had grown up in the numerous yards, since no one had been around to chop them down as they grew up, and a crane that had once helped move freight sat rusted and inert about a quarter of a mile to the east. It’s so large, she could be in a thousand different places, he thought.

Only the light wind passing through the hollows conjured up much sound. A door creaked on a hinge at a checking station in the departure yard at the other end. He took a few steps, his boots crunching on the gravel, and then paused, listening at the utter silence.

Batman looked to his right, and walked up a short flight of exterior stairs, which led up onto a scaffold. From here, he looked out over the area and zoomed in on various places—the crane to the east, the main freight checkpoint off to the north, et cetera. On his HUD, he pulled up an Internet screen, and used the keypad on his left wrist to pull up all the information he could about rail yards in general. Behind him was the classification yard, where freight cars had once been sorted for their various destinations, before being lumped into blocks. To his left was the receiving yard, which was by far the most cluttered of the entire rail yard.

When Parker Station had shut down, it must have happened suddenly and without warning to the workers, because a lot of equipment and freight had been left out, as though someone might still return to work with it. There was even a large sign on a board that still displayed the number of days since the last accident: 31.

Batman reached around to the back of his utility belt and pulled out his tactical flashlight. The night-vision setting was good to a degree, but sometimes a detective just needed to see things in full color. He switched of the NV setting and poked around the steps for a moment before he turned around and stepped through a door that someone had kept locked. He peeked in through the windows, and saw nothing but an open and mostly empty office before he kicked down in door and stepped inside.

He stepped on pieces of paper, and bent down to inspect a few. One was someone’s request slip for a vacation, another was a record of trains that had come through on a specific day, and another was a page full of coupons taken out from a magazine. Others were scattered about, but he felt it was a waste of time. There was so much old debris left over that he could hardly search through it all—time was wasting, there was a woman somewhere that was either dead or soon to be, and he couldn’t be bothered by searching for riddles.

Still, Gordon said he had found one of the riddles in the sailboat where Margot Tralley and her daughter had been found dead, on the backside of a simple picture, so the Riddler wasn’t above hiding his riddles throughout an environment.

Batman stood up, and started walking out of the room when he glanced at a calendar that was hanging on the wall right beside the door. He swept his flashlight right over it and was headed out, when he stopped and took a step back. Two things dawned on him at once; first was the realization that the calendar looked incredibly new, and a quick inspection showed that it was for this year; the second thing that struck him was that at the bottom of the calendar, there was a big red circle around one of the dates. January 31st.

He blinked. Then, he stepped back out onto the slender piece of scaffolding just outside of the office, and looked out again at the sign that showed only 31 days since the last accident. With this notion now moving inside his head, he looked elsewhere, and realized there was something he had been missing. With new and more informed eyes, he found the number 31 painted in blue graffiti (making it difficult to see at night) on the side of a train car about fifty yards away from him, and then again on a shunter twenty yards beyond that. Then, he looked west, at the train car marked AA00031 up on the hill.

What is he trying to show me?

The Batman ran to the top of the hill, and looked inside the freight car—empty, nothing here. He searched for more clues on the wall, but found none.

On his HUD’s Internet screen, he brought up all the information he could find about the number 31 in relation to trains. The first thing to come up on a search was a very specific type of diesel locomotive, a blue-painted British Rail Class 31. The picture on his screen showed a type that looked very different than the American-style locomotives that were all around him.

Batman went down the steps quickly, and started jogging all around the yard, alternating between flashlight and his night-vision setting. He encountered two more instances of 31—on a train marked AA00081, the left half of the 8 had been painted over a bit to look like a 3, and on one wall, there was a sign with a set of instructions for emergency evacuation written in Spanish, the changeable sign letter E in the word “El” was flipped around: Ǝl.

What does it mean?

