WE BURST OUT of the elevator at the rooftop level, and Liberty rushes to the edge. “Wow! Check out the view!” she says. “You can see all of San Diego! And look at the ocean!”
“Get back!” I yank at the hem of her shirt. “Watch out!”
She looks at me carefully. “Don’t you like the ocean?”
“We need to find Barbara Gordon, not sightsee,” I say.
The gallery is pretty much right behind us. A metal door is propped open—taped on it is another sign that reads: The Art of the Comic. We tiptoe in. And:
Bingo!
Inside, the walls are covered with vintage comics, both originals and prints. Some are blown up really huge-sized. I love the look of those pixelated little dots. Crowded together, the dots look like solid color on the old, pulpy pages. Spread the dots apart, and the shading gets really light. Those ink dots are like the comic-atoms, the basic building blocks of comic art.
“Whoa.” I rush over to a panel with a hooded figure in a familiar green cloak. It’s Joon’s old favorite, the Green Lama, in an original print from the 1940s!
“Man, I wish Joon were here,” I say.
Liberty comes and stands by me. She doesn’t say anything—just punches me on the shoulder.
“No offense,” I add.
“None taken,” she says.
We notice a pad of crude sketches for something called Beetle Bailey. “Hey,” she says, “are all these sketches making you think about your giant Sketchpad of Mystery, or whatever you call it? Maybe that John Lockdown artist is somewhere nearby, doing the Trivia Quest today, too.”
I smile. Then, suddenly, I feel a gentle tap on my elbow.
A lady has rolled up to us in her wheelchair. She has short red hair, heavy black-framed glasses, and a strange smile on her face.
“Excuse me,” she says, looking around suspiciously. “I’m glad you’re enjoying the exhibit. But I have to say . . . Did I just happen to hear you mention . . . something?”
Liberty starts jumping up and down like she’s on a trampoline.
I swallow hard and try to catch my breath. “Yes! We’re on the Trivia Quest. We’re looking for—well—for you, I think! Are you Barbara Gordon? Who hoards information, at a library location, for a certain Caped Crusader?”
“Named Batman!” says Liberty, doing a little dance. I roll my eyes.
The lady in the wheelchair smiles. “Congratulations, kids!” She glances around. “Let’s keep our voices down. Half the fun is letting the other contestants figure it out for themselves. Also, the Quest team requests that you do not share answers to clues. Promise?”
We both hold up our hands and swear. We’re grinning from ear to ear.
“You can leave me your pager,” she says quietly, putting out her hand.
Liberty can barely fish it out of her pocket, she’s so excited. Then “Barbara Gordon” reaches into a little cloth tote bag attached to the side of her wheelchair and pulls out a shiny golden coin with a big letter Q embossed on it.
“Here is your token—don’t lose it.” She hands it to Liberty, who zips it into her backpack.
“And here’s your next clue,” the lady adds, handing me a tiny unmarked envelope the size of a business card, made of stiff gold paper. “Don’t read it until you’re far enough away from me to be inconspicuous.”
We can barely contain ourselves in the crowded elevator, heading back out. We try to walk casually and slowly. But by the time we’re on the street again, we’re jumping up and down.
“One down!” I shout.
“Six to go!” Liberty shouts back. She looks down at me carefully. “You good?”
I nod. I’m jittery and excited, but I’m good. So far, so good.
We sit on a bench, and I try to chill out. But my hands are shaking as I remove the small, mysterious card from its golden envelope.
I was twenty-nine and still striking
When this old hero put on the first comic mask.
My hands still work. But where am I now?
That’s what you need to ask.