Batman 3 - Batman Forever (27 page)

“You can’t decide what I’m going to do with my life. My dad always said every man goes his own way. Well, mine leads to Two-Face. You’ve got to help me . . .”

“And when you finally find Harvey? What then?”

Dick looked away from him, and Bruce nodded in confirmation. “Exactly. Once you kill him, you’ll be lost, like me.” He sighed. “No. You have to let this go. Get on with your life. Trust me. I’m your friend—”

“I don’t need a friend,” Dick said, temper flaring. “I need a partner. Two-Face has to pay . . .” And then the anger faded, Dick unable to sustain it. Finally, in a voice that sounded like the helpless teenager he was, he simply said, “Please.”

Bruce sighed. “Chase is coming for dinner. Come upstairs. We’ll talk . . .”

But Dick turned away. Bruce almost reached out for him, but when Dick flinched, he withdrew the hand. Instead he headed up to the house, leaving Dick alone in the dark, still cave.

Dick stood there for a moment. Then he walked slowly to the costume vault. He gazed at it for a time, then opened it up. With a hiss it unsealed. He looked over the array of Batman costumes until he came to a standing figure, separate from the rest.

His Robin costume. His new one; he’d been working in tandem with Alfred on modifications.

“The hell with you. I’ll do it myself,” he said. He peeled the costume off the mannequin, so that he could pack it.

Half an hour later, carrying with him everything that he cared about, Dick Grayson rode his motorcycle down the mountain road. Far above him, the lights of Wayne Manor twinkled in the night.

Seated in front of the fireplace in the living room, Bruce and Chase nursed glasses of vintage champagne that Alfred had poured for them before discreetly exiting.

“I asked you to come tonight because I need to tell you something,” Bruce began.

“I want to tell you something, too.”

They hesitated and then, naturally, started to speak at the same time. They stopped, laughed lightly.

“You go first,” said Bruce.

“Right,” she nodded gamely, and put the wineglass up on the table next to a vase of roses. “Okay. Bruce, all my life I’ve been attracted to a certain kind of man. The wrong kind of man. I mean, look at what I do for a living. But since I met you—” Her voice trailed off. “God, why am I so nervous?”

She reached for her wineglass and bumped the vase. Two of the roses fell to the floor.

The roses, lying there, and they were wilting before his eyes . . .

She could tell instantly that he was gone again, gone into his past. “Bruce? What’s wrong?”

“It’s happening again. Flashes. Images of my parents’ death.”

“Your memories are trying to break through. Let them come.”

“I’m not sure I want to remember.”

“Bruce”—and she took a giant step in the direction of what she wanted to tell him—“you braved those thugs at the circus, Bruce. Braved your parents’ death. You can brave the past.”

He gazed at her then, saw the understanding in her eyes. Saw the direction that his life could take, if only he had the nerve to head that way.

He leaned back slightly, closing his eyes. The pictures slowly unspooled themselves in his mind. It was no trouble calling the images to himself; the difficulty had been keeping them away. But now, having made the decision to face them, they came quickly. Slowly . . . both to himself, and to her . . . he spoke.

“My parents are laid out in the library. There’s a book on my father’s desk. I’m opening the book. Reading. I’m running out into the storm, the book in my hands. I can’t hear my screams over the rain. I’m falling into a hole . . .”

“Okay. What hurt so much? What did the book say?”

He did not reply. Instead he stared at his surroundings.

“Where are you?”

“I’m moving through the living room. I’m at my parents’ wake. Death is . . . is so still. I’m touching her coffin . . . Mom . . . and there . . . right there. Of course. How did I ever forget? Right where he always kept it, on his desk . . . my father’s diary.”

“Bruce, you’re not that little boy anymore. And you’re not alone. I’m here with you.”

“Yes. You are. I see you, standing next to the desk.”

“What does the book say?”

“The pages are blowing open . . . I can see the words . . .”

“What does it say?” she asked again.

“Oct. 31. The last entry . . . the night they died. ‘Bruce insists on seeing a movie tonight.’ Bruce insists. I made them go out. I made them take me to the movie. To that theater. That alley . . . It was my fault. I killed them . . . After I read it, I grabbed the book. Ran into the storm. But I couldn’t outrun the pain. I tripped, fell into a sinkhole . . . Not the bat?”

“What?” The shift made no sense to her.