Batman jogged around another cluster of train cars, almost becoming lost in the maze. The yard was massive, covering over three square acres of land. Numerous old checkpoint houses had cracked windows and open doors, each of them he tried to give a brief inspection. She could be anywhere. What’s he trying to show me? On the heels of that, he thought, And where is the police? He had been listening, but so far hadn’t heard a siren. He knew that the police were understaffed, and that Gordon was focusing what little manpower they had on the more troublesome areas near respectable neighborhoods, trying to keep the dregs from completely encroaching and infecting all aspects of Gotham, but this was absurd! A woman’s life was stake, and where were they?

Another 31, this one spray-painted in blue again on the underside of a set of stairs that led up to the old CTC station (centralized traffic control) for the yard. He went to the top of the stairs, kicked a door open there, found only an office, a couple of desks with the drawers missing, wires sticking out of the walls, an empty broom closet, and a messy area that squatters had probably used for sleeping. And another 31 was painted on the wall there.

What is he trying to show me?

And then, all at once, he saw it, and stopped dead in his tracks. Through the office window he could see that there was another hump hill, like the first one he’d seen, but at the top of this one there was the unmistakable, long, blue body of a British Rail 31. Batman was looking at it head-on, so he couldn’t see the back of it, and there were also a few saplings that had grown up around it, obscuring the view around the other side, but he could tell that it had been left teetering precariously at the top of the hill.

He jogged towards it. Halfway there, he thought he heard sirens. Finally.

Batman slowed his jog as he came within twenty feet of the train, which was above him at the top of the hill. It just crested over the top, just barely not plummeting down towards him. Somebody had moved this here, positioned it just so, no doubt about. No train car would have ever been left in this unsuafe position, not even if Parker Station had shut down in mid-shift. It was too hazardous to be left that way, its balance too unstable.

He moved around a couch, which looked to have once been used by squatters around a large, empty oil drum black from the fires that had been set inside it. The sofa was actually quite nice, still comfy-looking, but was surrounded by a pile of bricks on each side, stacked at least ten feet high all around, creating a sort of throne-like ambiance to the whole setting.

That sure looks out of place. Batman gave the sofa and its bricks a wide berth.

There was just a bit of light coming from the backside of the locomotive. That light, haunting glow was unsettling, emanating from a source he couldn’t yet see. A blue tarp beside two bent saplings looked like it concealed something fairly large. Theresa…?

The Batman hoped it wasn’t so.

He reached to his hip, removed the GTEM gun from his holster, and put it at ready-low position. He moved slowly, slowly, slowly around the side of the big diesel, and was just spotting another train car that teetered on the other side of the hill on the tracks when something snatched at his feet. He turned, starting to aim the gun, but had his feet jerked out from underneath him. The Batman’s head slammed into the gravelly earth as his right foot was pull up into the air about eight feet, and there he swung, upside down, a hempen rope around his ankle.

It only took him a moment to gather his thoughts, then he curled himself up so that he could reach for the Microtech tactical knife on the side of his boot, and sliced the rope. He spun himself in midair, landing a little less than gracefully back on the gravel. He’d dropped the GTEM gun when he hit his head, but now reclaimed it, knelt down, and searching the area again. He moved for cover, hunkered down and pressed his back against the diesel engine.

Batman looked at the dangling rope that had caught him; it was connected to one of the wild saplings that had grown up around the yard. A rolling snare. You’ve gotta be kidding me. But it was there, and the counterweight, the engine that provided the pull to lift a human off the ground, was in full sight, as well. A log twice as thick as his leg dangled from another sapling. It had been hidden beneath the blue tarp behind the two saplings.

So, he likes traps.

His adrenaline pumping, Batman had to breathe easily, and forced himself to calm down so that he could proceed with greater caution and a clearer mind. With his back still pressed against the diesel, he slid down the side to the back end, and then rounded it.

There, he found Theresa Fuller.

