Batman 5 - Batman Begins (19 page)

Ten minutes later, she dropped the paper onto her boss’s desk and grinned again as she watched Finch take in the picture of Falcone strapped to the harbor light.

“No way to bury it now,” Rachel said.

Finch raised his eyes. “Maybe so, but there’s Judge Faden . . .”

“I’ve got Faden covered.”

“And this ‘bat’ they’re babbling about . . .”

“Even if these guys’ll swear in court to being thrashed by a giant bat . . . we have Falcone at the scene. Drugs. Prints. Cargo manifests. This bat character gave us
everything.
”

Finch straightened the knot in his tie and said, “Well, then. Let’s get frying.”

At that moment, a block away, in the fortress-like stone edifice that housed Gotham Central Police Headquarters, Commissioner Loeb was holding up the
Gotham Times
and shouting to a conference room full of captains, sergeants, and lieutenants, including James Gordon.

“Unacceptable. I don’t care if it’s rival gangs, Guardian Angels, or the Salvation Army, get them off the street and off the front page.”

A captain named Simonson said, “They say it was only one guy . . . or thing.”

“Some nutcase in a costume,” Flass added.

Gordon raised his hand. “This guy
did
deliver to us one of the city’s biggest crime lords.”

Loeb glared at him. “No one takes the law into their own hands in
my
city, understand?”

Everyone nodded solemnly.

Alfred Pennyworth pulled open the curtains on the window of Wayne Manor’s master bedroom. The afternoon sun shone on the bed and the man lying in it.

Bruce Wayne blinked and said, “Bats are nocturnal.”

“Bats, perhaps,” Alfred said. “But even for billionaire playboys, three o’clock is pushing it. The price of leading a double life, I fear.”

Alfred picked up a tray from a sideboard and set it down on a table next to the bed. On it was a health shake, a bunch of grapes, an orange, a small knife, and that day’s
Gotham Times.

Alfred unfolded the paper and displayed the photo of Falcone strapped to the light. “Your theatrics made quite an impression.”

Bruce looked at the photo. “Theatrics and deception are powerful weapons, Alfred. It’s a start.”

He threw aside the bedding, rose, and stretched.

Alfred peered at the bruises on Bruce’s bare chest and arms. “If those are to be the first of many injuries . . . it would be wise to find a suitable excuse. Polo, for instance.”

“I’m not learning polo, Alfred.”

“Strange injuries, a nonexistent social life . . . these things beg the question of what, exactly, Bruce Wayne does with his time. And his money.”

Bruce sipped from the health shake. “What
does
someone like me do?”

“Drives sports cars, dates film actresses . . . Buys things that aren’t for sale.”

“Uh huh.” Bruce put the glass onto the tray and without pausing dropped to the rug and began doing push-ups, two per second.

“Economy of effort?”

Without stopping his push-ups, Bruce replied, “Not a good idea to waste anything,
including
effort.”

“You learned that abroad?”

“Among many other useful things.”

Alfred watched him for a while and then said, “Enjoyment was obviously not one of them. If you start
pretending
to have fun, you might even have a little by accident.”

“You think?”

That afternoon, Bruce backed a rented Chrysler into an airport fence. He told the security men that somehow he had lost control of the darn thing and that he was just back from Mount Tamalpais and had they ever been to the West Coast?

I
t was only seven forty-five in the morning and already William Earle was having a bad day. He had lost a bundle when overnight the Tokyo markets nosedived, his espresso machine was on the fritz, and he had a dull, throbbing ache in his temples.

Then Barry McFraland bustled into his office and things got worse.

McFraland planted himself in front of Earle’s desk and blurted, “We have a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

McFraland plopped down in a chair and scooted it close to the desk. “The Coast Guard picked up one of our cargo ships last night. Heavily damaged. Crew missing, probably dead.”

“What happened?”

“The ship was carrying a prototype weapon. A microwave emitter.”

“Which does what, exactly? Cook frozen pizza?”

McFraland uttered a single
ha,
acknowledging his boss’s joke but not really laughing, and continued. “It’s designed for desert warfare. It uses focused microwaves to vaporize the enemy’s water supply.”

“And?”

“It looks like someone fired it up.”

“What caused the damage?”

“The expansion of water into steam created an enormous pressure wave and everything exploded—pipes, boilers, drains . . .”

“Where’s the weapon?”

“That’s the
really
bad part. It’s missing.”

Bruce Wayne guided his Lamborghini Murcielago into the semicircular driveway of Puccio’s, a restaurant that occupied the top floor of the Gotham Arms. His turn was too wide and the car’s right tires went onto the curb and knocked over a potted plant. He jolted to a stop at the valet’s station. A uniformed attendant opened the driver’s door and Bruce emerged.

“They really ought to make these drives wider,” he said.

“Yessir, Mr. Wayne,” the attendant said. “Nice car.”

“You ought to see my
other
one.”

Another attendant opened the passenger door and two young women who called themselves Kiki and Sooze got out. They were petite, one brunette and one blond, spike-heeled, and both were wearing very short floral-print dresses.

Kiki took Bruce’s left arm while Sooze took his right and the trio entered the building through a revolving door dedicated to Puccio’s clientele and went up a modern glass elevator. They rode up to the fortieth floor and stepped into a glittering place of white linen, crystal, and silver tableware, and the aroma of richly sauced dishes. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave the diners a view of downtown Gotham City’s millions of lights. A sculptured fountain with a pool at its center ran along one whole side of the establishment. There was a low murmur of conversation and the
plink
of spoons and forks against china.

A tuxedoed maître d’ led Bruce, Kiki, and Sooze to William Earle’s table, where dinner was already under way.

Earle and four other people, two men and two women, were already enjoying their appetizers.

