There was a trapdoor overhead. The top of the stairs—and his ticket out of here! It just proved that if you kept a sunny attitude, any job would go right.
He reached past Vicki and pushed open the trapdoor. There!
“Upsy-daisy,” he said to Vicki as he gave her a final shove up into the belfry.
As the Joker followed her up, someone said, “Hiya boss.”
Three men were waiting for them—the three bozos he had hired from that Kung Fu studio. He had never learned their names, so that’s how he thought of them—as Bozo One, Bozo Two and Bozo Three.
“What brings you here?” the Joker asked the bozos. “Getting religion?”
Bozo One, a lithe, medium-size man who wore trick boots, said, “I was getting confused down there.”
“We come up to get a bird’s eye view of what was goin’ down,” said Bozo Two, a slightly larger, heavier man.
Bozo Three, a huge black man whose face was covered with tribal scars, said nothing. The Joker thought of Bozo Three as the most dangerous of the lot.
“Well, well, how cozy, all of us together,” the Joker said. “We have time for a little exploration.”
He blinked to adjust his vision to the pale moonglow which was the only source of light and examined his surroundings. He was in a small room surrounded by four wooden slat-filled windows, designed to let the sound get out while keeping the rain away. There was also a pair of doors that led out to a walkway and the roof beyond—the perfect thing for a helicopter rescue. A good-sized bell was set in a rocker in the middle of the room and there were two smaller rockers to either side of that bell. Both were empty. Where were the bells?
The Joker almost stumbled over them as he turned around. They were that close to the trapdoor.
How convenient! Two bells so close to the edge—so close to a little accident!
The Joker giggled. You ever danced with the devil by the pale moonlight?
These bells were heavy suckers! He loosened one from its mount, with his acid squirting flower. The heavy iron rolled down quickly, smashing through the rotten wood as it went.
The Joker roared. This was even better than bowling!
Gordon barely got his men out of there in time.
The noise had been horrendous. The bell had come tumbling down the stairs, crashing and banging against wooden planks and stone walls, tearing away steps and mortar as it went. As it gained momentum, it crashed through a rotten section of the steps, ripping away a whole six-foot section.
By the time the bell had smashed on the stone floor at the base of the tower, it had done its damage. Maybe they could have gotten past that six-foot gap in the stairway, and two other, similar gaps Gordon could see higher up in the tower. But the rest of the staircase was no longer solid, either. Whole sections leaned crazily toward one wall or the other, and there were dozens of new holes and missing planks.
This stairway would never be used again. Batman and the Joker had the battle to themselves after all.
That was, Gordon thought, if both of them were still alive.
Thomas. Thomas. Thomas.
He heard his heart beat heavily in his chest. He’d barely dodged the bell.
Thomas. Someone following. Can’t run. Man with a gun.
He was almost at the top of the stairs. If only he could ignore the pain. He closed his eyes.
Can’t run. Man with a gun.
He forced his eyes opened and took the stairs, one, then another, and another. He rested for a moment on a window ledge. The stairs ended ahead at a closed trapdoor. Not far to go.
Man with a gun. He knew that smile.
Somehow, he was back on the stairs. Somehow, he reached the trapdoor. He pushed against it. It was stuck. He tried again, but he had no strength.
His eyes closed again.
He knew that smile. You ever danced with the devil—
“—by the pale moonlight?”
The Joker always found comfort in those words. Besides, he owed it to himself to say his little piece aloud. He had to have killed somebody with that bell.
He thought he heard a noise under the trapdoor.
He couldn’t help himself. Blame it on a Joker’s curiosity.
He pulled the second, heavy bell off the edge of the door and opened the trap.
There was nobody down there.
All right! Way to go!
“I must have belled the bat!” he yelled aloud with a laugh.
He was glad Vicki was there to share his triumph. Surely now she would appreciate him.
He looked toward the rafters. It was dark up there—the kind of place that never saw the light of day.
