Batman 6 - The Dark Knight (27 page)

Gordon spoke earnestly, calmly. “There’s no need to escape because nobody’s done anything wrong. And nobody has to.”

Dent chuckled. “I’ve done plenty wrong, Gordon. Just not quite enough.
Yet.”

“Let him go. You’re right. It’s
my
fault Rachel died. Punish
me.
”

“I’m about to,” Dent said.

The boy whimpered as Dent pressed the gun into his neck.

Batman stepped from the darkness into the moonlight, and said, “You don’t want to hurt the boy, Dent.”

“It’s not about what
I
want,” Dent said. “It’s about what’s
fair.
You thought we could be decent men in an indecent world. You thought we could lead by example. You thought the rules could be bent but not break . . . You were
wrong.
The world is cruel.” Dent removed his coin from a pocket. “And the only morality in a cruel world is chance. Unbiased. Unprejudiced.
Fair.
”

“Nothing fair ever came out of the barrel of a gun, Dent,” said Batman.

“His boy’s got the same chance she had. Fifty-fifty.”

“What happened to Rachel wasn’t chance. We decided to act. We three. We knew the risks and we acted as one. We are all responsible for the consequences.”

Dent looked pleadingly at Batman. “Then why was it only
me
who lost everything?”

“It wasn’t.”

“The Joker chose
me
!”

“Because you were the
best
of us. He wanted to prove that even someone as good as you could fall.”

Dent’s voice sounded bitter. “And he was
right.”

Batman shook his head. “You’re fooling yourself if you think you’re letting chance decide.
You’re
the one pointing the gun, Harvey. So point it at the people who were responsible. We all acted as one. Gordon. Me. And you.”

“Fair enough,” Dent said, stepping away from the boy. “You first.”

He aimed his gun at Batman and flipped the coin: bad side. He fired, and Batman dropped, clutching his midsection.

“My turn.” Dent put the gun against his temple and flipped the coin: good side.

He pointed the gun at Gordon’s son, and said, “Your turn, Gordon. Tell your son it’s going to be all right, Gordon.
Lie.
Like I lied.”

“It’s going to be all right, son,” Gordon said.

Gordon and Barbara and Dent all watched the coin spinning in the air, so they didn’t see Batman roll into a kneel and spring at Dent and the boy. The three of them, locked together in Batman’s arms, toppled over the edge of the hole and into the darkness below.

The coin landed.

Gordon grabbed his flashlight and shined it into the hole. At the bottom, Dent was sprawled, neck twisted, the mutilated side of his face exposed, his left eye open and staring sightlessly. He was obviously dead.

But where were the others?

“Help,” he heard Batman say.

Gordon swept his light and saw Batman hanging from a charred joist with his left hand, while his right clutched the boy. Gordon set his flashlight on the floor and reached down to take his son from Batman.

His flashlight was shining on Dent’s coin: good side.

The joist Batman hung from snapped, loud as a gunshot, and Batman fell, smashing through wood and plumbing, landing hard next to Dent.

Gordon gave the boy to Barbara and hesitated.

“You’ve got to help him,” Barbara said.

Gordon ran down the stairs, occasionally jumping past heaps of debris and through the door into the basement—the place where Rachel Dawes had died.

Batman was moving. Gordon helped him to his feet, and said, “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.”

Both men gazed down at Dent’s body, pale and still in the moonlight.

“The Joker won,” Gordon said. “Harvey’s prosecution, everything he fought for, everything Rachel died for . . . Undone. Whatever chance Gotham had of fixing itself . . . whatever chance you gave us of fixing our city, dies with Harvey’s reputation. We bet it all on him. The Joker took the best of us and tore him down. People will lose all hope.”

“No, they won’t. They can never know what he did.”

Gordon was incredulous. “But we can’t sweep that under the—”

“No,” Batman said, his voice overriding Gordon’s. “The Joker
cannot
win.” He crouched by Dent’s body and gently turned Dent’s head until the unmarred side was visible. “Gotham needs its true hero.”

“I don’t understand—” Gordon stopped, and stared at Batman. “You?” he asked finally. “You can’t—”

“Yes, I can.”

Batman rose and faced Gordon. “You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become a villain. I can do those things because I’m not a hero, like Dent.
I
killed those people. That’s what I can be.”

“No,” Gordon said angrily. “You can’t. You’re not!”

“I’m whatever Gotham needs me to be.”

“They’ll hunt you.”

“
You’ll
hunt me. You’ll condemn me, set the dogs on me because it’s what needs to happen. Because sometimes the truth isn’t good enough. Sometimes, people deserve more.”

Gordon turned his back on Batman and stood unmoving until he was sure he was alone with Harvey Dent’s body. Then he slowly trudged up the three flights of steps and rejoined his family.

“Why did Batman run away?” Gordon’s son asked him.

“Because we have to chase him.”

“Why?”

B
lood formed a wet film beneath his clothing, and the red fog he’d feared was exploding behind his eyes. But he might be able to reach somewhere he could rest, allow himself a few moments peace before his long nightmare began. He had failed to save Harvey Dent, had failed to save Rachel. But perhaps he could still put himself on the side of the angels by allowing the world to believe him to be the ugliest of devils.

Why,
the child had asked.
Why did Batman run away?

And as Batman crossed the rooftops of the sleeping city, not sure where he was going, knowing only that his wounds were deep and would never heal, James Gordon tried to answer his son’s question:

He’s the hero Gotham deserves, but not the one it needs right now. So we’ll hunt him because he can take it. Because he’s not our hero, he’s a silent guardian, a watchful protector . . . a dark knight.