by Jason Starr
“I’m getting to a compliment, bear with me,” Amanda said. “I thought you were lazy actually.”
“That’s a compliment?”
“Thought,” Amanda said. “Past tense.”
“Ah, gotcha,” Harvey said. “That’s a little bit better, I guess.”
They smirked, teasing each other.
“What I mean,” Amanda said, “is the way you went about police work—roughing people up, paying bribes, cutting corners. But now I see you’re just a product of your environment, and a good product at that. I’m learning from you every day, and I can’t wait to see what the future brings.”
“Man,” Harvey said, “if I wasn’t such a hardened Irishman I’d be tearing up right about now.”
“Tears aren’t allowed in Ireland?” Amanda said.
“We’ve been through so much misery, nobody has any tears left,” Harvey said. “That’s why we drink—we’re all trying to rehydrate.”
“Now I get it,” Amanda said. “I don’t know how I’ve made it through my life without discovering the origins of the drunken Irishman. That clears up so much of the mystery, I’m not sure there’s anything else for me to learn.”
Harvey smiled.
“Seriously though,” he said, “I was wrong about you, too. Want to know the truth? I thought you were weak.”
“Weak?” Amanda pretended to be offended. “Weak how?”
“Look at you,” Harvey said. “I could bench press you without breaking a sweat.”
“Bet you think you could beat me in an arm wrestle, too.”
“Let’s not get crazy,” Harvey said. “You know some karate, but that’s a skill. But arm wrestling? We’re talking about brute strength.”
“So you think you can beat me then?”
“No, actually, I know I can.”
“Let’s do it, then.” Amanda put her elbow on the bar.
Smitty, the bartender, looked over. So did a few other regulars.
“I don’t want to be embarrass you,” Harvey said, “but if you insist.”
He elbowed up.
“Need a judge?” Smitty asked.
“Sure,” Amanda said.
Now a little crowd—maybe ten people—formed around them. Harvey and Amanda clutched hands. Jesus, his hand was like twice the size of hers.
“I feel like I should give you a head start,” Harvey said.
Amanda looked focused, like she was in some kind of Zen state. He figured he’d take it easy on her—keep it a tie for like ten seconds before taking her down.
“On three,” Smitty said. “One, two…
Three!”
The back of Harvey’s hand hit the bar—it was over.
In shock, he had no idea how she’d done that. He’d tried to hold her, but he never had a chance. The guys in the bar were laughing, making wisecracks.
“Maybe he let her win,” one guy suggested.
Another guy yelled out, “Rematch!”
“What do you say?” Smitty said to Harvey. “Want to go again?”
Harvey knew he’d get destroyed in a rematch, so he made it into a joke.
“No, I concede, I concede.” He held up his hands, palms out. “What can I say? She beat me fair and square. Guess it just wasn’t my day.”
“Yeah, well I think he let me win,” Amanda said to everyone.
Harvey looked at her. She had a serious expression, but he could see the smile in her eyes.
As the crowd dispersed, he said, “Why’d you lie like that?”
“I wanted to beat you,” she said. “I didn’t want to humiliate you.”
“But how’d you do that anyway?” Harvey said. “Some kind of magic trick?”
“No, it’s just a matter of focus,” she said. “The mind is the strongest muscle.”
He thought about that for a long moment. She waited, probably figuring he was searching for a good wisecrack.
“I’m gonna do something now that I don’t do very often,” Harvey said.
“Pick up the check?”
“More surprising than that,” he said. “I’m going to apologize to you. I know I was a little, well, resistant to working with a woman, but I was wrong. You’re like a secret weapon nobody sees coming. Any cop would be lucky to have you as a partner.”
“Aww, thank you, Harv, that’s such a sweet thing to say.” She hugged him. “You almost made me tear up, and that’s saying a lot.”
“And,” he added, “you’re the first woman I’ve hugged in ages who I didn’t want to take to bed.”
