“What address?”
“Please, I just want to—”
“What address?”
“Fifteen-two-forty-seven Moldoff Avenue,” Doppel blurted out.
Batman stood up slowly, raising the nurse up as he did, bringing her to her feet. “How did you know about this place?”
“I didn’t,” Doppel replied, trying to get her balance amid the broken equipment strewn over the floor. “Amanda told me where the outside doors were located and how to get through them. I worked for years in this facility and never knew this was down here. Look, I’m just trying to find a woman. Her name is Amanda Richter, she’s a severely disturbed individual, and I think she’s being manipulated into doing things against her will. You’re apparently the Caped Crusader all the news channels rave about. What are you going to do about this?”
“I’m going to do what I must,” Batman replied with a wicked grin. “And you are going to deliver this book.”
* * *
Utility Tunnel 57D / Gotham / 9:17 p.m. / Present Day
Batman climbed into the pilot’s seat of the Batmobile and powered up the vehicle.
Amanda Richter, he thought. There are no coincidences.
He pulled out the envelope and letter he had recovered and bagged earlier. There would be chemical testing on it later, but for now the contents were what interested him. He switched on a map light overhead—which he never used for maps—and pulled out the letter.
Batman paused.
My father was a saint. My father was the perfect man.
He wondered if any of it could be true. His father using the wealth and power of Wayne Enterprises to finance eugenics research…the idea was beyond belief. His father was…his father was…
It was not until this moment that Bruce Wayne realized he really knew nothing of his father beyond the belief that he was a noble and good man who had died senselessly in the arms of his son. Thomas and Martha Wayne had always been marble statues, the ideal of perfection, and the paragon of all virtues. Yet now he was being confronted by the stark reality of their past, which, in that moment, he was loath to know.
Batman opened the pages. He scanned over the sections he had read so quickly in the laboratory—his father’s discovery of Richter in the lab and his calling in Jarvis to help.
Something caught his eye.
… just keep quiet. I did not know what else to do except follow Jarvis’s advice. There was an item the next day in the Gotham Gazette about Dr. Richter’s death—short and below the fold—describing how he had died as the result of an accident in the secure wing of Arkham Asylum, but nothing else. I was left alone to carry the guilty knowledge that he had died as a result of our behavioral modification studies.
And it was with terrible irony that our work began to bear fruit. The four subjects of our experiments had escaped into the city, and soon the papers were filled with reports of criminals and underworld mobsters being suddenly dealt with in ways that had the criminal elements in the city afraid for the first time in a long while. I began to have hope that the terrible sacrifice of Dr. Richter might actually achieve the dream of a crime-free Gotham that we had labored with such diligence to create.
The papers and television began calling our four escaped subjects “the Apocalypse”—a reference perhaps to the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. I believe they took this appellation from the criminals who had been confronted by them in the streets…
Batman spoke out loud. “Kronos: new search. Circa 1958, Gotham, Apocalypse.”
The display opened to his right in midair. Much to his dismay, the first item coming up was from Wikipedia. He touched it with his gloved finger, and the page opened.
Apocalypse, The
This article is about Gotham history. For specific Apocalypses, see Apocalypse (disambiguation).
The Apocalypse were four vigilantes who waged a war on criminal and mafia groups in Gotham City beginning in mid-1958 through winter of 1968. Initially heralded as heroes by both the public and the press, they soon proved themselves violent and extreme in punishments, and unstable in their narrow interpretation of what constituted a crime.
Primary Participants
There were four members of the Apocalypse, known by four sensational names given to them by the popular press. They had notorious criminal backgrounds and used their knowledge of crime against their targets during their vigilante spree. Their actual identities were not initially known, but they were subsequently identified:
• FATE: Caprice Atropos, formerly a cat burglar and murderess with alleged ties to the Moxon crime family. Fate was recognizable by her slender build and long, light blond hair. She wore a black mask and a black knit body suit with fitted black gloves and special-soled, black suede boots. The only two victims who escaped death at her hands reported that they only saw her hair as she attacked. She often traversed rooftops and scaled walls, and could circumvent any lock in her pursuit of her victims. She largely pursued criminals engaged in extortion, bribery, and theft.
• REAPER: Michael “The Scythe” Smalls had been a professional contract killer for the Rossetti mob. Reaper was a tall man with a narrow build that belied his unusual strength and agility. Like Fate, he was known for stalking his victims and was always seen wearing black—in his case, a dark, hooded cloak. His weapons of choice were all blade-edged weapons—including scythes—and dismemberment was a signature of his attacks. Several reports claimed he flew down on his victims like a bird of prey (needs citation). He often targeted bullies, murderers, hitmen, and authority figures.
• CHANTEUSE: Adele Lafontaine, known formerly as the Black Widow of Robinson Park, was the most subtle member of the Apocalypse. She had long, raven-black hair and, regardless of whatever else she wore, was always seen in a military green wool greatcoat. The sole surviving victim of one of her attacks claimed he heard the pleading voice of his sister calling for his help just before Chanteuse attempted to cut his throat. Many others who found themselves in her vicinity reported having heard voices of recognized associates calling to them, and having felt compelled to respond. Her victims were primarily pedophiles, prostitutes, and drug traffickers, although she later expanded to include banking executives, stockbrokers, lawyers, and judges.
