by Jason Starr
“Are you all right, man?” he asked Thomas.
“Fine,” Thomas said.
Alfred was about to get out of the car when Thomas grabbed him.
“What are you doing, sir?” Alfred asked.
“Let’s just go?” Thomas said. “Forget about this.”
“Are you mad?” Alfred said. “We have to find out who it is, and call for medical help.”
“He’s probably dead,” Thomas said.
“We don’t know that for sure,” Alfred said.
Without loosening his grip, Thomas said, “I don’t want my name in the papers, Alfred? Do you understand? It’s not good for Wayne Industries, especially on the heels of all the other drama of late.”
“Somebody tried to kill you, sir,” Alfred persisted.
“He could’ve been trying to kill you,” Thomas replied.
“Me?” Alfred said. “Why on earth—?”
“You shot somebody the other night,” Thomas said. “A friend could be out for revenge.”
“I reckon that’s a possibility,” Alfred admitted, “but it’s more likely that it’s related to whatever you’ve been up to—”
“Drive away,” Thomas said. “That’s an order.”
A grimace crossed his features for a moment, but Alfred maintained his professionalism.
“As you wish, sir.”
* * *
After driving about a mile, they passed a couple of speeding patrol cars headed in the opposite direction.
“Perhaps you should reconsider going on holiday,” Alfred said.
“If I go, I’ll still have to come back, and then what?” Thomas said. “Yes, I have enemies—you can’t be the richest man in Gotham without accumulating enemies along the way. The corruption in this town runs so deep, you have no idea, Alfred. But I’m doing work now—good work to make Gotham a better place for everybody. I firmly believe I can make that happen, as long as I stay the course.”
“I understand, sir,” Alfred said. Even if Alfred didn’t understand Thomas’s position, he at least had to understand that this wasn’t an argument he could win.
“Well, it’s a good day for shooting anyway,” Alfred said. “Since we’ve already had a warm-up, we might as well carry on.”
* * *
At the shooting range, Thomas couldn’t focus. Usually he was a great shot, but today he could barely hit the target. Alfred saw he was struggling.
“Would you like to take a break, sir?” he asked. Thomas, aiming his gun, didn’t answer. He imagined that his target was Hugo Strange—with a demented, maniacal grin and those odd tinted glasses.
He fired five shots.
All were bulls-eyes.
THIRTY-TWO
As he hung up the phone, Thomas considered killing Strange for real. Not by himself—hiring someone, a professional. He recalled how Frank had floated the idea as a possible solution to the overriding problem. Pinewood, and all of its horrible consequences, had been weighing on Thomas for years.
What a relief it would be to simply give someone a wad of cash—problem solved. He wouldn’t have to live his life in fear, which would help to make him a better husband and father. He could drive up to the cottage in the country and give Karen Jennings the great news—that the man who had created Pinewood Farms was dead.
“You’re free to leave here now, and do whatever you want with your life,” he would say.
While the fantasy had its appeal, in the end it was only that—a fantasy. Thomas understood how people reached the level where murder seemed like an acceptable option, but even so the idea went against everything for which he stood. He didn’t condone murder under any circumstances.
If Strange were arrested and sentenced to death, that would be one thing, but Thomas wasn’t a vigilante. He wouldn’t stoop to his enemy’s level.
However, Thomas didn’t want to make himself a sitting duck, either. So he had called Strange—from a phone booth so the call couldn’t be traced—and made his position clear. In a firm, concise message, he instructed him to back down, or the police would be called.
It had come to this. Risking his company, his reputation.
But by God, his family would be safe.
* * *
Risky as it had been, his call may have had the desired effect.
It had been weeks, and Strange had slipped back into relative obscurity. Perhaps the loss of two assassins had been enough. Mad as he was, maybe Strange had realized that if he kept making failed attempts, he would eventually get caught. Perhaps he had decided that he had too much to lose, and not enough to gain.
Thomas knew this was wishful thinking.
