2019.

“So, what happens now?” Gracie asked, “I mean tomorrow? Is it up at the crack of dawn for raw eggs, jogging, and push-ups.”

“More like crack of noon,” said Danny.

Kevin nodded. “Our mission requires us to be ready at the times when crimes are most likely to occur. The peak hour for violent crime is 9 PM. At the crack of dawn, you should be getting your best sleep, comfortable in the knowledge that most of Titan City is relatively safe. I typically find myself in bed by 4 AM and set my alarm for eleven.”

Gracie said, “So, basically, you’re like a college student?”

Stephen smiled. “The comparison has been made before.”

“I prefer thinking of myself as a third shift worker, part of a proud tradition shared by airplane pilots, nurses, and security guards.”

“Are there no early morning board meetings for Snyder-Finn?”

Kevin smirked. “When there have to be, and if I show up half-asleep to my own meeting, people aren’t likely to assume I was out fighting crime.”

“No,” said Danny, “Not with a steady stream of stories about late night parties with celebrities — which I put out there through aliases.”

“And which I firmly deny,” said Kevin, “Making them sound all the more true.”

They seemed like they had it all figured out, Gracie thought, each one with his part to play. The Crimson Wraith was a team effort, not a solitary vigilante, although it would have felt more familiar to Gracie if he were. When had she ever felt like she could rely on someone the way these three relied on each other?

With Kevin’s offer to her made and accepted and the legacy of the Crimson Wraith revealed, it was time to turn in for the night. Before leaving the Crypt, Kevin changed out of his Crimson Wraith battlesuit and slipped on a pair of gray silk pajamas, which he covered in a cashmere robe.  They passed under the skull archway, taking the staircase up into the hidden hallways of Finn Manor, and exiting through a secret door in the great unlit fireplace of the dining room, over whose mantle the bust of Archibald Finn stood. 

Before they parted for their bedrooms, Kevin placed a hand on Gracie’s shoulder. “I’m really happy you’re joining the mission,” he said, giving her more deep and sincere eye contact than Gracie knew what to do with. “Titan City will be better for having you. I hope you experience the same in return.”

“What do you mean?”

“This work changes you, getting to help people, seeing what it means to them when you can be what they need when they’ve lost all hope.”

“Oh, you mean like girls who are facing jail because they stood up to their roommate’s abusive boyfriend?” Gracie said with a smile.

“Just like that,” said Kevin. “Good night, Gracie.”

“Good night, Crimson Wraith.”

Even having been told the value of sleeping in, Gracie felt like a kid on Christmas — a kid who grew up with parents who didn’t spend Christmas Eve drunkenly screaming and throwing things. 

She tossed and turned, stared at the ceiling, and imagined what it would be like to fight alongside the Crimson Wraith. The darkened sky outside her window had started streaking with blue when Gracie finally switched on the bedside lamp and opened up Nights of Justice, hoping it might help her unwind enough to get back to sleep:

One of the first theories about the identity of the Crimson Wraith was that he worked as an enforcer for one of Titan City’s crime syndicates. When he dismantled one criminal enterprise, it was imagined that he did so at the request of another. Even his disruption of petty crimes could be interpreted as claiming territory, a warning that no activity might occur on his turf without permission. 

Those of us who had received his kindness knew this could not be the case. However, fear sells more newspapers than kindness. 

Still, the motivation of the Crimson Wraith remains a mystery to many. Titan City is no lawless backwater where justice can only be found at the end of a smoking gun. What, then, would drive someone to take the law into their own hands?

For those whose lives are not blessed with comfort and abundance, the failures of the law are not at all mysterious. Swayed by politics and wealth, undermined by racial and cultural prejudice, our justice system sometimes falls short of justice; and as its weaknesses are human weaknesses, so must its redemption come from the strength of human courage and compassion to rise and act — even if that action is taken behind a mask.

When the sun rose above the treeline, Gracie decided she wasn’t getting back to sleep and may as well grab some breakfast. She padded downstairs in her sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt for a punk band that still smelled vaguely of music club cigarette smoke.

Before reaching the kitchen, though, she paused at the entryway to the dining room. The secret door to the Crypt was just a few steps away. She hadn’t dreamed it all last night, had she? Would it still be there in the light of day?

The woodgrain of the dining room floor shimmered where sunlight from the hallway struck it. Gracie reached the dimmer switch and brought up the lights in the crystal chandeliers above the table halfway, illuminating the room’s two massive paintings and its bust of Archibald Finn. You don’t belong here, his face seemed to say.

“Fuck you, old man,” said Gracie.

She stepped toward the fireplace. Kevin had reached under the mantle to tap the switch that closed the secret door when they left. Gracie wondered if she could find it herself. 

It turned out, she could. Stone grated against stone, and the back of the fireplace opened, revealing the stairs down to the Crypt. Gracie entered and started downward.

Tiny LEDs in the steps illuminated her path. They must have been motion-sensitive because they lit up just ahead of her and faded as she passed. The stairway curved downward, until she came to the security door, with a palm scanner and microphone to receive the password. 

Gracie knew it wouldn’t work, that the door wouldn’t respond to her, but still she wanted to feel what it felt like to go through those motions. The palm scanner lit up when she placed her hand against it. Then she leaned in to speak the password, knowing nothing would happen. 

“In Pace Requiescat.”

But it did. 

Danny’s voice came through a speaker. “You want coffee?”

Gracie yelped, “Jesus fuck!”

“Woah, now. Not in any Bible I ever heard of. That the Scorsese film?”

“You nearly scared the piss out of me!”

“Well, you woke me up, so that’s on you. I get notified if someone activates the Crypt’s motion sensors after lockdown.”

She thought about the self-lighting stair lights. “Oh, yeah, that makes sense.”

“So, anyway, I’m awake now,” he said. “You want coffee?”