The Dark Knight Rises: The Official Novelization (4 page)

“Maybe all you need to know,” Gordon said, “is that there are a thousand inmates in Blackgate Prison as a direct result of the Dent Act. These are violent criminals, essential cogs in the organized crime machine that terrorized Gotham for so long. Maybe for now all I should say about Harvey Dent’s death is this—it has not been for nothing.”

The crowd clapped enthusiastically—all except for the figure on the balcony, who silently turned away and disappeared into the upper reaches of the mansion. Watching him out of the corner of his eye, Gordon saw him vanish.

Can’t blame him,
Gordon thought.
I didn’t say anything worth hearing.

Feeling like a coward, he retreated from the dais. Doubts followed him, as they had every day for eight
long years. Had he done the right thing? Or had he simply chickened out?

He found Foley at the bar.

“The second shift reports in?” Gordon asked.

“On your desk,” Foley assured him. “But you should put in more time with the mayor.”

Gordon snorted.

“That’s your department.” Foley was better at working City Hall, and stroking the egos of politicians. Gordon preferred the nuts-and-bolts of old-fashioned police work.

With one last, rueful glance at the portrait on the dais, he decided he’d done his part for Harvey Dent Day this year. So he headed for the gravel driveway in front of the mansion, where a long row of spotless town cars waited for their powerful and/or affluent passengers. He couldn’t wait to get out of here.

This got harder every year.

Back at the bar, the congressman shook his head at Gordon’s abrupt departure. He couldn’t believe the dumb schmuck was actually abandoning this fancy spread to go back to work, especially now that the war against crime had already been won.

“Anyone shown him the crime stats?” he said.

Foley shrugged.

“He goes by his gut, and it’s been bothering him lately, whatever the numbers.”

“Must be popular with the wife,” Gilly cracked. His own ball-and-chain was conveniently home with a migraine.

“Not really,” Foley replied. “She took the kids and moved to Cleveland.”

“Well, he’ll have plenty of time for visits soon.” Gilly lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. He leaned in toward the younger man. “Mayor’s dumping him in the spring.”

“Really?” Foley was surprised by the revelation— or at least seemed to be. “He’s a hero.”

“War hero,” Gilly said. “This is peacetime.” He poked Foley in the chest. “Stay smart, the job’s yours.”

While he let Foley mull that over, Gilly glanced around the party. It was picking up, now that the speeches were finally over and done with. Unlike Gordon, he had better things to do than burn the midnight oil.

Say
, the congressman thought,
whatever happened to that cute piece of ass in the maid outfit?

She could still feel the congressman’s grabby fingers on her butt. Her ire rose at the memory.
He’s lucky I didn’t teach him a painful lesson in manners.

The mansion’s kitchen offered a temporary refuge from the demanding partygoers out on the lawn. A small army of waiters, caterers, and cooks were deployed throughout the spacious area, working
overtime to keep the guests lavishly fed and watered. Discarding her empty tray, she dived into the bustling activity, blending in with the rest of the wait staff. Nobody gave her a second look.

Forget the congressman for now,
she reminded herself.
Focus.

She overheard a small cluster of maids gossiping in the corner.

“They say he never leaves the east wing.”

“I heard he had an accident, that he’s disfigured.”

Another maid hurriedly signaled them to shut up. All chatter died as a distinguished older gentleman in a butler’s uniform entered the kitchen. His silvery hair complemented his gentle, careworn features.

Alfred Pennyworth,
she identified him.
The faithful family retainer.

“Mr. Till,” he said, addressing the chief caterer. A cultured British accent betrayed his roots. “Why are your people using the main stairs?”

Mr. Till murmured an apology that she didn’t bother to hear. Instead she watched carefully as Pennyworth placed a glass of fresh water on a tray beside an assortment of covered plates and dishes. The butler glanced around the kitchen.

“Where’s Mrs. Bolton?”

Briskly the maid stepped forward.

“She’s at the bar, sir,” she said. “Can I help?”

He sighed, as though not entirely happy with the situation, but handed her the tray and an
old-fashioned brass key.

“The east drawing room,” he instructed. “Unlock the door, place the tray on the table, lock the door again.” He paused for emphasis. “Nothing more.”

She nodded meekly, keeping her head down, and accepted the key.

Slipping out of the kitchen before anything could go awry, she made her way through the gigantic mansion toward the east wing. Austere white walls and heavy draperies gave the house a cold, unwelcoming feel. The hubbub of the party gradually died away as she left the celebration behind. She couldn’t help noticing the valuable antiques, tapestries, and paintings gracing the halls, as well as how hushed and lifeless the place seemed. Less like a home than a museum.

A large oak door barred the entrance to the wing. She tried the key, and the door swung open before her, revealing a richly appointed drawing room that was probably twice the size of her crummy apartment back in Old Town. Hand-turned mahogany furniture had begun life as trees in the Wayne plantations in Belize, she knew. Pricy china, vases, and other knick-knacks adorned the mantle of a large unlit fireplace. Despite its opulence, the room was dimly lit and quiet as a tomb.

Not exactly the Playboy Mansion,
she noted.
All this tired old money—just going to waste.

She glanced around, but didn’t see anybody, not even the famously reclusive master of the house. Placing the tray down on a polished walnut table, she
did
not
exit the chamber as instructed. Instead her eyes locked on an inner door at the other side of the room. It had conveniently been left ajar.

She grinned mischievously.

How perfect was that?

CHAPTER THREE

“I’m sorry, Miss Tate, but I’ve tried. He won’t see you.”

Alfred lingered in the hallway to converse with the stylish younger woman who had attempted to enlist his assistance. Miranda Tate—a member of the board of directors of Wayne Enterprises—was probably the most attractive business executive Alfred had encountered in his many decades of service. Lustrous dark hair framed a classically beautiful face. Striking gray-blue eyes shone with intelligence and determination.

