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Lost Holidays
Chapter Eleven
written by destinyawakened
Saturday, February 14: Valentine's Day
The couch in the break room was a little lumpy, a few inches too short, and generally uncomfortable. Gordon had fallen asleep sometime late last night, after having finished his annual budget report for the mayor. It wasn't what he had wanted to do, but he had put it off for a week, and soon the mayor was going to start calling to ask for it. He rolled from his side to his back, opening his eyes to find the blurry face of Bruce Wayne staring down at him from behind the arm of the couch. Gordon rubbed his eyes, not really sure where he had put his glasses. Bruce bent over, gently placing the glasses on his face.
“Thanks,” Gordon said grumbling and swinging his legs over the side of the couch, sitting straight up. He reached up to straighten his hair, stopping when Bruce smirked at him. “What you are doing here so early?”
Bruce glanced down at his watch. “Not that early, Jim.” He walked around to the front of the couch, plopping down next to Gordon, arms stretched out over the top, one leg crossed over the other. “And maybe I just wanted to see you.”
“Just wanted to see me?” Gordon questioned, suspiciously. It was Saturday; Bruce was never up this early on weekends unless he had to be. “This doesn't have to do with you being worried or trying to keep an eye on me, does it?”
“Not at all.” Bruce scrunched up his face, looking hurt by Gordon's words. “What's wrong with just wanting to see you?” Oh, he was going to play that card, was he? The 'let's make Jim feel bad for suspecting something that's probably true anyway' card. Gordon gave him a stern gaze over the top of his glasses.
“We'll see each other tonight. You didn't have to get up at --” Gordon glanced at his watch “-- nine to come see me just because.” He knew it sounded as though he thought Bruce was acting possessive or needy, but in reality he didn't mind it at all; the feeling of being wanted – needed – was one of the best feelings he could imagine, and one he hadn't felt for years with Barbara. No, he didn't mind at all.
Bruce shrugged, one hand creeping nearer to Gordon's shoulder from the back of the couch, fingers barely touching him. They had to be careful around MCU; some people were already beginning to ask questions, even though they denied it categorically . Some days, Gordon just wanted to scream it out loud, so he could just enjoy that one moment where they didn't feel as though they were constantly hiding. He slumped over, elbows on his knees, head in hands, scratching at his scalp.
“Tonight's going to be busy,” Bruce stated, “there won't be time for us.”
Of course, Gordon knew Bruce was right; if the night was going to go as they thought it would, there would be little time for anything, let alone time for them. “Right,” was his only answer. A part of him almost wished he dreamed up the last few months, the murders, the case, everything. They had been through so much worse with the Joker over a year ago; at least no one was being blown up, there were no threats to innocent children, no boats being hijacked and rigged with explosives; and despite the current murders, this year had turned out to be a bit tamer (aside from the month long reign of riddles from Edward Nygma).
“After tonight, this will all be over.” Bruce rested a hand on Gordon's shoulder, the most he'd allow himself out in open; Gordon found himself wishing they were somewhere more private, to at least enjoy a portion of Valentine's Day with each other.
“We don't know that. We don't have any hard facts or leads that tell us we're even close to being on the right track.” Gordon stood, frustration boiling through him, and began pacing the floor, hands on his hips. He wanted so badly to catch this murderer, throw him behind bars for life, and never look back on the case again.
Bruce quickly stood. He grabbed Gordon by the shoulders, holding him in one place, looking straight into his eyes sternly. “We're on the right track, Jim.” Were they really? Gordon kept feeling as if maybe he was missing some aspect of the case, the once piece they needed just out of their reach.
“How can you be so sure?” Gordon asked, gazing back into his eyes carefully. He often wondered how it was that Bruce knew things – found out things – he didn't know. There was a lot about Bruce's life that Gordon hadn't sat down to talk to him about, hadn't bothered to question; it never seemed important or relevant when they lived in the moment, or just a few paces ahead. Next chance he had, he was getting some answers.
