CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Poison Ivy, hidden in her Pamela Isley persona, stood in the center of the Gotham Observatory and watched the black-tie gala swirl around her.
Her drab outfit and demeanor made her anything but a conversation magnet. But then, that was the way she had planned it.
A storm of camera strobes alerted her to the entrance of someone important—at least by the media’s standards. Turning, she saw who it was.
Bruce Wayne—and his airhead actress friend Julie Madison. Ivy snorted as the rich man and his date began greeting the assembled guests. Then she saw her target.
Commissioner Gordon. The same stern-looking civil servant who had warned her about associating with Mr. Freeze, poor chump.
Gordon was in the process of stepping away from the crowd, reaching for a glass of champagne off a waiter’s tray. Ivy approached him coyly.
“I’ve always wondered,” she said, “where does that big old bat light come from anyway?”
The commissioner turned to her. But before he could answer, she flipped open a compact and blew a pile of her love dust at him. The tiny puff caught the cop square in the face.
Suddenly, Gordon was stunned. And completely in love. “It’s . . . it’s on top of police headquarters,” he stammered.
Ivy took his arm and led him like a puppy into an alcove. “I’d just love to see it,” she told him. “But you probably don’t have access to something like that . . . or do you?”
Gordon grinned under his gray moustache. “Why, I’m the commissioner of police.” He patted a side pocket. “I have the keys right here.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Ivy saw someone headed their way. Cursing inwardly, she turned—and saw it was Bruce Wayne, of all people. As he moved through the crowd, he looked like a man on a desperate quest. And his annoying chippie of a companion didn’t seem to be with him.
Then Ivy saw the love dust on the lapel of the rich man’s tuxedo, and she understood. A little of what she’d blown at Gordon must’ve hit Wayne as well. And had the desired effect—or to be more accurate, the effect of desire.
How lovely, she thought. But she didn’t have time to capitalize on it. After all, she had to carry out her part of the plan.
Slipping her fingers deftly into Gordon’s pocket, she extracted the keys. Then she whirled away from him.
“On second thought,” she said, “you’re way too old for me.”
But as she headed for the exit, she felt a hand close around her arm. Turning, she saw herself staring into the face of Bruce Wayne.
“Dr. Isley,” he said. “It was as if I could feel you in the room. You’re enchanting. Gorgeous. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. If you’re, um, free . . . this evening . . .”
Suddenly, the Madison woman caught up with him. “Bruce?” she said, her brow creasing with concern. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”
“I think he’s asking me on a date,” said Ivy. “That is, in an awkward, stammering sort of way.”
Madison looked from one of them to the other. Finally, she pulled her date’s hand away from Ivy’s arm. “I’ve heard of commitment anxiety,” she remarked, “but this is insane. You’re not really propositioning another woman right in front of me, are you?”
The billionaire seemed to be having trouble with the concept. Obviously, Ivy thought, with a certain amount of satisfaction, he had other things on his mind.
“Er . . . define ‘propositioning,’ ” he replied.
By then, of course, the press had gotten wind of the confrontation. They were gradually surrounding Ivy, Wayne, and Julie.
“Make a choice,” said the starlet, intensely aware of the swarming reporters. “Her or me, Bruce.”
The rich man hesitated—but only for a moment. “Well, um . . . her.”
Madison was obviously crestfallen. Her lower lip began to tremble. “I get it, Bruce. You’re not the marrying kind. You’ve made your point.” She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Good-bye.”
And with that, she pushed her way through the crowd. Ivy made a clucking sound as she watched the woman’s retreat.
“Physical perfection, charm, and wealth,” she said. She turned to Wayne. “All tossed aside for a dowdy little spinster like me? How do you explain your behavior, Mr. Wayne?”
The man seemed puzzled by it himself. “I can’t. But perhaps tonight, over a candelight dinner . . .”
She saw an opening. And having seen it, she went for it with all the viciousness of a Venus’s-flytrap.
“Maybe your witless, playboy persona works on your bimbos du jour,” she said—just loudly enough for everyone in the room to get an earful. “But I am not the least bit titillated by your attentions, Mr. Wayne. So back off—or I’ll have you in court quicker than you can spell sexual harassment.”
He looked at her. “Er . . . does that mean dinner’s a no?”
People were staring, murmuring to each other. And Wayne was predictably chagrined. Good, thought Ivy. That’d teach him to destroy the ecology with his conglomerate indifference.
Concealing a smile, she pushed past him and headed for the door.
“It’s just that I sort of . . . kind of . . . love you,” Wayne called after her, his ardor untempered by his embarrassment. “I said I love you,” he repeated, this time a little louder.
I’ll just bet you do, she mused.
Angry and hurt, Dick gunned his motorcycle down the road that bisected the benighted grounds of the Wayne estate.
The wind in his hair, he popped a wheelie past the pool and the silhouette of the old barn. Then he roared through the woods at the back of the estate, finally emerging at the cliff road beyond.
A right turn would have pointed him toward Gotham’s center. He made a left instead, tires screeching as he fishtailed on the roadway and took off in the opposite direction.