Batman was speechless. There, suspended in the air and parallel with the ground, was Theresa Fuller, fully alive and looking around with wide, beseeching eyes, gagged and in chains, terrified for her life. The next thing he noticed was a small lamp, aimed up at her like a humble spotlight, presenting her in all her glory to whoever found her. When Theresa spotted movement, she looked around, made eye contact with him, and instantly started shaking her head. No, she was saying. Don’t come any closer. Batman could see why. “My…God…” he breathed.

Her arms and legs were bound in thick chains, and they wrapped all the way around her neck and her torso. The chains binding her arms were welded to the big British diesel, and the chains around her lower body were attached to the smaller freight car, one emblazoned with the MKX Transportation logo and parked with winged wheel stops, ensuring that it didn’t move. Just enough slack had already been given so that she was currently slumped yet off the ground. The engine was dead, switched off, but if the big British diesel were to move, if something were to unhinge its brakes, gravity would take over. It would roll down the hill and tear Theresa Fuller in half.

In all his years, the bat had seen a lot. He had never seen anything like this.

Theresa shook her head profusely, and he nodded in understanding. He didn’t come any closer to her, but he knelt down where he stood and looked her in the eye. “Booby traps?”

She nodded as much as she could with the chains wrapped around her neck.

“Theresa, I’m here to help. Others are coming. We’re going to get you out of—”

All at once, more lights came on. These were halogen lamps that had been strung around the backside of the diesel and the front end of the freight car. The entire area was suddenly bathed in light, and the bat took a step back as a voice suddenly came over a loudspeaker he had not seen, one just underneath Theresa herself. “All right, my friends, so here’s the deal.” Batman knew the voice at once; it was the same one he’d heard taunting him on the phone an hour ago. “The first thing you should know is that I have the mechanical retarders on a pressure release system—every few seconds, air is released from them, and every couple of minutes that allows the diesel to succumb a bit more to gravity. In other words, I have control of the brakes, and I believe you probably know by now that I’m capable of this kind of work. I think we’re all in agreement that gravity’s a harsh mistress, so pay attention!

“The second thing you should know is that you shouldn’t run, at least not any farther than about twenty yards from the future Mrs. Vaughn, or else the proximity sensors, which you’ve already activated, will go ahead and release all of the pressure in the mechanical retarders, making the rest of her body like her heart, which has already been torn in two,” the Riddler’s voice said, and, as on the phone, he sounded quite proud of his ingenuity, both in engineering and in wordplay.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“One last thing before we get started,” he went on, and Batman noted that accent again. It was slight. Russian? Ukrainian? “Do not, I repeat, do not touch Ms. Fuller’s bonds or try to remove them in any way. That will have the same effect as walking outside of the proximity sensor barrier. You can try to make a phone call, but I’m here to tell ya, the reception is pretty bad out here.”

Batman listened with mounting incredulity at the sometimes humored, sometimes matter-of-fact way the maniac spoke, thinking, He’s enjoying this. He’s actually enjoying this.

There was a soft, almost imperceptible hiss that came from the diesel, and a second later Batman saw the big locomotive move slightly down the hill. He almost flung himself at Theresa, as though his strength alone would keep her together, but knowing that she would only have come apart in his hands.

“Whoever you are, you solved my riddles first, and I’m assuming you spoke with me over the phone and unriddled that conversation, as well. I actually don’t expect this recording to reach anyone’s ears until long after Ms. Fuller is dead and a hobo comes across her body and perhaps reports it for a chance at a reward, but if you’re here ahead of that time, then let me be the first to say, big ups! That’s no easy feat. The riddles may be easy to solve, but don’t ever let anybody tell you that you can’t put clues together like a regular sleuth.

“So the game is this, friends. Listen up and riddle me this! How do you stop a one-hundred-thirteen-ton locomotive from tearing someone in half? Well, you can start by hopping inside the locomotive and having a gander.” Another hiss from the diesel, and it moved another few inches. Theresa Fuller started screaming, and writhed in midair against her bonds to no avail. “You’ll find a laptop inside on a table. Enter the password and it’ll tell you what to do next. I shouldn’t have to tell you what the password is—as I’m sure I said to you over the phone, I’ve given you everything you need to rescue them.”

