by Marv Wolfman
“Oh, we send in the mercenaries and weapons guys with orders to kill, but we know you’re better than them. We know they’re only sparring partners, getting you ready for the big boss fight.”
The Knight stepped back again, and pulled out the gun from his pouch.
“You see,” he said, aiming carefully, “we want you to fear that your helplessness will ultimately destroy the city you swore to protect after your parents were senselessly murdered. Yeah, I know about that, too. Does it scare you that I know everything about you, but you don’t even know my name?”
He lined up the gun sight, then squeezed the trigger again. This time the gun didn’t fire.
“Bang!”
Then he leaned in close and put the gun barrel under Batman’s chin, against bare flesh.
“We’re better than you, old man. And we’re going to keep playing with you and proving your ineffectiveness until we’re tired of the game. But we won’t kill you then. We’ll make you watch as we burn Gotham City to the ground and we kill everyone who ever meant anything to you.
“And then, when you beg us to kill you, too—and you will—we’ll bury you on Gotham City Island with only your head showing, and you’ll be forced to stare at the remains of what was once Lady Gotham, as you slowly and agonizingly starve to death.”
Batman said nothing. He glared at the Knight, waiting for him to finish his speech.
Feel good for now, he thought. Build yourself up. Your fall will be that much more satisfying.
The Knight stood up again and started to leave.
“Goodbye, old man. The day of the Gotham City good guys has officially come to an end.” He gave a quick bow, and then walked off into the dark.
24
Batman was conscious, but he lay on the cold ground for many minutes, gathering whatever strength he could. He felt his shoulder and realized the bullet had gone completely through it. He pulled off the plating near the gunshot hole and ripped the shirt he wore under it, then tied it tight around the wound. He’d have Leslie Thompkins or one of his other doctors look at it when he had the time, but until then his makeshift tourniquet would have to do.
Finally mustering the strength, he came to his feet.
The Knight said they weren’t done, yet he likely wanted Batman to recover. Hubris was the man’s major weakness, and one Batman fully intended to exploit.
He staggered through the caverns, retracing the route he’d taken. He passed the jeep where the driver was still unconscious. Reaching into his belt pouch, he removed a small canister filled with ammonium carbonate, popped it open, and waved it under the merc’s nose.
Almost immediately the man sputtered awake, opening his eyes to see Batman’s face pressed close to his own.
“Where is Scarecrow,” Batman said, growling like a wild animal. He kept himself steady, and turned so that his wound was hidden in shadow. The man’s eyes widened in fear.
“Scarecrow, he’s making some sort of deal with the Penguin,” he said. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s going down right now.”
“Now, that wasn’t hard, was it?” Batman gave him a quick smile, then jabbed his fist into the man’s face. It would be hours before he was conscious again, and when he awoke he’d remember vividly why he was in such pain. It might even convince him to take up another line of work.
Although somehow Batman doubted it.
Reaching the Batmobile, he was pleased to find it untouched. Activating the ignition, he maneuvered out of the tunnels and across the highway. The night was cold, but the familiar surroundings of the vehicle brought back some semblance of confidence.
His gauntlet communicator buzzed, and he saw he was getting a call from Dick Grayson—the first Robin. The two rarely spoke, though Dick had frequently attempted to contact him before finally giving up. Now known as Nightwing, he insisted on choosing his own path—one which led him to take up residence in Blüdhaven. But Batman still saw him as the nine-year-old he had rescued when his parents—like Bruce’s own—had been brutally murdered.
Regardless, he would need his allies if he hoped to stop Scarecrow. Robin or Nightwing, Dick was one of the best.
* * *
Batman was waiting on the roof of the Gotham City Ferry Terminal when the slim, muscular figure landed in front of him with a somersault that would have earned him a perfect score if he had performed it at the Olympics. Dick Grayson’s parents had been renowned circus acrobats known as the Flying Graysons, and Dick had been hailed as an acrobatic boy wonder before he turned eight.
Nightwing gave Batman a wide smile and stuck out his hand.
