by Peter David
“Oh God, Bruce, you were a child. You weren’t responsible.”
And it was at that moment that all hell broke loose . . .
Alfred opened the door in answer to the ring and never even saw the cane descend toward him.
The thugs stepped over him, two of them picking up his unconscious form and shoving him in a closet. Two-Face looked back and forth, taking in the huge foyer, and snapped his fingers. “Move,” he said tersely.
“Remember the plan!” shouted the Riddler. “Seize and capture! No killing!”
The thugs moved in all directions, and the Riddler quickly grabbed Two-Face’s arm. “Just a little double check, doubleface . . . you didn’t tell them, right? Bat Wayne is our little secret, right? We tell any of the g-u-y-s, they might just shoot to kill, which isn’t the plan! Riiiight?”
Two-Face looked at him balefully. “You patronize us one more time, that cane of yours becomes a rectal probe. Got that?”
He moved off and the Riddler said cheerily, “I’ll take that as a yes.” And then he headed off through the mansion on his own little treasure hunt. Because, while sitting outside in the van, waiting for the right moment to make their entrance, he had spotted the lovely Dr. Chase Meridian stepping out of a cab, apparently there for a little dining and dancing pleasure with Monsieur Wayne.
“And here it’s not even my birthday,” the Riddler said joyfully.
Bruce headed into the dining alcove, Chase right behind him, as he heard the commotion. “What the hell?” he demanded.
He ran straight into two of Two-Face’s thugs.
Quickly he grabbed up a silver serving tray, flipped it into one of the thug’s faces, and kicked him in the stomach. Without breaking motion he slammed the platter into the other thug’s head. Two of them were down, and Bruce quickly grabbed Chase’s hand. They dashed out the door, several more henchmen in close pursuit.
The Riddler moved slowly through the mansion, holding up his cane in this direction and that, checking the sounding signals being issued from the head. He’d known going in that the most likely means of entrance to Bruce’s secret Bat-headquarters would be behind some hidden wall somewhere. It was just a hunch. So he’d equipped his cane with a device to bounce sound waves off the walls. It would register any place where there was a hidden panel . . . something that appeared to be solid but had a drop behind it.
And, in short order, he found it.
Two-Face sat in a chair, disconsolately flipping his coin. Each time Wayne and his lady friend dashed by, pursued by several thugs, it provided a new opportunity for a coin toss. He cocked and uncocked his gun nervously, and each time the coin landed in his hand it was with the clean side up.
In derisive imitation of the Riddler he said, “ ‘No killing. Torture him. Make him suffer.’ ” He snorted disdainfully. “Whatever happened to old-fashioned murder? Kids these days . . .”
Charging up a stairway, Bruce overturned statues as he went, blocking their pursuers’ path. Every path he took, he kept running into thugs. The house was crawling with them.
The Riddler had found heaven, or at least his own little piece of it.
The Batcave was dark, with drop cloths over the equipment. He wasn’t sure why, nor did he care. So, Brucie was painting or redecorating or whatever it was.
He started removing small green bombs from his pouch, revelling in the irony of it. He and Bruce. Both unappreciated. Both given hard knocks. Both certifiable geniuses. Both taking on costumed identities. Every step of the way, they had mirrored each other, even if it had been a fun house mirror.
Without even realizing it until just recently, Edward Nygma and Bruce Wayne had been in a contest in every aspect of their lives. And now that he understood that, it was, in fact, Nygma—the Riddler—who was going to win.
The green bombs he had produced were in the shape of bats. With demented glee he twisted each of their little heads, enjoying every single screech. He picked up the first one, its wings flapping furiously, and hurled it into the air.
“You know, it’s always risky introducing a trained animal into the wild. They often have trouble acclimating to the new environment.”
The bat struck the video wall, and a tremendous explosion rocked it. The next one blew the costume vault to hell and gone, and the third detonated in the crime lab.
