Batman 3 - Batman Forever (17 page)

The garage door rolled up to reveal five vintage automobiles, each serenely parked in its individual and customized parking spaces. A Rolls. A Bentley. A Spider. And two . . . good lord,
two
Turners.

“Oh, man!” was all he was able to get out.

As if unaware of the boy’s excitement, Wayne said, “Pump’s this way.”

Dick followed him, unable to tear his gaze away from the cars. Unable, that was, until he saw another array of vintage crafts lined up.

Motorcycles.

This time Dick made no pretense of disinterest or even high-handedness. He started pointing, “That’s a BMW 950. A Kawasaki Razor. And that’s a Harley Mongoose. I think they only made ten.”

“Seven, actually. She’s our pride and joy.” He sighed sadly. “Doesn’t run though.”

“Probably the gearbox,” Dick said with authority. “They were touchy. And sometimes the fuel caps carbonize.”

Bruce gave the matter some thought, and then mused, “I’ve been looking for someone to restore these. Hell, someone gets these going, he could take any bike he wanted as a fee. Plus room and board while he worked on them.” He looked at Dick blandly. “Too bad you’re not staying around. Anyway, have a good trip.”

At that moment Alfred walked into the garage, carrying a tray stacked with London broil, baby potatoes, and fresh greens. Even Bruce, who had eaten barely an hour ago, felt his mouth starting to salivate. So he could only imagine what it was like for the hungry Dick Grayson.

“Oh, is the young master leaving?” Alfred asked, the picture of unwitting ignorance. “Pity. I’ll just toss this away then. Perhaps the dogs are hungry—” He turned and headed back into the house.

It was at that precise moment that Dick Grayson knew that he was utterly overmatched. He wasn’t sure precisely why Wayne was going to this much trouble to extend hospitality. It was almost as if he felt guilty over something. It sure couldn’t have been because they had something in common, since they had, in fact,
nothing
in common.

Still . . .

“Maybe just a couple days,” Dick said, trying not to lick his lips as the aroma of the meat hung in the air around him. “Get these babies purring.” He started after Alfred, calling, “Yo, Al, hold up . . .”

In the Wayne Manor library, Bruce Wayne touched a vase of fresh roses while the rays of the setting sun filtered through the window. Next to the roses were photographs of Thomas and Martha Wayne, laughing into the camera, their arms draped around their young son, Bruce.

He heard the two gunshots.

The room became abruptly darker and he turned to see two coffins, a room filled with mourners. It was as if all the events of several days were being compressed into one hideous day.

He was standing next to a desk as people filed by, shaking their heads at his parents, clucking sympathetically at him. He stepped back, trying to get away from them, and his hands rested upon a leather bound book atop the desk. He pulled his fingers away from the book as if it had scalded him.

The front door of the library blew open, a fierce and somehow evil wind whipping through the house. Bruce tried to lunge for the book, to prevent it from being blown away. Instead the cover blew open, pages flipping wildly back and forth as if his entire life, past, present, and future, was dancing past him.

The window smashed open, exploding, glass shattering, and out of the darkness flew a huge, evil creature.

The monster wrapped its massive leather wings around itself, and it spoke with Bruce Wayne’s amazed, understanding voice . . .

“A bat . . . I shall become a bat
. . .”

“Master Bruce . . . ?”

Bruce was jolted awake. He looked around in confusion, for his dream surroundings had been identical to his genuine whereabouts. Minus, of course, the coffins, the mourners, and the gargantuan bat . . .

Although maybe the bat was actually there, albeit it only in spirit.

He was holding a rose which he had pulled from a vase of fresh ones. “It’s exactly the same as with my parents, Alfred. It’s happening again, except this time to that poor boy. The precise same scenario: A monster comes out of the night. There’s a scream. Two gunshots.” He took a deep breath and said, “I killed them.”

Alfred, who was by and large unflappable, nevertheless was unable to help gaping at his employer. “What did you say?”