“It’s important, Mr. Pennyworth,” she insisted. Her voice held a faint accent that, despite his extensive travels throughout Europe and elsewhere, he couldn’t quite place.

“Mr. Wayne is as determined to ignore important things as trivial ones,” he replied wryly.

A derisive chuckle interrupted their conversation. John Daggett strolled up to them, looking smug and obnoxious—as usual. The business tycoon, who had inherited a thriving construction company, boasted a head of sculpted brown hair that would put Donald Trump to shame. His bespoke suit could barely contain his self-importance.

“Don’t take it personally, Miranda,” he told her. “Everyone knows Wayne’s holed up in there with eight-inch fingernails, peeing into Mason jars.” Turning, he added belatedly, “Alfred…good of you to let me on the grounds.”

The butler did nothing to conceal his distaste. Daggett was the epitome of greed and vulgarity—quite unlike the Waynes, who had always used their wealth to better the world around them.

“The Dent Act is about Gotham,” Alfred replied evenly. “Even you, Mr. Daggett.” He bowed his head politely toward Miranda. “Miss Tate, always a pleasure.” He took his leave of them, but could not help overhearing their voices as they echoed down the hall. Alfred stopped some distance away and turned to look.

“Why waste your time,” Daggett asked Miranda, “trying to talk to the man who threw away your investment on some save-the-world vanity project?” His voice was thick with derision. “He can’t help you get your money back.

“But I can.”

She replied coolly.

“I could try explaining that a save-the-world project, vain or not, is worth investing in, whatever the return. I could try, Mr. Daggett, but you understand only money and the power you think it buys, so why waste my time, indeed.” She spun about and left him standing in the hall. Scowling, he watched her go.

Bravo, Miss Tate,
Alfred thought.
Bravo.

Bruce Wayne had grown up in Wayne Manor, at least in its original incarnation, so he barely noticed the drawing room’s sumptuous decor as he limped toward his dinner. The sole remaining heir to the Wayne fortune leaned heavily upon a single wooden cane, favoring his injured left leg.

His face was gaunt and drawn. Dark circles haunted his eyes. Traces of gray had infiltrated the dark hair at his temples. A rumpled silk dressing gown was draped over his slumped shoulders. His slippered feet padded noiselessly across the floor.

A tempting aroma rose from the dinner tray. Bruce lifted a lid, mildly curious to see what Alfred had come up with this evening, only to freeze in mid-motion. His gaze shifted from the tray to the open door leading to the sitting room. Was it just his imagination or was the door slightly more ajar than he had left it before?

Cool brown eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Interesting,
he thought.
What do we have here?

* * *

The sitting room was just as expensively furnished as the rest of the mansion. Despite the urgency of her mission, she couldn’t resist taking a moment to snoop around.

Careful,
she warned herself.
Don’t dawdle too long.

A set of framed photos, some noticeably singed around the edges, occupied a place of honor upon a table. She recognized Thomas and Martha Wayne, tragically murdered in an alley more than three decades ago. A third frame held a portrait of an attractive brunette who somehow managed to look serious, even when she was smiling for the camera.

Rachel Dawes,
realized the maid, who had done her homework.
Harvey Dent’s dead girlfriend. Killed by the Joker—or so they say—shortly before Dent was killed by the Batman.

The row of pictures was like a miniature cemetery, complete with headstones. The maid ran her fingers over the gilded frames before moving on to the most conspicuous oddity in the room—a full-sized archery target mounted to a large wooden cabinet. More than a dozen arrows were stuck in the target, clustered around the bulls-eye. Intrigued, she reached out to inspect one of them, only to yank her hand back as a new arrow
thwacked
into place, only inches from her fingers.

Startled, she spun around to see Bruce Wayne
himself, looking rather more haggard than the dashing billionaire playboy the world remembered. He stood at the other end of the room, clutching a large compound bow. She was impressed, despite herself.

She couldn’t remember the last time someone had snuck up on her.

Bruce lowered the bow. He put it aside and picked up his cane.

“I’m…I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Wayne,” the maid stammered sheepishly. She struck him as very young and embarrassed. “It is Mr. Wayne, isn’t it?”

He nodded and limped toward her.

“Although you don’t have any long nails,” she babbled nervously, “or facial scars…” Her voice trailed off.

Bruce inspected the inquisitive young intruder. He didn’t recognize her as one of the regular maids.
Must be a temp taken on for tonight’s festivities,
he figured.
Couldn’t resist snooping around.

“Is that what they say about me?” he asked. She shrugged.

“It’s just that…nobody ever sees you.”

That’s the idea,
he thought.

A flawless pearl necklace graced her slender neck. Bruce came closer.

“That’s a beautiful necklace,” he commented. “Reminds me of one that belonged to my mother. It
can’t be the same one, though. Her pearls are in this safe—”

A large mahogany bureau rested against a wall. He used his cane to press down on a recessed wooden panel, which slid aside to reveal a hidden compartment.

“—which the manufacturer assured me was uncrackable.”

The door of the safe swung open.

“Oops,” the maid said. “Nobody told
me
it was supposed to be uncrackable.”

Her whole attitude changed in an instant. She dropped the coy, girlish act and took on a cockier, more confident posture. It reminded him of the way he had once discarded the role of a careless, immature playboy, whenever it was time to let his true self out. He was impressed, despite himself.

Bruce nodded at the pearls.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you take those.” They had been a gift from his father, which his mother had worn on the night they were both murdered. In a very real sense, they had cost his parents their lives. He wasn’t about to let anyone walk away with them.