He spotted, in the near distance, the Batmobile on the turntable. He tossed the bat under his arm and it zeroed in on the car’s cockpit. And as he headed out of the cave, the Riddler shouted to any stray bats who might be listening, “Tell the fat lady she’s on in five.”
And the moment he was clear of it, the Batmobile exploded. From the outside it was virtually impregnable. From the inside it was less so, and within seconds it became a huge, flaming slab of black metal.
Within the closet into which he’d been tossed, Alfred—still woozy from the blow to the head—tried the doorknob. Locked. Undeterred, he then activated his wrist-comm device.
“Nine-one-one,” he said, and the autodialer went to work.
Bruce and Chase fled up the giant staircase, the thugs one step behind. One of the thugs leapt forward, getting a fistful of Chase’s dress. She went down and then lashed out with a mighty kick, knocking the thug backwards down the stairs.
“It’s therapeutic,” she tossed off.
Bruce, meantime, was holding off a couple more attackers, closing near the top step. He spun, a powerful roundhouse kick clocking one in the head, sending him backwards down the stairs. “Go!” he shouted to Chase.
Chase moved behind him, up the landing, turning to see Bruce fell another with a spinning back kick, a third with a flying back fist. They started again toward the top of the stairs, and it looked increasingly as if they were going to make it.
And Two-Face approached the bottom of the stairs, flipping the coin. “A chance to live, a chance to die,” he intoned. “Lady Luck makes her decrees and we can do naught but slavishly follow.”
The scarred side of the coin winked up at him.
“Finally,” he said, then pulled out his gun, aimed, and fired.
At the top of the stairs, the bullet grazed Bruce Wayne’s head. Chase shrieked as Bruce pitched back and tumbled the length of the stairs to the bottom. An instant later several thugs had closed in behind Chase and had her arms pinned.
Bruce lay unmoving on the floor. Two-Face stood over him and said, “Bruce, my boy, you sure know how to throw a party.”
The Riddler came dashing in at that moment and let out a screech of protest. In the distance police sirens could be heard, but that was the least of the Riddler’s problems. “No! You killed him!”
Two-Face aimed the weapon at the unmoving Bruce. “Not yet. But give us a second . . . or two . . .”
But the Riddler swept in behind him, urging him toward the door gently but firmly. “Okay, let’s review. We were not going to kill him. We were going to torture him, remember? Wreck and ruin all he holds dear? Leave him broken, knowing his secret is revealed and death will come, but not where or when? Any of this ring bells? You really passed the bar?”
Two-Face spun, his guns at the ready. Knowing when he’d gone as far as he could, the Riddler put up his hands. “Kidding. Ha-ha. Joke?”
“Okay.” He nodded his head toward Chase, who was struggling with the thugs. “Just grab the bait.”
The Riddler grinned as Chase was dragged out, and then walked over to the unconscious Wayne as if he had all the time in the world. He dropped a riddle on top of Bruce’s body, and then sauntered out the door.
The riddle read, “We’re five little items of an everyday sort. You’ll find us all in a tennis court.”
But there was no one conscious to read it.
And somewhere far below, as fire licked through the costume vault, the Bat emblems began to burn.
And from out of the fire, a huge bat staggered. It staggered, enveloped in flame, its red eyes blazing . . . and then fell forward and moved no further . . .
“The injuries are relatively minor. The shot did cause a concussion. Watch for headaches. Memory lapses. Odd behavior. I’ll check back in a few days.”
Alfred smiled thinly at the doctor, easily repressing the urge to inform him that the term “odd behavior” was a fairly elastic one when applied to Bruce Wayne.
Seated upright in his bed, Bruce blinked against the morning sun as the doctor finished packing up. Alfred had been less than ecstatic with the presence of the physician, in the event that the battered and dazed Bruce might say something “incriminating.” But he’d had no choice. When the police had arrived, with Gordon in the lead (considering that it was Wayne Manor under assault), Alfred had felt constrained to say that it was indeed Two-Face and the Riddler who had led the assault. Again, no choice: If Bruce had blurted something out in his semiconscious state, Alfred would have been questioned as to why he was covering up. Besides, he reasoned, Dr. Meridian’s kidnapping really did warrant alerting the constabulary.