There it was again; them. Was that significant? Was it part of the game?

“Now, get to crackin’, mein freund. Hope to hear from you soon!” With that, the speaker stopped blasting his voice. The recording went another second of static, and then switched off.

Theresa screamed.

Batman bolted for the big diesel—and then stopped himself almost at once. In his haste, he had let himself forget about the rolling snare, and Theresa’s pleading eyes that told him not to come near. Alfred’s warning came back to him. Be careful, young man.

He reached into his utility belt, pulled out a series of objects he believed he could part with, and then searched around for pieces of debris from the environment around him. He made a path for himself by tossing these objects onto the gravel in front of him, and tried not to hurry too much when he heard another hiss and heard the loud whine of the diesel’s rusted wheels as Theresa was stretched a bit more.

Batman was almost to the back door of the diesel when he tossed a small lead pipe he’d picked up in front of him, and as soon as it landed, the steel jaws of a bear trap snapped out from the gravel where it had been buried, and slammed shut. Behind him, Theresa squealed. He puts the pressure on, and then puts a gauntlet in place for his victims to run through. Then, Batman thought, No, not victims. Playthings.

He moved carefully up the side steps of the diesel’s rear cab, and knelt to the ground as he withdrew his fiber optic camera from his belt. The triaxial cable slipped easily through the space between the door and the floor, and it sent back a clear image to the palm-sized screen in his hand. It was dark inside the diesel, but there was clearly an object standing just on the other side of the door, facing it. It was on a tripod of some kind, and it looked like a gun turret.

Batman withdrew the cable and stood to one side. He reached out to the door latch and turned it, then quickly pushed the door open. And he was glad he did, because on the other side of the door a crossbow, triggered by the string pulled on the door latch, fired a bolt out so quickly that it soared out and over Theresa, landing with a loud pang! against the steel wall of the freight car thirty feet away.

Batman flipped down his eye-screen, switched on his HUD, turned on his night-vision setting, and peeked around the side of the door. Except for the heavy crossbow sitting on the tripod just on the other side of the threshold, the cab was empty. His GTEM gun was held at ready-low, although he didn’t know what exactly he was going to do with it. All his training had been in surveillance, stealth, and combat; never had he covered the topic of navigating through a maze of rigged traps. This wasn’t something he’d been totally prepared for, but he felt there was a logical approach to all of this, and he was following it. The Riddler was obviously meticulous, else he couldn’t have gotten this far with even this one elaborate set-up, and the Batman felt certain that the traps were all part of his need to play mind games, not just to murder. The Riddler genuinely wanted to match wits, he wanted to see if he could put the pressure on to force mistakes out of his playthings.

He’s got to be watching this somewhere. How could he not, after so much planning? He would worry about finding cameras or broadcasting equipment later. Now, as he rounded the door and crossed the threshold, he could see behind the crossbow to a table that did indeed have the laptop on top of it as promised.

The train lurched again, a louder hiss sounding from underneath. Outside, he could barely make out Theresa’s gagged cries.

Batman slowly knelt in front of the computer, checking all around it for more booby traps. He flipped the laptop open, turned it on, and prepared himself for anything. What if he just wanted me to flip the switch that sends this thing rolling? What if he wants me inside, riding helplessly downhill while Theresa’s torn body drags behind?

The screen turned blue, and then activated. There was a field where the password should be punched in. A hint reminded the user of the password:

I am the sum total of what brought you here.

Batman thought back. I shouldn’t have to tell you what the password is, he had said. I’ve given you everything you need to rescue them. He considered it, did the math, and then typed in 246, the sum total of the atomic numbers of all the elements he’d been given. He hit enter. A chime sounded.

