Batman 5 - Batman Begins (14 page)

Here, again, there was a gap in the story. But someone, almost certainly the younger Cavally, had inserted into the folio a sheet of paper bearing some notes typed on a machine that had needed a new ribbon.

Bisu . . . desert god. Not worshiped in the usual ways. More demon than god? Fitting for a harsh place? Living conditions shape local idea of god-hood? (Cf volkergedanken.)

Human sacrifice? Would answer some questions.

Maybe it would answer some of
his
questions,
Bruce thought.
Doesn’t do a thing for
mine,
though. And what’s this word in parentheses . . . “volkergedanken”? German word, looks like. Mean anything important? Probably not, but better find out.

He would call Sandra Flanders in the morning—her or the university’s German department. (Surely, it
had
a German department.)

A bit wearily, Bruce resumed reading. Whatever the Physician did about worshiping, or not worshiping, Bisu had happened in the missing pages. The narrative began in midsentence:

confess to a dislike of Runce as strong as yours, my wife. But he is a man and none who can be called so are blameless. And his father has been generous to us.

In the tent the Physician made ready his preparations and commanded that Runce be lowered into the pit that seethed and boiled and made a horrible stench. Runce no longer gave breath and all who were present thought the Physician had failed. But with a terrible roar Runce rose up from the pit and his eyes were filled with madness and his gaze was cast upon the fair wife of the Physician. And he grasped her. The Physician tried to intervene but Runce was as strong as ten men and flung the Physician aside. And such was his embrace of Sora that her neck snapped and she fell lifeless.

The madness left the eyes of Runce and he called out to his father. Others who had heard the tumult entered the tent and saw the lifeless form of Sora and the Salimbok lied to save his son from disgrace and blamed the death of Sora on the Physician.

Bruce lowered the manuscript.
This is getting positively biblical
. . . He had a sudden need to do something physical; he could finish his research later. He put the manuscript in a drawer, went to his room, and changed into a sweat suit.

In the garden behind the house, he began a series of dancelike martial arts moves designed both to hone his combat skills and improve his overall conditioning. Within minutes, he was sweating and panting and feeling fine. The moon was directly overhead and quite bright; Bruce had all the light he needed.

A car passed the gate, almost a quarter of a mile away, going too fast for the narrow road. Bruce glanced at its headlights and stopped in midmotion.

If I can see the car, maybe the car’s occupants can see me. Do I want the world to know that Bruce Wayne is alive and a wannabe Bruce Lee?

Okay, no martial arts, not where he could be seen. But he still felt the need to exert himself. So—he could run. Running is something anyone might do and if anyone came close enough to see him, Bruce would stop, and rest his palms on his knees, and pant, and pretend to be exhausted.

He ran. Out the gate and left on the road and all the way to the freeway ramp, two and a half miles south, and back to the house. It felt wonderful to be stretching his legs, muscles sliding and locking, moving smoothly and gracefully under the moon and stars of a glorious early summer night. After a while, the rhythmic slap of his shoe soles on the asphalt became pleasantly hypnotic but he resisted letting his attention relax. A lesson learned at the monastery: Always be alert—always. But that did not preclude his enjoying himself.

He met no one.

As he was going up the stairs to shower, Alfred called from the kitchen that dinner was almost ready.

Five minutes later, hair still wet, dressed in a sport shirt and chinos, Bruce joined Alfred at the big table in the dining room.

Alfred was apologetic. “I’m afraid the pheasant might be a trifle overdone and I couldn’t get the really good truffles . . .”

“It’ll all be wonderful,” Bruce assured him and began putting food in his mouth. “Delicious.”

“I sense a certain insincerity in the compliment,” Alfred said. “You sound rather like a little boy who’s found socks under the Christmas tree instead of toys. I’ve detected a lack of enthusiasm for my other culinary productions, as well.”

Bruce dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “Alfred, the food really
is
good, and I appreciate the effort you put into it. But I guess my tastes got simplified while I was abroad. A bowl of rice and a serving of vegetables tastes as good to me as filet mignon now, and I don’t leave the table feeling weighed down after eating them.”

“So I’m to serve only the simplest fare?”

“Sometimes, when you’re in the mood, sure—knock yourself out. But every meal doesn’t have to be a feast.” Bruce pushed back from the table. “I don’t mean to offend you . . .”

“Master Bruce, I cannot tell you how
little
you’ve offended me. On the contrary . . . I haven’t felt so relieved in years. I’ve been spending half my time in the kitchen, and the other half at the market. Tomorrow night, rest assured, you will be given the
best
bowl of rice in the county. And not a morsel more.”

“I look forward to it.”

Bruce went into the library and picked up the manuscript. He heard Alfred leave by the side door and, a minute later, his Bentley driving down to the gate. This was Alfred’s night out. From hints Alfred had dropped, probably intentionally, Bruce guessed that Alfred spent these weekly trips to the city in the company of a woman, a doctor who operated a clinic in one of Gotham’s less savory neighborhoods. Bruce did not know the exact nature of the relationship, nor did he want to. Alfred had earned his privacy, a thousand times over.