Ironically, Gordon’s confident, “Don’t worry, Mr. Pennyworth. We’re going to call in Batman on this one,” had less than the comforting effect Gordon clearly thought it would.
Gordon also wanted to take Wayne to the hospital, which Alfred managed to avoid by promising to bring a doctor to the house immediately. He reflected at that moment that perhaps the single most significant thing about the Wayne fortune was that it had actually prompted a doctor to make a house call. He led the physician out, then quickly returned to Bruce’s bedside.
“How are you feeling, young man?”
Bruce smiled wanly. “Not that young. It’s been a long time since you’ve called me that.”
“Old habits die hard. Are you all right?”
“As well as can be expected, I guess. And you?”
Alfred rapped his head a couple of times. “Oh, I’ve had the odd cricket ball or two ricocheted off my skull on occasion. Compared to that, my current stress was minimal.”
“Okay. Give me the bad news.”
He’d rather not have gotten into it so quickly, but it was unavoidable. “Master Dick has run away. They have taken Dr. Meridian. And . . .” There was no delicate way to say it. “I’m afraid they found the cave, sir. It’s been destroyed.”
Bruce looked up at Alfred with puzzled, narrowed eyes.
“The cave? What cave?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Gordon stood next to the signal, staring up at the Batshaped light against the sky. “Where is he?”
Detective Bullock swayed out onto the roof. In his gravelly voice he announced, “The mayor’s called again.” But before he continued, he looked up at the signal, and then back at Gordon. “He’s not going to show. Maybe he’s hurt, sir. Maybe he’s . . .”
“Don’t even think of it.”
Bruce stared in wonderment at the cave, or what was left of it. There were melted ruins and rubble as far as he could see. Alfred stood silently next to him.
“I remember my life as Bruce Wayne. But all this. It’s like the life of a stranger.” Then he paused. “There’s one other thing. I feel . . .”
“What?”
“Afraid.” It started to tumble back for him. “The cave. I remember the cave. Something chasing me. A demon . . . Oh my God, Alfred.”
“No demons, son,” said Alfred tenderly, and touched the side of Bruce’s head. “Your monsters are here. And until you face them, I fear you will spend your life fleeing them.”
In the Riddler’s control room on Claw Island, Chase had been chained to the floor of his throne. Riddler sat upon it, pulling in pulses of neural energy.
“You really should have considered therapy, Mr. Nygma,” Chase said gamely, fully aware by this point of precisely who was her captor.
“Sorry. Not in the Nygmatech health plan. Maybe next year,” he said, without looking at her.
She looked out the skylight, saw the signal in the air. “Batman will come for me,” she said firmly.
“Your Bat’s gonna come, your Bat’s gonna come.” He leaned forward, his voice low and lethal. “I’m counting on it.” Then he studied her. “You got a thing for him, don’t you? I can tell. I can tell everything.”
“There’s a reason we only use a fraction of our brains, Mr. Nygma,” Chase said evenly. “You’re cutting neural pathways faster than your consciousness can incorporate them. You’re frying your mind.”
He moaned loudly. “Major buzz kill. Spoil the mood, why don’t you?” Irritated at having his good mood ruined, he pulled a hypo from his jacket pocket. It was filled with green liquid. “Nap time, gorgeous.” He plunged it into her and she passed out.
Bruce stood in front of the dark, rocky mouth that led to the smaller part of the cave . . . the part that he’d first fallen into those many years ago. The part that he had never been back to, even after he had clambered to safety . . . even after he had explored every other portion of the Batcave . . . because of the monsters that dwelt within.
He insinuated his body through the narrow opening and climbed slowly up into it.
Bats. Bats everywhere, just as he had remembered. Their wings fluttered and they were moving all the time, making the walls and ceiling look as if they were throbbing with life themselves.