WELCOME

The desktop came up, and there was only one icon at the dead center of the screen labeled CLICK HERE. He did, and a video file sat alone inside the window that opened. He clicked on that, and a video came up that rained question marks downward in a green cascade:

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

? ? ? ? ¿ ? ? ? ¿

? ? ? ? ? ¿ ? ??

? ? ? ? ¿ ?

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ¿ ?

? ? ? ? ? ¿ ? ? ? ?? ?

A voice said, “Well, look at you! Moving right along here, aren’t we? I applaud you, sir or ma’am. You have more temerity and tenacity—and more importantly intelligence—than it would seem others have, those that claim to be worthy of positions to make major decisions. Who are they, these people that govern you and I? Do they not have to take an IQ test in order to prove they are capable of leading? There’s only one thing they’re worthy of, and that’s serving my and your lunch—you and I are obviously smarter, so why are we following them? Why are they in the lead, these would-be chefs? There’s a riddle for you, but it’s not the riddle you came for. You came to fight a liar in that nosy little cook, sure, and now you’re analyzing and overanalyzing everything I say. You hear the words, but you don’t take the meaning. I can’t say anymore, my friend, my zips are lipped on this one.”

The video came to an abrupt end.

The diesel moved forward, and a loud hiss came out from underneath the train. What did all that mean? He thought, and clicked on the play button to listen to him again.

“Well, look at you! Moving right along here, aren’t we? I applaud you, sir or ma’am. You have more temerity and tenacity—and more importantly intelligence—than it would seem others have, those that claim to be worthy of positions…” He stopped it, played it back, listened to it again. He focused on those words, temerity and tenacity, and recalled the Riddler’s words from earlier that night. I know what I’m saying and doing. I choose these words deliberately. I enjoy vocabulary.

But which words this time?

Batman replayed the entire message, and listened for any words that might form individual syllables to other, longer words. The Riddler spoke quickly and confidently, the message obviously rehearsed, for there were no stutters or stops. “—There’s a riddle for you, but it’s not the riddle you came for—” Batman stopped it. Came for…camphor? he thought. No, he was just hearing things now. Or was he? It was so hard to tell, and the diesel engine shifted again. By now, Theresa Fuller must be stretched near to her limit. He considered going to look, but what good would it do? He believed the Riddler when he had said tampering with the chains would only hasten Theresa’s death.

Somewhere, across the rail yard and not too far off, he heard raised voices. They weren’t too far away, but they weren’t going to get here in time. Nothing could stop these large machines in time. Nothing. Not a gadget in his belt or a fist thrown could stop this. Nothing, except maybe the solution to the puzzle.

He played the rest of the message. “You came to fight a liar in that nosy little cook, sure, and now you’re analyzing and overanalyzing everything I say. You hear the words, but you don’t take the meaning. I can’t say anymore, my friend, my zips are lipped on this one.”

Batman listened to it twice more. He mentioned cooks and chefs twice. Was that vital? Then, he listened to it again, and then again. On the sixth listen, he locked in on the last seven words: “—my zips are lipped on this one.” Over and over again, he listened. It had sounded like a cheeky thing to say, and since the Riddler was playful he had figured it was another tease. It was easy to let assumptions control the problem-solving process, especially when the pressure was on.

He focused on that phrase. My zips are lipped. “A spoonerism,” he said out loud to the room and no one else. Spoonerisms were errors in speech, or a deliberate play on words, where corresponding consonants, vowels, and morphemes were switched. Decoding it was usually very simple, but with so many words, which ones had been spoonerized?

Batman played through the recording one more time, and listened closely to the parts that didn’t seem to quite fit. He froze on one part. “You came to fight a liar in that nosy little cook.”

Fight a liar? he thought. Or, light a fire?

Okay then, assuming that was correct, light a fire where? “—in that nosy little cook.”

