Wayne of Gotham

by Tracy Hickman

  Thomas frowned, wondering why the hell that should bother him.

  The tree tunnel ended at the edge of the manor’s lawn. Kane House stood as a monument to excessive Georgian architecture, so opulent it might have made Carnegie blush. It had two enormous wings extending from the main house, reaching forward like an American Versailles. He followed the curve of the road toward the courtyard for a while, but turned off short of the house, following instead the service road that went around the back. He parked short of the grand ballroom, which jutted out from the house like a cathedral, its tall, dark windows reflecting the rising sun. The enormous lawn at the back was shrouded in a thin layer of fog.

  Thomas switched off the car, hopped up to stand on the seat and, with both hands on the rims of the Plexiglas windows, front and back, swung his feet over the side and dropped to the ground. The gravel made a slight hissing sound as he landed his dismount.

  “And a four from the Russian judge,” he muttered to himself as he straightened up, checked his bow tie, and quickly stepped down the servants’ stairs to the door entering the basement. Thomas knocked emphatically with five quick taps and then waited. The distant sound of a meadowlark answered. A few quick additional knocks were answered by a shuffling sound beyond the door, the bang and squeal of a table followed by a muttered swearing. Thomas waited. The door opened slightly, stopping at the end of its lock chain.

  “Yes?”

  “Bertie, it’s me…Thomas.” His voice sounded loud in the stillness of the morning.

  “Master Wayne?” the voice seemed puzzled for a moment. “Again?”

  “I’m afraid so, Bertie,” Thomas confessed. “Shall I bring her in?”

  “Don’t you always?” Bertie replied. The door closed quickly and Thomas heard the lock slide free of its plate. The door opened wide to reveal the gaunt face and disheveled white hair of the aging retainer standing in his bathrobe, striped pajamas, and slippers, which he had put on the wrong feet in his haste. “Take her up to Mary’s room. She’s off taking care of her mother and no one will bother her there.”

  “Or see me,” Thomas added.

  The old butler chuckled. “The staff knows to keep their silence, but if Mr. Kane sees you coming out of Miss Martha’s bedroom, there’s not so much as that we can do for you. I suspect there are grounds enough about the house to hide a dead Wayne just as easily as a dead pauper.”

  “Cheerful as always,” Thomas said, shaking his head. He turned and dashed up the cement steps back to the car.

  Thomas opened the passenger door and half expected Martha to pour out of it, but she obligingly remained in the seat. He straightened her upright as best he could and then, bending over, set his shoulder against her stomach and shifted her arms and head down his back. He carefully leaned back, gaining his balance and was at last, with some struggle and the help of the car’s body for leverage, able to stand up with Martha draped in a fireman’s carry over his shoulder.

  He was keenly aware of her body touching his, the faint smell of perfume mixed with vomit coming from her sweater, and the placement of his arms across her thighs.

  Thomas drew in a deep breath and moved quickly around the car. He knew the way well enough. Down the servants’ entrance stairs, through the kitchen and servants’ rooms to the back, and then up the servants’ stairs to the fourth floor and the servants’ bedrooms. It was an arduous climb up a narrow winding staircase, and twice he had to stop to catch his breath before reaching the upper hall. The servants had not yet arisen for the day, although Thomas suspected the cook would arrive shortly. Fortunately, Mary’s room was nearest the staircase, and he quickly opened the door and, shifting Martha on his shoulder once more, entered the room.

  The bed was simple in the sparsely furnished room. Thomas crouched at the bedside and carefully rolled Martha off his shoulder and onto the bed, which squeaked slightly under her. He arranged her legs and arms more comfortably as she groaned slightly. He knelt next to the bed frame and brushed her hair away from her face.

  He considered undressing her.

  He stood up in a rush.