Crap, Harvey thought, Come on, filter, where are you for Chrissakes?
Amanda pulled back, looking surprised, but not upset.
“Hey, that was the Guinness talking, not me.”
“So you didn’t mean that?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“So you do want to take me to bed?” She looked offended.
Suddenly Harry was confused.
“Okay, you really want me to be honest?” he asked.
“Yes, go ahead,” she said, “I want to hear it.”
Harvey gulped down the rest of the pint. “Okay, yeah, I think you’re sexy as hell, especially when you’re beating the crap out of people, but that doesn’t mean I want to take you out. I’m dumb, yeah, but I’m not stupid enough to mix business and pleasure.”
“I guess there’s a compliment in there somewhere,” Amanda said.
“See, this is why I don’t like to be honest with women,” Harvey said. “Whenever a woman asks me to be honest I wind up getting into trouble.”
“I’ll be honest with you about something,” she said. “I’m starving and I’m in the mood for a big, juicy steak. How about you?”
Harvey smiled, wondering how she had gone from total pain in the ass to his total fantasy woman.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
They paid the tab, and then went across the street to a steakhouse. There they devoured a couple of T-Bones, and each had a couple more beers.
“How’re you matching me pint for pint?” Harvey asked. “You got a wooden leg or something, or you just focusing your energy?”
“Why am I matching you?” she said. “Maybe you’re matching me?”
Good point.
“Touché.”
* * *
Later, they left the steak house and wobbled back to the car. Laughing, they had their arms around each other’s waists. Harvey didn’t even know how his had gotten there.
That was how he knew he was having a good time. When they got in the car, she looked good and he felt good.
What the hell? he thought, and suddenly they were kissing. Holy crap, it felt good, it felt right. How had this incredible woman been right under his nose all this time and he hadn’t noticed?
Then the logical side of his brain kicked in.
“Wait, this is a bad idea.”
“Why?” She didn’t want to stop.
“Because the GCPD’s like a fish bowl, and rumors spread like viruses. Hell, people are probably already talking about us.”
“I’m good at keeping secrets,” Amanda said.
That was all Harvey needed to hear.
They started going at it again—kissing, grasping at each other. If she had some domme in her, he mused, this would be pretty much perfect.
Then something weird happened.
They were suddenly wet, and Harvey’s eyes stung.
“What the hell?” Harvey said.
The car stunk of gasoline. Was there some kind of leak?
Oh, shit.
On the passenger side, beyond Amanda, he saw the hand reaching into the car with a lit match. Amanda saw it, too. Harvey grabbed her, opened the door on his side, and they rolled out on to the street.
But she was burning like a log. Her clothes and hair were on fire. Although he knew the fire could spread to him, too, he didn’t care. He put his coat over her, trying to smother the flames, and then he grabbed her again and rolled with her, back and forth,
along the street. The flames subsided, but it was too late—Amanda’s wide-open eyes were staring at nothing.
“No!” Harvey screamed, so loud his ears hurt.
Then he glanced toward the burning car, realizing the danger, but he didn’t have time to react. The explosion propelled him backward, maybe ten feet, and landing hurt his back like a son of a bitch. He struggled to get up, making it to his knees, then he looked over and saw the feet and legs of someone, standing about ten feet away. He shifted his gaze higher.
It was Ryan Maxwell, the guy he’d met in front of the liquor store the other day, the guy who had begged to get sent back to Arkham.
“You?” Harvey gritted. His brain was overloaded with a lot of ideas, all at once, but one thought dominated. I could’ve prevented all of this. If he’d just taken Maxwell in on some trumped up charge, three cops—including Amanda—would still be alive.
“I told you I was gonna get back to Arkham, one way or another,” Ryan said.
“That’s why you killed three cops?” Harvey finally managed to stand up. “Are you freakin’ insane?”
“Yes I am, actually,” Maxwell said, “but I already told you that. You can’t really blame me for this one, though. If you morons at the GCPD hadn’t killed the wrong man, an innocent man mind you, then this murder could’ve been prevented.”