Dick leaned into turn after turn on the winding macadam. On his right, past the black expanse of the harbor, he could see the distant lights of downtown sparkling like a scattering of gold and green gems. It was a scattering that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see.
But then, no matter how far one went, it was tough to get away from Gotham. Didn’t people say that all the time? Hard to get away from this place, very hard. Maybe impossible.
Of course, just then it wasn’t the city Dick was trying to get away from. It was Bruce, he realized, scowling. A man who had professed to be his friend. A man he had admired and wanted to emulate.
But what kind of friend hungers after your woman? He demanded an answer with silent fury. What kind of mentor tries to poison the best thing that ever happened to you?
The jealous kind, Dick told himself. The spiteful kind. The kind who can’t tolerate the idea that there’s something he can’t have, despite all his wealth and influence.
The road unfolded before him, zagging this way and then that. To his right, the surf crashed against the rocks; to his left, the trees whipped savagely in the wind off the water.
Why couldn’t Bruce just be happy for him, for god-sakes? Why couldn’t he, of all people on earth, understand how good it felt to be loved again—really loved—and to have someone to love in return?
Abruptly, he thought to glance at his watch—to get an idea of how far he’d come. It was farther than he would have imagined. He didn’t have much gas left either, not having bothered to fill up before he split. And there weren’t any gas stations in this isolated neck of the woods.
If Dick was going to make it back to the manor, he would have to stop and turn around. But he didn’t want to go back. Not yet. Not until he knew where he was going with his life.
Catching sight of a clearing with an unobstructed view of Gotham, he pulled over and cut his engine. Then he wheeled his bike over to a tree, leaned it there, and sat down in the untamed grass.
The wind howled around him, echoing the howling in his heart. How could Bruce have become so cruel to him? How?
Months earlier
, when his family was murdered in an encounter with Two-Face, Dick had been devastated. He hadn’t known where to go, whom to turn to. Bruce had taken him under his wing. He had given him a home, a family to replace in some small way the one he’d lost.
And more than that, he had given Dick a purpose. A way to make the bad thing that had happened to him into something good.
Naturally, Dick had been grateful to him. But in all those months, had Bruce ever shown any affection for him? Any real feeling?
Now that the young man thought about it, it was only Alfred from whom he’d gotten any familial vibes—anything approaching compassion or warmth or love. Bruce always seemed so stony, so withdrawn. It was as if he was holding a part of himself back.
No . . .
There had been moments, hadn’t there, when Bruce seemed to open up to him? When he treated him like an equal? There had been times when they shared a joke . . . or an appreciation for something . . .
Dick shook his head.
It was hard for him to remember, hard to separate truth from distraction. When he tried to recall the good parts of his stay with Bruce, when he tried to imagine him as something other than a selfish tyrant . . . something happened. And all he could think about was Ivy.
The seductive smell of her. The way her eyes shone, as if with an inner light. The perfection of her, the softness of her skin, and the silken beauty of her hair.
Ivy, who offered him a life of love given and returned. Ivy, for whom he burned with passion as he’d never burned before.
But . . . she was also a criminal, wasn’t she? Like the two-faced monster who had put an end to the Flying Graysons? When he thought of her that way, he knew there was no way he could love her.
But he did love her, he snarled, holding his fists to his forehead. God help him, he did.
Suddenly, Dick saw a way out of his dilemma. He would reform her. He would make her give up her life of crime to be with him. And if Ivy wouldn’t do it? If she refused?
He wasn’t going to think about that possibility—the same way he hadn’t thought about the possibility of falling when he was performing with his family in the big top. He was simply going to do what he had to do.
His mind made up, Dick rose from the grass and straddled his bike. Then he started it up, scooted back onto the road, and headed back in the direction of Wayne Manor!
On the way, it occurred to him there was one other problem with regard to Ivy. How to find her.
In Freeze’s frozen chamber, the only part of Ivy’s Turkish baths in which he felt comfortable, the villain stood and put on his suit.
It was time.
He would grieve for his wife at a later date. Now was his chance to avenge her death, to see to it that Batman didn’t go unpunished for his crime.
Freeze gestured, and a legion of Icemen stepped out of the swirling mists, where they had been cooling their heels for the last couple of hours. Of course, they didn’t know what he was up to, or they never would have agreed to it. But it was child’s play to hire henchmen in this city.
Freeze lifted his freezing engine—the one he’d been working on since his arrival earlier that day—and addressed his thugs. “Bundle up, boys. There’s a storm coming.”
Then, with his engine of destruction tucked under his arm, he led his doomsday battalion out into the night.
At the same time Freeze was mobilizing his troops, Ivy was carrying out her end of the bargain—following Bane up a poorly lit stairway.
Commissioner Gordon’s key had worked like a charm, giving them access to a little-used set of stairs leading to the roof of the police headquarters building. It was a good thing, too. If it hadn’t worked, she might have had to enchant every officer in the place with her love dust—and then who would have protected the streets of Gotham?
She laughed at her little conceit. If all went well, not even an army of cops would be able to save this city and its people. And so far, everything was going well indeed.
