Batman 3 - Batman Forever (20 page)

Alfred shook his head. “A madman calling himself the Riddler. Riddles delivered to Bruce Wayne. Apparently, you and Batman have a common enemy, sir.”

He handed Bruce an envelope, the style of which he’d come to recognize. This one, however, had postmarks on it. Unfortunately, it was postmarked Romania, and Sioux City, Iowa.

“He’s getting more ambitious,” said Bruce. “Either that or he’s just getting stranger and stranger.”

Alfred nodded deferentially. “I bow to your expertise on that, sir.”

Bruce glanced suspiciously at the butler, whose face remained unreadable. He then tore open the envelope, only listening with half an ear as the newscaster continued, “In other news, entrepreneur Edward Nygma has signed a lease for Claw Island. Nygma says he plans to break ground on an electronics plant . . .”

And there was Nygma, holding up sketches of what his fully refurbished Claw Island would look like. It was a bizarre blending of art deco styling with tall sleek factory chimneys, all intertwined with twisted piping. Furthermore it was elevated, mounted high above the water on a central pole which, presumably, contained elevators.

Bruce Wayne barely gave it a glance, Edward Nygma at that moment was the furthest thing from his mind.

And also, as it happened, the closest.

In the combination garage and gym in Wayne Manor’s west wing, Bruce Wayne entered to find Dick Grayson pummeling a straw-filled action dummy. Immediately he noticed the modifications that Dick had made to the dummy. He had drawn in a face on the dummy’s head, a smiley face. But there was a vertical line bisecting it. The left half of the face was smiling, while the right half was sneering, with a grossly distorted eye, mouth, and fangs.

Dick paused, clearly waiting for Bruce to make some comment. This, of course, Bruce didn’t do. Instead he turned to Dick and said approvingly, in reference to the motorcycle that the teen had been working on, “I just started the Black Knight. She sounds great. Why don’t you grab the Harley and we’ll take a ride?”

With a sigh, Dick lowered his arms from the cocked and punching position. He didn’t sound angry or arrogant . . . merely resigned, and even sad. “Look, man, I appreciate the gig, but let’s leave it at that. We’re not gonna be buddies, okay? You don’t even know me.”

In a very mild tone, Bruce said, “I know the pain that’s with you every day. The shame. Feeling somehow you should have saved them. I don’t know you,” he agreed. “But I’m like you.”

Dick shrugged in that way that only teenagers could and started pounding on the dummy again. It shuddered slightly under each thrust. Bruce watched him and then said, “Have you thought about your future? The Wayne Foundation has an excellent scholarship fund. Once the bikes are finished . . .”

With an impatient noise, Dick grabbed a copy of the
Gotham Times
that he’d tossed on the floor. He thrust the paper into Bruce’s face, and Two-Face’s image glowered back at him from the cover.

“He’s
my future.”

Bruce shook his head sadly. “Don’t let your love, your passion for your family, twist into hatred of Two-Face. It’s too easy.”

“Look, no offense, man. But I don’t think you’ve got a lot to teach me.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, and then stepped in front of the dummy. His two left hooks rattled the dummy with ear-shattering impact. His right took off the dummy’s head. Dick gaped at the two-faced stuffed head lying on the ground, rolling gently from side to side.

“Don’t be so sure,” Bruce informed him.

“W
hat are you going to do about him, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce sat behind his desk, staring at one of Wayne Enterprises’ top lawyers, Stu “The Exterminator” Schoenfeld. Schoenfeld was an intense young man with intense black hair.

“Do?” he asked, going through a variety of documents. Off to the side, Margaret, as always, was manning the phone back. “You mean about Nygma?”

“Yes, sir,” said Schoenfeld in exasperation. He waved documentation and memos around. “As near as I can determine, this ‘Box’ he’s planning to market . . . it’s from a device that he was creating while he was in our employ.”

“This is the mind control thing, right?” asked Bruce.

“With all due respect, Mr. Wayne, that’s a grotesque over-simplification.” He rose and crossed over to the far wall, inserting a CD file that he’d been composing. “I’ve been keeping track of his activities over the past weeks, sir. As you’ll see, I find the entire business most upsetting.”

Bruce sat back and watched a time-lapse sequence of Claw Island under construction. One had to credit Nygma and whoever his backers were. Things were getting done damn quickly. Mere weeks ago the place had looked about as promising as a crater on the moon. Yet there Nygma now was, standing in front of the main building, with a huge sign that read “NYGMATECH” being raised into place by a crane. A sort of final crowning glory.

“Now you can be part of the show!” Nygma was proclaiming to the press and onlookers. “Nygmatech brings the joy of 3-D entertainment into your own home. Ladies and gentlemen. Let me tell you my vision. ‘The Box’ in every home in America. And one day the world. I’ve seen the future and it is me!”

Schoenfeld froze the screen on Nygma’s chortling expression, and he turned to Wayne. “We’ve been doing some preliminary market research of our own, sir. If this Box can really do what Nygma claims it can . . . cheap, easy to watch, 3-D holographic entertainment in the home . . . sir, we’re talking billions. Billions that Nygma will be raking in for a device that he researched while in our employ.”

“You mean the device that Fred Stickley canceled research for.”

“Only one day before his suicide. It never came to you for finalization, sir. We could argue diminished capacity on Stickley’s part. With the company resources that Nygma made use of, sir, we have a very solid case . . .”

