She had been following him for half an hour.
A ten-minute walk, and they had gone from the swank area around Wayne Manor to middle-class houses with tiny lawns, double- and triple-deckers, then larger and larger apartment buildings. Another ten minutes and the neighborhood had really started to deteriorate; some of the buildings here were deserted, and there were broken windows everywhere. Trash was piled in empty lots and on street corners. She had never thought before how close Wayne Manor was to this part of town. It was one of the things about living in a big city—you might be living on Easy Street, but poverty was just around the corner.
She walked about three quarters of a block behind Bruce, matching his pace, not wanting to get too close, but keeping him in sight. He never looked around. Whatever he was doing, he seemed totally self-absorbed.
In the last few blocks, some of the locals had started calling out to her—wolf whistles, asking for a date, a few other things that weren’t quite so polite. A young woman wasn’t supposed to walk alone through this part of town. Still, she didn’t think she was in any real danger. They might try for the camera. She kept it half hidden as she walked straight ahead. She doubted they’d do anything else in broad daylight with all these people around. If the worst happened, she’d learned to defend herself in Corto Maltese, anyway.
She had been most worried, at first, that Bruce would hear the taunts and turn around. But he only kept on walking, totally involved in his errand.
Bruce turned abruptly into an alleyway. Vicki hurried to catch up with him, afraid she might lose him if he was out of sight. She recognized this area. They were close to Seventh Avenue, not all that far from the center of town.
She stopped at the corner and took a step back. The alley was a dead end. Bruce stood there, staring at the three brick walls that enclosed him. He looked up at the sky, then over at the alley’s far corner. Stepping over torn trash bags and broken boxes, he walked over to that corner. He kicked some cans out of the way to clear a space.
Vicki raised her camera. She’d need the telephoto to get a closer look.
Bruce unwrapped his package. He pulled something out—something hidden by his back. He turned slightly. Vicki saw he was holding two long-stemmed roses.
Vicki clicked the camera shutter.
Bruce knelt, facing the corner, and placed the two roses, side by side, on the dirt and broken asphalt, almost as if he was making an offering to a shrine. He held his hand over his eyes.
Vicki clicked the shutter again.
He stood, and kicked one of the cans toward the mouth of the alley. He was walking back out! It was time for her to vanish.
He didn’t see her, hiding in the shadows behind the dumpster. He was still lost in whatever private world had brought him here. He turned down Broad Street, heading for City Square. Vicki resumed her chase, the usual three quarters of a block behind.
When she caught sight of Bruce again, someone was walking next to him. A street mime, with white painted face and outlandish striped costume. Vicki frowned. He was doing one of those mime things—feeling his way along an imaginary wall, she guessed. He wasn’t very good at it. She had never much cared for street mimes anyway.
There was a crowd ahead on the steps of City Hall. Bruce hesitated, staring at the commotion. Vicki hurried forward to get a better look, trying to determine what was happening while still keeping an eye on her prey.
The crowd shifted enough so that she could see what was going on in the middle. One of the local ganglords was there—Ricorso, Vicki thought. He was flanked by a couple of overmuscled bodyguard types and a smooth, well-dressed fellow who had to be a lawyer. Most of the rest of the crowd, she realized, were reporters, including Allie Knox.
She looked back at where Bruce had been a second ago, but he was gone.
“So what is this affidavit you’ve filed?” a reporter was asking. “Grissom gave you all his businesses?”
Ricorso glanced at his lawyer before answering. “Mr. Grissom asked me, as a personal favor, to take over the operation of his business until he returned.”
“Jeezus,” Knox chimed in, “that’s a pretty big gift. You must have been very close. Did you do a little time together as children?”
Ricorso sneered as the others laughed.
“I smell fresh ink, guys,” Knox added. “I’m sure you can prove all this. Why am I asking? Of course you can!”