Nosy little cook. He gave it some thought. Cozy little nook? That could work as a sentence, but if that was the answer, then which cozy little nook was the Riddler implying? The diesel he was currently in was about as empty as a room could get. He turned and walked back outside, and just as he was looking down at the terrified woman, already stretched nearly to her limit, there was another hiss from beneath him, which pulled her about as taut as she was likely to get.

Theresa screamed through her gag.

Batman steeled himself against her tearful cries, and focused. He coldly looked around from the slightly higher vantage, using his HUD to zoom in and out around the area.

A cozy little nook…a cozy little nook…light a fire in that cozy little nook…

The pressure release mechanism hissed again, and the wheels moaned as the long-dead engine moved downhill another few inches. If Theresa Fuller was afraid before, her fear now took on a whole new level. She was frothing at the mouth and all around her gag, and was trying to scream at the Batman through it; inarticulate howls of fear and pleas that he had to force himself to ignore.

Light a fire in that cozy little nook…

Then, he spotted it.

Batman came down off of the steps, walking around the clenched bear trap and still wary of any other traps he might have missed on the way up. From his utility belt, he produced an extendable baton, and as he walked he patted the earth in front of him, like a blind person would. And he was glad he had done so, because he discovered another trap, this one a deadfall. He pushed into the earth, finding the depth and width of it—a hole a bit bigger than the width of his leg had been dug, about three feet deep and with small sticks covering it, gravel tossed on top to complete the camouflage. Had one of his legs fallen in, his forward momentum might’ve twisted his ankle or even snapped his knee, depending on what the shape the hole was inside.

Another hiss behind him, and the diesel’s wheels whined and screeched as it moved down the hill a bit more. Now Theresa Fuller’s screams weren’t just those of terror, but of pain. A glance behind revealed that she was stretched to her limit, so tight she couldn’t even wriggle as she had done before.

Batman moved as fast as he dared, and using the baton to search the path ahead of him until he came to the sofa surrounded by the bricks, that “cozy little nook”, and he stopped at the oil drum where he figured he must “light a fire”. A look inside the drum revealed massive amounts of kindling, wood, and paper, and the distinct smell of gasoline. A brief search around the drum found a Zippo lighter sitting on a pillow on the ground just beside it.

But why? Suspecting more traps, he took out his tactical flashlight, and scanned the area. Perhaps the Riddler had assumed that whoever came to play his game might be lacking a flashlight, and that they would need to light a fire in order to find his next clue? If that were the case, Batman was finding nothing with his flashlight, not on the cozy little couch or in the oil drum or on the ground around the area. Nothing.

Another hiss, and a loud shutter this time from the diesel. It was getting ready to finally barrel down the hill, with Theresa Fuller in tow.

Maybe it’s something the fire is supposed to reveal, he thought, and reached down to pick up the lighter. Something that a flashlight or night-vision goggles can’t see. Cautiously, he pulled the trigger of the Zippo, which ignited a small flame. So far, so good. Now, all he had to do was to reach inside and light fire, which he did carefully. Batman had just barely touched the flame to the kindling inside when a flame ignited quickly, first just the size of his fist, and then exploding upwards at his face as the whole drum went up. A massive fire shot out of the drum, bathing the entire area in bright orange light. He might’ve been badly burned, if the batsuit’s external layer wasn’t made of the same flame-resistant meta-aramid material as firefighter Nomex suits.

He staggered back a couple steps, pulling his cape up over his face to shield him further from the flames. When the Batman finally lowered his cape, he looked out on the wall of bricks around him. On them was scrawled an uneven message, written in a fine powder, practically invisible and illuminated brightly only by the radiation of fire. The letters were a strange, hazy green:

Look behind you

Batman turned, and, on the ground, he discovered a large arrow painted on the ground, illuminated by the same fine powder, somewhat skewed from where his steps had scattered the gravel, but still the direction was clear. It was pointing directly towards the diesel itself.