“I have my ways of getting information.” Bruce dropped his hands to his sides, an officer having entering the room, headed for the microwave. Gordon looked at Bruce. He knew all about Bruce's ways.
“Are these ways of your's ones I wouldn't agree with?” he asked, glancing over at the officer who was pretending not to notice the two of them standing there. Gordon motioned over to the opposite side of the room, Bruce following right beside him.
“Quite possibly, yes,” Bruce answered slowly, biting at his lower lip.
“Bruce...” It was more of a warning. He didn't often agree with Bruce's methods; not many did. Then again, not many had the physical training required to do a lot of what Bruce did.
“Jim...” The younger man's tone was innocent, his eyes sparkling in the sunlight, a small grin present on his lips. Bruce was too good at this game.
Gordon shook his head; some days he wished he didn't know that Bruce Wayne was Batman. Some days it would be easier not to know that Bruce was out there, ending trouble with more trouble, using brute force to beat the answers out of those who might know something. Some days he wished he could do the same. That would be the day he failed Gotham. He had his own ways to bring Gotham back to what it once was. That was where he and Bruce were so different.
“How about some breakfast?” Bruce asked finally, ushering Gordon towards the door. Gordon grabbed his jacket off the coat rack, sliding it on over his shoulders.
“No time,” Gordon said, with a shake of his head, “but I could use some coffee.”
-------
Gordon had decided that since he had put Stephens on guard duty for the mayor, he would personally help Selina research all of the restaurants and hotels they suspected: many were motels, most sitting on the outskirts of Gotham City or down in the Narrows. None of them had many reservations, just a couple here and there, mostly prostitutes reserving their rooms for the night. Nothing unusual, nothing suspicious. Nothing at all. He began to wonder if the killer would even come out to play tonight, if Valentine's Day had been the right prediction. It had to be, unless the killer was done; but Gordon had a feeling the killer had a few more up his sleeve.
Selina was checking out the small restaurants; she had yet to report anything back to him. Gordon was considering this her last test before he really began to investigate her. If they missed the mark again and it had been a spot Selina had checked out, he would know beyond a doubt that she was leading them astray. So far, it was more coincidental than anything else. He hoped for her sake that she wasn't involved. It was one thing to be paid off by the mob, as with Anna Ramirez, but it's completely different to be covering up for and thus aiding a serial killer.
Walking out of the last trashy motel in the Narrows, Gordon peeled off his jacket, the late-afternoon sun beating down relentlessly. What happened to the cool winter day the weather channel had predicted? The last of the snow on the sidewalks had melted off into puddles that were barely visible now. Damn global warming, Gordon thought; he was pretty sure it was the cause of most of this unpredictable weather. He guessed that tomorrow it would probably snow again, leaving him even more bewildered than before. His phone started to jingle in his pants pocket. He fished for it, not remembering at first which pocket he had placed it in. Finding it, he hit the accept key.
“Gordon.”
“Checked the restaurants on our list, nothing. Even made a couple extra stops at the some of the not-so-trashy hotels; there's one that could be worth looking into further. A 'Thomas Elliot' is booked to stay there. I don't know if it's connected to the case, but I remember Stephens talking about the Elliot case a few weeks ago. You never know.” Selina sounded a little rushed, out of breath, even. Gordon wondered if everything was alright, but didn't ask, since knew her response would have been indifferent or even rude.
“Which hotel?” Thomas Elliot? Gordon hadn't thought about that name in well over a month. It seemed so long ago now, yet the repercussions of the incident could still be felt. The last thing Gordon, or Bruce, needed was for Elliot to be back in their lives. Related to the case or not, Gordon was going to check it out and, if he was lucky, take Elliot in once and for all.
“Starlight Royal. Commissioner, I'd be more comfortable if you allowed me to go with you. Batman did say you were also a target, I'd hate for something to --”
Gordon cut her off quickly. “Detective, stop. I'll be fine. Continue to check out other places. Keep me posted.”