Bruce was staring into the gaze of Edward Nygma on the screen. At the time he had considered holding out some sort of olive branch to the rather intense employee, but Nygma’s abrupt departure from Wayne Enterprises had precluded that. Now, as he looked at the intense desperation of nearly fanatic glee, he couldn’t help but feel that his having missed connecting with Nygma was a blessing in disguise.

“Drop it, okay, Stu?” Wayne said.

Schoenfeld’s face practically slid off his head.
“Drop it?
Sir, the
money
. . .”

He turned to Schoenfeld and said, “I don’t doubt you’re right, Stu. And we might very well be able to take a big bite out of the Box. But I don’t need the money, Stu. And you know what I suspect I need even less? Extended dealings with, or grief from, one Edward Nygma.”

“But . . .”

Margaret turned from the switchboard and said, “Mr. Wayne . . .”

He immediately shook his head. “Margaret, I said don’t put anyone through, remember?”

“You said anyone except Dr. Meridian.”

“Yes, I know, so please don’t tell me about calls that . . .” He stopped, concentrating on what she was saying. “Oh.”

“Line two,” she said.

He waved off Stu, who sighed and walked out, shaking his head. Then Bruce picked up the phone and hoped it wasn’t another prime minister. “Chase. Good to hear from you.”

“I just wanted to know how Dick is doing? And, for that matter, how you’re doing.”

Dick? Oh, he’s spent the past weeks pounding dummies, punching bags, walls . . . anything he can until his knuckles start to bleed, and then he starts kicking it. And he’s starting to poke around the mansion. Alfred said Dick was staring at him when he came out of the study the other day, as if he suspected something was “going on.” He might stumble over the hidden entrance to the Batcave. Oh, and the Riddler and Two-Face are all over, and by the way, reality and fantasy continue to blur for me as time goes by and pressures mount
. . .

“Fine,” he said. “Everything’s fine. We’re getting along great.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m lying,” he agreed. “You’d think I’d get better with practice.” He paused. “I miss you. I’d really like our schedules to hook up. Unless, of course things have become more serious with you and the . . . other fellow.”

The line was silent for a moment.

“Chase?” he prompted.

“I don’t know if ‘serious’ is the right word. ‘Strange’ might be more appropriate. Last time we met I behaved rather unprofessionally. I don’t know if we’ll be seeing each other again. I don’t know if we won’t. My life is kind of . . . complicated.”

“I can certainly relate to that.”

She hesitated and then said, “Let me do some schedule juggling and get back to you.”

“Sounds great,” he said.

As he hung up, Margaret took the opportunity to bring over a stack of papers and drop them on his desk.

On top was a
leather-bound book covered with mud and dirt. He clutched the book to his chest, and the young man held it desperately as
. . .

“What the—?” said Bruce.

Margaret leaned forward to see what had caused such a reaction from her boss. All she saw was a stack of papers. And Bruce, upon looking again, saw only that as well. He rubbed his temples, smiled gamely, and waved Margaret off.

And the screaming of the young man in torment echoed in his head.

Ten miles southeast of Gotham, on Claw Island, Edward Nygma stood over the production process that had just begun to swing into high gear. It was fully automated, robot arms assembling the boxes, descending claws and high-speed machines loading them into boxes to be shipped to waiting customers.

In Nygma’s control room, Two-Face was busy taking a hit on the neural stimulator. Nygma had it timed for a ninety-second session, but Two-Face was so blissed out from it that it would feel like ninety minutes.

Soon . . . soon they would be out there. In droves. In tons. And people all over Gotham would be buying them, using them, staring at the dancing holographic images and letting their neural waves be sucked in through the receiver/transmitters in the Box. And these, in turn, would be beamed through dazzling white light to the pulsing spider antenna, jutting from the dome tip of Nygmatech that was already powered up and ready for business.

And all into Edward Nygma, the Riddler. Ever since he could remember, dealing with the mundanities of the world had been a drain on his genius and ability. But finally, finally, finally, he was going to turn it around. He was going to drain them, get back what they had taken from him. He would sit on his great electronic throne, a giant diode delivering pulses of glowing neural energy into his brain.

The great gestalt of the city’s mind would be laid bare to him, and he would skim through it, take what he wanted, leave the rest behind.

And as the crates with the Boxes were loaded out to waiting airlifts, Nygma looked down upon it all, spread wide his arms, and shouted in glorious celebration, “Sssssomebody stop me!”

But no one did.

I
n the depths of the Batcave, Bruce stood over the assorted riddles that he had received. Riddles sent to Bruce, and also—at the scenes of various crimes—to Batman. It was likely the first time in the history of criminology that the same man was “carboned” with evidence.

Could it be that this “Riddler” was aware that Batman and Bruce Wayne were the same? It seemed unlikely. He could see a puzzle-maker like the Riddler transforming such a situation into a massive game, but his partner, Two-Face? Two-Face wasn’t exactly subtle. If Harvey Dent knew who Batman was, he’d have stormed the place with guns blazing weeks ago. No, the more he thought about it, the more he was certain that his secret was safe.

Still . . . it made no sense.

Alfred, in the meantime, was looking at a computer simulation of a screaming bat . . . part of the programming tied in with the project that Bruce and Alfred had simply come to refer to as “the Prototype.”

“I see you’ve apparently gotten the new radar modification running,” said Alfred. He stood and straightened his jacket. “I still doubt it will work.”

“That’s what you said about the Batmobile.” He studied the forensic evidence the computer was giving him on the screen. He fingered the riddle as he said, “Same obscure paper stock. No prints. Definitely the same author.” He looked at the riddle again and read, “ ‘The eight of us go forth, not back, to protect our king from a foe’s attack.’ Pawns.”