Detective Comics

PREVIOUSLY: Jean-Paul Valley, formerly known as Azrael, fends off an attack from two unidentified assailants. Later the same evening, following a chaotic fight, the assailants are discovered murdered, and Jean-Paul is missing. At Batman’s request, Batgirl tracks Jean-Paul to a homeless shelter in Crime Alley.

On a mission from Oracle, Black Canary steals classified documents from the French embassy in Transbelvia. The documents detail an international conspiracy involving metahuman terrorists. Oracle dispatches Canary back to Transbelvia, where her train is ambushed by the water-powered metahuman known as Typhoon.

Disappointed with her life and seeking advice, Valerie Beaudry meets a mysterious stranger in a café in Pittsburgh. He reveals to her that he is a member of the Order of St. Dumas, and recruits her to join the fold.

Dinah struggled to think as panicked screams filled her ears. No more than one hundred yards away, an explosion rocked the train. Waves of water flooded through the cabin, rocking it back and forth. What had once been the right wall of the cabin was now the floor, with everything else rent askew by the mayhem. A child was crying, her calls lost amidst the cacophony of screams echoing through the cabin. Smoke began to pour into the cabin from the source of the explosion.

Hnnn, Dinah thought. At least all the water will put out the fire.

Typhoon leered over her, standing at least fifteen feet tall. He lacked form beneath the knees; instead, his body became a swirling pool of water below that level. It was impossible to tell whether water was obscuring his legs, or whether water was his legs. He held his hands above him, spread in triumph like a wizard finishing his magic act. His eyes were glassy, sinister, his gaze like a laser beam. His mouth was curled in a sinister snarl as he regarded Dinah, flat on her back and gasping for air. “Every time I meet a cute girl,” Typhoon snarled mockingly, “I end up having to kill her. What a shame.”

Dinah’s mind raced. She could see Typhoon starting to move his arms again. His gestures would inevitably trigger another water attack, probably another tidal wave. She had to move ASAP. She glanced momentarily at her carry-on package, too far away for her to access. It’s all up to me, then.

Dinah rolled hard to the right, catching herself with her left hand and propelling herself off the cabin “floor”. She quickly lowered her shoulder, just in time to take the brunt of yet another wave. Dinah smile inwardly; she’d guessed right. She knew Typhoon was about to hit her, but she didn’t know from which direction the wave would originate. If she’d gambled wrong and it had come from behind her, the wave would have knocked her right back off her feet. Still, she knew she could not match Typhoon physically, even if she could get to her gear. Instead, Dinah leapt straight up, out of what was once a window, but now served as a skylight of sorts. She felt a sharp pain in her left shoulder as she snagged a piece of jagged glass. Dinah stifled a scream and tumbled over the side of the train onto the ground, landing as comfortably as possible.

Now what? Her first instinct was to run. Typhoon was after her. If she could lure him away from the train…

“Oh, Miss Lance,” came the mocking call from behind her. Typhoon levitated out of the train, his face still locked in a sneer. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re wrong. If you run, I won’t chase you. I will stay here. And I will kill everyone here, one by one. Dinah felt a chill as she turned to face her mocking adversary. Typhoon grinned an evil grin. “Still want to run?”

Knowing she had no choice, Dinah turned and took a few steps back toward the train. In some ways, she thought, being out in the open was even more dangerous than being in the train. Her arm throbbed. “What is it you want, waterboy?”

“How about some goddam respect?!?” Typhoon bellowed as he unleashed another tidal wave in her direction. Dinah tried unsuccessfully to avoid the wave, but could only minimize the damage from the impact. She rolled over backwards twice before springing back to her feet. Typhoon was still ranting. “Show me some goddam respect!!!”

It was difficult to hear the helicopter at first over Typhoon’s diatribe and the commotion from the train. Only after it had gotten within a few hundred yards could Dinah see Lady Blackhawk flying to the rescue. Dinah spotted the plane about three seconds before Typhoon saw it. Three seconds too many. Dinah turned back to the train and sprinted around Typhoon just as three spherical missiles shot towards him.

Typhoon turned and, without, speaking, fired a blast of water at the chopper, but he was too late. Zinda was already peeling away, out of his range. Meanwhile, her three projectiles hit their target exactly, bursting into flames right around Typhoon’s lower extremities. Having spun to attack the chopper, Typhoon was already off-balance when the explosions occurred. There was a huge splash of water, followed by a dark cloud of smoke.

