by Peter David
Then Two-Face dived for the trapdoor through which he’d come, slamming it behind him. A split second later Bruce was there, clawing at it, trying to pry it open. But he’d heard the bolt slam shut beneath, and nothing short of an explosive or a blowtorch was going to get through it. Both of those would have been at his disposal had he been in costume, of course, but he was not. Instead the only option left to him would be to run like hell, try to find where the tunnels came out that ran beneath the Hippodrome, and track down Two-Face.
It was not a workable notion.
That was when he heard the shriek, the shriek from on high. He recognized it immediately; it was his own voice.
Except it wasn’t. It was another voice, but with the same grief and agony that Bruce recalled from himself so many years ago.
It was the boy. The boy who had done everything he could do, and was—to the other still frantic people within the Hippodrome—a hero.
None of which mattered one bit.
Bruce and Chase stood outside the Hippodrome, watching the ambulances roll away as more and more police cars seemed to materialize. Bruce felt a certain amount of impatience. What was the purpose of all this? Two-Face was gone. The thugs who had been captured wouldn’t be able to tell the police anything useful. Wayne was certain that they were all hired goons, brought in especially for this particular job. Harvey was too canny to risk the loss of people who might betray him.
Chase drew his arm closer. “Where did you go running off to?”
“Nowhere,” he said. “I got separated from you by other people, and spent the rest of the time trying to find you.”
Even as he spoke with her, he didn’t hear his own words. Instead he was running that moment, the moment, back through his mind.
He had sworn not to use guns. A gun was what had cut down his parents, and the very concept of wielding such a weapon was anathema to him. He had hurled himself into the midst of the criminal element in order to combat it, and he was fearful of staring too closely into the abyss, lest it stare back at him. To use a gun, to shoot at people, was to draw it dangerously close to becoming that which he opposed.
Yet there he had been, holding the machine pistol in his hands, finger curled around the trigger. A quick squeeze and Two-Face would have been dead. And . . . perhaps . . . the Graysons would be alive. It was hard to be certain, for everything had happened so quickly. Perhaps, and then again, perhaps not.
What was certain was that he’d had Two-Face in his sights . . . and Two-Face in his head, taunting him, defying him.
And Bruce’s reflexes had kicked in. The revulsion over guns, the haunting sneers of Two-Face . . . it had all compelled him to throw the gun instead of fire it.
Gently, Chase said to Bruce, “Do you want to talk about it?”
He looked down at her and shook his head. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he said.
Then he saw Dick Grayson from a distance away. He had a blanket draped over him, covering his red-and-green leotard. His head was lowered, his face ashen.
“Incredible,” said Chase. “Incredible how things turn out. First that boy saves my pocketbook . . . and then he saves my life . . . and look what happens. He deserved so much better. I wonder if he has any other family.”
“No,” Bruce told her. “Gordon said no. It was just his parents and . . .” He paused and then amended, “Just him.”
“It’s just so unfair.”
“What happens to him now?” asked Bruce.
“Now? Now he gets pumped into the system, I guess.”
He thought about the system. The overcrowded, underfinanced system . . .
“The hell he does,” said Bruce Wayne.
CHAPTER TEN
It was the next afternoon when the police cruiser pulled up in front of Wayne Manor. Dick Grayson, pack on his back, came riding up behind it on his motorcycle. It was a small, modest little vehicle, but his folks had scrimped and saved to get it for him and it meant the world to him. The day that he’d gotten it and unwrapped it, he was sure that he would never again see anything nearly as impressive as the shining red little ’cycle.
And he hadn’t.
Until he’d pulled up into the main drive of Wayne Manor. Then he stared at the house, and continued to stare at it. As Bruce Wayne emerged from the house, Commissioner Gordon stepped out of the back of the cruiser and headed toward Bruce to speak with him. On the way he paused next to Dick in order to push his mouth shut.
