Batman 3 - Batman Forever (5 page)

John Grayson didn’t appear to understand at first, but then he caught on. “You’re a psychiatrist,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“Well, Doctor,” and he glanced down at his son, “I admit my son’s actions might seem a little crazy . . .”

“Oh no!” said Chase quickly. “I never implied, or even thought that. It’s just that I have this study about—”

“It doesn’t matter,” said John. “We’re not in town all that long. Just passing through. And, as a matter of fact, we’re late for an appointment. I’m glad we were able to help you out. Good luck to you,” and with that he trundled Richard away as quickly as he could. Chase watched them go and scratched her chin thoughtfully.

“I wonder what that was about,” she said. Then she shrugged, slipped her shoes back on, and hobbled off to try to find a shoemaker.

“Were you out of your mind?” demanded John.

“I dunno,” said Richard, as they walked briskly down the street. “There was a shrink there. You could’ve asked her. And why’d you tear us outta there so fast? She was pretty nice to look at. What was the hurry?”

John slowed up and sighed. They were walking along the edge of Gotham Park, and John dropped down onto a bench. “Because I’ve run into people like that from time to time,” said John Grayson. “And the moment they find out we’re trapeze artists, they want to start getting into our heads. Get into the entire ‘Cheating death’ business. I don’t need the aggravation, and neither do you. And you,” he said firmly, “you’re the major issue under discussion. Jumping into the middle of a crime situation. That
was
crazy.”

“He could have gotten away with the purse.”

“He could have pulled a gun! Did you think of that?”

Dick grinned lopsidedly, not looking especially disturbed. “But we’re in the ‘cheating death business.’ You said so yourself. We always have been.”

“Richard,” said his father, taking him firmly by the arms, “there’s an element of truth to that. But we do everything we can to minimize the risk. What you did
maximized
it. Risking death is one thing, but staring it straight in the face and saying ‘Take your best shot’ is something else again.”

“And that’s what I did, huh?”

“Yes. That’s what you did.”

“But what about that time with Chris? Remember?”

“Yes,” sighed John.

“You told me how brave I was! When the wire broke—”

“Yes, yes, I know, Richard. And it was brave. And it was very likely even more dangerous than what you just did. But your brother’s life was at stake. Laying it on the line when it’s life or death is not remotely the same as taking chances to save somebody’s handbag. The stakes are different.”

“The stakes are different, but the idea is the same: helping people.”

“It’s degrees, Richard. It’s . . .” Then he shook his head. With a gruff sigh, and ruffled his son’s hair. “Just don’t do it again, okay? If you go and get yourself killed, your mother and I would have to go and make another baby to be in the act . . . wait for him to grow up . . . the whole business would just take for
ev
er. So be careful, okay?”

“Sure, Dad,” said Dick, grin still firmly in place.

There was a distant rumble of thunder and John looked up in concern. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s pick up those costume items your mom wanted and get back to the circus. I think a storm’s rolling in and, from the look of it . . . it’s going to be a rough one.”

T
he crack of lightning momentarily drowned out the screams from within Arkham Asylum. But barely had the thunder rumbled away before the shrieks could be heard once more, unabated.

Arkham had a long and impressive history. Of course, so did war, pestilence, famine, and death. The mere existence of that tradition was not enough to instill confidence.

Arkham, named for its founder, was a dark and terrifying place. It had not always been that way. Once, in the dim past, it had merely been a dark and fearsome place. Time had a way of taking the various psychoses and illnesses that infested the human mind and upping the stakes.

To the normal asylums and institutions were consigned those who were merely a danger to themselves. To the abnormal asylums and institutions went those who were a danger to themselves and to society.

It was said that Arkham got those who were a danger to God.

This was an exaggeration, of course.

But not by much.

Arkham sat behind a massive fence with the Asylum’s name etched in great twisted metal letters over the gate. The building itself didn’t sit on the hill so much as squat there, like a great spider positioned and waiting for prey. The storm that had been threatening the area for some days had finally arrived, and it seemed as if it had settled directly over the gothically styled building. This wasn’t unusual. Arkham always appeared to be a sort of lightning rod for every disruption and abomination that nature could possibly conceive of hurling at humanity.

The building was filled with people who were desperate, on edge, over the edge.

And that was just the staff . . .

The orderly’s name was Richter, and Richter was in deep, deep trouble.

He slowly pushed along a cleanup cart, looking nervously right and left. His bald head was thick with sweat. His legs felt rubbery, and he was leaning on the cart as much to stand as to push the cart along.

Despite the thunder and lightning, the screams and the flickering lights, the overall stench of disinfectant and fear . . . despite all that, Richter’s mind was nevertheless on anything but his job. He was dwelling on the people to whom he owed money. A lot of money. More money than he would see this month, or even this year.

If only the damned horse had paid off. It should have. Why should Richter be held responsible for the stupid horse’s leg breaking in the middle of the race? It wasn’t fair . . .

And then there was that lousy run of luck at the card game. How could he have been expected to know that the other guy could beat an ace-high straight? It wasn’t his fault . . .

And that night playing craps . . . he’d been on a roll. The money had been flowing and he’d had a hot hand, that rare feeling when you touch the dice and they’re yours to command. By all rights, he should have been able to recoup all his losses and more, pay off the loan sharks, buy the wife that coat she’d been wanting, maybe even get enough in the bank that he could quit and survive for a year or more while looking for a good job, a decent job.

He couldn’t have known that the hot hand would evaporate, just like that, leaving him cold bones and even deeper in debt. How could he have anticipated it? Just like that, just like that. It wasn’t his fault.

