Batman 3 - Batman Forever (16 page)

And that’s when Bruce saw the coin glittering in the air.

Two-Face had to admire them. A gutsy trapeze family, acrobats, performers. They had decided to try to be heroes.

And they were worthy of the same chance that Two-Face afforded other heroes.

“Day in, day out, time passes, fate has her fancies,” he intoned, speaking to an audience only he could hear. “God stands absent, daydreaming, and the universe asks the same old question. Life . . .”

The coin spun in the air and landed at his feet. “Or death.”

He looked down at the scarred head and smiled a twisted smile. “Our kinda day,” he said.

He pulled out his guns and aimed high.

Bruce slammed his head into the thug’s face. It was the kind of maneuver he far preferred to do when wearing his reinforced mask. Nevertheless it did the job. The thug staggered, and Bruce dealt the thug another vicious shot in the head. It sent him down to the ground and Bruce grabbed up the machine pistol.

He swung it up and aimed it squarely at Two-Face. He had him dead in his sights.

Dead . . .

You’re a killer, too . . .

He leapt toward Two-Face, and just as he did a thug came in out of nowhere, taking him to the ground.
Noooo!
screeched through his mind. And then, even as he went down, refusing to acknowledge that time had run out, he hurled the machine pistol.

It scissored through the air, spinning like a boomerang, and it crashed squarely into Two-Face’s head . . .

. . . but only after Two-Face had squeezed off two shots.

The first bullet sliced through one of the trapeze supports that were suspending John and Chris Grayson. The support snapped, and John Grayson skidded off, still clutching onto his son’s legs. Chris was still holding onto Mary, and he screamed. His mind hadn’t fully registered what happened. He only knew that suddenly he felt as if he were being torn in half.

Mary shrieked as well, because two seconds ago she’d been on the verge of being rescued. And now, instead, with the crack of a bullet, she was the only thing keeping her son and husband from plunging to the ground. Her frantic hands wrapped around Chris’s wrists as he howled
“Don’t drop me don’t drop me Maaaaaaa
. . .”

And John knew that he was dead. That he was about to let go of his son’s leg and plummet to the ground because then maybe, just maybe, Mary could hold on and they would survive.

His life flashed before him and, to his utter surprise, there was nothing he would have done differently.

For the three flying Graysons, the agony seemed to last an eternity. But it was, in fact, no longer than it took for Two-Face to squeeze the trigger a second time.

The second bullet sliced through the rope supporting Mary Grayson.

Dick Grayson scrambled across the roof of the Hippodrome, the bomb ticking under his arm. With a prayer, and all the strength in his young arms, he hurled the bomb down, down into the water. He uttered a prayer, begging that it wouldn’t explode in midair. For one thing, he was completely without protection atop the roof, and the flying shrapnel would cut him to pieces.

And for another, he really hated loud noises.

Apparently God decided to be merciful, for the bomb made it all the way to the water and even sank beneath it. Seconds later there was a muffled explosion and the water erupted upward about fifty feet, sending a geyser and mist through the air before settling back down.

“I did it,” he whispered in amazement. “I saved ’em. This is great . . .
this is great!!”

He scampered back up the roof, his mind racing. He was going to be a hero. No . . . not just him. His whole family were going to be heroes. The Flying Graysons, the daredevils who saved the Hippodrome. They’d be everywhere. Newspapers, magazines, talk shows. They’d be able to write their own tickets. They were set for life.

His joy lasted until he regained the catwalk and looked down . . . and saw the broken bodies of his family lying on the ground.

Then he heard a loud, piercing, gut-wrenching scream of agony that seemed to go on and on, and somewhere along the way he realized it was his own voice . . .

“The greatest show on earth!” crowed Two-Face a split instant before the machine pistol hit him. It struck him on the scarred side of his face, so it wasn’t as if the damage was going to be noticeable. Nevertheless it hurt like hell as he went down. He fired wildly in all directions, unaware of precisely where the weapon had come from, and unknowingly forcing Bruce Wayne to dive for cover.