Dinah wasted no time. She quickly dove back into the train and retrieved her soggy bag. $800 I paid for this thing, she lamented as she opened it. Canary withdrew a small device and fired it out of the train towards Typhoon’s water cloud. Even at a distance, the ear-splitting “canary cry” was deafening. Dinah clutched her ears as everyone around her did likewise.

Thirty seconds later, the scream ended. Dinah could hear a baby crying, but no other sound from outside the cabin. Either she’d won, or she’d gone deaf. Only one way to find out which.

She’d won. Typhoon lay inert, clearly unconscious, outside the train. Dinah breathed a sigh of relief and sank back into the train. She pulled her spare communicator from her bag. “Oracle – honey, I love the rescue. But if you’ve got a frickin’ chopper, why oh why did you ever make me take the train from hell?”

Simon LeGreive had been happily married for over twenty five years. He loved his wife very much, and they had one of those unassailable marriages that everyone knows will never end. He would never have dreamed of infidelity. There were times, though, when being around Lorraine Reilly made him wish he was twenty years younger. Lorraine was invaluable to him as an office assistant. How apropos, after all, that the office assistant at the Institute for Metahuman Studies was herself a metahuman. Lorraine’s presence made Simon’s work at IMHS more efficient and more rewarding.

“-just a little worried about her, that’s all.” Lorraine was saying. “I don’t mean to drop all this on you, Doc.”

“Lorraine, please.” Simon looked up from the reams of paperwork he’d been studying. “How many times have I told you to call me Simon? We’re all friends here. I’m sure your friend will be fine.”

“Prolly.” Lorraine was cleaning the lab, and busied herself while she talked. “Val’s a drama queen anyway. I just felt bad about ditching her.”

Simon stopped reading. “Val.. is this your friend Valerie?”

“Yeah, Valerie Beaudry. You know her, she used to be the..”

“Yes, yes, I remember. Hnn.”

“Hnn?” Lorraine had stopped working now. “What’s hnn mean?”

Simon hesitated. “Oh; it’s nothing. Nothing, really. I just always get concerned when metahumans get depressed; that’s all. Maybe you and I could stop by her place later, just to check up on her?”

She should’ve thought of churches before, thought Batgirl as she slipped into St. Rodman’s. After all, he’d lived in one before.

Her feet made no sound as she dropped to the floor of the church. It wasn’t exactly the gothic castle of myth – churches in Crime Alley were small affairs, with eight foot ceilings, rotting pews, and the stink of mildew afoot. Batgirl traipsed silently to the offices behind the altar, slowly sliding the door open.

It had been more than a year since she’d seen Jean-Paul Valley, and she instantly regretted her neglect. He lay huddled on a blanket, dressed in an old army coat, a t-shirt, and beat-up jeans. He had no shoes, and he didn’t look like he’d bathed anytime recently. Across the room, on a similar blanket and in a similar state of disrepair, was an older man. Batgirl remembered Jean-Paul’s psychiatrist friend, Brian Bryan, and wondered if the sleeping man was him.

No good way to go about this, she thought. “Jean-Paul.” she called. Neither Paul nor his companion budged. She called again, louder, and this time Paul jerked to attention. He spun over on his back, then sprang to his feet, his eyes full of terror and rage at the same time. Batgirl put up her hands in mock surrender, hoping she wouldn’t regret the move. “Jean-Paul. It’s me.”

The terror and rage dissipated as recognition set in. Jean-Paul almost smiled. “Batgirl. It’s uh.. it’s good to see you.”

“You too.” she replied. She gestured to the still-sleeping figure on the floor. “Is that-?”

“It’s my friend Brian. He’s.. he’s passed out. He had stopped drinking for a long time, but he’s started again lately.”

Batgirl cautioned herself not to relax too much. “Jean-Paul, a few days ago, did some men… attack you?”

Jean-Paul thought about it. “Maybe. I think I remember something like that. But.. I’m embarrassed to say this.. my mind plays tricks on me sometimes. I remember things that didn’t really happen. At least I don’t think they did.”

Batgirl was tempted to explore that line of questioning some more, but thought better of it. Instead, she followed up the original inquiry, trying to stay on task. “Some men attacked someone who looked and acted like you. We think it happened.”

“We… you and Batman?”

Cassandra nodded. “The men.. are dead. Someone killed them, the same night.”

Jean-Paul again looked confused, then realized what he was being asked. “Oh no. You think I..”