“I thought it was the bat that scared me that night, that changed my life. But it wasn’t. This is the monster I grew strong and fierce to defeat. The demon I’ve spent my life fighting. My own guilt. The fear that I killed them.”

“Oh God, Bruce, you were a child. You weren’t responsible.”

And it was at that moment that all hell broke loose . . .

Alfred opened the door in answer to the ring and never even saw the cane descend toward him.

The thugs stepped over him, two of them picking up his unconscious form and shoving him in a closet. Two-Face looked back and forth, taking in the huge foyer, and snapped his fingers. “Move,” he said tersely.

“Remember the plan!” shouted the Riddler. “Seize and capture! No killing!”

The thugs moved in all directions, and the Riddler quickly grabbed Two-Face’s arm. “Just a little double check, doubleface . . . you didn’t tell them, right? Bat Wayne is our little secret, right? We tell any of the g-u-y-s, they might just shoot to kill, which
isn’t the plan!
Riiiight?”

Two-Face looked at him balefully. “You patronize us one more time, that cane of yours becomes a rectal probe. Got that?”

He moved off and the Riddler said cheerily, “I’ll take that as a yes.” And then he headed off through the mansion on his own little treasure hunt. Because, while sitting outside in the van, waiting for the right moment to make their entrance, he had spotted the lovely Dr. Chase Meridian stepping out of a cab, apparently there for a little dining and dancing pleasure with Monsieur Wayne.

“And here it’s not even my birthday,” the Riddler said joyfully.

Bruce headed into the dining alcove, Chase right behind him, as he heard the commotion. “What the hell?” he demanded.

He ran straight into two of Two-Face’s thugs.

Quickly he grabbed up a silver serving tray, flipped it into one of the thug’s faces, and kicked him in the stomach. Without breaking motion he slammed the platter into the other thug’s head. Two of them were down, and Bruce quickly grabbed Chase’s hand. They dashed out the door, several more henchmen in close pursuit.

The Riddler moved slowly through the mansion, holding up his cane in this direction and that, checking the sounding signals being issued from the head. He’d known going in that the most likely means of entrance to Bruce’s secret Bat-headquarters would be behind some hidden wall somewhere. It was just a hunch. So he’d equipped his cane with a device to bounce sound waves off the walls. It would register any place where there was a hidden panel . . . something that appeared to be solid but had a drop behind it.

And, in short order, he found it.

Two-Face sat in a chair, disconsolately flipping his coin. Each time Wayne and his lady friend dashed by, pursued by several thugs, it provided a new opportunity for a coin toss. He cocked and uncocked his gun nervously, and each time the coin landed in his hand it was with the clean side up.

In derisive imitation of the Riddler he said, “ ‘No killing. Torture him. Make him suffer.’ ” He snorted disdainfully. “Whatever happened to old-fashioned murder? Kids these days . . .”

Charging up a stairway, Bruce overturned statues as he went, blocking their pursuers’ path. Every path he took, he kept running into thugs. The house was crawling with them.

The Riddler had found heaven, or at least his own little piece of it.

The Batcave was dark, with drop cloths over the equipment. He wasn’t sure why, nor did he care. So, Brucie was painting or redecorating or whatever it was.

He started removing small green bombs from his pouch, revelling in the irony of it. He and Bruce. Both unappreciated. Both given hard knocks. Both certifiable geniuses. Both taking on costumed identities. Every step of the way, they had mirrored each other, even if it had been a fun house mirror.

Without even realizing it until just recently, Edward Nygma and Bruce Wayne had been in a contest in every aspect of their lives. And now that he understood that, it was, in fact, Nygma—the Riddler—who was going to win.

The green bombs he had produced were in the shape of bats. With demented glee he twisted each of their little heads, enjoying every single screech. He picked up the first one, its wings flapping furiously, and hurled it into the air.

“You know, it’s always risky introducing a trained animal into the wild. They often have trouble acclimating to the new environment.”

The bat struck the video wall, and a tremendous explosion rocked it. The next one blew the costume vault to hell and gone, and the third detonated in the crime lab.

He spotted, in the near distance, the Batmobile on the turntable. He tossed the bat under his arm and it zeroed in on the car’s cockpit. And as he headed out of the cave, the Riddler shouted to any stray bats who might be listening, “Tell the fat lady she’s on in five.”

And the moment he was clear of it, the Batmobile exploded. From the outside it was virtually impregnable. From the inside it was less so, and within seconds it became a huge, flaming slab of black metal.