Strange wouldn’t just walk away from what he considered his life’s work. At the same time, however, Thomas refused to live his life in constant fear. He didn’t want his family to live in constant fear, either. Alfred provided some protection, but they couldn’t take Alfred everywhere.
At one point, after the incident on the highway, he had considered hiring twenty-four-seven bodyguards for each member of the family, and placing full-time armed security around Wayne Manor. Then paranoia had kicked in, and he decided there was no one he could trust—not fully. As his experiences with Frank Collins had taught him, anyone could cross over to the dark side, when offered the right price.
That, too, had passed, and a welcome sense of normalcy returned. Bruce was doing well in school, making some new friends, and Martha threw herself into social issues, diverting her fire toward positive pursuits and away from Thomas.
He, in turn, focused on his work at Wayne Enterprises. The company was doing well, though with expected and unexpected ups and downs. One Friday afternoon the stock dropped, losing nearly twenty percent of its value. This was particularly unusual because it came on a day when the Exchange as a whole was soaring. As a major blue-chip company, Wayne rarely bucked the trends.
An emergency board meeting was called, and the records were examined with a fine-tooth comb, but no one could suggest any reason for the drop. The balance sheets had never looked better, and none of their subsidiaries seemed to be dragging them down. So while Thomas was concerned, he wasn’t seriously concerned.
This, too, would pass.
* * *
Two months had gone by since the Picasso had been recovered, and Thomas and Martha decided they needed a break.
Both had been working nonstop for days on end, so after a complex checking and re-checking of their calendars, a date night was settled upon—one which would take them to the theater.
Both had been laboring hard, as well, to repair the damage to their relationship, and it seemed to be working. While Alfred didn’t get the “beach holiday” he’d proposed, he was clear in his approval of their new lifestyle.
Thus, a play was chosen—one which they both would enjoy. At least Thomas hoped he would enjoy it. At least it was Martha’s cup of tea. They were dressed and ready to go when Bruce came out of his room.
“Can I come with you?”
Thomas and his wife were holding hands.
“I thought you wanted to stay home and watch television with Alfred?” Martha said.
“But I haven’t been out all day,” Bruce said. He gave her his most appealing look. “Please.” It struck Thomas that she never stood a chance, and he would end up outnumbered.
Martha looked at him.
“Okay,” he said, “but I have an idea. How about we go to a movie instead? I’m sure we could get an extra ticket for the Brecht, but honestly, I’m already bored just thinking about it.” To his surprise, Martha let out a deep breath.
“I’m so glad to hear you say that, sweetheart,” she confessed. “I feel the same way, but thought for sure you were eager to see it.”
“Then a movie it is,” Thomas announced. “There’s a new musical comedy that’s gotten some excellent reviews. It looks like great fun.”
“I’ll be happy to see anything,” Bruce said.
“Sounds like we have a plan,” Martha
added.
* * *
Alfred offered to drive them, but Thomas insisted on giving him a night off. It was foggy, drizzly evening, the roads slick.
They parked in a private lot Thomas had used, several blocks from the theater. As they were leaving the lot, joining the passersby on the crowded sidewalk, Thomas saw a tall, middle-aged balding fellow watching them. At Thomas’s gaze the man seemed uncomfortable, and walked away in the opposite direction. Thomas was relieved, as he didn’t want to subject his family to the paparazzi, or some opportunist trying to profit from his fame.
The movie turned out to be kind of pedestrian, but at least Martha seemed to like it—laughing out loud at some of the jokes—and so did Bruce. Thomas wished they had gone to the Brecht, instead, and he even nodded off a couple of times. When the movie ended, it was like the completion of a two-hour prison sentence.
As they left the theater, the air was heavy and damp. It had been raining and it looked as if it could start again. Nevertheless, their spirits were high, and the other bystanders seemed to share in their pleasure.
An older couple approached, and recognized them.
“Look, the Waynes,” the man said, keeping his voice low.
“Where?” the woman asked, glancing around.
“Right there,” the man hissed, nodding.
Another fellow passed, accompanied by his son.
“Hello, Mr. Wayne.”