“Been too long, Bruce,” he said. Batman nodded, but kept his hands at his side.
“I heard about Barbara,” Nightwing said.
“I’m handling that,” Batman replied. “You said something was up with the Penguin?”
Nightwing lowered his hand, and the smile disappeared.
“Yeah,” he said, all business now. “It’s the reason I asked you to meet me here. Look down there. See those trucks?” He gestured off to one side.
Of all the arrogant, stupid questions… Batman thought, the heat returning. He fought it, and calmed himself. “North Refrigeration trucks,” he replied. “So?”
“They belong to the Penguin. He’s using them to pick up weapons he’s been stockpiling in different secret locations for years now. I’m told there is going to be a war any time now, as all the different gangs vie to replace the Joker. And when the war begins, they say the city will be swimming in blood.” He peered at the trucks. “With the weapons, the Penguin’s planning to be the last boss standing.”
Batman nodded. “Which means we have to find and destroy those weapons before he gets his hands on them.”
“Exactly why I came prepared,” Nightwing said, holding up a pen-sized device, which he handed to Batman. “This tracker’s a prototype, straight out of WayneTech R&D. The old Fox continues to outdo himself. Using this we can track those trucks wherever they go, then grab the weapon before he does.
“My sources also tell me Penguin’s working with someone else,” he added, “someone who wants Gotham City turned into a war zone; but they don’t know who.”
“That’s because you idiots aren’t paying attention. Do I have to do everything around here?”
The Joker was standing next to them, dressed in the same Hawaiian shirt and wide-brimmed hat he’d worn when he shot Barbara. He held up his hands, and Batman saw there were syringes where his fingers used to be.
“It’s Scarecrow, you fool,” the fiend cackled. “Scarecrow and the Penguin are working together.”
“Batman, are you all right?” Nightwing asked. “Bruce?”
Batman shook himself. The Joker was gone.
“Bruce…” Nightwing said again.
“Dick? Right. I’m sorry, so sorry.” Contrition fought with anger, but he kept it controlled. “It’s been a hellish day, and an even longer night. But I’m okay. I’ll be okay. I’ll take it from here. I’ll follow those trucks. Thanks for the tip.”
“Hold on, Bruce,” Nightwing replied. “This is my find. I’m coming with.”
NO, he thought. He can’t come with me. Anger gave way to concern this time. There’s no telling when or how the Joker blood will affect me. What if I turn on him?
What if I kill him?
“I’m sorry, Dick, but my answer’s firm,” he said, struggling to keep his tone even. “I appreciate the information, but you should go back to Blüdhaven. I’ll do this on my own.”
* * *
“I know what you’re doing,” Nightwing argued as he walked to the edge of the building and watched the trucks drive off into the distance. “But I’m not the kid you keep thinking I am. I’m an adult. I’m responsible for myself. And I’m damn good at what I do.”
He turned to argue with the man who was his mentor, but Batman was already gone, grappling across the seaport docks, pursuing the speeding trucks.
Nightwing shook his
head. “No. Not this time, Bruce.”
* * *
Batman followed the first truck across the city to an industrial waste park, then perched in a tree outside the gate. The truck pulled up to the gatehouse and the guard waved to the driver as the gate shook and slid open. The truck drove through and circled the storage facility to a small building in back. Four men scrambled out. One opened the rear cargo door while another took a key from his duffle bag and unlocked the building.
Batman was about to grapple in to stop them when Nightwing landed on the branch next to him.
“I told you not to come,” Batman said.
Nightwing grinned. “‘Not?’ You said ‘not?’ Oh, my gosh, and here I thought you said to come and help. Without the ‘not’ part. Just come. Oops.” Batman growled, but Nightwing continued without giving any sign that he noticed. “Anyway, long as I’m here, shall we play pretend partners again?”
* * *
The Penguin’s thugs entered the small structure and found nearly three dozen large wooden crates stacked four high. The thug who had opened the door stared at them, his mouth dropping in surprise.
“That’s gotta weigh at least a ton.”
“Not a problem, guys.” They turned to discover Batman standing by the door.