• DISCIPLE: Denholm Sinclair, an embezzler implicated in the Kane Orphanage Fire. While pictures of Sinclair abound prior to his initial arrest, afterward, no consistent description was given by any surviving victims or witnesses. All accounts agreed he had tremendous physical strength and fanatical determination in pursuit of his prey. Many reports claimed he wore disguises so as to strike his victims from close range while they were unaware. Disciple was noted not only for killing his victims, but also for doing so in such a manner as to humiliate them in death. His primary targets appeared to be mobsters, racketeers, and city officials he deemed “corrupt.”
All four had been committed to Arkham Asylum prior to their escape and subsequent coordinated efforts. While rumors have persisted of additional members belonging to this group, no substantial evidence has been offered to confirm any additional individuals associated with these four.
History
While the newspapers did not apply the moniker “The Apocalypse” until Sunday, May 18, 1958 (Gotham Gazette), the first incident involving the Apocalypse has been traced to Saturday, April 5, 1958, when Mr. Joseph “The Irish” Donohough was discovered dead, hanging upside down from the West Side Bridge with the word “mob fixer” pinned to the back of his shirt. Donohough was a known associate of the Julius Moxon mob at the time. The following Tuesday, the 8th, three Rossetti gangsters—James “Jimmie” Noonan, Maurice “Mort” Arbuckle, and Percival “The Purse” Vernandez—were pulled out of the Gotham River in a car belonging to mobster Cezar Rossetti, each with the word “thug” carved into his forehead. The following day, Anthony “Tony” Falcone, a nephew of Brutus Falcone who had tried to bring his operation into Gotham from Chicago earlier that spring, was found hung from a lamp
post on Moench Row with the word “racketeer” pinned to his chest…
Batman stared at the display for a moment, the engine of the Batmobile thrumming behind him.
“Kronos: correlate police records circa 1958 and Apocalypse to police records this month.”
There was a momentary pause before the cascade of data began.
“Damn,” Batman muttered to himself. “We’re being haunted.”
Every Apocalypse incident from 1958 was being reenacted throughout Gotham in the present.
“Kronos: autonav fifteen-two-forty-seven Moldoff Avenue,” Batman spoke to the interface.
“Destination set,” came the voice response. The three-dimensional map of Gotham erupted in a colorful display floating before him, the surface streets appearing closer than the subsurface routes he would be taking. “Confirm?”
Batman knew the destination well. He had known the address the moment Nurse Doppel had uttered it.
“Confirmed. Move out.”
The vehicle moved from its hidden cove and began its headlong rush beneath the streets of Gotham, southward beneath the Schwartz Bypass and under the streets of Coventry. The East Side District would soon follow.
Amanda had asked her nurse to deliver the incriminating book to a house Bruce Wayne had often visited as a boy. His mother had brought him to play with the little girl who lived here. That girl had grown into the last woman he now expected ever to see again.
It was the home address of Mallory Moxon and her crippled father, Lewis.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MOXON
* * *
15247 Moldoff Avenue / Gotham / 9:36 p.m. / Present Day
Watching Ellen Doppel from the stairwell of the corner brownstone townhouse as she walked down the darkened street, Bruce Wayne again considered his options.
Moldoff Avenue was in a quiet, upscale area called the Upper East Side. Some of the trees lining the wide street were almost a hundred years old. Where they were lit by the streetlamps, each was ablaze in autumnal colors with leaves that, given the cleanliness of the street, one might believe dared not fall to the ground. An earlier rain had left the asphalt shining. There were very few cars parked on the street itself, and those few that came rarely stayed for long. It was a quiet and peaceful night.
No doubt, Bruce acknowledged to himself, because Mallory Moxon had decreed it would be so.
The Moxon muscle enforcing this peace was subtle but all too evident to Wayne’s trained eye, even in the darkness. There were three broad-shouldered men chatting near the entrance of 15247—two polos and a turtleneck, all of which were covered with loose windbreakers that barely warranted the concealed weapons permits each had been issued. Two more goons lounged across the street—one on the wide stone steps to a townhouse and the other leaning not too heavily against one of the trees. There were more at the far end of the block, and a pair so close to Bruce he could hear them chatting about the Knights game last night, how Bounous had ended the eighth inning by trying to extend a single into a double and how Rising’s pitching nowhere near justified his salary.
Look up. Always look up.
There were more of them poking their heads above or leaning over the low crenellation running along the top fifth stories of the townhouses. They were trying hard not to disturb the illusion of tranquility below them, but to Bruce the atmosphere was charged with the feeling of a sleeping hornet’s nest.
I love kicking over the nest. I’m the exterminator.