Thomas nodded in acknowledgment. Normally he didn’t mind being recognized, but for some reason the attention tonight made him uncomfortable. They continued along the busy street, then approached an alley. It was a shortcut to the parking lot, and was generally very busy.
“Let’s go this way,” he suggested.
Martha seemed hesitant.
“It’s shorter,” Thomas insisted. “The car will be right at the other end of the alley, and it’s about to rain again.” Sure enough, the first drops were beginning to fall.
Bruce and Thomas both looked at Martha. She nodded, and they turned down the alley. As they did Thomas thought he saw a dark shape flit past overhead. He thought it might be a person on the fire escape, but decided it likely had just been a cat.
There were fewer people in the alley than he’d expected.
“So what did you think?” Martha asked her husband. “Did you enjoy the movie?”
“I thought it was okay,” Bruce offered.
“I couldn’t wait for it to end,” Thomas said.
“Oh come on, Tom, it wasn’t that bad,” Martha protested.
“Childish drivel,” Thomas said. “Movies these days, I don’t know.”
“Well, I thought the acting was fine, and the music was lovely. Didn’t you think so, Bruce?”
“Sorry, Mom, I have to agree with Dad,” the boy replied. “It was kinda lame.” Thomas reached over and ruffled his son’s hair.
“There’s no such word as ‘kinda,’” Thomas said.
“You two, so judgmental,” Martha said. “Just once I’d like—”
She stopped abruptly, and Thomas saw why. A tall man was approaching, wearing a ski mask. He carried a gun.
Uh-Oh. Thomas’s fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, and he realized it had been a huge mistake to take the alley rather than the street.
“What’s up, folks,” the guy said. Then, before they could respond, he added, “Gimme your money.”
The tone was friendly, but the attitude was menacing. The guy stopped walking, blocking the Waynes’ way, so they had to stop, as well. Thomas recalled the man he’d seen earlier, lurking near the parking lot. Could this be the same person?
This didn’t feel random.
Just like the break-in hadn’t felt random.
“No problem,” Thomas said, pulling out his wallet and handing it over.
Even so, he prepared himself. If taking a bullet was to be his punishment, he was ready to accept his fate. Thomas’s own life was secondary, so long as no harm came to Martha and Bruce.
“The necklace,” the man said.
“Oh,” Martha said, “but—”
“Give it to him, Martha,” Thomas said.
He hoped that maintaining a calm demeanor would help them avoid violence, but his gut told him otherwise. This wasn’t just a mugging. He recalled the drop in the stock—had Hugo somehow engineered it? He should have hired someone to kill Strange, weeks ago, when he’d had the chance. Would this be the consequence of remaining a moral person?
For trying to do the right thing?
The man ripped the necklace off of Martha’s neck, and the pearls clinked onto the cobblestones. Thomas stared at the man’s evil eyes, searching for hope that wasn’t there. This man was a stone cold killer, who had crossed the line of morality so many times there was no way back for him.
Thomas wanted to buy time, but he knew he was out of it. Alfred wasn’t here to save him today, nor could anyone else.
He had deluded himself into believing there were solutions to Gotham’s problems. He may have been the most powerful man in the city, but he had no power now. He had lost control of the situation, the same way he’d lost control of his company. What he wanted to happen didn’t happen anymore. He had no free will.
Perhaps he’d never had any.
As the man’s trigger finger twitched, one thought became clear, like an absolute truth:
No one is safe in Gotham.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Steve Saffel, Gabrielle Heller, and the entire Gotham team at Warner Bros. and Fox.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JASON STARR is the international bestselling author of many crime novels, thrillers, and comics. His novels include Cold Caller, Twisted City, Lights Out, The Follower, Panic Attack, and The Pack. His work in comics for Marvel and DC has featured Wolverine, The Punisher, Sand, The Avenger, Doc Savage, and Batman. In addition, for Marvel he authored the original prose novel, Ant-Man: Natural Enemy. He has won the Anthony Award for mystery fiction twice, as well as the Barry Award. His latest crime thriller, available in the U.S. and U.K., is Savage Lane. He lives in New York City.
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