South Elm was nothing but abandoned warehouses and gutted shops. After dark, vagrants caught a bus if they could, or slipped through subway tunnels. They drifted in from the Burnleys, the Narrows, Coventry, Buxton, squatting where they could. Against boarded up storefronts, beneath overpasses in lots choked with weeds and garbage. Anyplace that wouldn't give them the boot.
He stood on a rooftop overlooking a lot beneath the Turn. He reached for his belt, flipped open a compartment, and pressed a button. The lenses of his mask dimmed with a soft beep. Then he scanned the patch of ground below.
It was a dry stretch beneath the overpass, where a circle of men hunched around trash-bin fires. He scanned their faces—streaked with grime, hollowed by exhaustion. All but one.
Not homeless.
Just a man who lived off-grid.
Ernest Wells—known on the street as Oney, for the arm he lost in the war. He always wore a pale-yellow windbreaker, its left sleeve folded and tucked, and a fingerless glove cut off at the second knuckle. Tonight, he sat on a wood crate, warming his good hand over a firepit built from cinder blocks.
He turned on the lenses; they brightened again. He dropped into the lot, cape flaring behind him. No sound but the whisper of fabric and the subtle hiss of his grapnel gun.
There was always a stillness when people saw him—shock and fear. Like spotting a ghost. They froze. Then they ran.
Dozens scurried away beneath tarps or ran across to darkened alleyways. Oney glanced around to see what the fuss was about.
"Well, shit," Oney said, unfazed. "Ain't seen you in a hot minute. Who you hunting tonight?"
"Information."
"Lemme guess." He scratched his chin. "Asian girl, found in the dumpster?"
"Anyone see it firsthand?"
"Plenty."
"Anyone sober?"
Oney barked a laugh. "You know better than to ask that."
He stood, then pointed with his chin. "There's a hooker. Best witness you'll find 'round here. She was working the alley across from where the girl ran out. Saw the whole damn thing."
"She have a record?"
"Every working girl in the Narrows has a record. That's how the cops get their free blow jobs. I'll go grab her—saw her crawl into some guy's tent."
Oney shuffled off. The lot was quiet except for the crackle of burning garbage and the occasional clatter of a bottle tipping. One man stood near the flames of a trash bin, hair jutting out in wild directions, eyes wide and glassy.
"He rides not the pale night, but darkness—with eyes like burning bolts of lightning," he whispered, then grinned.
Oney reappeared a minute later, tugging along a woman. Mid-forties. Hair tied in a tight bun. She was arguing with him the whole way until she saw who was waiting. She stopped cold.
"Fuck me," she muttered.
"Don't think he's interested, Nessie," Oney said. "He wants to know about the girl they found in the dumpster."
She froze, staring at him until Oney nudged her elbow.
"Yeah, okay," she finally said, eyes twitching side to side. "I saw her. Running. Crying. Real mess. She stopped under the streetlight, then a bike came flying outta nowhere."
"No one comes from nowhere!" the trash-bin prophet shouted. "Narrow is the path, narrower than the needle's eye!"
"Alright, Larry," Oney muttered. "He means the cut-through two blocks south. It's a tight alley that leads to the other side of the street, straight to St. Luke's Cathedral. No cars fit, but a bike could slip through easy."
"Well, wherever he came from. He drove up, hopped off," Nessie continued. "Ran straight to the dumpster. Lifted the lid, then bolted to the payphone."
"He called 911?" His voice cut through her like a slap.
She blinked, then nodded slowly.
"Yeah, that's what I heard too," said Oney.
Larry came limping over, grinning with a mouth full of blackened teeth. "He peeled out on his sled and curved the corner like a queen," he said.
"Alright, Lar. Go chill." Oney waved him off.
His cape billowed slightly and quietly as he thought. Oney was pushing the prophet back. St. Luke's was a Pinkney building—the kind that goths and misfits frequent. He looked to Nessie, whose eyes had been fixed on him—fear and intrigue tangled in her stare.
"Tomorrow. Go to the 52nd. Make a statement."
"I ain't talking to pigs," she said quietly.
Oney gave her a look. "Nessie girl, he's not asking."
By the time she turned to protest, he was gone.
The prophet raised his hands and bellowed to the sky:
"Maleficence makes meek men of us all—but not of mayhem, for he serves only wrath!"
He could still hear the prophet screaming as he hauled himself onto the ledge. Thoughts crowded in—about the rider, the scuffle with Gordon. The pieces weren't fitting. He sprinted toward the edge of the rooftop.
"A skilled fighter with a conscience," Alfred said.
The cable hissed from the gun. He launched across the street, boots hitting the next building hard. "Maybe."
"The 911 call, and the fact he waited for Gordon to climb out of that sewer—"
"He could've just wanted a better look at him."
He ran across, leapt off the building, swinging through the night.
"I doubt a man targeting women would use a weapon with your symbol."
"Anyone can buy one off the street."
"True, but by now, even the skeptics know your rules—no guns, no killing. Not exactly words that would inspire a serial killer." Alfred said.
He swung high, then low—the grapple gun retracting and firing again in smooth succession. When he reached the next building, his boots hit the ledge. He paused before the tall windows, scanning the street below.
North Elm was a catwalk for working girls—cleavage, bare midriffs, cheeks spilling from skirts and cutoff shorts. Most of them stumbled out from the Narrows, a fractured slum carved into fiefdoms by boys with handguns and egos. The girls running the curb had sharper instincts than any of them.
They were a churn of addicts and castoffs—women either past their prime or too unruly for Uptown's brothels. Desperate, but not docile. He'd seen them descend like feral cats, clawing at anyone who threatened their block—man, woman, didn't matter.
"We know he traverses the sewers at night, tackling unknown assailants, and instead of gravely injuring them, he leaves them unconscious. Dare I say, he might be a fellow crime fighter," said Alfred.
"There's more to it than knocking people unconscious and toiling around in the sewers."
"Really? You just described the majority of your nights."
He ignored Alfred.
Engines growled as the men in cars peeled off when they spotted him. The girls glanced skyward, faces slicked from the rain. A few cursed him for scaring off business. One called out, offering a quick one in the alley—more offers followed. When he had enough of the crude catcalling, and obscene gestures, he moved on.
"Lan Nguyen went to the Pinkney Building off Raspler."
"Yes, it used to be a hotel, I believe. It's under renovation, per the Wayne Foundation," said Alfred.
"Maybe someone there knows more about Lan, or Bayli."
"Before you make an appearance, might I suggest a subtler approach? To avoid another incident like what occurred with Marcus White."
He was silent.
"She's proven herself resourceful and capable in the past."
He was silent for a beat then said, "Page her."