But I just came from there! he thought with mounting fury. For a moment he considered running over to Theresa Fuller and trying to free her from her chains, hoping against hope that the Riddler had been bluffing about the repercussions of tampering with her bonds.

Then, a thought occurred to him. Under the train? He ran over and ducked underneath, and shone his flashlight around. There, about three feet away, beneath the train and sitting on top of the track, was another laptop. Beside the laptop was a black box, roughly the size and dimensions of a shoebox, with a keypad on it. Batman crawled underneath hurriedly, and flipped open the laptop. Wires ran from the computer to the black box, and he was worried it might be a bomb, that the whole game had all been meant to make him jump through hoops just to blow himself up.

When he turned on the laptop, the screen saver was on, and it read:

You’re almost there. Now, riddle me this:

What force and strength

cannot get through,

I with a gentle touch can do,

and many in the streets would stand,

were I not as a friend in hand

What am I?

This was an old riddle, and he remembered hearing it at summer camp one year, back before Joe Chill had appeared in Crime Alley and taken his parents and his life from him. But for the life of him, he could not recall the answer. It had been one of those riddles uttered late at night, when they were all supposed to be asleep and all the camp counselors were in their cabins.

Another hiss, and the wheels screeched again as the thing shunted forward. For a horrible second, he thought this was it. Thankfully, the diesel halted again, but if it moved forward any further it would probably kill Theresa even before it went barreling out of control down the hill.

Batman stared at the riddle, trying to force his mind to understand it, to suss it out, to solve. He checked the Internet, but there was no listing of the riddle he could find. An old riddle, but obscure and mostly forgotten.

What force and strength cannot get through…Think! Think!

Then, behind him, he heard, “Anybody up here?”

Batman knew that voice. He pulled himself out from underneath the diesel, just in time to see Jim Gordon running up the hill to him. Batman threw up his arms. “Stop! Stop, Jim! Don’t come any closer!” Gordon halted in his tracks. He and two other officers that Batman knew, Mason and Jennings, had come up the hill from the other direction, and all three gazed at Theresa Fuller in wide-eyed astonishment as she screamed at the sky.

“There’s traps all around here!”

“I know, I almost got snagged in one on the way up! What the hell’s going on h—?”

“Jim, listen to me, and listen to me carefully!” Batman recited the riddle to him, and Gordon and the two cops just looked at him, puzzled. “What’s the answer?!” he shouted. Another hiss, and Batman felt his stomach twisting in knots. “Help me, Jim!” Batman could hear the begging in his own voice. “Do you know the answer?!”

“I’m thinking!” Gordon looked on at Theresa, and one of the cops started to move in before the commissioner grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back. He looked at Batman, “I…I don’t…I can’t think of it!”

“A key,” said the officer standing behind him. It was Officer Henry Mason. He was as rookie. Batman knew him from the ever-changing roster he kept on the GCPD. They all looked at him. “The answer’s a key, right?” Mason said.

Slowly, Batman felt the dawning of realization as it washed over him. He turned and dived back under the train, crawling up to the black box. He punched in 2539, spelling out “a key” on the keypad, and hit ENTER.

A sharp click had him jolt backwards, hitting the back of his head on the bottom of the train. He opened the box, and inside he found a strange, toffee apple-shaped thing, with a long, octagonal, metal stem shooting out the bottom. The diesel engine’s key.

Batman scrambled out from underneath the diesel and ran around the side, no longer caring to check for traps, knowing that he might get himself and Theresa Fuller killed by doing so. Gordon and the officers watched him go. He went to the front of the diesel, to the cab, and flung the door open while keeping to one side, just in case another crossbow bolt came flying out at him. He peeked inside, and found the cab empty except for its control panels. Key in hand, he swung on in and started looking for the appropriate place to plug it. A brief search on the Internet gave him the schematics of a British Rail Class 31, and after a few seconds of searching, he found the instructions on how to proceed.

