DC Comics novels--Batman

by Christa Faust

  A stiff right cross sent him crashing through the partially open door, and out into the rainy night.

  39

  Gordon raised his head when he heard the crash. He had taken shelter from the rain, waiting for backup to arrive for what felt like a cold dark century, and saw the Joker come flying out of a side door in the fun house, landing face down in grass and sliding several feet before he came to a stop.

  Batman followed, stepping out through the door to stand over his prostrate foe. Rain dripped from the hem of his rippling cape, providing the only movement in the solemn, silent tableau.

  No sound, no movement, until a burst of sudden action broke the moment wide open. The Joker rolled on his back and sat up, throwing off droplets of rain and mud as he pulled a snub-nosed gun from an inner pocket. His expression was wild and manic, eyes far too wide and twisted red lips skinned back from his long yellow teeth, giving him the look of a trapped animal.

  For an endless minute, the two of them just peered at each other. Batman still as stone, grim and giving nothing away. The Joker shaking all over as if he was silently laughing. Or crying.

  In the space of that elastic eternity, Gordon thought of and dismissed a hundred desperate plans to intervene and save his masked friend. Yet he had no weapon of any kind. Even his fists, upon which he had relied for decades, had betrayed him. They hung dead and useless at the end of his leaden arms.

  Instead he lurched to his feet, intending to get between them or draw the Joker’s fire. In that moment, taking a bullet for his friend seemed preferable to living after what he had endured. But his body wasn’t up to the task. Having shambled a few feet out onto the midway, he dropped to his knees in the mud.

  The Joker paid no attention to Gordon’s sad little display of crippled valor. Steadying his aim, he pointed right between Batman’s eyes, and pulled the trigger.

  There was no gunshot. No impact shattering Batman’s skull. There was just a jaunty pop, followed by a soft fluttering sound as a tiny flag unfurled at the end of the barrel.

  CLICK

  CLICK

  CLICK

  “Goddammit,” the Joker said. “It’s empty.”

  The wave of relief that washed over Gordon at that moment was so strong that he almost passed out.

  Where the hell is that backup?

  The Clown Prince of Crime seemed to deflate in that moment, shoulders slumping, curling inward as his signature grin melted away in the rain. His dripping green hair hung down in his eyes, but failed to hide his bleak and hopeless expression.

  “Well?” the Joker continued, letting the gag gun slip from his grip. “What are you waiting for? I shot a defenseless girl. I terrorized an old man. Why don’t you kick the hell out of me and get a standing ovation from the public gallery?”

  Batman stared down on his defeated opponent, his expression unreadable. “Because I’m doing this by the book,” he replied. “And because I don’t want to.”

  Something in his gaze was different. Where there had been rage, now there was calm. Where there had been a primal force, now there was certainty. Relief turned to triumph as Gordon silently struggled to his feet, clutching the rough drop cloth more tightly around his body. After everything he had gone through, this was victory.

  Justice was winning.

  The Joker twisted away, refusing to meet the implacable gaze.

  “Don’t you understand,” Batman continued. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want either of us to end up killing the other, but we’re both running out of alternatives, and we both know it.” He came a step closer, holding out a hand.

  The Joker ignored it.

  “Maybe it all hinges on tonight,” he said. “Maybe this is our last chance to sort this bloody mess out. If you don’t take it, then we’re locked onto a suicide course.

  “Both of us.

  “To the death.”

  A long pregnant pause stretched out between them. The Joker hunched lower, his hands on the ground, fingers interlaced. In that moment, the only sound was the rain.

  Batman continued. “It doesn’t have to end like that,” he said. “I don’t know what it was that bent your life out of shape, but who knows? Maybe I’ve been there too. Maybe I can help.”

  The Joker turned his head slightly. His eyes were closed, and drops of rainwater fell from his long, hawkish white nose and unnaturally sharp chin.

  “We could work together,” Batman said. “I could rehabilitate you. You needn’t be out there on the edge anymore. You needn’t be alone.” He paused, as if to let that sink in. “We don’t have to kill each other.” Another pause. “What do you say?”

