Wayne of Gotham

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Wayne of Gotham Page 19

by Tracy Hickman


  The entire subway system had become a deadly gauntlet.

  It’s time for this mouse to leave the maze.

  He roared past the University Station up the Coventry line only to find yet another pair of subway cars—both packed with clown police—converging with the northbound rail and falling in behind him once again.

  The old subway train rushed up behind him. The clowns’ small-arms fire pinged off the walls and the reactive armor of the vehicle shell.

  Bruce swung the car off of the main Coventry line and into an abandoned tunnel. Just behind him, the points of the rail line suddenly shifted, and the pursuing railcars careened into the abandoned tunnel after him.

  He’s got me. Joker knows I’ve gone down a dead-end spur, and he’s sure he’s won.

  The fuel gauges were hovering just above empty and the power reserves had dwindled to eight percent. When they went, the armor would be ineffective and everything could come apart.

  Ahead of him he could see the barricade at the end of the line. Beyond that, the tunnel ended in an opening beneath the Westside Bridge.

  “Kronos: surface,” Bruce said, his voice weary.

  The train was nearly on him, the RPGs, no doubt, at the ready.

  Near the end of the track, a pair of steel ramps dropped down onto the tracks. The Batmobile roared up the ramp on its wheels just before it cleared the end-of-line barricade.

  The careening subway train full of clown police did not.

  Driving beneath the Westside Bridge, Bruce closed his eyes.

  Joker had tried to stop him. Bruce wondered if something far more sinister awaited him at home.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  NO LONGER REQUIRED

  * * *

  Wayne Manor / Bristol / 11:40 p.m. / Present Day

  The servants’ entrance door rattled slightly from the key working the deadbolt.

  He always complained about it but never got around to fixing it.

  The deadbolt gave way and the door handle toggled the latch. The old man’s silhouette was framed in the panes fitted into the upper panel of the door, obscured by the Wayne Family crest etched in the frosted glass.

  I’ve waited in the dark. I’ve been in the dark so long…

  The door swung wide. The silhouette was clear now; stark and sharp against the brightly lit stoop. The outline of the overcoat and the slight gleam off the hatless, balding pate were both so familiar to him. There was something small and rectangular clutched in his left hand as he entered the dark space of the servants’ hall, closing the door behind him. The balding man reached for the light switch…

  But the lights came on before he could reach the toggle.

  “A little early Christmas shopping, Alfred?” Bruce said quietly from the adjoining servants’ dining area. He was still dressed in the faux police uniform, his shoes crossed atop the edge of the long table as he leaned back in the chair. His hand slowly withdrew from the light switch on the wall behind him as he eyed his manservant with detachment.

  Alfred Pennyworth caught his breath, startled for the moment but recovering quickly. He crossed his hands behind him, taking a parade rest stance that allowed him to hide the package in his hand from site. “Master Bruce! My apologies; I understood you were to be out for the evening.”

  “Plans change, Alfred,” Bruce said with his calm voice about ten degrees colder than normal. He shifted slightly in his chair as he folded his arms across his chest. “So, I see you’ve picked up a little something…What is it?”

  “Nothing, sir, really,” Alfred’s complexion blanched as he shrugged. “Just a little something I picked up for a friend.”

  “So am I your friend, Alfred?” Bruce asked.

  Alfred drew in a considered breath. “You are as much a friend to me as I could have ever hoped.”

  “Well, then, my dear old friend,” Bruce said through a sad smile, “let me see what you’re hiding behind your back.”

  “It’s really nothing, sir. A nasty little joke really.” Alfred moved suddenly toward the kitchen door. “Could I interest you in a little something, Master Bruce? Some sandwiches perhaps or some chamomile tea? It won’t take but a few—”

  Bruce rocked forward suddenly, bolting from the chair. His arm crossed the kitchen door, barring Alfred’s way. Bruce could feel the fire behind his eyes. His voice was barely controlled when he spoke. “No, Alfred! Master Bruce does not want his cookies or his milk! Master Bruce does not want to be coddled or put to bed. I’ve been asleep far too long. What I want is for you to explain that book you’re holding behind your back!”