“There ain’t any more of you up here, are there? Daddy or mommy bats?”
He turned to Vicki. “That was a joke. Why aren’t you laughing?” He jabbed his gun barrel into her jaw and she winced in pain. “You’re going to have to learn to laugh at my jokes!”
Light stabbed through the slats of the windows. Someone on the street had turned on spotlights. That was okay with the Joker. It would help his helicopter pilot.
“Boss,” Bozo Two said, pointing to the trapdoor. “I think I heard something moving down there.”
“Goody goody,” the Joker giggled. “Our fun isn’t over yet. We can play hide and seek. And whoever comes through the trapdoor is it.”
On the third try, Batman managed to push open the trapdoor. Ignoring the agony throbbing through his body, he heaved himself up and into the belfry. He paused. He could see the glare of spotlights shining around the edges of slats in four small windows and, the shapes of two large bells and, coming from below, he heard sirens and voices. Gordon would be assembling his forces, searching for an avenue of attack. But, by the time he found one, whatever was going to happen would be finished.
Where was the Joker? Vicki? Batman looked away from the light to allow his vision to adjust to darkness.
Then he heard it—the mocking, insane voice: “It seems I have a bat in my belfry.”
Almost immediately, there was another sound, a shriek, and from the gloom he sensed, rather than saw, something was hurling toward him. It was a man, cartwheeling across the floor. A beam of light gleamed briefly on two silvery blades jutting from the man’s boots. Batman had no time to think, nor did he need any. For years, he had trained himself for moments like this—had trained himself simply to react.
The man reached the apex of his final somersault a foot above Batman’s head and the blades arced toward Batman’s face. Batman moved under the man’s legs and his fist traveled in a straight, swift line from his hip to the man’s crotch. As Batman stepped aside, the man howled, dropped to the floor clutching himself, and lay still.
So the Joker wasn’t alone. How many others were there?
From the corner of his eye, he saw something move between the searchlights and the slatted windows. Someone was outside, on the roof. Through an open door, he saw the Joker with his arm locked onto Vicki’s throat and a gun pressed to Vicki’s temple. He stepped back, debating whether to rush the door or attempt to get behind his quarry.
He heard a rustle from the rafters ten feet over his head and, again without thinking, flung himself to the side. The bulk of a man dropped past him, the sleeve of the man’s outstretched arm brushing Batman’s cape. The attack became a plunge as the man continued to drop—through the open trap door and on down the stairwell. There was a thud, and a stifled moan, a moment’s silence and then a final, echoing gong as the body hit the bell far below.
He started toward the open door.
Something blocked his way. A huge, hulking silhouette of a man. It stepped into the light from the window and Batman saw the face, a hideously scarred caricature of a human countenance. The scarred man was swinging a rope with a heavy steel pulley tied to one end—a weapon no less lethal for being improvised.
The scarred man swung the rope. As Batman ducked, the pulley passed within an inch of his cowl and, pain lanced his side making his gasp and, for
a fraction of a second, lose consciousness. He backed away a step, two. A grin widened the scarred man’s lips.
Batman backed off a third step and paused. His timing would have to be perfect; he might not get a second chance. The rope and pulley lashed out like a whip. Instead of ducking or dancing backward, Batman took a single stride forward, inside the arc of the rope, and drove the rigid fingers of his left hand into the nerve center of the scarred man’s solar plexus. It was a strike that would instantly paralyze most human beings. The scarred man grunted, straightened, and his grin grew broader.
Outside, on the roof, the Joker hummed a Strauss melody as he waltzed with Vicki.
“I’d say we were made for each other—Beauty and the beast,” he said. “Mind you, if anyone else ever calls you the beast, I’ll rip their lungs out.”
He laughed.
Behind the Joker, through the open doors, Vicki saw the shadowy forms of Batman and the monster the Joker called Bozo Three. She knew Bruce—Batman—had to be injured, and probably exhausted. Could he possibly win? She thought she knew the answer, and for the first time, she felt a cold lump of despair growing within her.