Bruce looked up, confused at Alfred’s reaction. “He killed them,” he said, not comprehending why Alfred seemed so disconcerted by such a self-evident statement. “Two-Face. He slaughtered that boy’s parents.”

“No. You said
I
. ‘I killed them.’ Who, Mr. Wayne?”

Before Bruce could answer, a light through the window illuminated their faces. Immediately Bruce was on his feet. He turned to Alfred and said, “Take care of the kid.” And he was out the door before the butler could say anything further.

Alfred could never remember a time when he’d been genuinely pleased to see that hyperactive flashlight burning in the sky. But he was hard-pressed to remember a time when he was
less
pleased to see it.

In Dick Grayson’s room—one that he had picked out after Alfred had offered him a plethora of choices—he was staring out the window at the gleaming Bat-Signal in the night sky.

He’d heard about Batman, of course. Even people on the road heard about genuine phenoms like Batman.

So where the hell had the renowned crime fighter been when the Flying Graysons needed him?

There was a knock at the door. Dick grunted a semisyllable that passed for telling someone to come in.

Alfred took the noise as it was meant and stepped into the room. “Can I help you settle in, young sir?”

“No . . . thanks. I won’t be here long.”

Alfred’s foot bumped up against Dick’s motorcycle helmet. A typical teenage boy. Why put anything on a shelf or a cabinet when there was always a convenient floor on which to drop it? Alfred picked it up. On the back of it, curiously, was a decal of a common red-breasted bird.

“A robin?” he said.

Dick shrugged as if it were nothing of consequence. “My brother’s wire broke during a show. I swung out, caught him. Afterwards my father called me his hero, said I flew like a robin.” He paused at the memory, which had always been so pleasant for him. No longer, though.

Because his brother, whom he had saved, was gone.

Because his father, who had praised him, was gone.

Because his mother, whom he had loved, was gone.

“Some hero I turned out to be.”

It was rather remarkable for Alfred. He had seen that same air of frustration hanging over Bruce Wayne mere minutes before, hovering like a dark cloud. It gave him some hope for what Dick Grayson might become. It also gave him some fear.

He settled for saying, “Ah, but your father was right, young man. You are a hero. I can tell. Broken wings mend in time. Perhaps one day Robin will fly again.”

Dick said nothing, made it rather apparent that . . . as far as he was concerned . . . the conversation was over. Alfred waited a moment more, and then turned and walked out of the room.

As soon as he was gone, Dick cracked open his knapsack. He pulled out a newspaper, opened it, and smoothed out the headline which read, TWO-FACE SLAYS 3 AT CIRCUS.

He upended the knapsack, and other clippings about Two-Face spilled out. He stared at them, his rage growing and roiling within him.

He had no clear idea to what end he was going to turn his fury. He wasn’t sure where he would look for Two-Face, or how he could ever find him, or just precisely how he would destroy him when they did finally meet.

But he knew they would. He knew it beyond any doubt.

And the outcome was never in doubt, either.

T
he Batmobile glided to a halt several blocks away from police headquarters. It sat there for a moment as if contemplating the darkness, and then the cockpit slid open. Batman eased himself out, then stepped away from the vehicle. “Shields,” he said and moved away without glancing back as the heavy-duty shields slammed into place, locking down the Batmobile.

He walked to the base of a building, pulled out his grappling hook, and fired it skyward. Seconds later he heard the satisfying clack of metal that indicated the hook had a grip on something. He pulled on it twice to make certain that it was firmly anchored, and then pressed the retractor. Instantly he was hoisted skyward, joining the shadows of the city’s sky-high spires.

He made his way across the roofs toward the roof of police headquarters. If someone had been watching for him with both eyes peeled and the aid of infrared night goggles, then maybe they might have had a shot at spotting him. Other than that, there was no chance.

He got within one rooftop of the signal. It appeared to be deserted. That was odd. Odd immediately sharpened his senses.