  “You’re a doctor, damn it,” he muttered to himself. He had seen naked bodies before, alive or otherwise. Male or female they all tended to look remarkably the same when they were lying on a table in the laboratory. Her clothing reeked, and it would have been a kindness for him to take them down to Bertie and have them washed before she came around and had to face both the hangover and her own stench. All these good rationalizations were firing in his mind but he could not move to touch her.

  He could not because he wanted so desperately to touch her, to experience the texture of her neck, the round firmness of her breast, the curve of her back, and the contour of her legs. He ached to gather her in his arms, clothed or otherwise, to feel her heart beating against his chest and know that neither of them rattling about in their enormous, empty lives was alone. He wanted her eyes to open—really open—and see him as though for the first time not as the awkward boy who fell silent and withdrawn before the senseless battering of an obsessed father but as a man who longed for an intimacy that had been denied him his entire life.

  Thomas gazed down on Martha as she stretched out before him on the bed, oblivious to him as a man, as she had been all along. How could she know that more than anything he wanted to be seen, to have his existence recognized—to matter—and to be the focus of a pair of languid, large brown eyes.

  He realized that here, in the silence of the morning, with the house asleep, he could touch her. She was barely an arm’s length from where he stood. He could reach down with both his hands, slip them beneath the cardigan, and find the warmth of her skin. He had been a pal to her, the boy next door whom you might let look, but never, ever touch you that way. No one would ever know…Not even Martha would remember, given how passed out she was from the drunken binge of the night before.

  A chill ran through Thomas.

  Martha would not know…She would not even see him.

  Thomas bolted from the room and down the stairs. He rushed past Bertie, who said something to him, but he could not hear the words for the ringing in his ears. He pushed out through the servants’ entrance door and bound up the steps two at a time. The door was stubborn to open and he managed with some frustration to get into the driver’s seat. He turned the car engine over with the ignition.

  It churned twice and then died.

  Thomas banged the wheel in a fury, pumped the accelerator twice to reset the choke and tried again.

  The engine groaned once…and then caught, roaring to life. The tires kicked up gravel as he wheeled the car around, roaring back around the house and down the tree-lined road back toward Breaker’s Point.

  By the time he reached the front of Wayne Manor, the tears were gone but his face was still flush. He got out, slamming the car door as Jarvis Pennyworth came out the front door.

  “Master Tom,” Jarvis said in a British accent that managed to convey both serenity and alarm at the same time. “We were concerned for you. I trust your evening went well, sir.”

  “I had a fine evening, Jarvis,” Thomas lied. “It is always a delight to be out in the company of Miss Martha Kane. Is my father home?”

  “No, sir, he left about an hour ago. Some pressing business downtown.”

  “Good,” Thomas rejoined, tugging his bow tie loose from its knot. “You know how he loves pressing business. This may be a record for him—I haven’t even been home a day and he’s uncovered some pressing business to keep him away.”

  “Yes, Master Tom,” Jarvis bowed slightly as Thomas passed toward the main doors of the mansion. “But he left instructions that you were to come to his office at eleven thirty, following your meeting with Dr. Horowitz at Gotham University Hospital.”

  “Horowitz?” Thomas stopped. “He’s the chief of staff. What does he want with an intern?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir,” Jarvis answered with diffidence.

  Thomas drew in a long, t
ired breath. “Okay, Jarvis. I’m going upstairs to try to excavate a clean, doctor-to-be from this wreck of a night on the town. Would you see that the car is put away? I’ll drive the Buick back to Gotham. Did my father say when I was supposed to meet with Dr. Horowitz?”

  “He said that he had arranged the appointment for you at ten o’clock this morning with Dr. Horowitz and that you were not to be late.”

  “Fine,” Thomas said, pulling off his tie. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, Master Thomas,” Jarvis continued. “Dr. Horowitz’s office called to confirm your appointment and said they wanted you to keep your afternoon calendar clear. Dr. Horowitz wants you to meet a gentleman by the name of Dr. Richter.”

  “Ernst Richter?” Thomas frowned in thought.