“Yes, sir.” She hung up. Gordon flipped his phone shut. Did he risk telling Bruce about Elliot? There was the chance that it was another Thomas Elliot; it was very slim, but a chance nonetheless. No, he didn't need to worry Bruce over this. Besides, Gordon had a score to settle with the doctor for what had happened the last time. If he could sneak up on Elliot, he might just put the bastard behind bars. First he would need to get a hold of Stephens to let him know about the situation and to tell him not to let Bruce know; the last thing the billionaire needed was to worry about Gordon and a childhood friend who wanted to make his life a living hell, or, better yet, to kill him.
Gordon flipped the phone open again, scrolling through the numbers until he found Stephens', and hit the call button. “Stephens,” came the man's voice on the other end.
“How's security at City Hall?”
“It's tight. The mayor seems a little annoyed, but when I told him Batman insisted on it, he let it slide. I don't think his wife is too happy about him being holed up in here on Valentine's Day,” Stephens said, sounding a little tired.
“Better safe than sorry. I'm sure she would rather her husband stayed alive for another Valentine's Day,” Gordon said, sighing, pacing the side walk near his car. “I'm headed to East Garrison to look into a lead. But do me a favor and don't mention it to Wayne.”
There was a hesitation from the man on the other end, then what sounded to Gordon like a groan with annoyance. Gordon knew how Stephens felt about keeping anything from Bruce; the playboy had a way of getting what he wanted out of people, either through his charms or by way of intimidation. Neither were methods that Stephens liked, especially when they were used on him. “Why am I not allowed to tell Wayne?”
“It's regarding Thomas Elliot. His name has shown up on the reservation list of one of the hotels under observation. There could be a chance that he's behind this. Given his past experiences with Elliot, I don't think that Wayne should know. At least not right away,” Gordon explained. He didn't need Bruce to know, to drop what he was doing, to abandon his duty in keeping the mayor and Stephens safe. Bruce had a very one-track mind, and Gordon didn't need it to be on him right now.
“Right,” Stephens said rather skeptically. “So when he asks where you are, what do I tell him?”
“You tell him I'm still checking out hotel leads.” Which wasn't a lie, right? He was checking out leads, and he was going to a hotel. He hoped Selina kept her mouth shut about it, too.
“You want me to lie?” Stephens sounded even more annoyed now; Gordon knew he hated having to lie to Bruce, since he could often sense a lie and brought out even more of the charm and intimidation that Stephens hated having to deal with in the first place.
“It's not really lying, just giving him the half-truth.” Gordon let a little desperation into his voice, to let Stephens know he wasn't kidding around.
“Half-truth,” Stephens said with a sigh, as if he couldn't believe Gordon was even asking this of him. “Fine. You owe me big time, Gordon.”
“Thanks.” Gordon flipped the phone shut. He stared at it, digging into his pocket for the other device Bruce had given him, which was similar to a cell phone but had a tracker in it. He thought about leaving it in his car when he got to the hotel, to show Bruce that he didn't need the help, that he didn't need the security of knowing that if he pushed a button, Batman would be there. The desire to prove this was strong, but not as strong as the idea the feeling everything could go wrong, in which case he would wish he had that little device. He put it back into his pocket, searching the other pocket for his car keys. Next stop, Starlight Royal.
---------
The Starlight Royal Hotel was far from regal, hardly living up to its name. It was, however, much better than half of the places Gordon had checked out just hours before. This place was just classy enough to encompass the architectural features of a typical horror movie hotel, complete with creepy guests, a murky pool, and black curtains in every window. Gordon had to look twice when pulling up to the hotel, surprised by its appearance. He felt his heart race in his chest, as he pulled into a a parking space towards the back of the hotel, a discreet spot; the last thing he wanted to do was draw more attention to himself than was necessary. It was close to five; check-in for most places was a few hours ago, so if Gordon was lucky, Elliot would already be here. If he was even luckier, it would be the right Thomas Elliot, and he wouldn't make an ass of himself.