Harvey pulled his gun, and aimed it at Maxwell.
“You killed a great lady,” Harvey said, “and you’re gonna pay for it.”
Maxwell didn’t seem concerned. “You can’t shoot me,” he said.
“Yeah,” Harvey said. “And why can’t I?”
“Because there are witnesses.” Maxwell gestured with his jaw to his right. Harvey looked over and saw several people there, watching.
“I’m unarmed,” Maxwell said. “If you shoot me, you’ll lose your job, or you might even go to jail. You know what happens to cops at Blackgate? You’ll have a real ball in there, hanging out with the guys you sent to prison.”
Harvey knew he was right about losing his job, especially because a couple of guys in Internal Affairs already had hard-ons for him.
“See,” Maxwell said. “You have to arrest me. It’s a win-win situation for both of us. You’ll get the credit for solving the cop killer case, and maybe it’ll even get you a promotion or a raise. Meanwhile, I’ll be found insane, and hopefully get to stay in Arkham for the rest of my life. Oh, Arkham, how I have missed thee so.”
Maxwell was right about that, too. He was obviously loony tunes, so any judge would commit him. Then Harvey had an idea.
He flashed his badge at the observers. “GCPD,” he bellowed. “Get the hell outta here, right now! This guy’s a maniac.”
Everybody scattered.
Maxwell knew he was screwed.
“I’m a mentally ill man,” he said. “Anybody who’d kill innocent cops has to be c-crazy, right? I’m a danger to myself and to others, I need r-rehabilitation. You, as a moral man, have to understand that.”
“If you think I have morals, you really are crazy.”
He blew Ryan away.
Just to make sure, he went over to the body, and pumped a couple more into him.
“Son of a bitch,” he said, and he spat on the creep’s stupid, dead face.
Then he went over to Amanda, and stared, numb. Another partner had bitten the dust—wasn’t the first, and wouldn’t be the last. He was glad he hadn’t fallen in love with her, that he’d dodged that bullet. This was why he didn’t share his feelings, why he didn’t like to even feel his feelings.
This was why he didn’t get close to anyone.
The pain wasn’t worth the gain.
THIRTY-ONE
“How about we go to the shooting range today?”
A week had gone by since the Picasso had been recovered, and things seemed to be returning to normal. Thomas had gotten back into a routine at work, Bruce had finished serving his suspension from school, and he and Martha had been getting along well.
Thomas had checked in with Karen Jennings by phone, and there hadn’t been any fallout from the killing of Scotty Wallace. He was convinced this meant that Strange hadn’t discovered the location of the cabin, nor had anyone else.
Perhaps his visit had yielded its desired effect, and Strange had reconsidered any plans he’d had about restarting genetic testing. If that was the case, the status quo of the past ten years between had been restored.
“I’d fancy that quite a bit,” Alfred replied. So at around noon, on a bright sunny day, they headed out in the Bentley—Alfred driving. They passed the gate, where Nigel had returned to duty. With his face covered in bandages, he still managed a smile.
“Have a wonderful day, Mr. Wayne.”
“Thank you, Nigel,” Thomas said. Then he said to Alfred, “You were right about him. He’s a dedicated, trustworthy employee. We need men like him in Gotham.”
The shooting range they frequented was about an hour’s drive south of Gotham. They merged into traffic on the highway, and Alfred glanced repeatedly in the rear-view mirror. His brow wrinkled.
“I think we’re being followed, sir.” He had a matter-of-fact voice, with no fear or real concern in evidence.
“Really?” Thomas replied, adopting the same tone. “Perhaps I have a stalker now. I guess I should feel special.”
“I’m afraid I’m quite serious, sir.”
Thomas looked over his shoulder at the red van directly behind them. The driver was a young brunette.
“The van?” he asked.
“No, the black car travelling behind the van,” Alfred said.
Thomas couldn’t see it.