Bruce smiled a hello as he and the two women sat.

There was an animated conversation already in progress between an expensively dressed, middle-aged man and the much younger woman who was obviously his wife. For several minutes, Bruce joined the chitchat, which eventually turned to the crime situation in Gotham and the mysterious vigilante newly arrived in the city. Everyone except the young wife seemed to think that this masked do-gooder was a nutcase.

“Well, he may be . . .
unorthodox,”
the young wife said. “But at least he’s getting something done.”

“Bruce, help me out here,” her husband said.

“A guy who dresses up like a bat clearly has
issues,
” Bruce said.

“But he put Falcone behind
bars
,” the young wife protested.

“And now the cops are trying to bring
him
in,” the husband said. “What does
that
tell you?”

“They’re jealous?” the wife asked sweetly.

As Bruce and the other dinner guests conversed, Kiki and Sooze quietly left the table and headed to the fountain. The two women slipped out of their dresses and lowered themselves, giggling, into the pool.

The horrified maître d’ hurried toward Bruce. “Sir, the pool is for
decoration
and . . . your friends do not have swimwear.”

“Well, they’re European,” Bruce explained.

The maître d’ looked around, as though seeking help, and said, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Bruce took a checkbook from an inner pocket, uncapped a gold fountain pen, and began writing.

“It’s not a question of money,” the maître d’ protested.

Bruce tore a check from the book and gave it to the maître d’. “Take this to your boss. I just bought this hotel—and as of now, I’m making some new rules about the pool area.”

As the waiter stared at the check, Bruce walked to the pool. Kiki and Sooze grabbed his jacket and pulled him in beside them.

Later, dressed in robes they had gotten from one of the hotel’s shops, their hair still wet, Bruce, Kiki, and Sooze presented themselves at the valet station.

“Bruce?” someone called.

Bruce turned and saw Rachel by the cab stand. She was wearing a cocktail dress, her shoulders bare, and looked stunning.

“Hello, Rachel,” Bruce said.

“I heard you were back.” Rachel looked at Bruce’s robe. “What are you doing?”

“Just . . . swimming. It’s good to see you.”

“You were gone a long time.”

“I know. How are things with you?”

“The same. The job’s getting worse.”

“You can’t change the world on your own.”

“No. I guess not. But what choice do I have? You’re busy swimming.”

Bruce lowered his head and spoke in a near whisper. “Rachel, all this . . . it’s not all I am. Inside, I’m different.”

An attendant parked the Lamborghini at the curb.

“Come
on,
Brucie,” Kiki called, stamping her foot. “We have more hotels for you to buy.”

Rachel started to walk away. She stopped, looked back at Bruce, and said, “Deep,
deep down,
you may be the same great little kid you used to be . . . but it’s not who you are underneath—it’s what you do that defines you.”

Bruce got into the Lamborghini and told Kiki and Sooze that maybe they’d better make an early night of it.

Rachel’s night was ruined. For just a moment, she thought that maybe there was some hope for Bruce. For just a moment, he was a grown-up version of the earnest child she had known so long ago. Then he reverted to being someone she would cross the street to avoid.

She glanced at her watch.
Whatshisname
. . . her date—was he an investment banker?—something like that . . . He should have been here a half hour ago. She’d give him another five minutes.

At nine the next morning, Dr. Jonathan Crane unfolded his long, lanky body from the front seat of a Lincoln Town Car, got a briefcase from the backseat, and crossed an asphalt lot to the front gate of the Gotham County Jail. The man inside the guardhouse peered at him through the Plexiglas window. Recognizing him, the guard buzzed Crane in. He went past another guardhouse, was buzzed through another door, and was met just inside the main building by the warden.

“Dr. Crane, thank you for coming down,” the warden said.

“Not at all. So he cut his wrists?”

“Probably looking for an insanity plea, but if anything happened . . .”

Crane patted the warden’s shoulder. “Of course. Better safe than sorry.”

She escorted Crane through a series of barred doors to a narrow chamber deep inside the jail.

“Would you like me to stay?” the warden asked.

“That won’t be necessary,” Crane replied with another reassuring pat. “The therapeutic process is best conducted in private.”

She hesitated. “I guess it’ll be okay . . . If anything happens, holler. A guard’ll be within earshot.”

Crane entered the room and sat at a Masonite table across from Carmine Falcone. Falcone held up his bandaged wrists and smiled.

“Oh, poor me, Dr. Crane,” he whined. “It’s all too much, the walls are closing in, blah blah blah.” He laughed and in his normal voice continued. “Couple more days of this food it’ll be true.”

Crane leaned forward. “What do you want?”

“I wanna know how you’re gonna convince me to keep my mouth shut.”

“About what? You don’t know anything.”

“Well, yeah, I do. For instance, I know you wouldn’t want the cops taking a closer look at the drugs they seized. I know about your experiments on the inmates at your nuthouse. I don’t get into business with someone without finding out their dirty secrets. Those goons you hired . . . listen, I
own
the muscle in this town.”

Now it was Falcone who leaned forward, until his eyes were inches from Crane’s. “I’ve been smuggling your stuff in for
months,
so whatever he’s got planned, it’s big. And I want in.”

Crane contemplated Falcone and sighed. “I already know what he’ll say. That we should kill you.”

“Even he can’t touch me in here. Not in my town.”

“There’s something I’d like you to see.”

Crane placed his briefcase on the table between them and pulled from it an odd contraption: a breathing apparatus attached to a piece of burlap with eye-holes cut in it. “I use it in my experiments. Probably not very frightening to a guy like you. But those crazies . . .”

Falcone shifted in his chair and inched away from the table. Crane pulled the mask over his head; he looked like he should be standing in a cornfield somewhere.

Falcone sneered. “When did the nut take over the asylum?”