Thomas reached down for his fork but thought better of it. His breakfast was ruined.
“His name is Sinclair. Denholm Sinclair.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE CURE
* * *
Copper Street / Gotham / 7:29 p.m. / Present Day
The shadow of the Bat moved down the hall, the figure casting it barely making a rustling sound as it moved.
The darkness of the corridor was broken only with dim patches of light cast through the frosted panes in the office doors on either side, a pale continuation of the streetlamps and the outside windows beyond.
But the Batman was blind…and could see everything. The subsonic imaging system gave him an awareness of his surroundings that was dimensional and complete. It was now combined with a starlight night-vision technology. It was newly installed and had a limited field compared to the subsonic imager, but at least it allowed him to read signs and printing when he turned his eyes toward them. The office doors slipped by in a ghostly green texture mapped onto the subsonic 3D imaging system in his cowl. The calibration was slightly off, but if he held still he could read the painted labels on the glass panels of each office door.
It’s not right…not yet. The next time will be better.
“Yoo-hoo!”
Batman froze at the sound echoing down the hallway. He held still, trying to determine the direction from which it came.
“Oh, help me, Mr. Batsy-watsy!” came the shrill, cackling voice. “It is such a tragedy. Hey, whatza matter? Ain’t you the kind to appreciate a good drama when you’re in one?”
“Harley Quinn,” Batman muttered to himself. He flexed in the Batsuit, engaging the exomusculature systems without conscious thought. The mere sound of this schizophrenic psychopath’s voice raised the hair on his arms. That she appeared completely unexpectedly was, oddly, to be expected given the entirely random nature of her shattered personality. She had been mentored by the Clown Prince of Crime himself. But everything that had happened in this investigation had been far too planned, too purposeful in meaning to have been the Joker. “What in the hell is she doing here?”
“You’re gonna be late, Batsy!” the nasal voice screeched.
The stairwell. She’s got the high ground. He moved quickly toward the open fire door but stopped short of passing through it. The door was not just propped open as he had supposed it to be; the hinges had been cut through completely and the door set leaning against the wall. He craned his head up, mapping the metal emergency stairs above him. There was an open well running up the center of the steel stairs climbing up the shaft. The space was large and, judging by its size, may once have housed a freight elevator. From the landing on which he stood, Batman could see down two floors into the basement, as well as up five more to the top of the stairwell.
“Didn’t ya get yer invitation, Bats?” Harley cooed from the darkness above. “You’re invited! You’re invited! You’re invited…”
The ground shook, rolling slightly beneath his feet. Batman felt the rush of hot air up the shaft before the gout of flame erupted into the stairwell, a roiling inferno rushing upward past him. He could hear the shattering of glass from the pressure all around the building, mixed with the deep thump of distant pyrotechnics igniting below.
“Boo-hoo!” The taunting voice echoed as it tumbled down the metal stairs. “Where we gonna find a hero, Mr. Bats-in-belfry? Oh, who shall save us? Hahahahaha!”
Batman snatched the grapnel gun from his Utility Belt, aiming for the lattice of steel beams at the top of the shaft. The pressure canister discharged at his touch, the grappling hook catching five stories overhead.
He could feel the heat rising behind him. It was overwhelming the starlight night vision. Batman opened his eyes. The hall was already awash with flames, spreading across the floor toward him in hungry sheets wanting to consume him.
“You’re invited”…Harley knows.
At once, Batman looped the monofilament around the spool, connected the wrist hook of the Batsuit to the device, and triggered the speed winch. The exomusculature of the Batsuit stiffened, supporting his frame as it accelerated him upward along the center axis of the shaft. The dark metal stairs, lit from below by the flames, rushed past him as he rose.
Movement caught Batman’s vision on the fourth-floor landing to one side of the shaft just above him. He kicked against the stairs, swinging back in the shaft even as he continued to rise. He toggled the winch once more, arresting its whining spin just as he reached the apex of his backward motion.
The shape of a woman stood on the landing, her hands on the railing as she laughed maniacally.
It was Harley Quinn…and yet, it wasn’t.
Batman took it all in at once. There were the familiar vestiges of Harleen Frances Quinzel, the intern psychologist at Arkham Asylum who had sought to cure the Joker and had been drawn into his madness instead. It was the same lithe, athletic shape. The large mouth and generous lips were still framed by the white clown makeup, as were her hazel eyes. The hideous voice was unmistakable, and the psychotic teasing that had become her trademark.
But she had eschewed her usual jester’s jumpsuit and harlequin hat. Instead she wore a dark green, double-breasted great coat with dark stains around the collar and shoulder epaulets. Her hair, normally bleach blonde, had been hastily dyed black and fell down around her shoulders loosely rather than in the tight ponytails she had always worn before.
“Save me! Save me! Save me!” Harley chattered as she ducked back off the landing through the doorway and into the darkness beyond.
Batman pushed against the stairwell behind him, swung across the fire rising up the shaft below and released the hook. He rolled across the landing, rising to a stance just inside the doorway.