“We’ll be happy to take them off your hands,” another voice said. Looking up, they saw another figure, younger, sitting calmly on one of the stacks, his dark costume all but invisible in the murk.
“Batman… and… Robin?”
Nightwing leaped at him. His legs wrapped around the man’s torso and he spun, throwing him across the room.
“It’s Nightwing, you moron,” he protested. “Nightwing and Batman. Robin was a little kid. Couldn’t have been more than four feet tall. Used to wear stupid green shorts and a bright red vest. Not bad in summer, but sucked in the winter.”
The thug’s three associates froze, and he started to get up again. Nightwing did a full-body flip and hit him again, then stood over the man.
“Uh-uh,” he said. “Stay down this time.”
The thug decided to stay put, so Nightwing turned to find Batman efficiently taking out two of the other goons. As the second one hit the ground, Batman put a hand up to one shoulder, then let it drop again.
No jokes. No fun. Just smash and bash. Nightwing grabbed the last thug and slammed him to the floor, knocking the wind out of him.
“You have a choice, pal,” he said. “I can beat you up or I can let him do it.” He gestured toward Batman. “But between us boys, he enjoys hurting the bad guys, while to me it’s just a job. I don’t have to do the beating up part if we can make a deal.”
The thug’s eyes widened with fear.
Nightwing grinned.
“Good man. All you have to do is tell me where the Penguin is meeting Scarecrow.” He pulled the man closer, and gave him a grin. “Will you do that?”
“I don’t know,” the thug said, sweating profusely. “I swear to God. I’m a driver. The Penguin doesn’t tell me anything.”
Nightwing turned to Batman. “What do you think? Thumbs up or down?”
Batman pressed close to the thug. “Are you lying to me?” he growled.
“No. God, no.” The man had pissed himself. “I’m not. I couldn’t. You’d kill me if I was. I’m telling you the truth.”
Nightwing gave a look that said he didn’t believe the man.
“Maybe you should kill him anyway,” he said to Batman. “You know, for giggles.”
What did you say? Batman thought, his anger spiking. Before he could say anything, however, the man screamed.
“I don’t know about Scarecrow,” he said, almost incoherent. “I swear. But I know where the next truck is heading. I know where the next cache of guns is. Is that good enough?” He looked from one captor to the other.
“Please?”
* * *
The thug told them everything he knew, which wasn’t much. Nightwing pumped his fist as he turned to Batman.
“And that’s how you do it Nightwing-style.”
“Too much chatter,” Batman said as he handcuffed the thugs and sent a message to the G.C.P.D.
25
Jim Gordon read the report and angrily threw it in the trash.
The phone rang.
If that bastard wants to defy the law, let him get shot to hell for all I care. He stared at the trash can while his phone continued to ring. Finally he picked up the call. Then another. Then another.
Trouble in McKean Park.
Gunfire at the Simone Tunnel.
Tanks rolling through Crime Alley.
The Novick Tunnel from Bleake Island to all points north had been bombed and had collapsed. His men—the few who had the balls to stay behind in this madhouse—were hopelessly overwhelmed.
He thought about Barbara, and how much he loved her.
Protecting his daughter was his most important job, and he had failed her for the second time. The report in the trash reminded him of Batman, and the lies he’d been telling Gordon for God knows how long. He could never forgive him for that.
I won’t.
More urgent phone calls—situations needing immediate action. Dixon Dock, stretching from the Southside port, had been set on fire. Explosions ripped through the Gotham County underwater rail tubes, and the tunnels were under four feet of water. The Kane Memorial Bridge had collapsed into the river. Tanks were blasting their way through the city. Eighteen policemen had been killed in the first skirmish.
The report in the wastebasket seemed to glow in the room’s fluorescent light, begging his attention.
Tanks were leveling the already crumbling tenements in Old Gotham City. His men were doing their best, but they might as well be fighting a war using peashooters.