Batman circled his opponent. His breath came in short gasps, and each gasp brought new pain. He had given the scarred man his best shot and it had accomplished nothing. How long could he continue before his legs would no longer support him? No more than a minute, surely. He scanned the belfry, searching for a weapon, but there was only the bell.
The bell!
Batman crouched, and sprang. His jump carried him to the top of the bell. For a second, he teetered, finding his balance. Then, as the scarred man began to whirl the pulley over his head, Batman leapt.
The scarred man scuttled aside.
Batman continued downward, past the scarred man and into the open trapdoor. Continued falling.
Vicki saw Batman vanish below the floor of the belfry. The lump of despair filled her whole being. But only for a second. She was alone? All right. If this had to be her fight, she accepted it.
She looked down at the street and the searchlights. This was her weapon—the fact that they were eight hundred feet above the pavement. The height and her courage, and her wits—these would be enough.
She gritted her teeth. And smiled up at the Joker.
“You dance divinely,” she purred.
The scarred man peered down the stairwell. He hadn’t heard the caped fool land. It was so dark, impossible to see—
Two legs shot from the stairwell and clamped around the scarred man’s head.
Batman had grabbed part of a broken rafter just under the trapdoor and hung there until the bulk of his enemy appeared in the opening, as he knew it would. Then he bent his body in an upward “V” and slammed his legs to either side of the scarred man’s head. The pain was beyond anything he had ever imagined, but although he felt it, he somehow no longer cared about it.
He levered his legs past the lip of the trapdoor and rammed the scarred man’s skull into the bell. Once. Twice. Again and again. The scarred man relaxed, went limp. His body slid into the opening and as Batman released it, plummeted into the stairwell.
Vicki pressed herself against the Joker.
“You say such beautiful things,” she murmured.
Just keep him moving back, she told herself. Keep him moving toward the edge of the parapet.
She rubbed her cheek against his. “You’re so strong . . . and I love purple—”
The Joker stopped, and his face stiffened.
Behind Vicki, someone said, “Pardon me. Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?”
A gloved fist smashed into the Joker’s jaw, knocking him away from Vicki, sending him into a sprawl through the doors and into the belfry. Batman brushed Vicki aside and followed the Joker. As the Joker was rising, Batman pivoted and kicked him into the bell.
Pain? Of course Batman felt pain. It seemed as though there had never been a time when he didn’t. It didn’t matter, not at all.
“I’m gonna kill you,” he said.
“You crazy bastard,” the Joker howled. “You made me! Remember? You dropped me into the acid. It was pretty hard to settle down after that! God knows I tried.”
“I know you did.”
Batman grasped the Joker’s shoulders and swung him into the slats of the nearest window. The wood splintered and the Joker tumbled outside, onto the roof.
The Joker was clutching his mouth. He dropped his hand and a pair of false teeth clattered to the tiles and began hopping toward the Batman. For a moment, Batman stared at the toy, distracted.
The Joker punched him in the face.
Batman returned the blow. The Joker stumbled, but managed to remain standing.
“You murdered my parents,” Batman said.
The Joker gaped. “What are you talking about?”
The Batman strode forward. “I made you—but you made me first.”
“You lunatic,” the Joker protested, backpedaling. “Crimminie ditch! I say you made me, so you have to say I made you? How childish can you get?”
The Joker slumped and wiped at the blood dripping from his chin. He took a pair of black-rimmed glasses from a pocket and put them on.
“You wouldn’t hit a man with glasses, would you?” he simpered.
Batman hit him.
The Joker flailed, shuddered as he glanced over his shoulder at the emptiness, and fell off the parapet.
Batman’s knees buckled. Vicki rushed to him and held him until he could stand alone.
Then, together, they peered over the rim of the parapet.
Vicki saw nothing but empty pavement below, visible in the glare of the spotlights.