The infrared goggles were fitted over his face, the cave looking like daylight. He looked to the left and right, his every sense alert.
He spotted it in far less time than he would have thought.
It was there, under an alcove, a large piece of rock that extended and covered it, as if protecting it against the possibility of his eventual return. Slowly, terrified of what he would find but unable to stop himself, he reached for the book.
He picked it up, held it close to his face. Through the goggles it was suffused with red. The red of blood. The red of roses.
He turned the pages to the last entry. And there it was, just as he had remembered. “Bruce insists on seeing a movie tonight . . .”
He paused and then noticed that the page was stuck back-to-back with the next one. Moisture had done it. Moisture from the cave? From tears spilled long ago that he had forgotten about? Carefully he separated the pages and turned them . . .
. . . and found more writing.
“ ‘But Martha and I have our hearts set on Zorro, so Bruce’s cartoon will have to wait until next week.’ ”
He stared at the book in disbelief. “Not my fault,” he whispered. “It wasn’t my fault.”
Suddenly, in the dark ahead of him, a shape moved. It separated itself from the rest of the shadows but with his goggles, clear as day, he could see it.
Even in day, it was terrifying.
Mouth wide open to reveal hideous fangs, head moving slowly from side to side and watching him through red slits, wings huge, and suddenly the monstrosity was airborne . . .
. . . and it was coming for him, and Bruce turned to run, the bat’s wings flapping like beating drums, closing fast . . .
. . . and he suddenly stopped in his tracks, turning, resolved to meet the thing head-on. He turned and faced the monster as it screeched toward him, glistening fangs barely inches from his face . . .
. . . and something remarkable happened. The bat held its position, staring straight into his eyes, wings still spread wide. And Bruce raised his arms to match the aspect of the bat. They faced each other, living mirrors, man and bat, neither entirely sure how much of the other was real.
. . . and in the unreality of the cave, they came together . . .
Bats exploded from on high.
In the main chamber of the Batcave, Alfred reflexively put up his arms to ward them off. But they weren’t coming for him. Instead they arced all over the ceiling, smashing into each other, as if they couldn’t move quickly enough. He watched in stupefaction.
And then a shadow was cast down at him.
He looked up and whispered, “Master Bruce.”
A voice spoke to him, familiar and yet unfamiliar. And it said, “Batman, Alfred. I’m Batman.”
A N D F O R E V E R
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Bullock ran into Gordon’s office and said, “Commish . . . you better see this.”
Gordon was on his feet. “Has there been an answer to the signal?”
“Yes and no.” And Bullock would not elaborate. Gordon followed him up to the roof and immediately saw it.
Indeed, it was fairly hard to miss.
A gigantic green question mark had positioned itself over the Bat-signal, reducing the once impressive image to a small dot at the bottom.
“I’m really starting to hate that guy,” said Gordon.
In Bruce Wayne’s bedroom, Bruce and Alfred stood over the four riddles. “Five little items of an everyday sort. You’ll find them all in a tennis court.”
He picked up a pen and started circling letters in the words “A tennis court.”
And Alfred saw immediately. “Vowels. Not entirely un-clever, sir. But what do a clock, a match, chess pawns and vowels have in common? What do these riddles mean?”
Bruce stared at it for a moment . . . and then something clicked. “Maybe the answer is not in the answers but in the questions.”
“I shan’t be saying that several times fast, shall I?”
“Every riddle has a number in the question.” Quickly he wrote them out on a sheet of paper.
“But 13, 1, 8, and 5. What do they mean? For all we know, these are his stab at next week’s Lotto picks.”
Bruce shook his head. “What do maniacs always want?”
“Recognition?”
“Precisely. So this number is some kind of calling card.” He started recombining the numbers. Adding them gave him 27. Squaring them gave him 16,916,425. Neither seemed helpful. Then he started separating and rearranging them . . .
“Thirteen . . . eighteen . . . five . . .” He turned and looked at Alfred, and the butler could tell that Bruce already had it. “Letters in the alphabet.”
