Wayne of Gotham (22 page)

Thomas leaned back into the corner of the booth, the vinyl cushions crinkling slightly as he moved, trying to cling to his coat. He snapped the newspaper open to page one. He already had seen the headline and was dreading the article. He reached down, took a sip of his coffee, and forced himself to read.

A
POCALYPSE
M
URDERS IN
F
INANCIAL
D
ISTRICT

Three Bank Managers Killed for Alleged Mob Ties

GOTHAM CITY / VIRGINIA VALE / AP WIRE
: Managers of three banking institutions were found murdered in their offices last night in the latest in a series of assassinations by a gang of vigilantes styling themselves as “the Apocalypse.” The victims appear to have been targeted due to their alleged connections with the Rossetti, Moxon, and smaller Falcone mobs. Each died “through extraordinary means,” according to sources inside the investigation.

Dead are Marvin J. Collings, manager of the Gotham First Federal Savings, residing in Bristol; Jerome P. Montague, manager of the Bank of Gotham, residing in Coventry; and Lawrence N. Marconi, president of Bristol Bank, also residing in Bristol.

According to unnamed sources inside the police department, all three murders took place at approximately the same time: 11:11 p.m. Mr. Collings was found bound to his office chair, suffocated by a tightly rolled stack of one-hundred-dollar bills and other currency pressed into his mouth. Mr. Montague was discovered by Leonard Murphy, night watchman of the Bank of Gotham, with his throat cut. Mr. Marconi's headless body was discovered at his desk by the cleaning woman. A search for the head is currently in progress.

The police are pursuing several clues, including a report of a blond woman briefly seen fleeing the rooftop of the Bank of Gotham at that approximate time, and a tarot card found clutched in Mr. Montague's hand. No arrests have been made.

The three deaths are the latest in a series of high-profile murders of alleged criminals throughout the city. According to Police Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb, these murders are “increasing in frequency” and targeting subjects accused of less serious criminal offenses.

The first killings by the Apocalypse took place in April, when Joseph “The Irish” Donohough was discovered hanging upside down from the West Side Bridge. Since that time fifteen additional deaths have been investigated as being associated with the Apocalypse.

Concurrent with the vigilante action, and discounting the deaths attributed to the Apocalypse, the crime rate in Gotham has fallen by 69.5 percent. When asked whether the drop in crime could be attributed to the actions of the Apocalypse, Commissioner Loeb responded, “Where do these monsters stop? How will the public feel about them when they start killing jaywalkers
?”

The newspaper rustled slightly under Thomas's shaking hands.

I did this. I wanted to cure crime and now the cure is worse than the disease. Jarvis did his job well … perhaps too well. It's been months now since Richter died and no one has said a thing. Crime is dropping—and don't we cure cancer by killing it? And now Richter's virus is out there in the world—killing crime one life at a time. How can I live with that kind of cure
?

“Hey, Dr. Wayne!”

Thomas looked up, startled, from the newspaper.

Lew Moxon seemed not to notice, his broad face beaming beneath his bristle-cut dark hair. His bow tie was slightly crooked and his sports jacket fit him a little tightly. “Thanks for coming … crazy news in the papers, huh? Everybody in the family is sweating bullets. I can't tell these days whether my old man is spitting nails or just ready to piss himself.”

“Julius isn't taking all this Apocalypse nonsense seriously, is he?” Wayne said, pushing the newspaper down next to him in the booth.

“Serious?” Moxon chuckled and then leaned forward across the table. “I'll tell you how serious he is: last night between drinks he told me at this rate, my Koffee Klatch may be the
only
family business still running by the end of the year! Can you beat that? The old man's seeing red. He thinks Rossetti's behind it, but Rossetti's sweating in his socks just as bad and points the finger at that punk greaser Falcone, but Falcone hasn't got a clue either. They're gonna start doing the DA a favor pretty soon and start plugging each other if these Apocalypse clowns aren't put down.”

That was the plan, wasn't it? That's what Richter and I wanted for the city … wasn't it
?

“Sounds like a gang war,” Wayne spoke into his coffee, hoping it would make him appear calmer than he felt. “Do you think it's going to come to that?”

“Nah!” Moxon replied, leaning back comfortably in the booth. “My old man says one way or the other, he's going to put these clowns down permanently—but you didn't hear it from me. All that is good news for us both, Thomas.”

“Good news? How?”

“The families in this town have never been weaker! I make my break now, it makes sense to everybody and I don't get hurt. So, you got my financials and you know the place. How about it, Wayne? Can you and me be partners?”

Thomas looked at Moxon. “I'm going to help you, Lew, but you have to keep your nose clean.”

“No sweat, Dr. Wayne!”

“I mean it, Lew,” Wayne insisted. “You can't be involved in anything or I'll never be able to get approval from the board, you understand?”

“Absolutely, Wayne,” Moxon said, reaching across the table and nearly crushing Thomas's hand with his grip. “I'll be clean as the driven snow, just you wait and see! The only one around here lookin' at an Apocalypse is my old man, Julius!”

15247 Moldoff Avenue / Gotham / 9:44 p.m. / Present Day

“Look, Mal,” Bruce looked confused. “I'm in the dark here about what's going—”

“It was that old goon Salvatore who tipped you, wasn't it?” Mallory seethed. She snatched the wrapped book from the desk, clutching it with both hands. “That son of a bitch was there that night, and he decided he could tap you for a few grand, didn't he?”

Salvatore? Arnold Salvatore worked the Robbinsville and Eastside rackets under Julius in the '60s, but he was Moxon's muscle before his promotion. And just what night was Mallory talking about
?