Bruce settled deep into his father’s chair and finished his self-assigned reading.

Where was I . . . ?

. . .
The Salimbok lied to save his son from disgrace and blamed the death of Sora on the Physician.

The Physician was confined until the Salimbok pronounced sentence upon him.

Acting on advice from Runce the Salimbok commanded that the Physician be confined in a metal cage with the body of his dead wife and the cage be lowered into a pit in the desert sand. For three nights the Physician suffered in silence. On the fourth night the man whose mother had fallen beneath the hooves of the horses slew the guard at the site of the grave of the Physician and drew forth the cage that imprisoned him. He gave the Physician cool water to drink and bathed the wounds the Physician had suffered and together they escaped into the desert

Another bunch of pages missing. The last fragment was only a couple of dozen words long. Like the previous one, it began in midsentence:

who had once been known as the Physician rose howling from the pit with eyes filled with madness and when the madness had subsided Rā’s al

That’s where it ended, again in midsentence.

Bruce dropped the book onto the rug beside the chair and leaned back.
So is Rā’s the Physician? Apparently. And I’m supposed to believe that his dunking-in-noxious-chemicals trick works and gives him incredible longevity . . . that he’s a healthy four hundred years plus. All very hard to swallow.

Bruce got up, stretched, and walked out into the moonlit night.
Okay, let’s stick with what I know. I know the League exists, unless I imagined everything that happened at the monastery, and I didn’t. And it seems to surface at times of social upheaval. What else? What exactly does it do? And what did Rā’s want with me? Interesting questions. I wish I had some interesting answers. But at least I’m way ahead of where I was a couple of days ago, and for that I owe the nice librarian.

He got up, went to his father’s huge old oak desk, and got a checkbook from the top drawer. He wrote a check to Gotham University, filled in a number, hesitated, and added another zero. Then he began addressing an envelope, though he would not be able to actually send the check until he was declared among the living. He really should do something about that. He had done enough reconnaissance to know there was nothing unexpected waiting for him in Gotham and he was sure he had all the information about his former mentor that he needed. So the time had come to ruin William Earle’s day.

Bruce did not feel it necessary to revisit the university the next day, nor was it. He telephoned the school’s general number and was patched through to the German department, where he spoke to a Professor Liam O’Shaugnessy.

“You’re surprised that somebody with my name teaches German, am I right?” O’Shaugnessy asked in an accent that Bruce guessed was a mixture of Dublin and Brooklyn.

“Mildly, Dr. O’Shaugnessy.”

“Only ‘mildly’? Knocks most people out of their socks. What can I do for you? Got a question?”

Bruce asked for the meaning of the word “volkergedanken,” the word in the younger Cavally’s notes, and started to spell it.

“Hold the spelling bee. Don’t need it. Word’s kinda hard to wrap your head around but it means something like ‘local ideas.’ I think it was popularized by a guy named Adolph Bastien. He was a mythology guy. The idea is, basic myths are changed by local conditions. Anything else?”

Bruce said there was not and thanked the professor. The conversation had not yielded much useful information. Okay, Rā’s’s people created a mean deity because their living conditions were mean. Interesting, maybe, but irrelevant. Bruce still did not know much about the man who had been his mentor and now, perhaps, had been his enemy.

But maybe he knew enough.

Sergeant James Gordon squirmed in the front seat of the unmarked police car, and looked out the driver-side window at his partner, Flass, standing in front of a liquor store and shaking hands with its owner. It was late afternoon and they should have been back at the station house, but Flass had this stop to make.

Flass crossed the street, got into the driver’s seat, and held up a wad of currency.

“Don’t s’pose you want a taste?” he asked Gordon.

Gordon stared at Flass.

Flass grinned and began counting the money. “I keep offering ’cause who knows, maybe one day you’ll get wise.”

“Nothing wise in what you do, Flass.”

“Well, Jimbo, you don’t take your taste, makes us guys nervous you might decide to roll over.”

Gordon let his irritation creep into his voice. “I’m not a rat, Flass. If I were, I’d still be in Chicago. Besides, in a town this bent, who’s there to rat to?”

Flass laughed, started the car, and screeched down the street. Fifteen minutes later he braked in front of the station house. Gordon got out of the car and, his body sagging with weariness, watched Flass drive away.

Standing in the doorway of a tailor shop that was closed for the night, Bruce Wayne watched Gordon as Gordon had watched Flass.

Jim Gordon went up a flight of steps to the detective division on the second floor of the precinct house, ignoring the screaming from the ragged woman who had just been led to the front desk and the everpresent stink of smoke and stale humanity. He had a little paperwork to get done before he climbed into his ten-year-old sedan and drove home. Barbara would have a decent meal waiting, even if it was a meal that came from cans, and she’d ask him how his day went and he’d say fine. Like always. If it wasn’t too late, Jim would read his daughter a story and tuck her in. Maybe then he and Barbara would watch some TV.