  Alfred took a step back, bumping into the heavy dining table, causing its legs to squeal across the stone tile floor.

  “No, Master Bruce,” the old retainer answered. “This you must not do…I beg of you.”

  “You beg of me?” Bruce seethed.

  “I’ve never asked anything of you before, Master Wayne,” Alfred said, desperation rising in his voice. “I’ve done everything that was required of me—of the family and of you even when…”

  Bruce took a step toward his former butler. “Even when…what?”

  “Even…even when you embarked on your mad crusade,” Alfred replied.

  “My mad crusade?” Bruce shouted. “Our mad crusade, Alfred! You’ve been a part of this mad crusade from the very beginning! Is that what this is all about? Does the faithful retainer suddenly have cold feet and want to pretend the past never happened?

  “I didn’t know it would come to this, Master Bruce. I certainly never thought it would go this far. But the criminals were taking apart the city, and you were always setting things to rights. And I came to believe in what you were trying to do. I’ve dragged you broken and bleeding back to that black cavern of yours and patched you up more times than I care to count…and through it all I’ve kept the secrets of this family safe. Now, I beg you, Master Bruce, leave this alone and let me handle it for you. That’s part of my job as a press agent, isn’t it…to handle messes for you? Just think of this as a mess from which you need some distance. Walk away from this investigation right now and let me handle it for you.”

  “Handle this for me?” Bruce was shaking, fighting for control of himself.

  “Yes, Master Bruce! Please!”

  “Like your father handled my father’s messes?”

  Alfred’s face fell. “No, Bruce. Don’t speak of it!”

  “But you see, Alfred, I’ve already read the book,” Bruce said. “In fact, I’ve been doing a lot of interesting reading lately. Your father was not just OSS in the Second World War. I’ve checked his file. He was original SOE—Special Operations Executive for the British Secret Service. He was a guerilla warfare expert trained to fight the Nazis in their own backyard. It wasn’t until late in the war that he was attached to the OSS. He was a spy, trained to operate in extreme conditions, tend his own wounds, kill without question, and, most importantly, clean up after himself so no one could suspect he had ever even been there at all.”

  “How dare you!” Alfred stared back in indignation. “My father was a hero!”

  “So was mine,” Bruce sneered, stepping up until his face was within inches of the former butler. “That’s what you’ve always told me. But someone’s been pointing out the cracks in the marble statues we’ve built of them, my good man. Your father was enough of a hero to clean up my father’s mess at the Arkham Asylum back in 1958.”

  “What?” Alfred squeaked. “How did you know?”

  Bruce snatched the book from behind the elder man’s back. “Because I’ve already read the book, Alfred—and the letters from my father.”

  “What letters?” Alfred snapped back. “There were no letters!”

  “In my father’s hand and on his stationery,” Bruce countered, waving the book menacingly in Alfred’s face. “I’m relatively new at this, old bean. When did you find out about it?”

  “Please, sir, this isn’t going to help any.”

  “WHEN?” Bruce shou
ted.

  “1967,” Alfred replied. “Just before my father died.”

  Bruce drew in a shuddering breath. “Go on.”

  “It was a heart attack, but then he was sixty-nine at the time,” Alfred continued, pulling himself up to sit on the table. He was bent forward now, the paper-wrapped book turning in his hands. “It was right after his first mild episode in the spring that he called me in. He told me everything just as Dr. Wayne had told it to him: the vision he had of using science to rid the city of crime by turning the criminals against themselves, Richter’s bold ideas and the behavioral virus and how everything had come apart so quickly. He told me he had cleaned up everything ‘spic-and-span,’ as he used to say. My father said that he had done things in his life he wasn’t proud of, but that he was hoping to make it right when he recovered. Then he had his massive attack a month afterward and left it all in my hands.”

  “That must have made it easy to get your father’s position,” Bruce rumbled. “All you had to do was hint at your newly acquired wisdom to my father and make sure the facts were kept off the written résumé.”

