by Greg Cox
“I’m not hearing a question, son.”
Blake shifted uneasily, but stuck to his guns.
“Don’t you want to know who he was?”
“I know exactly who he was.” Gordon walked over to the broken searchlight. He ran his finger over its rusty frame. Once upon a time, the lens had been capable of projecting an ominous bat-winged silhouette onto the night sky. It had been a signal that let the good people of Gotham City know that someone was watching out for them—and that kept the bad people spooked. “He was Batman.”
Blake looked disappointed by Gordon’s answer, but was smart enough not to argue with his boss. Gordon couldn’t blame him for wanting answers. The mystery of the Batman had gone unsolved for close to a decade now. Blake had probably grown up hearing the legend—and its ugly conclusion.
Time to change the subject, Gordon thought. He walked past Blake and toward the stairs. “Let’s go see about the congressman’s wife.”
* * *
Sunlight crept through the thick curtains over the bedroom windows. Alfred entered, bearing breakfast on a tray, and was surprised to find the bed unoccupied. In fact, it appeared as if it had not been slept in at all.
“Master Bruce?”
No answer. Puzzled, he explored the east wing, but found no sign of his elusive employer. It dawned on him that there was one other place Bruce might be, although it had been many months—at the very least—since Bruce had ventured down there. Alfred frowned, and wondered if this was a good sign or not.
Wooden bookcases lined the walls of the study. An antique globe rested atop a polished mahogany table, not far from a grand piano that resembled the one Bruce’s mother had often played before her tragic demise. Alfred glanced at one particular bookcase before walking over to the piano.
He tapped out a specific, rather difficult sequence of three notes on the black-and-white keys. In response, a door-sized segment of the bookcase swung outward, exposing a hidden elevator. Concealed hinges, long unused, squeaked slightly. He made a mental note to oil them later.
Could it be that Bruce had gone…below?
Alfred rode the elevator down, concerned about what he might find at the bottom. He had long hoped for something that might shake Bruce out of his malaise, and induce him to re-enter the world, but he wasn’t at all certain that the answer to his prayers was to be found down here.
In the Batcave.
The vast caverns had once been used to shelter runaway slaves escaping to the North. Damp limestone walls glistened beneath the subdued interior lighting that Bruce had installed years ago. A shallow, slow-moving river was all that remained of the underground waterway that had carved out the caverns in ages past. Massive wooden arches, high overhead, helped to support the mansion’s foundations.
Scores of North American brown bats roosted amidst the jagged stalactites hanging from the ceiling. Towering calcite columns rose hundreds of feet in height. The bats squeaked and rustled overhead.
Filthy animals, Alfred thought.
He descended a stone ramp to the concrete floor of the main grotto, where a series of dark slate obelisks loomed directly ahead. A footbridge led across the river to where Bruce was seated at the main computer station, atop a large slate cube. A large, high-definition flatscreen monitor dominated the wall before him. Seven linked Cray supercomputers hummed softly, providing him with enough data storage and computing power to put the NSA to shame. Bruce’s gaze was glued to the screen even as his fingers danced over the keyboard. His cane rested against his seat.
He did not shift his attention as Alfred came up behind him.
“You haven’t been down here for a long time,” the butler observed.
“Just trying to find out more about our jewel thief,” his employer replied. “I ran her prints from the photos she handled.” With that, he pulled up a mug shot. The face in the photo belonged to a scowling armed robbery suspect with a receding hairline, double chins, and a bad case of five o’clock shadow. It bore little resemblance to the larcenous “maid” they had briefly encountered the night before.
“She was wearing someone else’s fingerprints,” Bruce explained, with a hint of grudging admiration in his voice. “She’s good.”
“That she may be,” Alfred conceded. “But we still have a trace on the necklace.”
“Yes, we do, so I cross-referenced the address she went back to, with the police data on recent high-end B-and-Es.”
Breaking and entering, Alfred translated mentally. It troubled him that Bruce had become so familiar with law-enforcement jargon. That was not a field of study he would have chosen for the sweet young boy Bruce had once been. Your father was a doctor.