  “Yes, sir; I do believe that was the name the gentleman gave,” Jarvis said in his flat, British tones.

  Thomas pushed back the tails of his dinner jacket and jammed his hands into his tuxedo pants. “Richter is a research chemist working on special projects. He’s got a reputation as a screwball, but his work was being discussed in our graduate year. Something really out of this world about virus mutation, as I recall. I wonder why Horowitz wants me to meet him?”

  “Again, sir, I wouldn’t know.”

  * * *

  Wayne Manor / Bristol / 6:29 a.m. / Present Day

  “…was of course the first morning that we met at Gotham University Hospital. I had only met Denholm Sinclair the night before. How could I possibly have known that within three months of our…”

  Bruce Wayne sat at the table in the kitchen and turned the page over. He had reached the end of the pages found on the podium. Obviously, more were missing. He waited patiently, shuffling the sheets of paper again and again as the old pendulum clock ticked against the wall. It was nearly four o’clock.

  He is a creature of habit. He will be here.

  The door to the kitchen opened.

  “Alfred?”

  The old man was visibly startled, nearly dropping a bag of groceries.

  “You always cook on Sundays,” Bruce said from where he sat, still gazing at the yellowed papers in his hands without seeing them. “You could have dinner brought in from any restaurant in town and have hired and fired more cooks than I can remember—but you’ve always, always insisted on cooking my dinner on Sunday at four o’clock. I used to set my watch by it.”

  “Old habits are the hardest to break, Mr. Wayne.” Alfred stood in the doorway, looking at Bruce. “It was always a pleasure to cook for the Waynes.”

  “The Pennyworths have served in this house a long time,” Bruce nodded, still shuffling the dry, yellowed papers. “Haven’t they, Alfred?”

  “My grandfather was the first to serve this house, yes, sir,” Alfred replied, walking over to the counter and setting the bag down carefully.

  “But your father served my father, did he not?”

  Alfred was pulling fresh vegetables from the paper bag, his back to Bruce. “For a time, sir. He served the family from 1946 until I assumed his stewardship in 1967.”

  “So you were ten years old in 1957,” Bruce continued, shifting the papers front to back continually examining each page in turn. “Do you remember much about that time, Alfred? Do you remember my father?”

  Alfred stopped his work, putting both hands on the counter, his back still turned to Bruce. “He was a great man, Master Wayne.”

  “So now I’m back in short pants again, eh?” Bruce said without a smile. “Well, Alfred, tell me if you know anything about this Dr. Richter.”

  Bruce watched the elder man with a studied eye. Alfred did not move a muscle for a heartbeat and then spoke.

  “I don’t recall the name, sir,” Alfred said.

  “It’s right here,” Bruce said, his voice flat. “Correspondence between my father and this Dr. Richter. It seems to be about my father’s early life. I just thought that if I could find this Richter—”

  “He is dead, Master Bruce,” Alfred said abruptly. “I recall now that he did some work with your father, but he died when I was young. It was a long time ago, Master Bruce—and if I may suggest, there is nothing to be gained by looking into this.”

  “You think I should drop it?”

  “The past is the past—and we have troubles enough in our own time. Your father was upset at the passing of a friend, if memory serves me, and that was about all there was to it.”

  “Ah, that explains it,” Bruce said, folding up the papers and slipping them into the pocket of his jacket as he got up. “Thanks, Alfred.”

  “Sorry, but I just don’t recall much more than that,” Alfred said, turning with a smile.

  Bruce nodded and walked away, knowing they had both finished with a lie.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SINS OF THE FATHERS

  * * *

  Wayne Tower / Gotham / 10:49 p.m. / Present Day

  The shadow near the crest of Wayne Tower stood motionless astride the carved head of an eagle jutting out from the upper bulwarks of the dark structure stabbing into the night sky.

  The shadow watched over the city.