He grabbed the wastebasket and shuffled the report back in order. Batman and Nightwing had confronted the Penguin’s thugs at the industrial waste site and managed to stop them before they were able to retrieve weapons their boss had hidden there. Thank God for small victories. They followed Cobblepot’s men to three other sites, and were able to stop them there, too. In each case they retrieved weapons that otherwise would have made it onto the streets.
Gordon’s anger grew. Batman had always been a miracle worker, but he could no longer be trusted. That ship had sailed.
Sergeant O’Hara of the Fifth Precinct dropped another set of papers on Gordon’s desk then hurried back to join his men on the streets. O’Hara was a good man and a trusted ally. The new report he’d brought revealed that Batman and Nightwing had engaged in a final confrontation with the Penguin and his men. This time they not only secured the weapons cache, but captured the Penguin, too. Better yet, Cobblepot agreed to talk—but only to Gordon, and only if the police protected him from Scarecrow.
As much as he would have preferred to throw that stuffed turkey out with the rest of the trash, Gordon reluctantly had to agree.
* * *
“I’m here, Cobblepot,” Gordon said as he entered the interrogation room. So what have you got for me?” To his relief Batman wasn’t there. The Penguin was sitting in an oversized chair, chomping on a huge cigar. Gordon continued to stand.
“Please, Commissioner, I prefer ‘the Penguin,’” the disgusting mobster said. “You know, because of my walk. It’s not like I have any choice. One leg’s three inches shorter than the other. But I got used to the slings and arrows I suffered through early school, and with time I embraced my true nature. It doesn’t hurt that my favorite meal is fish.”
“Cobblepot, the point.”
“Of course, Commissioner. I’d like to level a charge against Batman and Nightwing. Breaking and entering. Assault and battery. They think they can enter a man’s home, beat him within an inch of his life, then drag him off to prison without a shred of proof. Is that not injustice? Are you not shocked that such unfairness exists, nay, thrives in Gotham City? Now, I’m not a lawyer, but I’ve tortured enough of them to know something about the law. I don’
t think Batman’s following it.”
“I wouldn’t doubt that,” Gordon said, glancing at his watch. “And I’ll be looking into the problem—but we’re not here to discuss Batman, are we?”
“Oh, no. Of course not. Ahem! As you know, I see myself as a businessman. My nightclubs, my racing parlors, my massage studios…”
“You mean your drug dens, gambling rooms, and houses of prostitution.”
“Neither you nor Batman have ever proven that, have you? When I consider opening a new concern—always legal and aboveboard, I remind you—I write out an extensive business plan and offer stocks to those interested in investing. Until it’s confirmed otherwise, I insist you acknowledge that my businesses are strictly legal.”
“We know the kinds of businesses you’re talking about,” Gordon said, “and when you say ‘investment,’ we hear ‘extortion.’”
“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to,” the Penguin said. “But I am a businessman. Scarecrow, on the other hand, is an insane nutjob whose mad schemes are hurting my businesses, and badly. I would love to see you take him down. After all, my tax dollars pay your salary.”
“Remind me to send a thank-you note,” Gordon said as he sat down and tossed several papers to the Penguin. “If you hate him so much, why were you planning to sell him those weapons? And before you deny it, here’s the bill of sale. Signed by Crane, and countersigned by you.”
The Penguin swatted the papers off the table without looking at them.
“First of all, those weapons were my legal property. My lawyers will forward you our licenses. I’ll expect to have them returned before the day is out or before Gotham City implodes, whichever comes first.
“Second, what kind of businessman would I be if I didn’t sell him my product, especially when the fool was willing to pay even after an absolutely… reasonable markup? Profit makes for strange bedfellows, you know.”
“A lot would depend on whether or not you knew what he was going to do with those weapons,” Gordon replied. “If you did, you’re Scarecrow’s accomplice. And if I can prove it, I promise you will never see the light of day again.”
“Easy to say, impossible to prove,” the Penguin countered. “But no, I had no idea what he was planning to use my weapons for. Truth is I didn’t ask, and he didn’t tell me. And since Batman and the brat heisted the weapons before they ever got to Scarecrow, whatever’s happening on the streets has nothing to do with me.”