Batman glanced upward. In the circle of the moon, there was the silhouette of a helicopter descending.
Vicki gasped. Fingers had grasped her wrist and were pulling her. She had a second to see that Batman, too, was being tugged over the edge of the roof.
As they dropped, Batman’s arm wrapped around her waist and, abruptly, she stopped falling.
Batman held Vicki in one hand. The other was stretched above his head, clutching the snout of a gargoyle.
The Joker stood on top of the grotesque statue, laughing.
“Grab something,” Batman told Vicki.
She found a hold on one of the gargoyle’s horns. Batman released her and reached for his utility belt.
The Joker stamped on his fingers.
Batman grabbed the Joker’s ankle.
The gargoyle moved. A puff of masonry wafted from where the statue joined the wall of the cathedral.
The Joker pulled his ankle free and kicked Batman in the head.
A gust of wind tore at Batman and Vicki. It was the downdraft of the helicopter, now hovering directly over the belfry. The noise from its engine was deafening.
The gargoyle shifted, tilted.
The Joker extended a hand toward Vicki. She looked into Batman’s face, asking a silent question.
“Do it,” he shouted. “I can take care of myself.”
Vicki grabbed the Joker’s hand. It slipped off the end of his arm and Vicki’s body swung outward. She began to fall, following the plastic hand toward the pavement. Batman caught her upper arm. She dangled over 800 feet of empty air, her hair whipping around her face.
The gargoyle tilted further.
A rope ladder popped from the belly of the helicopter and uncoiled down to the Joker. He grasped the bottom rung with his right hand and with his left fingers waggled a farewell wave at Vicki and Batman.
“Ta, ta,” he called.
Vicki was again gripping the horn.
Batman saw the Joker step onto the ladder. The roar of the helicopter grew louder and the aircraft started to rise, carrying the Joker with it.
He had done his best, Batman told himself. Maybe he could get Vicki and himself to safety before the gargoyle finally tore completely loose and then he could rest. He had earned rest. He deserved it.
He remembe
red Thomas and Martha Wayne. Blood spilling onto a dirty sidewalk. The sobs of the child he had been. The years of loneliness.
The Joker was rising into the circle of the moon.
Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?
The dance was not yet done.
Batman groped at his belt and found what he sought. He lifted the small gun and squeezed the trigger. A thin metal line shot out, up, and whipped around the Joker’s ankles. Batman wrapped the near end of the line around the gargoyle’s snout and secured it.
The Joker’s eyes widened as he saw what was happening. He screamed, “Stop! Wait! Down! Down!”
His voice was lost in the roar of the engine.
His body stretched between the ladder and Batman’s line.
Batman boosted Vicki onto the gargoyle and from there onto a ledge.
With a clatter of broken masonry, the gargoyle wrenched free of the wall and, like a pendulum, veered outward, hanging from the Joker’s ankles. The helicopter dipped a few feet and, as the engine grew still louder, began to climb again.
The Joker’s arms trembled with strain. Slowly, his fingers uncurled from the ladder.
For an instant, he seemed to be suspended in mid air.
Then, his lips split apart in a huge grin and he laughed. He shrieked with laughter as he plunged down, down, down.
The gargoyle shattered on the pavement and the laughter stopped. But it echoed through the canyons of the city. It seemed to echo forever.
Vicki flattened herself against the wall of the cathedral, aware that Batman was beside her. Her eyes were squeezed shut. She could hear, but she didn’t want to see.
She felt herself slipping.
“The ledge,” Batman said. “It can’t take our weight.”
She was falling, her eyes still closed. It was funny, she thought. After all she had been through, after the enemy was destroyed, she was going to die anyway.
No!
Batman saw the street rushing up to meet him. To meet him and to shatter him as it had shattered the gargoyle.
But he had time, maybe as much as two seconds, and that would have to be enough. If it wasn’t, the Joker would have won.
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