Within the closet into which he’d been tossed, Alfred—still woozy from the blow to the head—tried the doorknob. Locked. Undeterred, he then activated his wrist-comm device.

“Nine-one-one,” he said, and the autodialer went to work.

Bruce and Chase fled up the giant staircase, the thugs one step behind. One of the thugs leapt forward, getting a fistful of Chase’s dress. She went down and then lashed out with a mighty kick, knocking the thug backwards down the stairs.

“It’s therapeutic,” she tossed off.

Bruce, meantime, was holding off a couple more attackers, closing near the top step. He spun, a powerful roundhouse kick clocking one in the head, sending him backwards down the stairs. “Go!” he shouted to Chase.

Chase moved behind him, up the landing, turning to see Bruce fell another with a spinning back kick, a third with a flying back fist. They started again toward the top of the stairs, and it looked increasingly as if they were going to make it.

And Two-Face approached the bottom of the stairs, flipping the coin. “A chance to live, a chance to die,” he intoned. “Lady Luck makes her decrees and we can do naught but slavishly follow.”

The scarred side of the coin winked up at him.

“Finally,” he said, then pulled out his gun, aimed, and fired.

At the top of the stairs, the bullet grazed Bruce Wayne’s head. Chase shrieked as Bruce pitched back and tumbled the length of the stairs to the bottom. An instant later several thugs had closed in behind Chase and had her arms pinned.

Bruce lay unmoving on the floor. Two-Face stood over him and said, “Bruce, my boy, you sure know how to throw a party.”

The Riddler came dashing in at that moment and let out a screech of protest. In the distance police sirens could be heard, but that was the least of the Riddler’s problems. “No! You killed him!”

Two-Face aimed the weapon at the unmoving Bruce. “Not yet. But give us a second . . . or two . . .”

But the Riddler swept in behind him, urging him toward the door gently but firmly. “Okay, let’s review. We were not going to kill him. We were going to torture him, remember? Wreck and ruin all he holds dear? Leave him broken, knowing his secret is revealed and death will come, but not where or when? Any of this ring bells? You
really
passed the bar?”

Two-Face spun, his guns at the ready. Knowing when he’d gone as far as he could, the Riddler put up his hands. “Kidding. Ha-ha. Joke?”

“Okay.” He nodded his head toward Chase, who was struggling with the thugs. “Just grab the bait.”

The Riddler grinned as Chase was dragged out, and then walked over to the unconscious Wayne as if he had all the time in the world. He dropped a riddle on top of Bruce’s body, and then sauntered out the door.

The riddle read, “We’re five little items of an everyday sort. You’ll find us all in a tennis court.”

But there was no one conscious to read it.

And somewhere far below, as fire licked through the costume vault, the Bat emblems began to burn.

And from out of the fire, a huge bat staggered. It staggered, enveloped in flame, its red eyes blazing . . . and then fell forward and moved no further . . .

“The injuries are relatively minor. The shot did cause a concussion. Watch for headaches. Memory lapses. Odd behavior. I’ll check back in a few days.”

Alfred smiled thinly at the doctor, easily repressing the urge to inform him that the term “odd behavior” was a fairly elastic one when applied to Bruce Wayne.

Seated upright in his bed, Bruce blinked against the morning sun as the doctor finished packing up. Alfred had been less than ecstatic with the presence of the physician, in the event that the battered and dazed Bruce might say something “incriminating.” But he’d had no choice. When the police had arrived, with Gordon in the lead (considering that it was Wayne Manor under assault), Alfred had felt constrained to say that it was indeed Two-Face and the Riddler who had led the assault. Again, no choice: If Bruce had blurted something out in his semiconscious state, Alfred would have been questioned as to why he was covering up. Besides, he reasoned, Dr. Meridian’s kidnapping really did warrant alerting the constabulary.

Ironically, Gordon’s confident, “Don’t worry, Mr. Pennyworth. We’re going to call in Batman on this one,” had less than the comforting effect Gordon clearly thought it would.

Gordon also wanted to take Wayne to the hospital, which Alfred managed to avoid by promising to bring a doctor to the house immediately. He reflected at that moment that perhaps the single most significant thing about the Wayne fortune was that it had actually prompted a doctor to make a house call. He led the physician out, then quickly returned to Bruce’s bedside.