Batman 6 - The Dark Knight (8 page)

He jumped.

A second before he would have struck the ground, his cape expanded into glider wings that slowed his fall. The Scarecrow’s van swerved out of the exit ramp, and Batman landed atop it, crushing the cab. The van swerved and struck a wall.

Batman pulled a dazed Scarecrow from the cab and slung him over his shoulder.

A minute later, he dumped the Scarecrow next to the Chechen’s injured accomplices and two of the men wearing faux Batman costumes. The Chechen himself had disappeared.

“We’re trying to help you,” the impostor blurted.

“I don’t need help,” Batman said as he bound the Chechen’s crew with plastic ties.

“Not my diagnosis,” the Scarecrow said.

Batman stared at the Scarecrow as he fitted plastic ties over his wrists and ankles, then pulled off Crane’s mask. Next he turned to the impostor. “Don’t ever let me find you out here again.”

“You need us! There’s only one of you. It’s war out here.”

Batman walked toward his car carrying an armload of confiscated weapons and dropped them in a pile for the police.

“What gives you the right?” the impostor cried. “What’s the difference between you and me?”

Batman replied, “I’m not wearing hockey pads.”

The impostor looked down at his ridiculous outfit as Batman sped from the area.

At the last minute, Brian Douglas had decided not to join the other two Batmen in the parking garage. After all, he wasn’t one of them, he was just an observer, and if he heard any kind of ruckus inside, maybe then he’d check it out. But otherwise . . . why hang around with a bunch of jerks? So Brian planted himself against a wall and waited. When he heard gunshots, he still waited.
Maybe somebody will come this way and I can ask them. There’s no point in getting my ass shot off . . . That would be foolish . . .

That was why Brian saw Batman capture the Scarecrow, saw a distinctive silhouette swoop down to land atop the van and, without hesitation, without pausing for a second, reach into the damaged vehicle, haul the Scarecrow out, fling the criminal over his shoulder, and stride back into the garage. How long had the whole thing taken? Seconds—

—and then and there, Brian Douglas had an epiphany. Suddenly, he believed. He had seen something—some
one
—he had doubted. He was real, and he was magnificent, and Brian needed to know
more
!

The Chechen was furious, as angry with himself as with anyone else for allowing himself to become mixed up with such fools as the Scarecrow. Where were mobsters, thugs, greedy killers—the kind of criminal he understood, the kind of criminal he was himself? But he could not linger for revenge now. Everything had gone sour, and there was nothing for a sane man to do but escape. The Chechen had gotten behind the wheel of his SUV and roared away.

The cops waited until they were back at the station house before cutting the plastic ties from Jonathan Crane’s wrists and confiscating his burlap mask.

“Well, well,” a cop said, waving the mask. “We got us a celebrity.”

“I think I liked him better with his face covered,” another cop said.

J
im Gordon, in his unmarked squad car, heard someone he knew was Batman use police frequencies to call for patrol cars and ambulances. So it’d been right, what he’d told Ramirez—Batman
had
been busy. Good. But Gordon had other things on his mind, namely the bank heist that had happened earlier that day. He’d hoped to get Batman’s insights into the crime; that’s why he’d wasted an hour standing next to the searchlight. But Batman hadn’t shown, and that shouldn’t get in the way of Gordon doing his job, so it wouldn’t.

He parked near a row of patrol cars. Ignoring shouts from reporters and gawkers, he entered the bank lobby.

For a while, he watched the forensics crew do its job. Then he called to a detective named McFarland, and asked, “We get anything from the surveillance cameras?”

McFarland handed Gordon a sheaf of grainy photographs. “He can’t resist showing us his face.”

Gordon looked at the pictures: a leering clown with a scarred mouth. Then he raised his eyes and glimpsed movement in the shadows near the tellers’ cage.

“Be back in a minute,” he told McFarland, and moved away.

He joined Batman in the darkness. “You made it.”

Batman nodded and peered at the photos. “Him again. Who are the others?”

“Another bunch of small timers.”

Batman said, “Get me some of the money.”

Gordon went to where some twenty-dollar bills lay scattered on the floor next to Grumpy’s body, scooped up a handful, and brought them to Batman, who scanned them with a gadget he’d taken from his belt. The gadget
pinged.

“Some of the marked bills I gave you,” Batman said.

“My detectives have been making drug buys with them for weeks,” Gordon said. “This bank was another drop for the mob. That makes five banks—we’ve found the bulk of their dirty cash.”

“Time to move in.”

Gordon waved a photo. “What about this Joker guy?”

“One man or the entire mob? The Joker will have to wait.”

“We’ll have to hit all the banks simultaneously—SWAT teams, backup . . .” Gordon held up a handful of banknotes. “When the new DA gets wind of this, he’ll want in.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Be hard to keep him out,” Gordon said. “I hear he’s as stubborn as you.”

That last sentence was spoken to empty air. Gordon shrugged, then went to rejoin his detectives.

Alfred Pennyworth, whistling an old music hall ditty, moved through the Wayne penthouse, opening blinds, raising shades, stopping occasionally to admire the truly spectacular view from any of the windows. He went into the kitchen, placed a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee on a tray and carried it to the bedroom. He stopped in the open room and frowned at the still-made bed.

Then he returned to the kitchen, filled a silver thermos with coffee, and took the elevator down to the building’s garage.