  “How dare you!”

  “So that’s what this is all about?” Bruce seethed. “Your father covers up a brutal murder and now you’re covering up for him?”

  “My father?” Alfred yelled back. “My father kept the secrets of this family to his last breath! My father covered up for your father’s complicity in setting the stage for a spree of murders at the end of the ’50s and took that secret to the grave with him. And his son has been keeping those same secrets for the benefit of this family and its only heir for most of his adult life! It was all under lock and key before the Richter woman showed up.”

  “Amanda?”

  “Who else would it be?” Alfred grumbled. “I knew she was trouble when she first showed up on the grounds. Now it’s missing…the files, the films, the tapes.”

  “Tapes?” Bruce demanded. “What tapes?”

  “Your father’s recorded diary,” Alfred said. “The reels have all gone missing.”

  “So you’ve known about this my entire life,” Bruce breathed, his eyes narrowing. “But that’s not all, is it, Alfred, old friend?”

  Alfred’s breathing became suddenly shallow and fast.

  “There’s more to this than my father’s funded experiments having gone wrong,” Bruce prompted. “Something you’re not telling me.”

  “Bruce, I’ve taken care of you your entire life,” Alfred said, his voice quivering despite his obvious effort at control. “You are as much a son to me as my own flesh and blood could have been. I am telling you for all our sakes that you must let me handle this for you. You must stay out of it entirely, and if you do this, I promise you everything will be all right.”

  “Why the hell would you think that?” Bruce snapped. “All these years fighting the darkest souls of humanity…why would you ever be so stupid as to think you could bargain with a blackmailer?”

  “Because it’s always worked before,” Alfred yelped. “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard from the Richters. Their requests have never been unmanageable, and it was your father’s wish that they be taken care of. I’ve always quietly taken care of the problem and they’ve always gone away, but this time—”

  “Things got out of hand,” Bruce growled.

  The wall phone in the hall rang loudly.

  Bruce and Alfred stared at each other.

  The phone rang a second and third time.

  “Answer it,” Bruce demanded.

  “I…I don’t—”

  “Now,” Bruce insisted.

  Alfred stepped sideways around Bruce and walked briskly toward the phone. Bruce followed uncomfortably close at his heels.

  “Wayne Manor, how may I help you?” Alfred said.

  “Do you have the item?” It was a woman’s voice, muffled and indistinct.

  Alfred looked at Bruce. Bruce nodded.

  “Yes, I have it.”

  “Then I have what you want in return,” the voice said. “You’ll know where to bring it. Let the party begin.”

  The receiver clicked and went dead.

  “She has the tapes,” Alfred said to Bruce. “She’ll exchange them for the book, but she has not yet told me where to make the delivery.”

  “Like hell,” Bruce shook his head. His smile had a vicious edge to it. “I’ve been chasing that book across the city. Even the Joker took an interest in keeping me from getting back here tonight as I followed that book…a book that led me right back to you. And when I got back here, do you know what I found?”

  Alfred shook his head. “No, sir, how could I…I just got in myself.”

  Bruce held up an invitation envelope.

  “It’s identical to the one delivered to everyone in the city,” Bruce said, turning the envelope through the fingertips of his right hand. “It was waiting on the table—this table here in the servants’ hall—when I came in. There was no name on it, so I opened it.”

  Always proper. Alfred always taught me to be proper.

  “But I locked the house,” Alfred sputtered. “The security system was engaged.”

  “The same security system that allowed Amanda access to my mother’s garden?” Bruce asked. “Well, I see we’ll need to take a look at upgrading the system—or at least changing it up a bit.” He pulled the plain invitation card out of the envelope, holding it up in front of Alfred’s face so that he could read it.

  …TO A GALA IN YOUR HONOR.

  KANE MANSION

  MIDNIGHT TONIGHT

  “Kane Mansion?” Alfred sputtered. “That residence has been boarded up for two decades!”

  “How convenient that it’s right next door,” Bruce said. “I think I’ll accept.”

