The night wind blew in from the Hudson River, threading through the crooked cypresses of Gotham Cemetery and swirling among the gravestones. The graves of Thomas Wayne and Martha Wayne lay in the cemetery's deepest corner. Weather had worn the edges of the lettering on their headstones, but the words were still legible.
But now Bruce Wayne stood before them, his face livid. All that remained were two deep pits. His parents' remains, along with their coffins, had vanished.
"No! How is this possible!"
The normally composed man could not hold back his furious roar. "Where are my parents' coffins?"
The cemetery gave a low moan in the night wind, as though someone had sighed behind him.
"Perhaps I can help you, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce Wayne turned. A man in black work clothes stood beside the iron gate at the cemetery entrance. He leaned against a crooked, broken headstone, a shovel in his hand, its blade gleaming dully in the moonlight.
His cap was pulled low, revealing only the lower half of his face and one slightly upturned corner of his mouth.
"You knew I would come," Bruce said.
"Of course I knew you would come." The man nodded slightly. "I also know what happened."
His voice and appearance resembled those of the caretaker who had kept watch here for over a decade, but his movements and bearing were nothing like the man's.
He drove the shovel into the earth beside him, then raised a hand and peeled a thin, meticulously crafted lifelike mask from his face, revealing another face Bruce vaguely recognized.
"You're..."
Bruce Wayne froze. Misty memories rapidly gathered into focus. He recognized the contours of that face, even with most of it hidden in shadow. The placement of those eyes and the curve of the brow reminded