From under his seat he pulled out his shoulder holster, slinging it on, followed by his jacket to conceal it. He opened the car door, briefly thinking that this might be a bad idea. Something in the back of his brain was telling him to stop and think about it. Was he doing this for Bruce? Did he actually suspect Elliot of being the Holiday Killer? Or was he doing this to redeem himself for Elliot's attempted to kill him? At that moment, Gordon knew that he had to do this for all those reasons. Stepping out of the car, he pulled out his phone and switched it to silent; no use in giving himself away at the least opportune time. He gently closed the car door, walking towards the front lobby.
The sound of the gravel parking lot under his feat was almost deafening against the quiet of the hotel. It was too quiet. He kept his guard up, hand ready to pull his gun; he could feel eyes on him – maybe just innocent patrons of the hotel, maybe not. He couldn't actually see anyone when he took a quick glance around. The curtains were shut in all the rooms, blinds drawn down in the manager's office as he approached the lobby. He pulled the door open, sliding through, badge out and ready. The clerk at the desk was a young, red haired kid, no more than eighteen. He looked up at Gordon, obviously unaware as to who he was, placing down his magazine on the counter; it must have been a slow day.
“Can I help you, sir?” the kid asked. Gordon placed his police badge on the counter, glancing at him over the top of his glasses, giving him a few second to see that it was real. The kid looked at him, with a note of surprise in his eyes, as if he didn't know what to do.
“I'm looking for the room of a Thomas Elliot.”
“We can't give out guest information, officer. It's against hotel policy --” The kid stopped, turning his head towards the office behind him. A man emerged, his narrow, dark eyes heavily set on Gordon, as if he was trying to burn a hole through his head.
“You can give it to him, Greg. He's the police after all.” The man offered a smile; it was cold and awkward, making Gordon feel a little more than uneasy.
“Um, y-yes, sir.” The kid typed in a few things on the computer, which could easily have been older than he was. “Room 219. First building behind us, second floor.”
“Thank you.” Gordon nodded his thanks to the kid, another to the manager, who now had his arms crossed over his chest, and was watching him even more intently. There was something wrong here, something unusual, a little too... easy. A cold knot formed in Gordon's stomach as he walked out the back of the lobby. Following the kids directions. He walked past the pool, where a few sun-bathing bikini-clad girls, stopped what they were doing and watched Gordon glide by without even a second look towards them. In his younger, less confused days, Gordon might have had that second look, but since Barbara, he'd never so much as looked at another woman; since Bruce he never even thought about women at all.
He climbed the stairs, slowly, awkwardly, adjusting his glasses. He could feel his heart pick up pace, pounding relentlessly against his ribcage; adrenalin started flowing through his veins, making the moments before he reached the door of 219 almost a complete blur, a dream. Did he knock, or did he kick in the door? If he was wrong, if this was not the Thomas Elliot he was looking for, he could make a big mistake and risk charges of assault. If he was right, he'd have the man right where he wanted him. Unless he knows you're coming, Jim. That was an all-too-true thought, and Gordon hadn't given it much consideration at all. No, there was no time for that, no time for backing down now. He stood to the side of the door, and rapped on it twice, waiting for an answer. He knocked again. Still nothing.
Gordon reached out towards the door knob, twisting it, surprised to see it was open and unlocked. He twisted it further, swinging the door open. He peeked his head around the jamb, pulling his gun from the shoulder holster, flipping the safety off. The room was dark, bed made, television on, humming lowly with the sound down. Gordon kicked the door further to the side to be sure no one was lurking behind it. Nothing. Gun pointed in front of him, he put his back against the wall, scooting along until he reached the bed, peeking his head around the corner to the bathroom, seeing nothing but an open door, lights off. He carefully got down on his knees. Chest to the floor, he lifted the bed covers. Again, nothing. He dropped the covers, lifting himself back to a sitting position, only to find a silver hand gun pointed directly at his face. He raised his own gun, but found it quickly taken out of his hand. What a very wrong move to have made, Jim; you let your guard down.