“No, Mal, nobody tipped me.” Bruce stood up. “I just came here because I thought you might help an old friend. I'm up to my ass in federal alligators, and all you want to do is toss crocodiles at me.”

Mallory stared at him for a moment and then laughed, the stormy mask of her face softening back into the beautiful woman he remembered. “Well, no matter how it works out, it would be fun to watch. Sorry, Barabbas, it's an old wound and a deep one. I can't tell you anything about this Apocalypse and seriously, there's no way I'll let anyone bring that up in front of Father.”

Bruce nodded, setting down his drink. “That's all right, Mal. It was a long shot anyway.”

“I still think I can help with that SEC nuisance,” Mallory offered. “I own a guy or two down there who could probably make this go away.”

“Great,” Bruce answered, extending his hand. “Thanks, Mal.”

Mallory looked at Bruce's hand for a moment with a wry smile, shaking her head slightly before she reached forward and took it. “You're welcome, Barabbas.”

Bruce took his hand back. “Say, Malice, why did you start calling me Barabbas?”

“I didn't,” Mallory shrugged, her bangs falling over her eyes. She flipped her head out so that they fell out of the way, a move Bruce found familiar and comforting. “I used to call you all kinds of nicknames. Bwain, Wayno, Beeswax and, as I recall, one particularly difficult summer, Coxswain.”

“So where did Barabbas come from?” Bruce asked.

“That was Father,” Mallory said, stepping toward the door with the wrapped book held with studied casualness in her hand. “He used to call you that all the time.”

“All the time?”

“Well, no,” Mallory said from the door, appearing thoughtful. “I guess it was after your parents died. Look, I'm sorry, but I've got a lot to do today—do you mind?”

“Here's your hat and what's your hurry, eh?”

Mallory smiled again. “But it was good seeing you again, Bruce. I'm glad you haven't turned into the horror-show picture the papers keep printing of you.”

“Not yet, Malice,” Bruce chided, his hands in his pockets as he rocked slightly on his heels. “Go ahead, I'll just let myself out.”

She flashed her smile once more and was gone.

As the door closure clicked, Bruce turned at once to the phone on the desk, pulling a cloth out of his pocket. With an eye on the door, he picked up the receiver, waited a moment for the dial tone, and then punched the call-back button.

Someone answered on the fourth ring.

“Good evening, Wayne residence …”

Bruce stared at the phone for a moment.

“May I help you?”

Alfred's voice!

“Yes,” he said, “this is Bruce. I'm in the city.”

“Indeed, Master Bruce?” Alfred's voice was always affected calm, but Bruce thought he heard a strain in his words. “So you informed me earlier, sir.”

The caller ID! He knows where I am.

“Well, I'm going to be longer than I thought,” Bruce said casually. “I've found a lead here at Moxon's that is going to require some surveillance in lower Gotham. I won't be home until around one in the morning. Don't wait up for me.”

“As you wish, Master Bruce,” Alfred replied. “I shall leave the lights on for you.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said quietly. He hung up the phone and rushed from the room.

Utility Tunnel System / Gotham / 9:58 p.m. / Present Day

Barabbas. According to tradition he was the criminal who was set free so that Jesus would be crucified. Why would Julius Moxon insist on calling him by that name
?

Bruce moved quickly down through the access tunnel, pushed through the hidden panel in a tiled side wall, and entered the abandoned subway tunnel. His cross-trainers rustled the gravel between the old ties as he hurried toward the concealed maintenance siding where he had secured the Batmobile. His chest worked with the exertion of dragging air into his lungs. He had told Alfred he would not be home before one in the morning—but someone at Wayne Manor had made arrangements to meet Mallory about the book at ten that evening. Alfred had answered the callback, and now Bruce was determined to return to the Manor in time to join that little party. Alfred was certainly mixed up in this twisted business. It was not until this moment that Bruce considered it quite possible that Alfred was behind all of it. He knew it all—every Wayne secret—and had access to all of Batman's resources to pull it off.

Keep your friends close … and your enemies even closer.

Bruce's call had an unplanned-for benefit: it would force Alfred to act. Now, if he moved quickly enough, he could expose Alfred and get to the bottom of his father's past.

Bruce rounded the corner and stopped, astonished even as he instinctively ducked into the shadows.

A large group of traffic policemen were helping winch the Batmobile up onto a flatbed railcar attached to an electric service engine.

He was being
towed
?

Utility Tunnel System / Gotham / 10:04 p.m. / Present Day

Bruce considered his options as he stood with his back against the abandoned subway wall, hidden for the time being in the shadows behind a supporting arch. The vehicle looked intact and secure—there would have been a rather large crater under Gotham had the security somehow been breached—but the question remained in his mind how they had found it in the first place.

Bruce crouched down, carefully looking around the corner once more. The uniforms were definitely the light blue shirts with dark ties, caps, and slacks of Gotham traffic police, ornamented with shields and full-duty belts decked with extendable batons, cuffs, magazine holders, and gun holsters.

The authenticity, however, was spoiled by the latex clown masks each of them wore.

A wry smile crossed Bruce's face. He counted eighteen of them, which looked like a pleasant challenge …

Until he remembered his exomuscular Batsuit and all of its associated tools of his trade were inside the vehicle. He felt suddenly awkward, as though he had shown up to a formal dance wearing only his underwear. He was still Bruce Wayne … and what had been an asset was now a liability.

Voices from the ersatz police echoed down the siding toward him. It was impossible to distinguish one voice from another.

“What does he want done with it?”

“We're supposed to get it out of here before he comes back and take it down to Sixty-one.”

“What if we don't?”