Vicki looked around. She had taken her eyes off of Bruce for only a second. She couldn’t see him anywhere in the bustling square. She did see an awful lot of street mimes, though. There were at least half a dozen, climbing invisible stairs, walking against the wind, doing all those things that street mimes did. Vicki wondered if she’d wandered into some sort of special event.
She walked over to Knox. There were other photographers here, too. She saw one of them take their picture. Allie nodded to her as she approached. The lawyer was talking now.
“We have witnesses,” he said in an official-sounding monotone. “Grissom’s signature is perfectly legitimate.”
“It’s legitimate!” a new voice shrieked over the reporter’s questions. “I saw him! I was there!”
Yet another mime pushed his way through the crowd of reporters. This one not only had a chalk-white face, he had added bloodred lips.
“I saw it all,” the new mime said. “He raised his dead hand and signed the paper in his own blood. And he did it with this pen!” He reached inside his suit pocket to pull out a quill pen that must have been four feet long. He smiled over at Ricorso as he ripped off his top hat. The hair underneath was green!
“Hello, Vinnie!” he crowed. “It’s me, your uncle Bingo! Time to pay the check!”
With that, he hurled the steel-tipped pen straight at Ricorso’s jugular. Ricorso fell to the ground, clutching at the thing that had sliced through his throat.
Somebody screamed. Reporters scattered as the other mimes pulled machine guns from the satchels that they carried, guns they fired straight into the air.
Vicki dove behind a parked car. It was Corto Maltese all over again. Knox was right behind her. She looked cautiously back out into the square. There, standing completely still in the middle of the mayhem, almost as if he was in a trance, was Bruce Wayne.
Vicki waved to him as best she could from her hiding place.
“Bruce! Get down!”
Bruce acted as if he didn’t hear her. He began to walk, slowly at first, but with increasing speed with every step, toward the mime who had thrown the deadly quill.
The mime laughed, walking the other way. A car screeched to a halt in front of him. The mime calmly opened the door and climbed inside. The car sped away.
The other mimes fled to other cars, and, a moment later, they were gone as well. Racing automobile engines faded in the distance. Somebody was crying. Besides that, there was silence.
Vicki ran from her hiding place.
“Bruce?” she called.
At first, he still didn’t seem to hear her. She ran closer. He turned at last. Sweat was pouring from his face. His eyes were two deep hollows, as if he hadn’t slept for a month. But it was what was in those eyes that startled her the most—a look of sorrow and fear, like a small boy who had lost everything he ever had.
“I’m sorry, Vicki,” he whispered. He turned and ran into the crowd.
“Bruce!” she called again. But he was gone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On The Spot Action News!
Mayor Borg and that new guy, Harvey Dent, both looked suitably uncomfortable. Oh, they were trying to hide it, but—
The On The Spot Action News news-woman shoved a microphone in the mayor’s face.
“Does this gang war dampen the city’s plans for the two hundredth anniversary festival?”
“The festival opens,” the mayor blustered. “The police will stop these gangsters!”
Well. Thank you, Mayor. It was always gratifying to get some recognition.
“Mr. Dent,”
the On The Spot Action News woman continued, “what do you think of the theory that the mysterious ‘Batman’ is a mob enforcer killing these men?”
What?
The television screen shattered as the Joker screamed with rage.
“Batman? Batman! Can somebody please tell me what kind of a world we live in where a man dressed as a bat gets my airtime?” He opened the pincers, pulling the giant, retractable boxing glove out of what had once been a television screen. “This city needs an enema!”
He tossed the boxing-glove apparatus to the floor and jumped from his chair, storming out of his newly refurnished lair. Bob, who had just walked in the door, dutifully followed him out onto the floor of the newly remodeled Axis Chemical.
The Joker stopped by a couple of his highly paid scientists. He had to shout to be heard over the machinery noise.
“Have we shipped a million of these things?”
“Yes, sir!” the scientists chorused.
“Ship it all!” the Joker cheered. “Untangle the knots. Roll the wheels. I’ve got my blood up!”
The scientists put down their clipboards and rushed to obey.