Seven minutes later, he parked the Wayne limo in a corner of a railroad yard, got out, carried the thermos to a rusty freight container that sat, lopsided, on concrete blocks. He got a key from his vest pocket and opened a padlock on the container’s hatch, then stepped inside.

A hiss. The floor lowered, taking Alfred down to the long, low-ceilinged concrete chamber he usually entered through a tunnel that led to Wayne’s apartment building. But today, he thought it wise to assure himself that the elevator entrance was in working order, and was pleased to learn that it was. A hundred years ago, Hiram Wayne had this room built because he wanted to experiment with a steam-driven subway train. The train proved to be a bad idea, but the Wayne family had retained ownership of the ground Hiram had used for his experiments. This chamber had been forgotten by everyone, and although Bruce had heard it mentioned by an uncle, he doubted its existence until recent excavation had uncovered part of it. Bruce sensed that it might some day be useful and, again with the invaluable help of Alfred and Lucius Fox, had pumped out water, reinforced walls, done everything necessary to make it habitable.

Batman’s massive vehicle sat in the center of the room, near a cluster of computers, printers, workbenches, power tools, and microwaves. Bruce sat amid the clutter, watching a television tuned to GCTV, the local all-news station.

“It will be nice when Wayne Manor is rebuilt, and you can swap not sleeping in a penthouse for not sleeping in a mansion,” Alfred said, pouring coffee into the thermos cap.

Alfred handed the cap to Bruce and sat in a nearby chair to join his master. When the news report ended, Bruce returned to what he had obviously been doing when the broadcast had come on, stitching a gash on his arm from where one of the Chechen’s dogs had bitten him.

Alfred took the needle from him, and said, “When you stitch yourself up you make a bloody mess.”

“But I learn about my mistakes.”

“You ought to be pretty knowledgeable by now, then.” Alfred busied himself with doctoring.

“The problem this time was my armor,” Bruce said. “I’m carrying too much weight. I need to be faster.”

“I’m sure Mr. Fox can oblige.” Alfred peered more closely at the wound. “Did you get mauled by a tiger?”

“A dog. A
big
dog.”

For a while, neither man spoke. Finally, Bruce said, “There were more copycats last night, Alfred. With guns.”

“Perhaps you could hire some of them and take weekends off.”

“This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted to inspire people. I would never resort to guns or to killing
anyone.
These gang members are making it dangerous, Alfred. Innocents could be killed by their antics, and
I
don’t want to shoulder the blame!”

“I know, Master Bruce. But things
are
improving. Look at the new district attorney.”

“I am. Closely. I need to know if he can be trusted.”

“Are you interested in his character . . . or his social circle?”

“Who Rachel spends her time with is her business.”

“Well, I trust you’re not following
me
on my day off.” Alfred held up a stack of surveillance photos he saw on a side table. They were of Rachel Dawes with Harvey Dent, and they had obviously been taken over the past several weeks, perhaps even months. “Are you sure about that?”

“If you ever took one, I might,” replied Bruce.

“Know your limits, Master Bruce.”

“Batman has no limits.”

“Well,
you
do.”

“I can’t afford to know them.”

“And what happens the day you find out?”

“We all know how much you like to say, ‘I told you so.’ ”

“That
day, Master Bruce, even I won’t want to. Probably.”

T
he weather that Monday morning in Gotham City was gorgeous. It seemed that winter had finally gone, and spring had arrived. At 9:30, District Attorney Harvey Dent was running up the steps to the courthouse and at 9:31 he burst into one of the chambers. The courtroom was filled with lawyers, spectators, uniformed policemen, and Salvatore Maroni, who was to be tried that day.

“Sorry I’m late,” Dent said to no one in particular as he sat at the prosecutor’s table next to Rachel Dawes.

“Where were you?” Rachel whispered.

“Worried you’d have to step up?” Dent grinned and opened his attaché case.

“I know the briefs backward.”

Dent’s grin widened and he pulled a silver dollar from a pocket. “Well then, fair’s fair. Heads, I’ll take it. Tails, he’s all yours.”

Dent flipped the coin in the air, caught it, slapped it on his wrist, then uncovered it and displayed it to Rachel.

“Heads,” Dent said. “You lose.”

“You’re flipping coins to see who leads?”

“My father’s lucky coin. As I recall, it got me my first date with you.”

“I’m serious, Harvey. You don’t leave things like this to chance.”

“I don’t.” Dent winked. “I make my own luck.”

From the defendant’s table across the aisle, Maroni said, “I thought the DA just played golf with the mayor, things like that.”

“Tee off’s one thirty. More than enough time to put you away for life, Sally.”

The bailiff told everyone to rise, and court was in session. The judge entered and took his place at the bench, banged his gavel, and told Dent to call his first witness.

“I call Wilmer Rossi,” Dent said.

Two uniformed guards brought in a thin man wearing a shabby suit. This was Wilmer Rossi. He sat in the witness box, was sworn in, and gazed at the approaching district attorney.

Dent leaned toward Rossi. “With Carmine Falcone in prison, someone must’ve stepped up to run the so-called ‘family,’ right?”

Rossi nodded.

“Is this man in the courtroom today?”

Again, Rossi nodded.

Dent turned his head to stare at Maroni. He was smiling. “Could you identify him for us, please?”

“You got me, Counselor,” Rossi said. “It was me.”

Dent turned back to Rossi, no longer smiling. “I’ve got a sworn statement from you that this man, Salvatore Maroni, is the new head of the Falcone crime family.”