On the stairs up ahead of her, Bane came to a door. Grasping the doorknob, he swung it open. Strong as he was, it was torn halfway off its hinges, exposing them to a spill of starlight. Then he stood aside and let Ivy lead the way up onto the roof.
She was no longer wearing the appearance of the woman she used to be—the plain-looking wallflower who’d been overlooked much too long. Poison Ivy was herself again, in all her emerald glory.
At the far end of the roof, the Bat-Signal stood dormant. But not for long, she thought. She pointed to it.
“Let there be light,” she said.
That was Bane’s cue. Walking over to the signal, the Venom-powered giant tore it from its shackles and carried it back to the stairs.
Ivy followed, a smile on her full, green lips. Even the weather appeared to be cooperating with her. There was a line of gray cumulus clouds moving in from the harbor already. If the weatherman could be believed, it would arrive just when she needed it.
Her smile widened. Pretty soon, it would be tough to be a weatherman around here. But then, it would be tough to be anyone around here.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Barbara stood over her uncle and swallowed back her tears.
His face was partially masked by a breathing apparatus, a tube going from his arm to an intravenous bag suspended above him. Under his pajamas, a sensor had been attached to his chest over his heart.
At the moment, the electrocardiogram machine showed the rise and fall of a relatively normal heartbeat. But with the disease eating away at him, how long could that be expected to go on?
Sighing heavily, Barbara pulled her uncle’s bedclothes up a little higher. It hadn’t taken the doctor long to get the necessary equipment for Alfred to be placed on life support. She supposed it was one of the benefits of Bruce Wayne’s being the wealthiest man in Gotham. When his name was mentioned, people jumped.
Still, it had been a frightening experience. All at once, Uncle Alfred’s pulse had become terribly weak, his breathing so shallow as to be almost undetectable. Her first impression was that he had died.
Perhaps in a sense, she reflected, he had. Without the machines taking over the functions his body should have been performing, without the intervention of technology, they’d likely have been saying last rites over him now.
And where were his friends Bruce and Dick? Why had she been the only one home in Uncle Alfred’s time of need?
Barbara made her way to her room, feeling drained and battered, lost in grief and bitterness. It had been so long since she’d seen her uncle. So long since she’d made herself a promise to free him from his servitude. To lose him now . . .
Plopping herself down on the bed, she remembered the envelope Uncle Alfred had given her. It was on the antique commode beside her bed, where she’d put it while the medical people were doing their job.
Reaching for it, she held the envelope up to the lamp that stood on the commode. Inspected it. Turned it over in her hands.
What was inside it? she wondered. Why had her uncle asked her never to open it? Didn’t he know she couldn’t resist anything and everything that was forbidden to her?
Biting her lip, she wrestled with her dilemma for a moment. Then she gave in to her curiosity and opened the envelope.
There was a disc inside. A silver compact disc. “Only family can be trusted,” she echoed softly.
Well, she was family, wasn’t she? Perhaps Alfred hadn’t given her his genes, but he’d given her his heart.
Crossing the room, she slid the disc into the computer Bruce Wayne had been good enough to provide her with. Then she tried to access the information contained in it.
“Access denied,” said the computer.
Barbara sat down and began hacking the disc, trying to crack the code. Fortunately, she was nearly as good with computers as she was with motorbikes. It would only be a matter of time before she got inside.
Slumped against the door frame, Bruce peered into Alfred’s room from the hallway outside. He was ter
ribly ashamed of himself.
And terribly confused.
When had this happened? he wondered. When had his old butler, who had seemed so stable and alert just a few hours ago, sunk so far that he needed a web of supports to keep him alive?
Where was Dick? And Barbara?
Making his way through the house and up the stairs, Bruce found his ward’s door open—and his room empty. Wherever Dick had gone, it seemed he still hadn’t come back.
The girl’s door, on the other hand, was closed. He knocked hopefully.
“Barbara?” he called. “Are you in there?”
A moment later, the door opened. The girl’s eyes were red-rimmed, but she seemed calm enough. In the background, her computer was on.
“What happened?” he asked weakly.
She knew just what he meant. She told him how Alfred’s condition had worsened suddenly. How she’d called the doctor, and how the doctor had set up the life supports.
And she told him the prognosis. It wasn’t good.
Bruce looked at her. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Barbara shrugged. “As well as can be expected.”
It was the same thing Alfred had said when Bruce asked him about his health. He nodded.
“If you need me, just holler.”
“I’ll do that,” she promised.
It seemed she wanted to be alone—just as much as he wanted not to be. But he would allow her whatever she wished.
As he walked back down the stairs, he tore away the tie to his tuxedo. If he was going to be alone, he told himself, he’d be alone in the place he felt most comfortable: the Batcave.
It took him only moments to go down there and seat himself in front of the main computer console. But before long, he wasn’t looking at the console anymore or the screens that loomed above it. He was staring into the darkness, the shadows . . .
. . . where he saw a younger Alfred with a Bruce in his early twenties. The two of them were working on the prototype for the original Batsuit.
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