Batman 3 - Batman Forever (24 page)

He couldn’t be sure, however. Nor could he make himself sure until he’d had the opportunity to look over the equipment. The smaller version of the Box had already proved less than cooperative. Perhaps the new and improved model might be more so.

He moved to an empty booth and pulled aside the curtain. It was empty, except for a faint green glow.

At that moment the attractive young woman was at his side again. “Naughty naughty,” she said scoldingly. “Looking for something?”

“How to turn it off, actually.”

She looked left and right, then put a finger to her lips in a “shhh” manner. Then she pressed a button on the small panel just outside. A power pack ejected into her hand. The booth went dark completely. Still suspicious, Bruce opened his palm. Without hesitation, Sugar dropped the power pack into his hand.

“Thank you,” he said.

“My pleasure. And if you change your mind and want some company in there,” and she ran her tongue along her upper teeth, “then we can both use our imaginations.”

Bruce stepped into the booth.

Out on the dance floor, Edward tossed off random answers to Chase’s series of questions. To him it was all a game.

He spotted Bruce Wayne entering the booth, and quickly spun Chase around so that her back was squarely to Wayne. Edward exchanged a glance with Sugar and then, once he was satisfied that Wayne was in position, he nodded to her.

Sugar promptly reached into her bodice, pulled out an identical power pack, and slammed it into the circuit panel. The booth hummed to life.

Bruce was looking over the interior of the booth, trying to locate the circuitry. Did it line the walls, or was it consolidated into small projectionlike devices?

He looked up toward the top of the booth, and suddenly discovered that he was staring at a tropical bird. The bird screeched down at him and lifted off, accompanied by a flock.

Bruce spun and discovered that all around him was a lush jungle. Immediately he understood what was happening. He looked for a way out, but the door had vanished.

It was incredible. It wasn’t just some sort of visual show. He felt the heat of the jungle, and the air wafted to him the scent of an ocean not far off. He could even hear it now, the waves lapping gently against the shore.

There was a slight rustling of the brushes and he turned to see a sultry showgirl emerging. She smiled dazzlingly. “Hi. My name is Holly and I’ll be your holographic guide. I am computer-generated and
totally
interactive.”

She took Bruce’s hand and led him into the tropical wilds.

And as Bruce Wayne stood mesmerized in the booth, surrounded by a green glow with a tiny white light focused on his eyes . . .

. . . in a control booth on Claw Island, yet another holofile was created, added to the hundreds that had already been assembled this busy, busy night. This one was labelled “Bruce Wayne.” A miniature schematic of the human brain appeared on a screen, and the new and improved Box began its guided tour through the graphic landscape of Bruce Wayne’s mind.

Dick Grayson looked contemptuously down the array of booths, with people going in and out like cuckoos into clocks. He smoothed his hair and cast a smile toward the showgirl, who blew him a kiss and walked back downstairs.

“Fake reality. It’ll never beat the real thing.”

Then he saw all the booths go dark at once, and only had a second to wonder why before gunfire clattered across the room.

And bile rose in his throat as he saw Two-Face swagger into the middle of the floor. His thugs were converging from every direction. There was a black-clad masked woman at his side.

Two-Face bellowed, “All right, folks, this is an old-fashioned, low-tech stickup. We’re interested in the basics; jewelry, cash, cellular phones. Hand ’em over nice and no one gets hurt.” Then he paused and added in his gravelly, less-pleasant voice, “On second thought . . . put up a fight.”

Bruce Wayne staggered out of the booth, disoriented, operating completely on instinct. The tendency of the other guests had been to freeze the moment they’d heard bullets being fired. For Wayne it was the other way around. He moved immediately toward a service entrance and shoved the door open. He did it with considerable force, and he even happened to get a small piece of luck. The thug assigned to cover the door had arrived just a couple of seconds late. Ordinarily this would not have been a problem. But Bruce thrust the door open with such force that it smashed into the thug’s face just as he was about to reach the door. Two-Face’s man staggered, never having the chance to see who it was that slammed a fist into the thug’s face an instant later. All the thug knew was that everything suddenly went profoundly black.