He stayed to the shadows and studied the rooftop carefully.

Then he spotted it. Someone was standing on the other side of the spotlight itself, staring toward the sky. He couldn’t quite make it out from where he was, but whoever was over there was taller and slimmer than Gordon.

And, for all he knew, armed.

He leapt over to the roof of police headquarters, landing so silently that the unauthorized individual was utterly unaware of it. He moved slowly through the shadows. The rooftop had plenty of gravel on it. It made no sound under his feet.

He heard a low sigh from the waiting individual, and knew it immediately.

He allowed the shadows to part from him and said in a slightly ironic tone, “Commissioner Gordon?”

Dr. Chase Meridian turned with a start, her hand to her bosom. Her breath came out in mist through the chill night air. “He’s at home. I sent the signal.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Last night at the circus. I noticed something about Dent. His coin. He’s obsessed with justice. It’s his Achilles’ heel. It can be exploited.”

He couldn’t believe it. She was telling him nothing new. Hell, she had to
know
it was nothing new. It was in the case files.

She had only a small amount of time, and apparently zero interest, in dealing with him as Bruce Wayne. And yet she was willing to go to any lengths, no matter how preposterous . . . no matter how transparent . . . to garner Batman’s attention.

He stepped in close to her, his voice rough, his manner intimidating. “You called me here for this? The Bat-Signal is not a beeper.”

She didn’t back off. Instead she took a breath and said, in a rush, “I wish I could say my interest in you was purely professional . . .”

He paused a moment, contemplating the best way to handle the situation. She wanted dark . . . mysterious . . . all the elements that terrified criminals, that froze thugs in their tracks . . . these were what attracted her.

He thought of Dick Grayson, the teenager. Even in his grief, he was effortlessly able to summon up the façade of a swaggering smart-ass. The antithesis of Batman’s somber, mysterious persona.

No harm in throwing her off the track. Who knew? Maybe it might divert her back into Bruce Wayne’s train station.

He stood in a slightly relaxed position, one knee bent, and pitched his voice slightly higher. “Are you trying to get under my cape, Doctor?”

“A girl cannot live by psychoses alone,” she replied.

Which was not exactly the response he’d hoped for. Nonetheless he pressed on. “It’s the car, right? Chicks love the car.”

Chase, true to her name, pursued him. “What is it about the wrong kind of man?” she asked wistfully. “In grade school it was guys with earrings. College, motorcycles and leather jackets.” She pressed up against him. “Now black rubber.”

“Try a fireman. Less to take off.”

“I don’t mind the work. Pity I can’t see behind the mask.”

“We all wear masks.”

“My
life’s an open book. You read?”

He looked at her eyes, at the amusement there, and he dropped the attitude. His tone becoming darker, he said, “Where do you think this is going to go?”

“Depends. Where are you going to take me?”

He took her rather ungently by the wrists. “Am I just another specimen, another lab animal for your maze? Or perhaps you thought of bringing me home to meet the folks. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the kind of guy who blends in at a family picnic.”

“We could give it a try. I’ll bring the wine, you bring your scarred psyche.”

“You are direct, aren’t you?”

He squeezed her wrists more tightly. She didn’t flinch, but her voice was more defiant. He was stripping away the banter, cutting to the core of her interest in him. “You like strong women,” she said. “I’ve done my homework. Or do I need skintight vinyl and a whip?” she added sarcastically.

“I haven’t had much luck with women . . .”

“Maybe you just haven’t met the right woman.”

He wasn’t entirely certain how their mouths had drawn as close as they had. But he was suddenly very aware of their proximity . . . and of her warm breath against him . . .

“I saw the beacon. What’s going on?”

Batman’s head snapped around as he saw Commissioner Gordon standing by the roof entrance. His trenchcoat, flapping in the breeze, couldn’t completely conceal the fact that he’d yanked on his pants over pajamas, his flannel pajama shirt peering out.