“It’s good of you to take him in,” said Gordon with no preamble. “He’s been filling out forms all day. He hasn’t slept or eaten.”
“Oh, well,” said Wayne, gesturing for Dick to come forward. “I’m sure we’ll be able to scrape together something in the fridge.”
Dick walked past Gordon, still awestruck by what he was seeing. Gordon began to say good-bye, but quickly became aware that he wasn’t remotely a part of the boy’s reality at that moment. He shrugged, shook Bruce’s hand, gave his thanks once more, and then headed for the cruiser.
In the foyer of Wayne Manor, Dick was looking around in undisguised amazement. Bruce stood in the open doorway, still a little bit unsure of what to say. Should he speak gently, or firmly? Was the boy looking for a friend, or an older brother, or just someone to talk to . . . or perhaps none of the above?
He knew one thing for sure. The boy was going to be in mourning. He would likely be somber and serious, and prone to unexpected crying jags at the wrong words. And in his state of mind, any words could be the wrong ones. Best to proceed on eggshells until he had the situation sorted out.
From the other direction came Bruce Wayne’s trusted butler. “Welcome, Master Grayson. I’m Alfred.”
Dick looked at him in confusion. “Master Grayson?”
“A standard honorific,” said Bruce.
“Huh.” And then, to Bruce’s astonishment, Dick elbowed Alfred in the ribs. “So . . . how ya doin’, Al?”
He stepped away from Alfred as the butler looked in barely contained amazement at Bruce and mouthed, “Al?”
Bruce shrugged and turned to Dick. “We prepared a room for you upstairs. But maybe you’d like to eat first.”
The last statement didn’t even seem to register. So instead, Alfred and Bruce stood patiently and waited for Dick to guide the situation.
Dick, for his part, was watching out the window until the police cruiser carrying Gordon was safely out of sight. Then he turned to them and said, “Okay. I’m outta here.”
Bruce hadn’t been precisely sure what to expect, but this definitely wasn’t it. Chase Meridian had offered to be there to try to smooth things along, but he had confidently said that he could handle it. Now he was starting to regret that decision. “Excuse me?”
Dick shifted the weight of his pack slightly on his back. “I figure telling that cop I’d stay here saved me a truckload of social service interviews and goodwill. So no offense but see ya. Thanks.”
Bruce made a subtle gesture to Alfred, and then matched Dick’s stride as they both headed outside.
“Where will you go? The circus is halfway to Metropolis by now.”
“I’m going to get a fix on Two-Face,” said Dick matter-of-factly. “Then I’m going to kill him.”
Wayne endeavored to take the flat pronouncement in stride. “Killing Two-Face won’t take the pain away. In fact, it’ll make it worse.”
Dick looked at him with open skepticism. Bruce could practically read his mind: You’re a rich guy who lives in a mansion the size of Rhode Island, with more money than most people have in a lifetime. What the hell do you know about pain. “Look, spare me the sermons, okay? I don’t need your advice. Or your charity.”
Bruce didn’t seem to be paying attention. Instead he was looking ahead to Dick’s motorcycle. “Nice bike.”
He looked Bruce up and down skeptically. “You a big motorcycle fan, Bruce?” He lowered his voice derisively. “Hang at a lot of biker bars?”
“I know a little about bikes,�
� Bruce replied easily.
As Dick began to mount the motorcycle, he waited for the protestations or angry orders from Wayne. Instead, Wayne stood a couple of feet away and said serenely, “Well, good luck.” He started to turn away and then, struck by an afterthought, said, “Oh, you might want to fill up in our garage. No gas stations for miles.”
Dick stared at him for a moment, and then figured, “What the hell? Why not?”
He rolled the bike toward the garage, Bruce leading the way. Wayne wasn’t even trying to make pointless small talk, and Dick even felt reluctantly grateful for that. Couldn’t fault the guy for trying. It’s just that he was trying to help someone who cared about only one thing in . . .
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.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The 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.