“Well, Commissioner Gordon. We meet again.” Doctor Thomas Elliot glared down at him, motioning for him to stand and using his free hand to pull on his arm. Gordon did, not attempting to be hostile with the man – at least – not yet. He needed to get the upper hand, first. “I believe the last time I saw you, Jimmy, you were strapped to some gasoline barrels, about to be blown to bits. Now how did you ever seem to get out of that situation?”
Gordon held his gaze on the cold, blue eyes of the man in front of him, but kept his words to himself. Elliot pushed him down, on to the bed, gun still pointed at his face, unfaltering. “Nothing to say, Gordon?” Elliot shrugged. “Fine. I know Bruce got you out of there. Somehow. Risking his own sanity for it. So noble of him, wouldn't you say? Risking his own identity, his freedom, to save a close friend.
“No matter,” Elliot snarled. “Soon, you'll be dead once and for all. And then, I'll be able to take care of dear Brucie.” Gordon knew what was coming next but couldn't defend himself from it given the situation; the hilt of the gun smacked the back of his skull, darkness clouded his eyes, and his last thoughts were Bruce's words sounding in his mind; don't do anything crazy.
--------
Gordon groaned, attempting to bring his hands to his head and finding that he couldn't; they were bound behind his back by what felt like handcuffs, most likely his own. In any other situation he might have thought Bruce was behind it, but this definitely was not the playboy's doing. He pulled on the cuffs, testing. Sometimes a person who didn't use them regularly could put them on wrong, or not tight enough; that was not the case this time. Gordon rolled from his side to his back, hands under him uncomfortably. He looked around the room; the television was still on, volume down, only the hum of electricity radiating from it. He was still on the bed, in the same hotel room, but Elliot wasn't anywhere to be seen, not that he could see much with just the dim glow of the television.
A light clicked on in the corner of the room, highlighting a chair and the woman in it, one arm over the side with her head resting on it, legs curled up. She stared at him, unmoving, her hand still on the chain of the lamp above her. Gordon noticed that the woman was in costume, a black leather one-piece cat-suit – quite literally, too – with an attached cowl much like Bruce's, ears and all. She let go of chain, revealing long claws attached to her gloves, then rested her hand on her hip. Her gaze remained steady, unmoving, her expression still and blank. Gordon wasn't sure what to think. Elliot didn't always work alone; he usually hired people to do his dirty work, leaving only the best parts for himself. But if the doctor was the Holiday Killer, had he been using pawns this whole time? And what connection did he have with the other victims? None of it was making sense. There was no way he was the killer. Unless this woman was the killer? Maybe, just maybe.
“You look a little uncomfortable, Commissioner,” the woman said, voice sensuous and slow. “But you won't be for long.”
“Who are you?” Gordon asked, trying to inch his way up the headboard of the bed, attempting to get into a sitting position. The woman shrugged almost innocently, smirking at him.
“Oh, just a girl.” She slid her legs out of the chair, standing. She walked slowly over to the bed, hands on the covers, bending over and crawling on to the bed towards Gordon. He frowned, kicking his feet back to move him further against the headboard. “Are you afraid of a little ol' kitty cat?”
“No,” he said plainly. He wasn't afraid of her, but he sure didn't want to be near her, either; she was far from harmless. She looked at him with a pout on her lips, batting her eyes at him. For a split second Gordon thought he might know her, that the color of her eyes was almost distinguishable, but he shoved the thought aside, unable to place it.
“Well, if you're not afraid of me, you will be of him.”
Gordon glared at her, eyebrows furrowed, a questioning look in his eyes; “Him?”