The distant sound of sirens penetrated the growing rumble of the fire below. The Gotham City Fire Department was responding to the blaze, but given the speed at which it was growing, Batman knew the building would be a loss before they got it under control. The snap and cracking sound of the supporting timbers beneath him was growing more frequent by the moment. Even though the corridor in front of him appeared sound and intact through the growing haze of smoke, Batman knew that it was an illusion; everything under their feet was being eaten away by the flames. The warehousing of the paper goods was in the basement and, no doubt, was adding to the heat growing under his feet.
Batman could feel the sweat start to build around his head under the cowling. Heat dissipation in the exomuscular Batsuit was a problem in the best of times, but in the middle of a fire the problem was worse. The cape billowed behind him in the rising wind generated by the fire raging beneath them.
He was running out of time.
He moved quickly down the hallway. The floor under his boots was already getting soft, bouncing under his footfalls. Light was coming from a single door at the end of the corridor. It had to be Harley, leading him on, taunting him.
He reached the door. The lettering on the now-cracked glass originally read “Conference B,” but someone had hastily painted over it.
It now read “Deef Orfans Ward.”
Batman pulled the door open with such force that it tore free of the hinges. He launched upward, gripping the overhead girders as he prepared to take on the trap that had been so lavishly laid for him.
He stopped, dropping carefully to stand on the floor.
The flickering light of the building’s fire came through the windows of the long room, reflected off the buildings on the opposite side of the street. The orange light illuminated two rows of infant cribs, eight on each side, set on the right-and left-hand sides of the room.
At the end of the rows of cribs stood Harley Quinn in her stained great coat, her hands outstretched toward him. Tears ran down her cheeks, streaking the white makeup.
“Please, Tommy,” Harley begged. “Save the children! Save the children!”
Batman stepped quickly over to the first crib on his right, reaching down toward
the form under the blanket. It was still, hard, cold. He pulled the blanket away.
A Scarface ventriloquist’s dummy stared back at him, its features shifting with the hellish light from the windows. Between its stiff fingers it held an invitation card.
“Can you save them, Tommy?” Harley giggled. “Are you gonna save all your children, huh, Tommy?”
Batman moved to the next crib…and the next…
Each held an identical Scarface dummy staring back up at him from the crib, each with an invitation in its wooden hand.
A sudden loud crack rang through the hall. A section of the floor near the door had collapsed, the flame rushing upward in a whirlwind, spreading across the ceiling.
Batman ran over to Harley Quinn, grabbing her roughly, pinning her arms behind her. He roared at her, teetering on the edge of control. “Why are you calling me that?”
“Calling you what, Tommy?” Harley grinned. “I’m gonna call you Tommy because that’s your name, and you can call me Adele.”
“Adele?” Batman blinked. “Who the hell is Adele?”
“Me, you batty-bat-bat!” Harley said. “I am Adele, and I’m here to help you clean up my mess! But then you have to die…we all have to die, don’t we?”
Batman grabbed one of the Scarface dummies and used it to smash open the far window. The building on the opposite side of the alley would have to do. If the grapnel would stick he could get them both clear before the building collapsed beneath them.
“Let’s go…Adele,” Batman said, gathering Harley to him, feeling the Batsuit compensate for the weight. There was a time when he might have managed it on his own, but that was long past.
“Where we going, Tommy?”
“You’re going back to Arkham Asylum,” Batman said, rigging the grapnel once more. Through the windows behind him he could see the ladders rising up from the GCFD. Soon their hoses would be pouring water down onto and through the faltering roof. Between the hoses and the fire would not be a good place to be.
“Arkham? Ah, you’re such a gentleman, taking me home,” Harley laughed. “And such a prude! It’s still early, Tommy.”
* * *
Arkham Asylum / Gotham / 3:05 p.m. / February 16, 1958
“Dr. Wayne, this is entirely improper,” Richter said, running his hand once again back through his hair as he spoke. “There are protocols which must be followed. Our research will be of no use to anyone if it cannot be verified.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that, Dr. Richter,” Thomas replied, standing in Richter’s office, both of his fists resting on the desktop. “But you said yourself the genetic memory keys had performed well above the statistical curve, and that was the last step before submitting for clinical trials.”
“We’ve never put the entire sequence together before,” Richter countered, gesturing with his hands for emphasis, the desk lamps casing the lines in his face in stark relief. “The individual elements, yes, they all appear to be yielding the desired results, but in combination—”
“And what about the initial results from the test subjects you already have?” Thomas asked, picking up the clipboard off the top of a stack of papers scattered across the desk. “Look here…Michael Smalls, a professional contract killer before shooting up half the Tricorner Yards. Your memory replacement therapy has worked in him. These two women—Caprice Atropos and Adele Lafontaine—they’ve shown no side effects to the benign viral carrier and have both responded to the genetic memory triggers you engineered. You’ve managed to collect memories using the viral trace therapies from both of them, and with a degree of accuracy neither of us expected. The base motivations are much broader in their chemical base and easier to locate than specific memories, you’ve proved that. All that’s left is to attach the chemical memory to the genetic keys in the benign virus and the entire system is complete. In a single inoculation we can turn crime against itself…and rid the world of bullies, thugs, and anyone who wants to extend their domination over another human being.”