The Joker moved on, with Bob in close pursuit. The Joker banged open the door to his very special room. The room had no windows and very little ventilation. It was in the very bowels of Axis Chemical.
Ah, but what it did have!
The walls were covered with scenes of war, the very best photographs from the very best family magazines. But what was on the table was even better, stacks and stacks of folders, with all those special initials—FBI, KGB, CIA. The Joker especially liked the one on top:
DDID NERVE GAS—
RESULTS OF PRELIMINARY EXPERIMENTATION
Stamped across the folder were the words “Discontinued 1977” and “Highly Confidential.” But inside was the best part of all—all those glossy eight-by-tens, photo after photo of dead soldiers, their putrefying lips drawn back in very special smiles.
“Losing is a bad habit, Bob,” the Joker remarked wistfully. “So much to do and so little time.”
Bob stepped forward quickly. “Here’s the photos.”
The Joker lifted his eyebrows as he flipped through Bob’s offerings. He stopped at this photo of a twerp in a polyester jacket.
“Who’s this dud?”
Bob glanced over his shoulder. “That’s Knox.”
“Bad tie,” was the Joker’s verdict. “No style.” He flipped to the next photo.
His mouth opened.
He gasped for air.
His heart went pitter-pat.
“Stop the press! Who is that?”
“That’s Vicki Vale,” Bob answered. “She’s the photographer working with Knox.”
The Joker licked his ample lips. He needed to study this photo in some detail. “That woman has style! Jeezus Marimba! A lovely beast like that could get a man up and running!” He pulled a pair of scissors from one of his many pockets and, humming a happy tune, cut the babe’s likeness out from all that interfering background. He was careful not to cut too close, of course—you had to leave a bit of a border. What now? Oh, of course! He knew the very thing to do with the border. The Joker reached for his crayons and started to color.
“She’s been dating some guy named Wayne,” Bob informed him.
“She’s gonna trade up!” The Joker leered at the photo beneath his crayon. “Damn!” he added as he chewed on his tongue. “It’s so hard to stay inside the lines!”
The border was done at last, a very nice mixture of heliotrope and cobalt blue. The Joker quickly covered the back with rubber cement before giving Vicki a place of honor on his wall.
“I’m gonna get me a new girl, Bobbie!” He took a moment to admire his handiwork, then snapped his fingers.
“Phone book! I’ve got a mind to make some mayhem.”
Vicki Vale, huh? He had trouble taking his eyes off her long enough to find the phone numbers. She looked good in the middle of a war—a war that was going to take all of Gotham City!
The Joker hummed as he dialed. He didn’t know when he’d been this happy!
He had had to go home. There was nothing else he could do.
Alfred looked up from his dusting as Bruce entered the study. The butler walked toward Bruce in that quick and almost effortless way he had. He took Bruce’s coat, and then, from somewhere, handed Bruce a hot towel. Bruce had given up wondering years ago how Alfred produced these things. Instead, he wiped his hands.
“Miss Vale called,” Alfred informed him. “She was quite concerned.” He paused a minute, then added quickly in a confidential tone that Bruce hardly ever heard:
“I’ve noticed that there is a certain weight that lifts when she’s here.”
Bruce glanced at his butler. As well meaning as Alfred was, the situation was impossible.
“Why don’t you many her, Alfred?”
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind, sir,” Alfred replied, still quite stone-faced.
Bruce shrugged helplessly. “I can’t go on with this, Alfred.”
Alfred nodded his understanding. They’d planned for this too long. They both knew what had to be done. There was no time, now, for a woman in Bruce’s life.
“Napier’s alive,” Bruce continued. “He’s running Grissom’s men. I’ve got to find out everything the police have on him.”
“Yes, sir.” Alfred’s tone was businesslike once more. He turned, already headed for the Batcave and the hours of research that had to be done.
Bruce sighed as the butler walked past, a small, sad sound for things that could never be.
“She’s good—isn’t she?”
Alfred smiled sadly in reply.