Bruce tore down the emergency stairs as quickly as he could. He was moving so fast that he seemed a blur. Anyone else trying to imitate it would have stumbled and taken a header down several flights, but Bruce was surefooted as a mountain climber.

The moment he got outside he located the Bentley and ducked into it. Alfred twisted in the seat and saw the expression on Wayne’s face. Immediately he knew.

“Emergency, Alfred,” he said, but the butler was already pressing a hidden button that flipped open a secret panel in the back. A Batsuit was hidden within.

Dick Grayson bolted into the service kitchen. He heard the pounding of feet from both directions, the unmistakable clacking of bolts being shot home. He looked around desperately . . . and spotted a laundry chute. He wasn’t sure where it led, but anywhere had to be better than this. He dived through it just as two thugs converged on the area that he’d vacated.

E
dward Nygma shoved his way toward Two-Face. Gossip Gerty grabbed him by the arm and bellowed, “No, Edward! He’s a monster! Stay away from him!”

“I have to do something, Gerty,” he said in a basso profundo, he-man voice. “Perhaps I can reason with that . . . that two-toned terror!” He shook loose of Gerty and made it over to Two-Face.

“Two-toned terror,” said Two-Face thoughtfully. “We like it.”

In a harsh whisper Edward said, “You’re ruining my big party! Are you insane?” He stared into Two-Face’s mad eyes and amended, “Actually, considering your present behavior, I withdraw the question.”

“We’re sick of waiting for you to deliver Batman, Riddle-boy. We’re tired of your little games and your misdirections. The point is to nail the Bat . . . not send him flapping off in other directions. We’re starting to wonder, in fact, how much of that was our idea and how much of it we only
thought
was our idea.”

Edward began to sweat. “Patience, oh bifurcated one.”

“Screw patience. We want him dead. And nothing brings out the Bat like a little mayhem and murder.”

“Oh well, in
that
case,” said Nygma sarcastically as if it made sense. “Look, if you were going to rob me, you could have at least let me in on the caper. We could have
organized
this,
planned
it, presold the movie rights . . .”

At that moment, a window exploded inward. Guests ducked back, glass flying over them, as Batman swung in. Glass crunched beneath his feet when he landed, and he wasted no time at all. Three thugs had been standing by the window when he entered; a quick blur of fists later, none were.

Nygma turned to Two-Face and said, with a tinge of regret in his voice, “Harv, babe, I gotta be honest. Your entrance was good. His was better. What’s the difference? Showmanship!”

Two-Face shoved Edward out of the way, yanking out his gun and looking for a clean shot. He fired several times but only managed to destroy an ice sculpture and some liquor bottles. The screaming did his heart good, but the misses took some of the edge off it.

Dick Grayson shoved his face into the Bentley. Alfred gasped as he saw the thick red stain on Dick’s chest. “Good lord, you’ve been shot!”

Dick looked confused, and then glanced down. “Ketchup stain. Laundry chute. I’ll tell you about it later. Give it to me.”

Alfred knew precisely what the “it” was. It had seemed a harmless enough indulgence when Dick had slipped the package to him surreptitiously before they’d started out for the party. What sort of problem could possibly arise that would necessitate its use, Alfred had figured.

Well, he’d found out.

He pulled the package out and handed it to Dick, muttering, “I’m sure to be fired for this. Perhaps I could find a position at Buckingham. Always liked the Queen . . .”

One thug charged Batman, but the crimefighter heaved him overhead, throwing him into a display of stacked Boxes that crashed down all around him. Then he moved toward a thug who was trying to rip Chase’s pearls from around her neck. “Excuse me,” he growled as he head-butted the thug, knocking him cold.

“My place . . . midnight,” Chase whispered to him.