  Slowly, silently, the Joker rose to his feet, hands still clutched in front of him, shoulders still down. He turned, his face mostly in shadow. His brow was wrinkled in a frown, and for a moment it looked as if he might fly into a rage. Then his features relaxed.

  “No,” he replied. “I’m sorry but… no. It’s too late for that. Far too late.” He raised a gloved hand to pinch the bridge of his nose like a man with a persistent headache. His face remained grim despite the clipped giggle that slipped between his teeth. “You know, it’s funny… this situation. It reminds me of a joke.”

  Gordon started to take a step closer to the pair, and then stopped himself. He wanted to hear what the madman had to say, and didn’t want to take the chance of distracting him. Although he wasn’t sure if either one of them even remembered he was there.

  They turned so they were both facing away from him, two black shadows, side by side now and looking off at the distant spires of Gotham City across the bay. Where the hell was that damn backup? What was taking them so long?

  “See, there were these two guys in a lunatic asylum,” the Joker said, his arms crossed and hugging his body. Then they unwrapped, and he held them out dramatically. “And one night, one night they decide they don’t like living in an asylum anymore. They decide they’re going to escape!”

  Batman stood there, still and listening.

  “So, like, they get up onto the roof, and there, just across this narrow gap, they see the rooftops of the town, stretching away in the moonlight…”

  The rain picked up, as did the wind, going from a gentle patter to a driving, icy downpour. Gordon was tempted to step back into the shelter, but found he couldn’t move. He was riveted.

  In the distance, there finally was the sound of sirens.

  “…stretching away to freedom. Now, the first guy, he jumps right across with no problem. But his friend, his friend daren’t make the leap. Y’see, he’s afraid of falling.” The Joker’s gestures became wilder, more manic. His voice was shaky and tense and starting to crack.

  “So then, the first guy has an idea. He says ‘Hey, I have my flashlight with me! I’ll shine it across the gap between the buildings. You can walk along the beam and join me.’”

  At that point, whether from fear or cold or the grip of some unknowable inner psychosis, the Joker began to shiver all over, stuttering and stumbling over the delivery of his convoluted monologue.

  “B-but the second guy just shakes his head. He suh-says… He says ‘What do you think I am? Crazy?’” The last word came out as a shout.

  The Joker turned to face Batman, revealing his profile to Gordon. He was smiling again, but this time it was different. His expression was that of a child desperate to be accepted, to please, and knowing full well that it would never be.

  “‘You’d turn it off when I was halfway across!’” he said, delivering the punchline. Then he began to laugh, and it sounded out of control. Gordon didn’t know what to think. The Joker pinched his nose again and covered his eyes, his laughter growing in intensity until his entire body shook.

  Baffled, Gordon turned his gaze on his friend, and what he saw was…

  Impossible…

  A smile appeared. Small at first, barely registering on the granite countenance.

  Batman was laughing. The smile turned into a grin, more fearsome than any
expression Gordon had ever seen on the man’s face. He didn’t know if he should be afraid.

  The Joker continued to giggle hysterically.

  As the sirens grew louder, Batman lurched forward and grabbed his enemy. They stood there, their laughter mingling, their bodies shaking. Headlights appeared beyond them, sending a glare through the downpour.

  Then Gordon knew.

  He’s going to kill him, the top cop realized, and his blood ran cold. The Joker’s laughter trailed off, the mad trill of giggles turning into choking gasps as Batman pulled him closer.

  The laughter died.

  The Joker went silent.

  “Batman, no!” Strength flooded back into Gordon’s limbs, and he started forward, half running, half stumbling. He couldn’t allow himself to collapse. Harder than ever, the rain made it difficult to see. As the cruisers came closer, the glare increased. The Dark Knight turned, and his masked face could be seen. In that moment, Gordon witnessed something cold and terrible in his friend’s eyes. Something he would never forget.