Bruce hit another key and a new photo appeared. This time Alfred recognized the young lady, although she appeared rather less demure than he remembered. What appeared to be a long-distance surveillance photo captured an alluring face graced with striking brown eyes and sleek brown hair. It was a face worth remembering.
“Selina Kyle,” Bruce said. “No convictions yet, but the databases are full close calls, tips from fences.”
A montage of newspaper headlines flashed across the screen:
THE CAT STRIKES AGAIN
POLICE SUSPECT ‘CAT’ BURGLAR IN JEWELRY HEIST
PENTHOUSE ROBBER LEAVES FEW CLUES BEHIND
ART MUSEUM LATEST VICTIM OF ‘THE CAT’?
Alfred nodded. He recognized some of the headlines from the morning papers. The string of high-profile heists had been notable for their daring and execution. He had thought Wayne Manor was burglar-proof, but this Miss Kyle had proven otherwise.
“She’s good,” Bruce repeated, “but the ground is sinking beneath her feet.”
Our crimes always catch up with us, Alfred thought. The smell of a burning letter wafted across his memory, reminding him that he had a few guilty secrets of his own. “We should send the police before she fences the pearls.”
“She won’t,” Bruce said. “She likes them too much. And they weren’t what she was after.”
Alfred didn’t understand.
“What was she after?” he inquired.
“My fingerprints,” Bruce stated. “There was printer toner mixed with graphite on the safe. Gives you a good pull, and it’s untraceable.”
“Fascinating,” Alfred said dryly. “Perhaps you could trade notes over coffee.”
Bruce finally looked away from the screen.
“Now you’re trying to set me up with a jewel thief?”
“At this point, sir, I would set you up with a chimpanzee if I thought it would bring you back to the world.”
Bruce’s expression darkened. Any trace of levity vanished from his voice.
“There’s nothing out there for me.”
“And that’s the problem,” Alfred said, hoping he could get through for once. “You hung up the cape and the cowl, but you never moved on. You won’t get out there and find a life. Find someone—”
“I did find someone, Alfred.” The memory of Rachel Dawes hung over him like a shroud. She had been the only woman Bruce had ever truly cared for— until the Joker cruelly ended her life. Her death in that explosion had haunted him ever since.
“I know,” Alfred said gently. “And then you lost her. That’s part of living, sir. But you’re not living, you’re waiting. Hoping for things to go bad again.”
For a chance to let the Dark Knight loose once more.
Bruce didn’t deny it. He just sat silently at the computer. Bats rustled overhead.
“Remember when you left Gotham?” Alfred persisted. “Before all this. Before Batman. Seven years you were gone. Seven years I waited, hoping that you wouldn’t come back.”
Bruce looked up in surprise. Confusion showed upon his face.
“Every year I took my holiday,” Alfred said, trying to explain. “I’d go to Florence. There’s a cafe by the Arno. Any fine evening I would sit there and order a Fernet-Branca. I had a fantasy I indulged in often. I liked to imagine that o
ne day I’d look across the tables and see you. Sitting there with your wife, perhaps some children. You wouldn’t say anything to me, but we’d both know—that you’d made it. That you were happy.”
A poignant memory surfaced briefly. There had been a time, Alfred recalled, when he had spotted a happy couple a few tables away and—just for a moment or two—he had truly thought that the man might be Bruce, at large and at peace. But then the man had turned toward him, revealing the face of a stranger.
He vividly recalled the bitter disappointment he had felt at that moment.
“I never wanted you to come back to Gotham,” he confessed. “I knew there was nothing here for you but pain and tragedy. And I wanted more for you than that.” He paused to let his heartfelt word sink in. “I still do.”
There was nothing more to say. He turned and quietly left the cave, leaving Bruce alone with his obsessions—and the ceaseless rustling of the bats.