Then Two-Face dived for the trapdoor through which he’d come, slamming it behind him. A split second later Bruce was there, clawing at it, trying to pry it open. But he’d heard the bolt slam shut beneath, and nothing short of an explosive or a blowtorch was going to get through it. Both of those would have been at his disposal had he been in costume, of course, but he was not. Instead the only option left to him would be to run like hell, try to find where the tunnels came out that ran beneath the Hippodrome, and track down Two-Face.

It was not a workable notion.

That was when he heard the shriek, the shriek from on high. He recognized it immediately; it was his own voice.

Except it wasn’t. It was another voice, but with the same grief and agony that Bruce recalled from himself so many years ago.

It was the boy. The boy who had done everything he could do, and was—to the other still frantic people within the Hippodrome—a hero.

None of which mattered one bit.

Bruce and Chase stood outside the Hippodrome, watching the ambulances roll away as more and more police cars seemed to materialize. Bruce felt a certain amount of impatience. What was the purpose of all this? Two-Face was gone. The thugs who had been captured wouldn’t be able to tell the police anything useful. Wayne was certain that they were all hired goons, brought in especially for this particular job. Harvey was too canny to risk the loss of people who might betray him.

Chase drew his arm closer. “Where did you go running off to?”

“Nowhere,” he said. “I got separated from you by other people, and spent the rest of the time trying to find you.”

Even as he spoke with her, he didn’t hear his own words. Instead he was running that moment,
the
moment, back through his mind.

He had sworn not to use guns. A gun was what had cut down his parents, and the very concept of wielding such a weapon was anathema to him. He had hurled himself into the midst of the criminal element in order to combat it, and he was fearful of staring too closely into the abyss, lest it stare back at him. To use a gun, to shoot at people, was to draw it dangerously close to becoming that which he opposed.

Yet there he had been, holding the machine pistol in his hands, finger curled around the trigger. A quick squeeze and Two-Face would have been dead. And . . . perhaps . . . the Graysons would be alive. It was hard to be certain, for everything had happened so quickly. Perhaps, and then again, perhaps not.

What was certain was that he’d had Two-Face in his sights . . . and Two-Face in his head, taunting him, defying him.

And Bruce’s reflexes had kicked in. The revulsion over guns, the haunting sneers of Two-Face . . . it had all compelled him to throw the gun instead of fire it.

Gently, Chase said to Bruce, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He looked down at her and shook his head. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he said.

Then he saw Dick Grayson from a distance away. He had a blanket draped over him, covering his red-and-green leotard. His head was lowered, his face ashen.

“Incredible,” said Chase. “Incredible how things turn out. First that boy saves my pocketbook . . . and then he saves my life . . . and look what happens. He deserved so much better. I wonder if he has any other family.”

“No,” Bruce told her. “Gordon said no. It was just his parents and . . .” He paused and then amended, “Just him.”

“It’s just so unfair.”

“What happens to him now?” asked Bruce.

“Now? Now he gets pumped into the system, I guess.”

He thought about the system. The overcrowded, underfinanced system . . .

“The hell he does,” said Bruce Wayne.

I
t was the next afternoon when the police cruiser pulled up in front of Wayne Manor. Dick Grayson, pack on his back, came riding up behind it on his motorcycle. It was a small, modest little vehicle, but his folks had scrimped and saved to get it for him and it meant the world to him. The day that he’d gotten it and unwrapped it, he was sure that he would never again see anything nearly as impressive as the shining red little ’cycle.

And he hadn’t.

Until he’d pulled up into the main drive of Wayne Manor. Then he stared at the house, and continued to stare at it. As Bruce Wayne emerged from the house, Commissioner Gordon stepped out of the back of the cruiser and headed toward Bruce to speak with him. On the way he paused next to Dick in order to push his mouth shut.