  “You can’t let him win!” he cried, staggering closer and struggling to keep his treacherous body upright. “It has to be by the book,” he gasped. “It’s the only way.”

  A flight of conflicting emotions chased one another across the masked face, barely visible beneath the cowl. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly and let loose his grip. The Joker collapsed to his knees, clutching his throat. He was silent for a few heartbeats, and then he started chuckling again, between deep wheezing gasps.

  Four squad cars pulled up, their spinning red and blue lights spinning, adding to the surreal nature of the moment. They disgorged an army of uniforms, who drew down upon the kneeling villain. More spread out to search the grounds. Two of them ran over to Gordon, placing their hands under his arms. Suddenly he was grateful for their support.

  “Commissioner,” an officer said.

  Dully he acknowledged the man, leaning heavily on his arm.

  “There are more of them,” Gordon said. “I doubt they’ll go far.” The uniform just nodded. Gordon squinted in the glare. Once shut, his eyes didn’t want to open again.

  When they did, Batman was gone.

  As the still giggling Joker was cuffed and led away, Gordon wanted to go after his friend, to comfort him in some way. Yet there could be no comfort, he knew, in the wake of this horror show. Each of them would have to find a way to deal with what they’d experienced.

  Officers darted through the shadows. In the distance, pitched voices rose and fell, then were silenced. He stared down at the growing puddles.

  The rain continued to come down.

  The world kept spinning.

  40

  Barbara Gordon didn’t exactly wake up. It felt more like plunging into icy water, trailing tattered ribbons of an ugly dream she couldn’t quite remember. The cold shock of reality made her gasp as she tried to sit up, but couldn’t.

  What is this? Was she tied to the bed? Bed? Whose bed?

  Where am I?

  She did some visual arithmetic, foggy brain struggling to add up clues. There was an IV needle in her arm. Rubber tubes, glowing green screens, ominous machinery measuring various biological values with blips and squiggles.

  Hospital.

  Metal rails on the narrow bed. Some kind of complex traction bracing her lower body. Oh, god, was that a catheter?

  But why was she in the hospital? What happened? Her memory felt treacherous and fragmented. Untrustworthy. She’d been visiting Dad, having a cup of cocoa, and then…

  What?

  Then she remembered him. The sickly sweet chemical smell of him, like bubble gum and formaldehyde. And that smile. That awful, yellow smile.

  The Joker.

  It all came rushing back to her, causing her to gasp and gulp for air. Every awful detail. Bile surged in her throat and she panicked, struggling to sit up before she vomited. Why couldn’t she sit up?

  Then there was a nurse beside her, helping her, gentle hands turning her head as she slipped a steel basin beneath her chin.

  “It’s okay, Ms. Gordon,” the nurse said as Barbara shuddered and threw up. “You’re safe now.”

  “Why…” Barbara spat bloody foam into the basin. “Why can’t I get up?” Briefly the woman looked nervous, like a deer in the headlights. An instant later she seemed to arrive at a decision.

  “You’ve experienced a penetrating thoracic spinal injury,” the nurse told her. “Emergency surgery was required, and you’ve been in a medically induced coma in order to facilitate—”

  “Spinal?” Barbara interrupted. She shoved the basin away and grabbed the nurse’s blouse, heart racing as a rush of dizzying anxiety flooded her body. “You mean…” She couldn’t seem to find the words. Then she could. “Am I paralyzed?”

  “Please try to remain calm, Ms. Gordon.” The nurse spoke in a soft, deliberately zen-like tone of voice. “It’s best if you wait until Dr. Li arrives to discuss your long-term prognosis.”

  But her words didn’t have the effect she desired. Barbara twisted the scrub top into her fist before she even realized what she was doing.

  “Tell me!” she hissed between clenched teeth, dragging the woman’s face in close to hers. “Am. I. Paralyzed?”

  Then, suddenly there was another nurse, moving silently on rubber-soled shoes and injecting something into her IV line. The two exchanged a look, sharing weary, wordless understanding and pity.