“Yes, the protocols appear sound,” Richter argued. “We can replace the basic motivations of these criminals, but with what? Whose ethics do we choose?”
Thomas thought for a moment before he spoke.
“With mine.”
“Yours?” Richter said, surprised.
“Elysian is our dream, Doctor,” Thomas said. “It’s time to make it a reality. We have the means, quite literally, to cure crime. All we need is the will to make it happen.”
Richter looked away.
“Ernst,” Thomas said quietly.
Richter turned back to face him.
“We both have things in our past we want to correct,” Thomas said. “We can be healed, too.”
Richter cast his eyes downward but nodded.
“I’ve got to get back to the hospital,” Thomas said. “Call me there when you’re ready for me. I’ll just go check on everyone before I go.”
Thomas turned and stepped through the office door. The laboratory space had to be combined with the operatory, and though it was packed with equipment, there was sufficient room for what they needed. Thomas turned toward the rotunda in the back, where the cells were located.
Thomas started with the right-hand cell, looking through the four-inch square opening in the metal door. Caprice Atropos practiced yoga next to her cot, holding the lotus position perfectly still. Her flaxen hair lay across her face. She had been a sociopathic cat burglar for the Moxon mob until she decided it was more fun to kill the victims in unique ways during her thefts.
The next cell brought Michael “The Scythe” Smalls into view. The Butcher of Tricorner was a tall, wiry man with hollow cheeks. He had been a vicious hitman for the Rossetti mob who especially delighted in inflicting torturous pain on his victims before allowing them to die. He lay sleeping on his bunk—more evidence of improvement since he had not slept at all so far as anyone could determine for the prior eight months of his confinement in Arkham.
Third was Adele “Chanteuse” Lafontaine. She stood leaning with her back against the wall, reading a copy of Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Her long black hair flowed down over the double-breasted, olive-green greatcoat she had worn since her arrest and had fought violently for whenever she was parted from it. She turned her head toward the door and, seeing Dr. Wayne, smiled faintly and waved. She had been a singer once, Thomas recalled, whose husband had served in Korea. She had caught him with another woman, and the result had been two dead and a broken psyche. Eight husbands later she was known as the Black Widow of Robinson Park. The coat, it was rumored, had belonged to her first husband.
At last, Thomas came to the last cell.
“Thomas!” Denholm said, rushing to the door, his face pressed against the small opening. “Thank heaven you’re here! You’ve got to get me out of here.”
Thomas took in a shuddering breath. “But I worked so hard to get you in here, Denny.”
Denholm blinked at this, as though the words would not register in his mind.
“I know what you’ve done, Denholm,” Thomas continued. “The embezzlement, the lies, taking Martha for a ride—”
“No! No, Thomas, you’ve got it all wrong,” Denholm said quickly. “I had no choice! What chance has a guy like me got? The whole game’s rigged…so, I tried to rig a few things myself…but it just got outta hand.”
“Out of hand?” Thomas said. “Denny, seventeen children died from the fire that you set.”
“That wasn’t supposed to happen!” Denholm whined. “I pulled the alarm…Me!…I thought there was plenty of time for them to get out. Celia said there would be plenty of time. How was I supposed to know there were deaf kids on that floor?”
“And what about Martha?” Thomas said quietly.
“Martha?” Denholm said, unsure.
“You remember Martha, don’t you?”
“Oh, sure, she’s a swell kid but what does she have to do with—”
“Denholm, you’re not worth the gum
on the bottom of her shoes,” Thomas said, anger rising inside him at last. “I’ve known her since she was six years old, would have done anything for her if she had bothered to ask me. But now she wants you and some fantasy of who she thinks you are. She came to me this morning. ‘Fix it,’ she said. She asked me to fix it for you. It’s one of the few things she’s ever asked me for in all our lives. So I’m going to fix it for her, Denholm…and you’re going to fix it for her, too.”
“Great!” Denholm smiled uncertainly. “What? What do you mean?”
“You’re not the man she thinks you are,” Thomas said heavily. “But by the time you leave here, you will be.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SHORT LEASH ON LIFE
* * *
Utility Tunnel 57D / Gotham / 8:12 p.m. / Present Day
“You’re going the wrong way, Tommy!”
Harley’s whining voice echoed down the stained bricks that formed the archway of the old cellar corridor, with a maze of branching corridors leading off on either side. The Arkham sewer had been more recently encased in a large pipeline that ran down the side of the center trench of the old hall, while utility conduits as well as a number of more hastily installed cables ran down the side walls. People rarely came down here alone; it was too easy to get lost in the branching corridors. However, it was the quickest route up from the abandoned underground staging area for the old 1988 Gotham Subway Expansion Project, where he had just left the Batmobile recharging from the main power lines. The area afforded quick access to his forgotten cellar hall, and through it, to the more populated regions of Arkham above, where Gordon said he would be waiting for them both.
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