“It’s good of you to take him in,” said Gordon with no preamble. “He’s been filling out forms all day. He hasn’t slept or eaten.”

“Oh, well,” said Wayne, gesturing for Dick to come forward. “I’m sure we’ll be able to scrape together something in the fridge.”

Dick walked past Gordon, still awestruck by what he was seeing. Gordon began to say good-bye, but quickly became aware that he wasn’t remotely a part of the boy’s reality at that moment. He shrugged, shook Bruce’s hand, gave his thanks once more, and then headed for the cruiser.

In the foyer of Wayne Manor, Dick was looking around in undisguised amazement. Bruce stood in the open doorway, still a little bit unsure of what to say. Should he speak gently, or firmly? Was the boy looking for a friend, or an older brother, or just someone to talk to . . . or perhaps none of the above?

He knew one thing for sure. The boy was going to be in mourning. He would likely be somber and serious, and prone to unexpected crying jags at the wrong words. And in his state of mind, any words could be the wrong ones. Best to proceed on eggshells until he had the situation sorted out.

From the other direction came Bruce Wayne’s trusted butler. “Welcome, Master Grayson. I’m Alfred.”

Dick looked at him in confusion. “
Master
Grayson?”

“A standard honorific,” said Bruce.

“Huh.” And then, to Bruce’s astonishment, Dick elbowed Alfred in the ribs. “So . . . how ya doin’, Al?”

He stepped away from Alfred as the butler looked in barely contained amazement at Bruce and mouthed, “Al?”

Bruce shrugged and turned to Dick. “We prepared a room for you upstairs. But maybe you’d like to eat first.”

The last statement didn’t even seem to register. So instead, Alfred and Bruce stood patiently and waited for Dick to guide the situation.

Dick, for his part, was watching out the window until the police cruiser carrying Gordon was safely out of sight. Then he turned to them and said, “Okay. I’m outta here.”

Bruce hadn’t been precisely sure what to expect, but this definitely wasn’t it. Chase Meridian had offered to be there to try to smooth things along, but he had confidently said that he could handle it. Now he was starting to regret that decision. “Excuse me?”

Dick shifted the weight of his pack slightly on his back. “I figure telling that cop I’d stay here saved me a truckload of social service interviews and goodwill. So no offense but see ya. Thanks.”

Bruce made a subtle gesture to Alfred, and then matched Dick’s stride as they both headed outside.

“Where will you go? The circus is halfway to Metropolis by now.”

“I’m going to get a fix on Two-Face,” said Dick matter-of-factly. “Then I’m going to kill him.”

Wayne endeavored to take the flat pronouncement in stride. “Killing Two-Face won’t take the pain away. In fact, it’ll make it worse.”

Dick looked at him with open skepticism. Bruce could practically read his mind:
You’re a rich guy who lives in a mansion the size of Rhode Island, with more money than most people have in a lifetime. What the hell do you know about pain.
“Look, spare me the sermons, okay? I don’t need your advice. Or your charity.”

Bruce didn’t seem to be paying attention. Instead he was looking ahead to Dick’s motorcycle. “Nice bike.”

He looked Bruce up and down skeptically. “You a big motorcycle fan, Bruce?” He lowered his voice derisively. “Hang at a lot of biker bars?”

“I know a little about bikes,” Bruce replied easily.

As Dick began to mount the motorcycle, he waited for the protestations or angry orders from Wayne. Instead, Wayne stood a couple of feet away and said serenely, “Well, good luck.” He started to turn away and then, struck by an afterthought, said, “Oh, you might want to fill up in our garage. No gas stations for miles.”

Dick stared at him for a moment, and then figured, “What the hell? Why not?”

He rolled the bike toward the garage, Bruce leading the way. Wayne wasn’t even trying to make pointless small talk, and Dick even felt reluctantly grateful for that. Couldn’t fault the guy for trying. It’s just that he was trying to help someone who cared about only one thing in . . .