her.
“Jack?”
Vicki turned around. The Joker’s henchman was leading a woman dressed in white, wearing a porcelain doll’s mask. The woman didn’t seem to be very steady on her feet, and her guide had to spend as much time ensuring she kept her balance as urging her forward.
“You said I could watch you improve the paintings,” the newcomer said. Her voice was slow and unsteady, as if slurred from alcohol or drugs.
The Joker rolled his eyes. “Uh-oh. I’m in trouble now!”
Vicki couldn’t help herself—it was the newshound in her. Even though she was afraid of the answer, she asked what was on her mind.
“Why is she wearing a mask?”
“Well, she’s just a sketch really,” the Joker replied humbly. “Alicia! Come here, have a seat. Show the lady why you wear the mask.”
Another henchman pulled up a chair, and Alicia sat. She started to remove the mask. Her drugged fingers moving slowly.
“You see, Miss Vale,” the Joker continued, “Alicia’s been made over in line with my new philosophy. Now, like me, she’s a living work of art.”
Alicia took off the mask.
Oh, God.
Vicki lurched out of her seat. She couldn’t help herself. The chair fell with a crash as she stumbled away.
“I’m no Picasso,” the Joker continued, as modest as before. “You like it?”
Vicki threw a second chair in the Joker’s path. Like it? She couldn’t look back at Alicia, no matter how much she tried. The left side was perfectly normal, a model’s face. But the right side—skin melted into muscle, which in turn eroded away to scar tissue and bone. How long had it taken the Joker to destroy Alicia’s face so completely?
The Joker grinned at her, that crazy, sincere grin. What could she say to him? How could she get out of here?
“Uh—it’s great,” she managed. “But what can I do for you? I—”
The Joker spread his hands wide.
“A little song,” he suggested tunefully.
His feet tapped across the floor.
“A little dance,” he added cheerfully. He mimed placing something large and round on a pole.
“And Batman’s head upon a lance,” he concluded brightly. “Tell me what you know about—”
His hands turned into a pair of bat wings.
Vicki shook her head. “I don’t know anything about Batman.”
“Really?” the Joker replied indifferently, as if this had been the answer he was expecting all along. He wiggled his eyebrows. “Well, then, what do you think about a little ‘you’ and ‘me’?”
This was impossible! There was no way to humor someone like the Joker.
“I think you’re insane!” she spat back, half rising from her chair.
“I am? And I thought I was a Pisces!” He spread his hands wide in a gesture of supplication as he stood. “C’mon. Let’s make up.” He walked around the table toward her. “Here’s a flower.”
One of his hands encircled a large, purple boutonniere on his lapel while his other hand reached into his coat pocket. The bulb was large and shiny. It looked as if it might be made of plastic. There was nothing natural about that flower.
“No!” Vicki screamed. She jumped aside, almost toppling the table, as a jet of clear liquid sprayed from the center of the purple bloom. A pillar behind her smoked and sizzled where the liquid hit. It was acid!
The Joker grinned at her. He took another step in her direction, as if she would certainly accept the flower, now that she knew its true purpose. He was going to kill her—or worse, make her into something like Alicia. Vicki backed away. She bumped into a waiter’s cart. The Joker walked toward her.
She had to keep him away from her. She needed a weapon. She grabbed a water pitcher from the cart and threw it at the Joker.
The pitcher missed, but it drenched the Joker with water.
“No!” He shrieked as his hands covered his face. “No!”
He bent over double. The tan was coming off on his fingers, revealing the bone-white skin beneath.
“I’m melting!” He fell to his
“Jack?”
Vicki turned around. The Joker’s henchman was leading a woman dressed in white, wearing a porcelain doll’s mask. The woman didn’t seem to be very steady on her feet, and her guide had to spend as much time ensuring she kept her balance as urging her forward.
“You said I could watch you improve the paintings,” the newcomer said. Her voice was slow and unsteady, as if slurred from alcohol or drugs.
The Joker rolled his eyes. “Uh-oh. I’m in trouble now!”
Vicki couldn’t help herself—it was the newshound in her. Even though she was afraid of the answer, she asked what was on her mind.
“Why is she wearing a mask?”
“Well, she’s just a sketch really,” the Joker replied humbly. “Alicia! Come here, have a seat. Show the lady why you wear the mask.”
Another henchman pulled up a chair, and Alicia sat. She started to remove the mask. Her drugged fingers moving slowly.
“You see, Miss Vale,” the Joker continued, “Alicia’s been made over in line with my new philosophy. Now, like me, she’s a living work of art.”
Alicia took off the mask.
Oh, God.
Vicki lurched out of her seat. She couldn’t help herself. The chair fell with a crash as she stumbled away.
“I’m no Picasso,” the Joker continued, as modest as before. “You like it?”
Vicki threw a second chair in the Joker’s path. Like it? She couldn’t look back at Alicia, no matter how much she tried. The left side was perfectly normal, a model’s face. But the right side—skin melted into muscle, which in turn eroded away to scar tissue and bone. How long had it taken the Joker to destroy Alicia’s face so completely?
The Joker grinned at her, that crazy, sincere grin. What could she say to him? How could she get out of here?
“Uh—it’s great,” she managed. “But what can I do for you? I—”
The Joker spread his hands wide.
“A little song,” he suggested tunefully.
His feet tapped across the floor.
“A little dance,” he added cheerfully. He mimed placing something large and round on a pole.
“And Batman’s head upon a lance,” he concluded brightly. “Tell me what you know about—”
His hands turned into a pair of bat wings.
Vicki shook her head. “I don’t know anything about Batman.”
“Really?” the Joker replied indifferently, as if this had been the answer he was expecting all along. He wiggled his eyebrows. “Well, then, what do you think about a little ‘you’ and ‘me’?”
This was impossible! There was no way to humor someone like the Joker.
“I think you’re insane!” she spat back, half rising from her chair.
“I am? And I thought I was a Pisces!” He spread his hands wide in a gesture of supplication as he stood. “C’mon. Let’s make up.” He walked around the table toward her. “Here’s a flower.”
One of his hands encircled a large, purple boutonniere on his lapel while his other hand reached into his coat pocket. The bulb was large and shiny. It looked as if it might be made of plastic. There was nothing natural about that flower.
“No!” Vicki screamed. She jumped aside, almost toppling the table, as a jet of clear liquid sprayed from the center of the purple bloom. A pillar behind her smoked and sizzled where the liquid hit. It was acid!
The Joker grinned at her. He took another step in her direction, as if she would certainly accept the flower, now that she knew its true purpose. He was going to kill her—or worse, make her into something like Alicia. Vicki backed away. She bumped into a waiter’s cart. The Joker walked toward her.
She had to keep him away from her. She needed a weapon. She grabbed a water pitcher from the cart and threw it at the Joker.
The pitcher missed, but it drenched the Joker with water.
“No!” He shrieked as his hands covered his face. “No!”
He bent over double. The tan was coming off on his fingers, revealing the bone-white skin beneath.
“I’m melting!” He fell to his
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