“Are you sure?” Thomas asked.
“Afraid I’m almost positive,” Alfred said. “I noticed the car when we were a few blocks away from the manor. I didn’t want to alarm you initially, but I have been looking out for it ever since. After he followed us for the first two turns, I was willing to strike it up to coincidence. But when he followed us on to the highway, as well, I’m afraid the odds of a coincidence diminished significantly.”
“Well, there’s only way to find out for sure,” Thomas said. “Try to lose him.”
“As you wish, sir,” Alfred said. He accelerated and cut over to the left lane. After passing around a dozen or so cars, he veered back into the center lane and slowed. Looking back, Thomas couldn’t see the black car.
“Looks like he may not have been following us after all,” Thomas said.
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
Sure enough, the black car cut over from the left lane, as well, securing a position behind the Bentley, but with a couple of cars in between. Thomas still hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of whoever was in the front seat.
“Did you see the driver before?”
“Dark hair, sunglasses, mustache, mid-thirties perhaps,” Alfred said. “Do you have any idea why someone could be following you?”
Thomas flashed back to the shooting of Scotty Wallace—in particular, the blood spattered wall.
“No, none at all,” Thomas said.
“I see,” Alfred said.
“Do you think you can lose him?” Thomas asked.
“We’ll find out,” Alfred said.
When an opening was available, Alfred cut over to the left lane again and accelerated, faster than the previous time. Guiding the Bentley like a race-car driver, he weaved through traffic, hardly varying his speed. The black car, however, followed every move.
The Bentley was in the left lane, the black car trailing, as they approached the next exit.
“Let’s try something, shall we?” Alfred said. At the last possible moment, without reducing his speed at all, he cut in front of a car in the center lane, and another car in the right lane, and made it onto the exit ramp. It didn’t seem as if the black car could mimic the maneuver in time, yet, the driver somehow managed to brake a bit, shift over to the right, and then began to spin out. The car actually turned 360 degrees, then wound up on th
e exit lane, as well.
“Bloody hell,” Alfred said. “This bloke either knows how to drive, or he’s the luckiest man alive.”
“What now?” Thomas asked.
“I have some other tricks up my sleeve.” They were along a two-lane road in a hilly, suburban community, with the black car about fifty yards behind. Then Thomas looked again and saw that the black car was only twenty-five or so yards behind.
“He’s gaining on us,” Thomas said.
“Is he now?” Alfred said.
The car ahead of theirs was obeying the speed limit. Although the lines were double yellow, and they were approaching a bend, Alfred slipped into the oncoming lane and passed the car.
Around the bend came a speeding van.
Thomas, thinking this was the end, cried out, but Alfred managed to avoid a collision with perhaps less than a foot to spare, and got back into the correct lane.
“If you do that again, I think I might have a heart attack,” Thomas said.
“Well, in that case I suggest you brace yourself.”
Thomas glanced to his left and saw the black car, pulling alongside. The driver was middle-aged, a little older than Alfred had guessed, and had a bushy mustache.
“Jesus,” Thomas said.
“Not a bad name to summon up under the circumstances,” Alfred said.
The black car sideswiped theirs. Alfred lost control for a moment as the Bentley swerved toward the narrow shoulder, but then he regained control. The black car was still alongside, and now the passenger-side window had been opened. The man was aiming a gun at Alfred and Thomas.
“Duck!” Alfred shouted.
Thomas bent his head toward his lap as far as it would go as a bullet pinged off of part of the car, maybe the roof.
“Bastard,” Alfred said.
Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw that Alfred had his gun out now. He fired at the man several times, and the man fired back. Then Thomas heard honking.
“Bloody hell,” Alfred said. “Hold on.”
Thomas took a peek and saw that a school bus was speeding toward the black car, and a head-on collision was imminent. Then Alfred fired, hitting the man in the head, and the black car spun out of control, down an embankment, as the school bus sped past.
Alfred pulled over.