Vicki looked at the photos she had taken of Bruce Wayne. When Bruce had disappeared after this, she had stayed behind for a moment to take pictures of the carnage in Gotham City Square. That was her job, after all. But she had developed the roll of film herself, and kept those shots at the beginning that she had taken of Bruce, and the roses, hoping that somewhere in these black-and-white images there might be an answer.
She looked at Bruce, kneeling in the alley. When she had taken this picture, it had almost seemed as if he was performing a sort of ritual. He had been that way in the square, too, in the middle of all that shooting, as if he were no longer himself but were answering to someone, or something, in another time or place.
And she had the feeling that this other guy, the one who called himself the Joker, had something to do with it, too. Bruce had been drawn to that murderous street mime with the green hair, rather like a moth to a flame. She hadn’t even known that the mime had a name, until the bullet-riddled bodies of the rest of Vinnie Ricorso’s gang showed up on the steps of Gotham City Hall, all nicely wrapped in large red ribbons, with an accompanying card: “A present to Gotham City—from the Joker.”
First the Batman, and now this creep. There seemed to be a lot of publicity seekers in Gotham City these days. But how did Bruce Wayne lit into it all?
There had to be something about that alleyway.
She dialed the phone. It rang. Knox picked it up at the other end.
“Allie,” she said rapidly, not allowing Knox his usual wisecracks. “I want you to check something for me. Okay? Find out what’s so special about the alley at Pearl and Phillips streets. Bye.”
She hung up and looked again at the three photos she had taken. Bruce with the flowers, Bruce kneeling in the corner, Bruce kicking the can.
“What’s up with you, Mr. Wayne?” she said aloud.
CHAPTER NINE
“And now it’s On The Spot Action News, with your coanchors, Becky Narita and Peter McElroy.”
The camera focused on Becky. She smiled.
“Good evening,” she began. “The fashion world was stunned today by the sudden deaths of models Candy Walker and Amanda Keeler. Cause of death has been attributed to a violent allergic reaction, although authorities have not ruled out the possibility of drag use. Peter?”
/> Cut to a shot of Peter. He smiled.
“—And plans continue for the city’s two hundredth birthday as Mayor Borg announced the unveiling of a statue of John T. Gotham, Gotham’s founder—”
A hand reached in from offscreen, leaving a piece of paper on Peter’s desk. He grabbed the note and read, the smile gone:
“This just in. Three mysterious deaths at a beauty parlor in—”
Becky started to laugh. Peter frowned over at his coanchor. “Becky, this is hardly— Becky!”
He jumped up as something crashed offscreen. Somebody switched to a two-shot so everyone could see what was happening to Becky. She was writhing in her seat, her face twisting into all sorts of interesting convulsions. The camera jerked back and forth, as though the cameraman wasn’t sure he should be shooting this. Technicians ran in from either side, trying to do something, anything, for poor Becky. She lurched out of her seat, feet wandering this way and that, hands striking out everywhere, sometimes connecting with technicians who had the misfortune to get too close. It was quite an act, but the finale was even better. She began to whirl in a circle, pirouetting like a ballerina, a surprisingly graceful move for someone as spasmodic as poor, poor Becky.
And all the time, she was laughing.
Becky jerked upright. The force of her stopping caused her to do a quite magnificent double gainer over the news desk. And she had stopped laughing. In fact, she had stopped everything. All her muscles were frozen in a death spasm.
The camera showed her happy face.
“Kill the camera!” Peter yelled hysterically. “Kill the—”
The picture disappeared. There was nothing but static.
That was quite nice. The Joker pressed a button. What came next was even better.
The videotape rolled, the Joker’s TV signal overriding that of the news station and every other television station in Gotham City.
The bright, colorful picture showed two cardboard cutouts of those supermodels Candy and Amanda, some hours before their oh-so-unfortunate deaths, waving at the camera. But their mouths weren’t quite right. Oh—how clever—they were animated, expanding into two impossibly large smiles!
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