  The streets were broad threads of light far below, weaving the fabric of Gotham at night. The skyscrapers stood out with their illuminated windows—not nearly so many lit up as there were earlier in the evening, but enough to suggest the outlines of their towering, dark forms. The silhouetted figure had chosen the northern face for his perch, affording him an unobstructed view over the lesser buildings of the Diamond District and Robinson Park beyond. Each of the bridges crossing over the Finger River, linking the downtown districts with Midtown, were jammed with evening traffic. Some were moving north toward the theater and dining district near Burnley in Uptown, while the southbound traffic was most likely headed toward some of the more trendy dining in the renovated areas of the Financial District waterfront or in Chinatown. Many may simply be escaping the downtown environs of Gotham, searching out the different bridges leading out of the city proper. Beyond Robinson Park were the high-rise buildings of Coventry District, hiding from view the dark towers of Arkham Asylum.

  The city was filled with life tonight, busy and bustling beneath him, but for the Batman, this was his temple of peace, far more of a sanctuary than the Batcave or his reclusive home. Here, or atop a number of different vantage points he cherished above the city, he could rest his soul, watch over the city he treasured, and, in his vigilance, know that balance had, for the moment, been achieved. In every other place he felt himself in constant motion, anxious and restless. But here, holding perfectly still in the night with the city spread below his watchful gaze, he could stop and allow himself the luxury of contemplation and true rest.

  Here, he thought, was balance in watchfulness.

  But tonight the balance would not come.

  He let his eye wander over the city, and it came to rest for the first time in a long time beyond the shores of Gotham, upon the dark rolling hills of Bristol across the river and the dim glimmer of flickering light, obstructed by haze and distance, of the Wayne Estate.

  The papers he had recovered from the corpse of Dr. Moon—his father’s papers—and their words took him back more than a half century to the grand paneled office now six stories beneath his perch.

  * * *

  Wayne Tower / Gotham / 11:28 a.m. / October 5, 1957

  Thomas stood before the familiar burled wood paneling that decorated the enormous art deco doors. He reached up without thinking to adjust his tie yet again and then, realizing what he was doing, sighed in frustration, clasped his hands together behind his back, and tried consciously to slow down his shallow breaths.

  “Mr. Wayne will see you now, Thomas.”

  “Thank you, Liz,” Thomas said to the secretary behind the desk. She had been with his father for as long as he could remember, though he could not recall her last name. She wore her mouse-brown hair pulled back into a tight bun and wore an enormous set of horn-rimmed glasses. She always wore the same gray busin
ess suit in the office. Thomas had given up speculating just how many of this same outfit she must have in her closet. She was a virtuoso when it came to the enormous, complex intercom box sitting at the corner of her desk, and both her stenographic and typing skills were legendary. Still, he thought she might appreciate some human interaction. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  “Best not to keep him waiting,” she replied evenly.

  I guess not. Thomas shrugged, turned toward the twelve-foot-tall double doors and pulled the left one open. He knew his father always kept the right one closed with locking pins at the top and bottom. Visitors always chose the wrong door when entering. It was more than an amusement to his father, of course; it was another way of putting everyone else off balance.

  The office extended upward two stories, a vaulting space of art deco extravagance. A large globe sat on the floor in its frame beneath the built-in bookcase lining the right wall of the room, it opened into a bar the elder Wayne found convenient both for clients and for personal use. The books were an elegant selection, although so far as Thomas knew, his father had never once deigned to take one of them down from their perfectly organized shelves. The opposite wall featured a gallery of painting, an eclectic collection of original Matisses, Monets, and Renoirs that had been purchased more as an investment than for any appreciation of the art involved. At the far end, opposite the doors, an enormous cherrywood desk, highly polished, sat before a towering glass window rising up to the full height of the room. Two overstuffed, red-leather chairs sat facing the desk like stooped acolytes in prayer. The high-fidelity stereo system lay dormant. The only sound in the room was a chattering of ticker tape near the desk, behind which sat a swivel chair, its winged back facing Thomas.