CHAPTER FIVE
The sewage treatment plant was on the outskirts of Gotham, near the river. Officer John Blake had expected it to smell, but the odor was more chemical than putrid. Thick pipes and other conduits linked various tanks, pumps, and basins. Squat, ugly buildings were painted a dull industrial green. The whole complex was intended to purify the fetid output of Gotham’s sewers before discharging the excess effluent into the river.
Or at least that was the theory. Blake didn’t want to think about how effective the process was, or wasn’t.
He and his partner, Tyler Ross, got out of their patrol car. Ross was a twenty-something Asian-American, only a few years older than Blake. They had been partners for nearly a year now, with Ross showing him the ropes. Blake knew he could count on his partner to watch his back.
It was early in the morning and they had a long shift ahead of them. Although fall had only just arrived, a nip in the air warned that winter was coming. The plant’s supervisor, a middle-aged guy named Jenkins, led them to a long concrete trough filled with foul-looking water. A greasy film coated the surface—and the lifeless body stretched out on a rusty metal grate above the basin. The body looked young.
“They wash up a couple times a month,” Jenkins explained. “More when it gets colder. Homeless, sheltering in the tunnels. We had to pull him out to clear the basin, but other than that we didn’t touch him.” He kept back, letting the cops approach the corpse. “They come out by the catchment basin.”
Blake knelt to inspect the body, which appeared to belong to a teenage boy, seventeen years old at most. Ragged, well-worn clothes looked like they had seen hard use even before the body had ended up in the sewers. One sneaker had come off the dead kid’s foot. Dead, glassy eyes gazed up into oblivion. Blake took a closer look at the face—and froze.
Oh crap, he thought.
Ross didn’t miss his partner’s reaction.
“What?”
“Name’s Jimmy,” Blake said, feeling sick to his stomach. “He’s from St. Swithin’s, the boy’s home where I…coach ball sometimes.” That wasn’t the full story, but Blake didn’t feel like getting into it right now. Not even with Ross. His throat tightened.
He resisted the temptation to close Jimmy’s eyes for him.
St. Swithin’s Home for Boys was housed in a shabby, four-story building that had seen better days. If anything, it seemed even more rundown than Blake remembered. Getting out of his car, he gazed up at the home’s crumbling façade. Memories, both good and bad, flooded over him. He shook his head to clear his mind before heading inside. He was off the clock now, having ditched his partner back at the station.
This was something he wanted to do on his own.
He found Father Reilly in the same cluttered office the old priest had occupied for years. Like the building, Reilly was showing his age. He was a hefty, broadfaced Irishman, whose receding white hair had all but surrendered to baldness. Orphaned and abandoned children, ranging in age from toddlers to teens, roamed the halls outside the office, jostling and joking with one another. Shrill laughter was interspersed with the occasional noisy squabble. Second-hand clothing had been passed down from one generation of orphans to another. Curious eyes peered in the doorway.
Reilly closed the door to cut down on the hubbub and give the two men a degree of privacy.
“Jimmy hadn’t been here for months,” the priest said.
Blake scribbled in his notepad. “Why?”
“You know why, Blake. He aged out. We don’t have the resources to keep on boys after sixteen.” The cop gave Reilly a puzzled look.
“The Wayne Foundation gives money for that.”
Reilly shook his head.
“Not for two years now.”
I hadn’t heard that, Blake thought. He was disturbed by the news, but had more pressing matters to deal with at the moment. “He has a brother here, right?” Reilly nodded sadly.
“Mark. I’ll tell him.”
“I’d like to, if that’s okay.”
After wrapping things up with Father Reilly, and promising to visit again soon, Blake located Mark out in the playground. Jimmy’s little brother was only ten years old, but he took the news of his brother’s death with the shut-down, stony-faced resignation of someone who had already stopped expecting life to be fair.
He bit down on his lip, refusing to cry.
“I’m sorry,” Blake said. The words felt completely inadequate.
Mark just nodded and stared at the ground.
“What was he doing in tunnels?” the cop asked.