  “No, Bruce, you must not go there,” Alfred said quickly, grabbing his master’s wrist with a surprisingly strong grip. “You have no idea where this hole leads nor where the darkness ends. Your parents are dead…The past is buried with them. Let them rest! I’ve taken care of this family my entire life; it’s all I have and all I ever wanted. Leave it alone, Master Bruce. Stay here and everything will be all right.”

  “So I’m back in short pants again, am I, Alfred?” Bruce took in a shuddering breath. “You’ll clean up this mess and I should just go on with my life? What life? I cannot rest because of the life I live. I run after some elusive dream…”

  Joe Chill ran down the alley. I cannot catch him. I can never catch him.

  “…and every time I think it’s in my grasp, it vanishes and is replaced by some new threat to the city. Gotham balances on the edge of an abyss, and I alone feel the weight of holding it precariously there. What kind of a life is that?”

  “An important life,” Alfred urged. “A necessary life. A life given so that others might live theirs.”

  I’m the guardian. Who guards the guardian?

  Bruce snatched his arm out of Alfred’s grasp. “I’m not that boy in the alley anymore, Alfred! It’s time to put an end to these games.”

  “No, Bruce,” Alfred said sternly. “You must not go over there. There are some things that need to stay buried. I won’t let you.”

  Bruce turned. “Alfred, you’re fired.”

  The old retainer blinked. “What, sir?”

  “I said you’re fired, dismissed, downsized, or whatever you prefer to call it.”

  “You…you can’t do that!” Alfred sputtered.

  “The hell I can’t,” Bruce said rushing up menacingly once more. “You crossed a line. You’re standing between me and my prey.”

  “What prey?”

  “The truth!”

  “The truth can be a terrible beast, Master Bruce,” Alfred said more calmly than he felt. “Sometimes the truth hunts you.”

  “Get out,” Bruce snapped. “Out of the manor, off the grounds, and out of my life.”

  “No! Sir!”

  “Get out while you can, Alfred, because this is the only parachute you’re going to get,” Bruc
e growled. “Cheer up. You’re about to get a very nice severance package—including medical, which I sincerely hope will not be needed in the near future. But don’t bother packing, it will all be mailed to you. Just take the Bentley and consider it a bonus.”

  “Sir! Please—”

  “GET OUT!” Bruce screamed, his face purple with rage.

  Alfred, his face flush, turned on his heels and vanished out the servants’ door. Bruce waited a few moments until he heard the motor of the Bentley come to life and the hush of the wheels diminishing across the gravel driveway.

  Bruce choked back a single sob. Alfred had lied in order to hide something from him—had been hiding it from him his entire life. It was a betrayal that Bruce could not accept…and it left him more alone than he could recall feeling in all his life.

  “It’s time to put an end to the game,” Bruce said, looking at the invitation once more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MISDIRECTION

  * * *

  Amusement Mile / Gotham / 10:55 p.m. / October 25, 1958

  “What do we do NOW, boss?”

  “Shut up, Salvatore! I gotta think,” Julius Moxon said through a grimace. The slug in his right shoulder had lodged in the joint and was excruciating. He gripped it with his left hand, trying to stop the blood and keep his arm from moving at the same time. He leaned heavily against the wall in a narrow alley between the milk-bottle throw and the balloon dart game booths. There were fifteen more of his boys jammed in the tight space around him, each packing everything from Thompson SMGs to pump shotguns. The lights of the midway beyond the alley were bright and harsh, swaying overhead in the October wind. They cast heavy, shifting shadows across the faces around Julius, and despite packing serious heat, their faces reflected the fear that was threatening to close around the mobster’s heart. “Who we got left?”

  “Hard to say, boss,” Salvatore answered, pushing up the brim of his hat with the muzzle of his Thompson as he tried to see down the midway. “Ricky and his boys are all hanging from the Ferris wheel like they was Christmas ornaments or somethin’. Somebody oughta go over there and stop that thing from turning…It ain’t decent them swingin’ like that.”

 

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