“I didn’t say that. We’re just trying to find out what happened.”

Brian took that moment to stir. He sat up as if he’d been listening for some time. “Miss,” he addressed Batgirl. “I can assure.. can assure you that this lad did not kill those miscreants.”

“You were there?” It was actually a relief for Batgirl to switch to questioning the drunk. His memory might be more reliable than Jean-Paul’s.

“I was there. Two guys – or four, I can’t remember – came after Jean-Paul. He got.. rough with them, as he is want to do. To do. To do. Anyway, he did get a little carried away. But I stopped him. I told him to stop, and he did. He did not kill anyone.”

Batgirl could almost always detect a lie when she heard it. The speaker’s body language would shift, ever so slightly. Only a very skilled individual could lie to her without her knowing, and the shambling drunk stumbling to his feet in front of her was definitely not highly skilled. Ergo, he clearly believed what he was telling her. That only left the question of whether his belief was accurate. “Who were the men?”

“They didn’t leave a business card.” said Brian, wiping his hands on his coat for some reason Batgirl couldn’t discern. “They were dressed in all black – or pink maybe, but I think it was black. They were assassins, I think. So I say, either they’re from the Order of St. Dumas – which seems to send assassins around every so often; it’s just what they do – or they’re from the electric company.”

“The electric company?”

Brian nodded. “We haven’t paid the bill in a really long time.” His leg went out from under him, and he toppled to the floor. Batgirl didn’t move to help him up.

“The Order?” Jean-Paul hadn’t spoken for some time, but now he returned to life. “I thought we destroyed the Order. I’m pretty sure I remember that. Am I wrong?”

“No, lad.” Brian wheezed from the floor. “We did destroy them. But they got better. Our old friend Lilhy made them get better.” Batgirl had heard Jean-Paul, in more lucid times, speak of Sister Lilhy, who’d helped them destroy the ancient order only to rebuild it herself. Brian kept going: “Lilhy put them all back together again. It’s all the same, but different.” He stopped, then looked at Batgirl with consternation. “You know what? I bet the Order had something to do with those hooligans that attacked Jean-Paul. Don’t you think so?”

Batgirl sighed. Batman would just love hearing this.

“No one home?” Simon regarded Lorraine as she walked into the dark apartment of Valerie Beaudry. Leaving the spare key under the mat was very original, Simon thought. “Out for the evening, maybe?”

Lorraine emerged from the darkness carrying a cat. “Maybe. But Fluffy here hasn’t been fed in several days. Val can be scatterbrained, but not like that.”

Simon struggled to recall his own file on Valerie. “Does she have family or anyone we can call?”

Lorraine shook her head. “Looks like we need to do some sleuthing, don’t you think?”

Dinah hadn’t stuck around to deal with the authorities. They’d just have to wonder after the identity of the mysterious woman who’d taken on Typhoon. With a little help from Lady Blackhawk, of course, thought Dinah as Zinda touched down the helicopter once again. “Okay, Oracle. Run this one down for me again. This time without leaving out any super-powered water dudes.”

Barbara’s voice crackled over Zinda’s console. “Typhoon’s appearance confirmed what I suspected. We’ve stumbled across evidence of a fairly good-sized international conspiracy, and one that seems to be employing an increasing number of metahumans.”

“Okay,” Dinah replied. “International conspiracy. Got it. But lookit – don’t you think we’re getting a little out of our league here? At least let’s call in Power Girl for some muscle.”

“Karen’s unavailable.”

“Well then call someone else. I can handle metahumans, but not guys like Typhoon. Those folks are way out of my weight class, and now you’re telling me to go take on hundreds of them?”

“If I may,” interrupted Zinda. “Oracle, you said we’re dealing with a conspiracy. What exactly are they conspiring to do?”

There was a pause from Babs’ speaker. “As near as I can tell, Zinda, they want to take over the world.”

Zinda laughed. “Nice. Do they have sharks with laser beams?” Dinah wondered when Zinda had time to watch movies.

“I’m not joking.” said Oracle. “These guys are about toppling governments, literally taking over the world. And they may have the muscle to do it.”

Dinah was perturbed. “Then for gawd’s sake, let’s get the Justice League in here. What are we waiting for?”

“We have to be patient, Dinah.” came the reply. “There’s no evidence for the JLA to act on. We’re going to have to be the ones to dig it up.”

“This is nuts!” barked Dinah. “Are you for real with this?”