Batman spun, raced across the tops of chair backs, and engaged another group of thugs. He saw other guests starting to rally, pulling their courage together and trying to go up against Two-Face’s thugs. However none of them were wearing armor or had trained for years in various forms of martial arts combat or battle strategy. Consequently, someone was going to get killed. He had to do something—fast.

He yanked gas pellets from his belt and hurled them. They exploded at the feet of several thugs, and immediately those went down from the fumes. But more of Two-Face’s endless supply of such goons leapt to replace them.

And that was when the distant sounds of police sirens began to fill the room.

Upon hearing them, Two-Face holstered his guns. “Okay, boys. Phase two.”

As Batman continued to battle, Two-Face and the nearest thugs dashed for the service elevator. The doors closed behind them . . . shutting out Sugar and Spice, who arrived seconds too late.

“We gotta vacate,” said Spice.

“What’s this ‘we’ stuff?” retorted Sugar. “I’m here legit.”

Spice fired her a look. “Babe, if my sorry ass gets hauled in, I’m not going down alone. Read me?”

“We gotta vacate,” Sugar immediately said. “And fast. Where’s the stairs?”

“Thirty stories? In these heels?” Spice said incredulously. She flipped open a portable phone. “I know a guy with a helicopter.”

Batman pulled several small cuffs from his belt and threw them toward the thugs who were advancing on him. The cuffs homed in on them, whipping through the air, securing themselves around the thugs’ ankles. They went down hard.

Batman ran in the direction that he’d seen Two-Face go. He skidded to a halt in front of the elevator and watched the electronic readout reach the first floor. Could be they’d gone down to the lobby to escape. On the other hand, maybe they’d gotten off somewhere along the way. Second floor, perhaps.

He dashed out onto the balcony, looked out over it and yes, sure enough, Two-Face had indeed gone to ground. He and his thugs were just vanishing into an open manhole in the midst of the construction site across the street.

“We’ve got a gopher,” muttered Batman. He threw his arms wide. Glider rods snapped up, drawing his cape taut and into place. He stepped up onto the railing of the balcony and leapt off, hurtling down toward the manhole at top speed.

The Gotham subway museum was planned to be an ancillary part of the new hotel, which was built atop a subway station that had fallen out of use thanks to cutbacks on service. The enterprising hotel builders were also funding an underground museum that gave an overview of Gotham’s history of transportation. Plans called for a genuine old-style train to be rolled into place on permanent display, refurbished along with the rest of the station. Workers would be dressed in uniforms of the period.

It would be marvelous. And profitable.

And doomed.

Work on the station had already begun. Half of the station had been washed down, repainted, and retiled. The other half was still dank, dirty, and disgusting.

Crouching on the tracks below, Two-Face felt right at home. And what better way to make someplace a home . . . than with company?

“Boys, welcome our guest.”

Upon the command, the thugs hoisted translucent red plastic industrial air-conditioning tubing, its maw matching precisely the diameter of the open manhole.

Not wanting to lose any time, Batman folded his “wings” just as he arrived at the manhole, plummeting straight in, feetfirst. He only had a split-second warning that something was wrong, and in this case it wasn’t enough. Not even for the Batman.

He plunged into the red vinyl connector, skidding into the darkness, out of control.

The world spun around him. He tried to slow himself down, to find purchase, but there was none. He grabbed at his belt, about to draw a grappling hook that he would slam down right into the plastic to stop his descent.

By that point, though, it was too late. His amusement park-like ride had ended, and ended abruptly. He hurtled out of the tube into a blackened tunnel filled with scaffolding and supports from the work under way, and smashed squarely into a wall.

Staring into the darkness of the tunnel from the far end, Two-Face grabbed an aging valve wheel set into the crumbling wall. “Nothing worse than a bad case of gas.” He spun it enthusiastically, and was rewarded with—in the distance—the sound of gas pouring into the tunnel.