  Barbara wanted to knock their teeth in.

  Then everything went muffled and far away. The sound of the machinery. The chatter of the hospital personnel. And finally, the Joker’s high-pitched and toxic giggles, chasing her down into the darkness.

  * * *

  They’d kept Barbara heavily medicated. For her own good, they said. To ease her anxiety and trauma, and let her body heal. Whatever that even meant.

  “Every spinal injury is different,” the soft-spoken and serious Dr. Li had told her. “And every patient’s body reacts differently over time. It’s important to understand that the term ‘paralysis’ actually encompasses a wide array of functional impairments, each with varying degrees of severity.”

  Dr. Li was an excellent doctor. She was a straight shooter who didn’t mince words, and treated Barbara like an equal who was capable of understanding complex medical terminology, rather than a panicky child who just needed a lollipop and a pat on the head. Yet every time Barbara saw her, she felt a wave of irrational hostility. Like if she wasn’t saying all those things—about Barbara’s cord contusion, edema, and progressive neurological degeneration—they somehow wouldn’t be real.

  But the fury was fleeting. Like everything inside her, it was slippery and hard to hold onto. She spent most of her time just staring at the bland white tundra of the ceiling, while people came and went. Doing things and saying things and none of it meaning anything.

  Batman had been there, his expression unreadable beneath the mask and mouth set in a hard, grim line. He had gone to stop the Joker, to save her father and when she learned that he had been successful, her relief had been overwhelming. Yet words failed her. All she could do was nod in silence, her face as grim as his.

  * * *

  She didn’t know how much later it was that she saw her father, standing at the foot of the bed. He was pale and silent, unshaven and wearing an uncharacteristically baggy shirt that made him seem smaller somehow, like a kid in grown-up clothes.

  “Daddy?” she said, or tried to. It was hard to tell if the sound made it past her chapped lips.

  His hair, normally slick with pomade, seemed dull and unwashed, tumbling down over one eye. There were ugly marks on his neck, a ring of fading bruise that seemed to be the same purplish hue as the sleepless hollows beneath his anguished blue eyes. He looked like he was barely holding back tears, which made her feel as if the underlying order of the universe had been secretly rearranged. She had never seen her father cry.

  Not even over losing her mother.

 
Out in the hallway, there was a noisy metallic clatter. Both of them flinched dramatically as if performing a synchronized dance move. Once they realized what they had done, they shared a rueful smile.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “You?”

  “Nope.”

  He moved to her bedside and put his hand over hers, and neither of them said anything else. There was so much she wanted to tell him. She wanted to say she was sorry she couldn’t save him from whatever torture he had endured at the hands of the Joker. She wanted to tell him that she was still here for him and loved him and all that nice stuff that you said to a person after they’ve gone through profound and deeply personal trauma that you will never fully understand. But she knew just how meaningless all those nice words would be, because she hated it when other people tried to say them to her.

  More than that, she wanted to tell him, to tell somebody, anybody, about the grief that was gnawing at her bones as she felt Batgirl dying inside her. The secret self she’d kept hidden, reveling in the fearless strength and power of that persona while those all around her were none the wiser.

  When a friend or loved one died, there was a memorial service. Old photos were passed around and familiar anecdotes shared, and everyone said how much they’d miss that person. But the best version of herself had been murdered by an erratic, unfathomable maniac who didn’t really understand what he had done. No one did.

  Everyone saw her naked and tortured body, but no one saw what had really happened.

  Batgirl had slipped away in slow, agonizing increments during her drawn-out drugged and broken haze, and now Barbara was the only one who would ever know what had happened to Batgirl. That she had been murdered for no reason other than to prove some mad, unknowable point. Barbara could never tell anyone how much she missed herself.

  Looking up at her father, however, she knew in that moment that he too was wrestling with things she would never know or understand. Private demons, perhaps just like hers. In that moment, despite the silent, emotional gulf between them, they shared a profound and terrible connection neither of them could acknowledge.