She smiled, crawling up to him, straddling him. She bent her lips down to his ear. “Holiday,” she whispered softly, her lips almost grazing his ear. He shivered, trying to push her off. She placed her hands on his shoulders, digging her claws into his back. He winced; it was far more painful than he had expected, and the claws were as sharp as razors. He bit down on his lip, holding back a small agonizing groan that dared to escape his lips.
“Where's Elliot?” Gordon asked, trying to take his mind off the pain – her claws still dug deeply into his skin.
“Elliot?” she asked, confusion in her voice. “Oh, you mean Hush? He was just the decoy to get you here. He was more than happy to oblige.” So, Elliot wasn't the Holiday killer. Gordon felt the pit of his stomach ache; he had walked right into a trap. Bruce was right, Gordon was the next target for the Holiday killer. How had he walked right into this? The temptation to catch Elliot after what he put Bruce through was more than enough, and Gordon had been caught up in it. If only he could reach his pocket for that device...
“I wonder how he's going to do it,” the woman said, still straddling Gordon. She had moved her hands from his shoulders, and was now running her pointy claws down his chest, popping the buttons off his shirt slowly.
“Who is Holiday?” Gordon asked, trying his best to ignore the intimate touch, keeping his eyes off of her, and focused on the television.
“That would be cheating if I told you,” she purred into his ear. There was movement at the door of the hotel room; someone walked in, wearing all black, face shadowed by the hat the person wore. The woman crawled off of Gordon, and slid down the side of the bed. “Finally here. About time.”
“Go fill the tub.” It was man with a deep voice, obviously trying to disguise it. Gordon noticed he had a bucket of ice in his hands. The woman complied, walking to the bathroom. Gordon heard the water running, and suddenly he knew what his demise was going to be. He hoped that Stephens didn't do what he would asked him to do, that he would break and tell Bruce where Gordon has gone.
The man dropped the bucket of ice by the bathroom door, walking back to the door where there was many other buckets waiting. He went back and forth five times, by Gordon's count. That was a lot of ice. He kept trying to knead his arm into his jacket, hoping to hit the button on the tracking device. He wasn't sure if he had hit it yet or not, but with any luck he had. The woman walked out of the bathroom, staring at him.
“Time for a bath, Jimmy,” she said, walking over to him. She pulled on his legs, slamming his head against the headboard. He groaned in pain, closing his eyes, wanting to desperately hold his head and cradle the pain away. The woman crawled on top of him, hips over his chest, a glass in one hand. “Open wide, kitty has a treat for you.” He tried to keep his mouth shut, but she pried it open, to pour a nasty liquid down his throat. He wanted to cough, not swallow, but she clamped his mouth shut with her hands until he did.
“Good boy.”
Gordon felt his head freeze and his mind go blank, his body sudden frozen; he couldn't feel anything. The woman flipped him over, unlocking the cuffs in one swift movement, as if she'd done it before. She turned him over again, taking off first his jacket, then his shirt. She didn't once look at him, didn't make eye contact. She moved down to his pants, removed them and his boxers. Gordon knew if he could have felt anything, it might have been embarrassment. But that was currently the last thing on his mind; he knew what would be coming next, a bath in ice cold water, to be left to die of hypothermia. He wouldn't feel it though, at least; he would just wait until his body shut down. If he could just close his eyes and pretend none of it was going to happen, he would, but every movement his mind wanted to make, wouldn't work. He knew he was blinking, but he couldn't even feel that.
“Ready,” the woman called. The man walked over, wearing a surgical mask. He picked Gordon up rather easily, carrying him into bathroom, laying him gently in the bathtub. Gordon assumed it was cold water; thankfully, just as he had suspected, he couldn't feel it. The man proceeded to dump ice into the bath, bucket after bucket after bucket, Gordon could no longer see anything but the mounds of ice. The man got down next to him, a black gloved hand on the side of the tub.
“Happy Valentine's Day, Commissioner.”
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