“Lots of guys been going down the tunnels when they age out,” the boy said flatly. “Say you can live down there. Say there’s work down there.”
Blake scratched his head.
“What kinds of work you gonna find in the sewers?”
“More than you can find up here, I guess.”
Blake didn’t like the sound of that. Whatever Jimmy had been doing in the sewers, it obviously hadn’t turned out well for him.
And Blake wanted to know why.
CHAPTER SIX
The bar was a real dive, like so many others in this part of Gotham. A jukebox blared in the background, competing with harsh laughter and dirty jokes. Ceiling fans fought a losing battle against the smoky haze, which reeked of tobacco and other controlled substances. Tough-looking ex-cons, hoodlums, and bikers played pool and quarreled over darts. A worn-out waitress, old beyond her years, dodged grabby hands. Cigarette butts and peanut shells littered the floor.
A television, its volume muted, was mounted over the grimy mirror behind the bar. Nobody was paying it much attention.
Ordinarily, Selina wouldn’t be caught dead in a sleazy gin mill like this, but she had important business to conduct. She strolled boldly into the place, where her slinky black dress and lithe figure drew appreciative leers and catcalls. She was accompanied by a reeling drunk in a loud Hawaiian shirt. Barely able to stand under his own power, he sagged against her and mumbled incoherently. She batted away his sweaty paws, which apparently hadn’t learned their lesson yet. His ruddy face was unshaven. His drooping eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. She deposited him on a barstool before sauntering over to a nearby table to keep her appointment.
“You brought a date?” Philip Stryver asked incredulously. He was a waxy-faced creep in a three-piece suit who seemed distinctly out of place in the dingy establishment, not that anyone appeared inclined to make an issue of it. His unsavory reputation preceded him, even in this den of thieves and cutthroats. He looked askance at the drunk at the bar.
“I like having someone to open doors for me,” she offered by way of explanation.
She glanced around, scoping out the scene. Hired muscle was scattered all around the bar, just as she had expected. They weren’t even pretending not to be watching her. Opening her purse, she extracted an unmarked envelope and handed it over to Stryver.
“Right hand,” she said. “No partials.”
Not taking her word for it, he opened the envelope and took out a flexible acetate
transparency. Held up to the light, the transparency showed four perfect fingerprint transfers.
“Very nice,” he pronounced, before pocketing the envelope.
“Not so fast, handsome,” she said. “You got something for me?”
A smirk lightened his typically phlegmatic expression.
“Oh, yes.”
He signaled a thug, who moved to lock the front door. Another bruiser joined them at the table. A gun bulged beneath his cheap sports jacket. He glowered at her in an obvious attempt at intimidation.
She wasn’t impressed—or surprised.
“I don’t know what you’re going to do with Wayne’s prints,” she said, “but I’m guessing you’ll need his thumb.”
Stryver blinked in surprise. Flummoxed, he took out the merchandise and checked it again. His reaction was priceless.
“You don’t count so well, huh?” she added.
“I count fine,” he snarled. He nodded at his flunky, who drew his gun and pressed it against her head. “In fact, I’m counting to ten right now.”
They faced off across the table. The thug cocked his gun. Nobody in the bar showed a hint of coming to her rescue, not even her tipsy companion.
So much for chivalry, she thought. I guess it’s true. Gotham’s last knight in shining armor died years ago.
“Okay, okay.”
She reached for her purse, only to be blocked by the bruiser, who insisted on reaching in and taking out her phone himself. He slid it across the table to his boss.
“My friend is waiting outside,” she promised. “Just hit ‘send.’”
Stryver toyed with the phone, eyeing her suspiciously, before finally doing as she instructed. Then they waited in silence. Within minutes, there was a knock at the door. The goon at the door peered out cautiously before unlocking it to admit a petite blonde who looked like she belonged in high school. Flaxen curls tumbled past her slight shoulders. A halter-top and miniskirt practically screamed jailbait. Hazel eyes lit up as she spotted Selina at the table. She scampered over and pulled out an envelope.