“Dinah.” said Oracle calmly. “If you want out, tell me. Otherwise, listen up. Here’s the plan.”

“Are you listening, Batgirl?” Batman shined his flashlight across the darkened coroner’s office.

“Go ahead, Batman.”

“I’ve checked our victims. They were manhandled, beaten to death. Whoever did it was very professional. Are you certain Jean-Paul was telling the truth?”

“Absolutely certain, at least that he thinks it’s the truth.”

Batman paused. He wasn’t keen on making leaps of faith. But the rulebook had never seemed to apply to Jean-Paul. “Okay. Let’s trust him. If nothing else, it looks like his suspicion was right. I scanned a picture of the perps’ faces to the computers at the Cave. Both guys showed up in my database as hitmen-for-hire. I’ve had Alfred tracing their personal information, and he found offshore accounts in both names. Deposits were made five days ago by Killian Industries. I’ve been keeping an eye on Killian for months; I’m pretty sure it’s a front company for some nasty types. I’d be willing to bet it’s a front for the Order of St. Dumas.”

“So what now?”

“We’ve got to shut these people down. But first we’ve got to know what we’re dealing with. I’m same-time’ing you a location I’ve got that might be connected to them. It’s in Transbelvia. I want you to head over there and see what you can fine out.”

“What about Jean-Paul?”

There was a long pause. “Use your judgment.”

Batgirl clicked off her receiver just before it went to static. She turned to see Jean-Paul facing her. At least for the moment, his confusion seemed to be gone.

“So,” he said. “Brian’s packing. When do we leave?”

A trip back to the café had swung Lorraine and Simon’s investigation into high gear. The guy behind the counter wearing the nose ring had remembered Valerie. He rarely forgot attractive blondes, it seemed. According to him, Valerie had left with “Mark”. “Mark” was a regular who always liked to pick people up in the café. Usually his pickups were attractive women. He’d left with a guy or two, but the guy behind the counter didn’t think it was a “gay thing”.

And as it happened, Mark bought food with a credit card. And the guy behind the counter had no ethics when it came to revealing customers’ personal information, including, in this case, their credit card numbers. Simon resolved never to eat out again as the slacker clerk gave them Mark’s card number.

These days, IMHS had few government connections, but there was a time the organization was tied closely to Task Force X, which was a covert branch of the intelligence community. Simon still had lots of contacts from those days. A quick phone call yielded the billing address for Mark Venton’s credit card. The address was a home in the suburbs of Pittsburgh.

Lorraine had been quiet throughout the trip. The sequence of events was only increasing her anxiety about Valerie’s whereabouts. Simon on the one hand felt foolish – this could just be a wild goose chase after a young woman, who was an adult, after all, who’d hooked up with a new guy for a few days of indecency. That was the logical explanation for all of this, certainly. But Simon’s gut was screaming at him – there was something else going on here. The deeper they dug, the worse the feeling in his gut became. “So I guess we just knock on the front door?” he asked as he turned off the car.

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.” replied Lorraine. “I feel kind of silly, really.”

Simon shook his head. “I’m coming. Let’s see this through.”

Without another word, they got out of the car and trudged up the walk toward the one-story stucco house. Twilight had fallen on Pittsburgh, and the streets were bare. Occasionally Simon and Lorraine would find themselves lit by the headlights of a passing car. The home in question had lights coming from inside, but all the shades were drawn. There was no outside light or, if there was, it wasn’t turned on.

Lorraine took the lead, ringing the doorbell at the front stoop. They heard the thump of someone approaching, and then the door opened slightly, two male eyes peeking out. “Yes?”

Lorraine didn’t flinch. “Hi. I’m looking for my friend Valerie. Is she here?”

“Go away.” came the reply. Not “who?” Not “she’s not here.” “Go away.” The door slammed shut.

Lorraine shot Simon an irritated look, then knocked on the door several times. “Come on!” she called. “I just want to find my friend.”

Suddenly floodlights came on all over the lawn. Both Simon and Lorraine blinked, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness. Before their vision had cleared, the woman’s voice came from above. “You were told to leave.”

Lorraine looked up, squinting in the brightness, and saw Valerie on the roof. Her civilian attire from the café was long-gone, replaced with the all-white costume and wings of the Silver Swan. “Val?” she asked.

Valerie snarled. “You can leave – now – or you can die!”

To Be Continued...

Previous Issue | Next Issue