The instructions directed him to an octagonal opening on the far left of the main control panel, slightly obscured by all the levers and buttons around it. He inserted the key’s octagonal stem and started turning. After six turns, he heard the motors switch on. The old engine came to life with a tremble and a shutter. From here, it was as easy as finding the tallest lever and set it to reverse. The Internet instructions also informed him that there was a middle cab that he would need to set to reverse, as well, because it controlled the back wheels.

Another hiss from below, and the diesel shuttered, though not nearly as much as before. The train’s starting to go in reverse. He ran to the middle cab, moving cautiously now that he was making progress, and found the necessary controls and set them to reverse, as well. There was a window to his right, and he could see that the train was backing up, slowly, slowly.

Batman ran through a short corridor to the rear cab of the diesel, around the laptop and the table and the crossbow still on its tripod, and saw that the train was moving back enough to allow more slack in the chains. Theresa was still screaming, but less so now.

He stood at the rear, watching until there was enough slack for her to rest back on the ground, and then went to halt the train.

Once it was stopped, Batman stood at the controls of the diesel for a moment, panting. Outside, he could hear Gordon calling out to others to be careful of the traps. He wanted to stay and help, he wanted to make sure Theresa Fuller was all right, but a glance outside showed more flashlights headed his way. Official GCPD policy right now was to arrest the vigilante known as the Batman on sight.

He hopped out of the cab and looked around. The fire was still burning in the oil drum, though not quite bright enough to illuminate the full message written on the bricks anymore. He walk briskly over to Gordon, who, along with Officers Mason and Jennings, were approaching Theresa. “Don’t touch her. Get a bomb squad up here first, and them check her body for sensors—the Riddler said he had something monitoring the chains, probably something electronic and pressure-sensitive on her person to notify the wheel stops if the chains were removed. The train is parked in place for now.”

Gordon nodded, and pulled out a police radio just as it was starting to squabble with voices demanding to know where he was. “Central, this is Commissioner Gordon! Inform others arriving on the scene that we’re on the north end of the station! Repeat, the north end of the station! And get bomb squad and some welders up here immediately, we’ve got some serious chains that need removing!”

Batman turned his attention to Officer Mason, and extended his hand. The officer almost went for his gun, but a look from Gordon advised him against it. “How did you know the answer to the riddle?” Batman asked, his hand still extended.

Mason, sweating, took off his cap and wiped his brow. “I’m a crossword puzzle and game fanatic. The guy’s at the station make fun o’ me, because I always got my nose in a joke book or riddle book.”

“That’s why they’ll always be who they are, and why you’ll make detective in record time, if I’m any judge.” Batman kept his hand extended, and was about to withdraw it when the officer slowly reached out and took it, giving it a brief shake. “Keep those wits sharp, Officer Mason. We may need them again soon.” He turned and nodded curtly to Gordon. “I’ll leave you to your work for now, Commissioner.”

Gordon said, “Sure.”

The unspoken agreement was, We’ll talk later.

Batman glanced down at the weeping woman on the ground. There was plenty of slack in the chains now, enough so that Theresa had pulled herself into a fetal position. She opened her eyes once, and looked at him. “You’re safe now,” he told her. I’m sorry this happened to you because of me, he thought to add, but didn’t.

As the other flashlights and raised voices made their way up the hill, the Dark Knight slinked away. He moved east across the station at first, and then made a wide arc back around to where he’d parked the Batcycle. He cranked it up, and turned on his heads-up display to check through NV and IR scanning for any watchful eyes near him.

Batman was almost two miles away, still thinking back on the nest of nightmares the Riddler had dreamt up, and how very close he had come to failing at the last possible second, when he realized he was trembling.

Other things occurred to him as he reflected on the night, including one unsolved problem. Them, he thought. He said “them”. What did he mean by that? Who else was there to save? The unanswered riddle tormented him all through the streets.