He rolled past the guard at the maximum security point, the wheels on the cart squeaking. The guard, whose name was Irvin, nodded slightly. Richter returned the nod and continued on his way.

He went past cell after call. He was no longer looking around. Instead his focus was utterly on the door that was up and to the right.

Room 22.

He stopped there, waiting for someone to say, “Hey! What’re you doing!” But no one did. He drummed his fingers for a moment on the cart.

Next to the door was a keypad. The combinations were changed electronically and automatically every day. But Richter had managed to sneak into the head office and pick up that day’s combo. He punched in the numbers and heard a soft click. The electronic lock had unlatched. He took a deep breath, and then eased the door open, pulling the cart in behind him.

There was a single stream of light in the cell, coming from a barred window overhead—nowhere near enough to illuminate the entire cell, even as small as it was. Nevertheless, the single occupant of the cell was partly visible. His legs were casually crossed, and Richter could hear something whirring through the air rhythmically. Something small and metallic, tossed in the air and then landing in the occupant’s hand.

“M . . . Mister Dent,” said Richter. “I’m . . . it’s me. Richter.”

“We know it’s you,” came the voice of the man Richter called Dent. He was only distantly related to the Harvey Dent who had met with Batman on the rooftops all that time ago; nominally, they shared a body. But that was all. The mind was something else again.

“I brought what you asked for.” He stopped and fidgeted. “You probably want to see it, don’t you?”

No sound, save for that up and down of the metallic object.

Richter reached down into the cleaning cart, to the hidden compartment he’d rigged up. He pulled out a pair of goggles and an acetylene torch. “Cut through the bars in no time.”

“Put them down where we can see them,” said Dent.

Richter stepped forward and did so. Then he paused and said, “You . . . you remember the deal.”

“We remember it.”

“The money . . . the money you promised me . . . half a million, if I helped you escape . . . you . . . you do have the money . . . ?”

There was a two-second silence.

“You read the newspaper stories, just like everyone else,” came Dent’s voice. “You know we have two million stashed away. Half a mill of it is yours . . . unless, of course . . .”

“Unless what?”

Another two-second pause, and then something was thrust into the light.

It was a coin. It was a special commemorative coin, issued to celebrate the 100th anniversary of “Lady Gotham,” a statue situated in Gotham Harbor. Lady Gotham was depicted in profile on both sides. The coin gleamed in the shaft of light and then, with remarkable dexterity, he turned the coin to reveal the other side. Richter then saw that—whereas Lady Gotham had been pristine on one side—on this other side her head had been disfigured, slashes made through it.

“Would you be interested in . . . double or nothing?” came Dent’s calm voice. “A flip of the coin decides.”

Richter’s immediate impulse was to say “No.” No, not just say it. Shout it. Scream it. Scream, “Are you insane? I’m risking my career, my freedom, violating trust, breaking the law . . . and you’re asking if I want to chance winding up having nothing to show for it except an empty cell, a mountain of debts, and some guys who would rip my insides out just for kicks, much less for the amount of money I owe them?”

All of that very correct, very understandable response, rattled around in his head. But during that time, the twinkle of the coin sparkled in his eyes.

A million bucks . . .

(It’s crazy.)

But a million bucks . . .

(You’ve been hanging around in this nuthouse too long.)

The gambling instincts pounded through him, thudded in his temples until it was all he could hear. A half a million dollars would put him in the clear, sure . . . but a million . . . he’d be set for life . . . forever. Not only could he clear off his debts, but then he and the wife could blow town, go to some small island in the Bahamas or something, live like a king and queen on what was left over.

For years . . . for so many years, she’d considered him a loser, a nowhere bum with dream but no drive. Wouldn’t the expression on her face be worth the risk?

Hell, for that matter . . . the Bahamas beckoned him, and she didn’t necessarily have to be part of the equation. Wouldn’t
that
be worth the risk?

The night erupted in light and sound, and the coin looked like a hellish ember.

“Well?” said Dent. “Decision time, Richter. Time is money.”

“All right . . . you’re on.”

Barely were the words out of his mouth before the coin was airborne, flashing in the light. “Call it,” said Dent.

He thought of the grotesque, scarred head. “Clean side,” he decided.

The coin seemed to hang in midair, alternatingly beautiful and frightening. Then it spiralled to the floor and landed. It spun for a moment. Richter stepped closer to see for himself what the result was.

It hesitated, carried by its momentum, and then settled. Richter stared down at it.

Scarred side up.

“Too bad,” said Dent.

There was a sudden, swift movement that Richter barely even had time to register. Then he felt a sharp pinch at his throat, and a warmth trickling down it. Automatically he put his hand to the source of the warmth, and came away with a hand coated with his own blood.

“Would you like your palm read?” asked Dent. “Oh . . . too late. It’s red already.”

Richter went to his knees. His already-blurring eyes managed to make out what Dent was now holding in his other hand: A double-edged razor blade. His mouth moved, forming the word, “Why?” but his vocal cords were traumatized and he couldn’t produce the sound.

Nevertheless, Dent was able to make it out. “Why?” he said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “You’re asking why? But . . . isn’t that obvious? It was double or nothing. Nothing means no money . . . no life . . . nothing. Null. Void. Two times zero . . . is zero.”

Richter’s final thought was,
I . . . I didn’t know . . . it’s not my fault . . . it’s not fair . . .
and then he crashed to the floor, the last sound he would ever be responsible for making. Without bothering to glance at him, Dent—still hidden by shadows—stepped over him and picked up the acetylene torch. As he placed the goggles over his face and fired up the torch, he said to the man who could no longer hear him, “This has been a productive evening, Richter. Thanks to you, we not only escape . . . but we save half a million dollars. We’re doubly grateful.”