Date: Mon, 18 Jul 1994 12:08:29 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "Jason R. Tippitt" Subject: Dark of Knight, Part 5 ************************************************************************ D A R K O F K N I G H T ************************************************************************ Jason R. Tippitt ** Note: This story occurs between "Under Color Of Authority" and "Unholy Alliance." Part 5 Crazy Garrett took Jason to the soup kitchen where he took all his meals and got him some lunch. The buzzing in Jason's head had abated for the most part, and having food on his stomach made him feel better. The people at the mission let him shave and take a shower, and a lady in her fifties, also homeless, trimmed his hair. "Five years. Wow," Jason told Garrett as they made their way back 'home.' "I lost track of time... not having any light made it damn hard to keep track of anything." "Trust me, not much has changed. There are still good people, and some people who'll make you wonder why the gods even bothered." They rounded the corner and saw a gang of skinheads gleefully watching the box Garrett called home as it burned. "Hey, looky there, if it ain't Crazy Garrett hisself," one of the Skins said. "Hey, Grandpa, you've been evicted." The gang advanced, a few with sticks, some carrying handguns. Garrett drew his sword from beneath his filthy trenchcoat. "Knaves, thou hast gone too far. Prepare to pay for this breach of honor." Jason looked around for a weapon of some sort. (He says there's no way they can kill me... but I don't want to take that chance.) His eyes fell upon the discarded handle of what used to be a hammer, and he grabbed it as the first shots rang out. **** Duncan paced in his padded cell. [At least they didn't try to put me in a straitjacket.] He chuckled at the thought of that. He was chuckling at a lot of things at the moment. He'd seen a lot of horrors in his life; Arkham Asylum put them all to shame. The inmates here made some of Michael's patients look well- adjusted in coparision. Quentin Stone, Michael's other side, would have been at home here. [He is here... right inside me.] He giggled, slamming his fists against the walls of the cell. [Damn it, Joker, when I get out of here...] **** Jason looked around, making sure the last of the thugs were gone. He'd been hit twice, flesh wounds that he could feel beginning to heal already. Garrett hadn't been so lucky--but if what he'd told Jason was true, the chest and head wounds shouldn't keep him down for long. (Why aren't the police responding? This is Gotham, Jason; there's probably a hell of a lot more going on than gangs rolling bums.) He crouched beside Garrett, groaned and sat up. "Good to see you again, Garrett." Garrett murmured something in a language Jason didn't recognize. "Are they gone?" he then asked, sitting up. "Yeah, I kept coming after they downed you, then I think they ran out of ammo trying to hit me." The two poked around the alleys behind several storefronts, looking for a new box for Garrett. Garrett also hit the liquor store and bought a couple of bottles of vodka. By sundown, they had set up a new "home" a few blocks from the old one. **** Father Patrick McDonald, age 47, died at 7:00 p.m. that evening. He was found with a smile on his face that would have signalled that he was at peace with death, were he to have died anywhere but Gotham. He ran the Roman Catholic Church's main rescue mission in Gotham; he was always the first to greet new faces at the soup kitched. Thus, he walked up to the pale man in the trenchcoat and introduced himself as soon as he and his short, stocky friend arrived at the front door. "Do ye need food, lad?" "I cannot live by bread alone, father--I need knowledge, Father, the kind this mission can give." Father McDonald smiled. "Well, lad, if you come seeking Jesus--" The stranger smiled back. "No, I come seeking another pilgrim." He reached into an envelope and pulled out a picture of an unshaven man, apparently in his forties. "This is my long-lost brother, Garrett." Father McDonald's face lit up even more brightly. "Garrett, yes. I believe he lives on Montague Street. He was here earlier." The stranger smiled. He hadn't stopped smiling the whole time he'd been here. "Thank you, Father, your kindness is an example for all to follow." He reached out and shook the priest's hand. Father McDonald felt a slight pinprick, surely his imagination. "I do the work of the Lord, son; to be able to reunite a family is a true blessing." "Send my regards to God," the stranger said, then bid his adieu. Father McDonald laughed himself to death five minutes later. **** Bruce sat alone in his study, staring in wonder at the photo album on his lap. The Duncan he had met, the Duncan locked up in Arkham, was a dead ringer for his father. He wondered if his eyes were fooling him. Duncan could have stepped straight out of these photos. Light flooded the room. He looked up and saw the familiar signal illuminating the sky. Gordon needed him; time for him to drop this disguise and be himself again. Batman swung to the roof of police headquarters five minutes later. "Commissioner, you've already been to the hospital once because of those things." James Gordon sighed and put out his pipe. "These days it's hard not to pick up the old bad habits. The Joker's at it again." "What's the jackal up to this time?" "Father McDonald of the Gotham City Rescue Mission died of his venom half an hour ago. Quite a few of Gotham's homeless have been stumbling out into the streets of the red-light district, apparently gassed. We think he's somewhere between Kirby and Crime Alley." Gordon looked up for his friend. He was, of course, gone. "Be careful." =========================================================================