Bruce drew in a long, silent breath. Under other circumstances, wrapped in his cowl and cape, he would have enjoyed taking this street on, sweeping the thugs into the gutter and off the rooftops until the apparent tranquility had been made real. But as he had approached the East Side sanctuary and secured the Batmobile in its hidden cove, he realized fists and fear would not get him what he wanted tonight.
What was needed was Bruce Wayne.
He waited in stillness as Nurse Doppel walked stiffly down the street, the bound book gripped tightly to her chest. He would have to wait until Doppel left before he could move—it would not do to have Mr. Grayson appear unexpectedly, especially for what he had in mind.
As he knew they would, turtleneck and the two polo boys watched her carefully as she climbed the steps to the front door. She pushed the buzzer and then spoke something into the intercom. Doppel stood waiting on the stoop for less than a minute before the door opened.
They had not met in person in more than two decades, but Bruce still knew the shape of the face and the set of her eyes. Even cut short, there was no mistaking the rust-red hair or her strong shoulders.
Mallory Moxon had answered the door.
Bruce watched as Mallory took the book from Nurse Doppel. They exchanged a few words on the porch, with the nurse looking more panicked by the moment. Bruce could see the three muscle men at the curb standing a little taller as they watched, their hands reaching automatically inside their jackets. However, in a moment, Mallory nodded and closed the door, leaving Nurse Doppel to walk back down the steps with her shoulders slumped forward—and without the book.
Bruce waited until Doppel turned the corner and then gave one last check of the position of the guards, making sure his appearance on the street would not startle any of them. When he was satisfied, he stepped up out of the stairwell and onto the sidewalk. It was getting chill in the evening, and he almost wished he had the Batsuit on just for the warmth.
It’s not just the chill. He smiled to himself.
He was completely aware of the turtleneck and his two pals as he passed them and mounted the stairs, but he studiously gave no indication of even acknowledging their existence. He stepped up and pushed the buzzer on the intercom.
“Who is it?” came the gruff, baritone voice through the tinny speaker.
Definitely not Mallory’s voice.
“Barabbas,” Bruce said. “Tell Mallory Barabbas wants to see her.”
More than a minute passed. Bruce was aware of the three men moving listlessly behind him near the curb but stood still on the stone stairs facing the closed door.
Steel core and frame. Mallory’s living in a safe.
The intercom cracked. “Who is this?”
The sound and tone still takes me back. It might have worked…It could never have worked…
“Come on, Malice, it’s Barabbas. It’s cold out here, and I need to come in.”
The thugs at the bottom of the steps behind him moved back, relaxing slightly. Bruce heard the electric buzz as several security bolts slammed back at the same time.
Getting in is easy…It’s getting out that’s going to be hard.
Bruce grabbed the handle and swung the heavy door open.
“It’s been too long, Mallory,” Bruce said, settling back into the overstuffed leather chair. It was uncomfortable, and he felt as though he were going to slide out of it at any moment.
The library was on the second floor of the residence. The dark wood paneling between the towering bookcases extended upward into a surrounding balcony on the third floor. Several oxblood leather chairs and a matching couch were set about the room, with a large desk at one end. The desk was a heavy hardwood, stained to complement the paneling. The kickboard panel on the front of the desk featured a carved relief of the head of Janus—a man whose twin faces looked both to the past and the future. It had a definite “manly” feel to its construction and had probably been her father’s at some point in the past. The desk’s surface was cluttered with papers, but Bruce could easily make out the book Ellen Doppel had just dropped off sitting in a cleared space in the center.
“It’s been fifteen years too long, but who’s counting,” Mallory replied from where she sat on the edge of the desk, her arms folded across her chest. She wore jeans and a scoop-neck sweater that fell slightly off her left shoulder. Her feet were bare and her short hair had been quickly brushed out. There was a hint of makeup about her eyes, above her prominent cheekbones, and a touch of rouge on her poutin
g lips. She slipped down from the desk to stand in front of it. “Can I get you a drink? Scotch and soda, I think, was always your first choice.”
She casually pushed the wrapped book behind her, out of sight.
“No, thank you, Mal,” he replied. “That’s not why I’ve come.”
“Indeed?” Mallory leaned back against the desk, a smile playing on her lips. “Don’t tell me that Gotham’s most reclusive son has come to pick up where we left off.”
“Mallory, please,” Bruce continued. “I need your help with something.”
“Really?” Mallory snorted in derision. “For that you can go help yourself…or I’m sure that butler of yours would be happy to call any of a number of services.”
“Not that kind of help.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve got trouble with the SEC.” It was a story, a tale full of just enough truth to make it palatable. The question for Bruce was whether the book he had just seen delivered was enough to make her believe his lie. “After the subprime scandal, they’re smelling blood in the water. They’re even saying they may go after us under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act.”
Mallory genuinely smiled at that with the same radiance he remembered being so winning when they had met years before. “RICO? Now that’s ironic, Bruce. Even you have to admit that’s funny.”
“They’re serious, Mal,” Bruce asserted with as much authority as he could muster. “It could force a breakup. It could mean the end of Wayne Enterprises worldwide.”
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