Batman 5 - Batman Begins (26 page)

The truck and another vehicle were at the front of the house. Therefore, it seemed likely that the greatest opposition would be encountered there. Perhaps there would be fewer potential obstacles at the
rear,
near the greenhouse and the old well. Moving as quickly as his somewhat arthritic bones allowed, Alfred circled the house, keeping just outside the glow cast by the fire. He paused and squinted. He could see only one man, who was standing, arms akimbo, in the courtyard by the kitchen door.

He approached the guard from the rear and swung the nine iron at the man’s back and the metal connected with skin and bone and made a sickening
clunk,
and the man dropped to the grass. Alfred stared. It was justified, what he had just done, and even necessary, but it was also bestially violent and he was deeply shocked that he had been capable of it, had done it without thinking. Perhaps that was the reason he had been able to do it: He had acted without thought.

But had he killed a man?

He knelt, placed two fingers on the man’s neck, and
—thank heaven
—felt a pulse.

A bit of flaming debris landed on the grass nearby and smoldered briefly. Well! That reminded Alfred that work had to be done! It wouldn’t get any easier, putting it off!

He ran into the house.

It was as though he had run into a wall, so intense was the heat. The air was sucked from his lungs and he stopped dead in his tracks. Then there was a muffled
whumpf
and Alfred was flung backward, out through the door into the garden. He surmised that the cooking gas had just ignited and thus the explosion. Through the door he could see what appeared to be a solid wall of flame. No getting into the manor
that
way, not anymore!

But the greenhouse . . . ?

He went into the glass structure and . . . yes! There were a couple of old blankets, too worn to be used inside, but put here in case some botanical use might be found for them. And he had personally supervised the reinstallation of the plumbing; he knew the water faucets were functioning. And indeed they were! He soaked the blankets until they were saturated, wrapped them around his head, filled his lungs with cool air, and getting a running start, again ventured into the inferno. This time, thanks to the blankets, he was able to penetrate the fiery wall and, choking and coughing, made his way into the long corridor that skirted the ballroom. He tried to call Bruce’s name, but his voice was a thin rasp, inaudible in the roar and crackle all around him. Nothing to do but soldier on!

A few yards farther, he saw the young man on the floor, mostly hidden by a heavy oak beam. Alfred knelt by him, and as loudly as he was able, croaked,
“Master Bruce!”

Bruce’s eyelids fluttered and his lips parted. Alfred wrung a bit of moisture from the corner of one of the blankets. The water dropped into Bruce’s mouth and his eyes came fully open.

Alfred began: “Sir, I’m afraid—”

“I know, Alfred.”

Bruce twisted his body. The beam did not move.

“Can’t budge it,” Bruce whispered.

Alfred injected a modicum of exasperation into what was left of his voice. “Sir, whatever is the point of all those push-ups if you can’t even—”

“Can it, Alfred,” Bruce said, and got his palms under the beam. He bent his knees, exhaled loudly, and pushed.

The beam inched upward, but not far enough. Alfred lay next to Bruce and put his hands on the beam. Together, they strained. The beam moved, not much, but Bruce rolled out from under it. The beam dropped to the floor.

Bruce managed to stand, swayed, then fell.

“Very well,” Alfred said. He put one of the blankets around Bruce, grabbed him beneath the armpits, and dragged him to the mirror near the piano. He played the four notes—
Thank the stars that the fire had not yet damaged
this
delicate mechanism!
—and the mirror swung on its hinges. Alfred pulled Bruce into the hidden passageway and onto the elevator. Shrugging off the blanket, now almost completely dry, he pushed a button and heard the generator start somewhere. The lights below flickered on. With a creak, the elevator began to descend into the cave.

The air became cooler and Alfred could again breathe normally. The elevator jolted to a stop and as it did, Alfred heard a deafening crash. Fragments of dirt and stone rained down around him and he realized that the house must have collapsed.

Bruce stirred and, leaning against the side of the elevator, got to his feet. Alfred helped him to the workbench. Bruce looked up at the ceiling. There were tears in his eyes.

“What have I done, Alfred? Everything my family . . . my father built . . .”

Alfred was tugging off Bruce’s jacket. The white shirt beneath was stained with blood. Alfred tried to speak, but could not. He coughed, and tried again: “The Wayne legacy is more than bricks and mortar, sir.”

Alfred tore Bruce’s shirt off and peered at a gash on Bruce’s side, sticky with congealing blood.

“I thought I could help Gotham,” Bruce said. “But I’ve failed.”

Alfred ripped a long strip from the shirt and began to wind it around the wound. Without looking up from his task, he asked, “And why do we fall, sir?”

Alfred knotted the improvised bandage and answered his own question. “So that we might better learn to pick ourselves up.”

“Still haven’t given up on me?”

“Never.”

A
t first, Rachel had wondered if she was in any condition to drive. She still could not separate what was real from what was imagined about the wild drive and chase through the city, but she had vivid and accurate memories of everything that had preceded it. And she remembered the cavern and the masked man who had saved her: that was clear in her mind. But she
had
been drugged, twice, and maybe she was still suffering after-effects, not fit to be behind the wheel. No, she
had
been given an antidote and, besides, she felt okay.
Better
than okay; she was rested and her senses were sharp and clear.

And she had to find Gordon.

She needed transportation, desperately, but her car was still parked near the asylum in the Narrows, miles away. But her mother’s wasn’t. No cabs on the street, not this late, but her mother’s condo was only a mile and a half away and Rachel ran in the park as often as her schedule permitted.

She began to jog and, after two blocks, quickened her pace to a run. Eighteen minutes later, she was talking to a graying woman in a nightgown, her mom, who was at first angry at being awakened and, when she had finished rubbing her eyes and splashing cold water on her face, worried, Rachel assured her that, no, everything was okay, she just needed to borrow a car for an hour or two. Five minutes after that she was driving her mom’s ancient gas guzzler from a garage beneath the condo.

It was almost midnight by the time she arrived at the Narrows. From several blocks away, she saw police flashers clustered around the bridge to the Narrows. As she approached it, a red-faced cop with a beer belly held up a warning hand. Rachel braked and rolled down her window.

The cop put a forearm on the car’s roof and leaned toward her. “Look, lady, we’re about to raise the bridges. You won’t have time to get back over.”

Rachel fumbled in her purse and found her ID, which she held in front of the cop’s face. “Officer, I’m a Gotham City district attorney with information relevant to this situation, so please let me pass.”

“Let me talk to my sergeant,” the cop said. “You’ll have to leave your car here.”

For an hour, Gordon, Flass, and two uniforms had been prowling the streets and alleys of the Narrows, aware that citizens were peering at them from windows and porches. Then Gordon’s flashlight beam hit a man dressed in Arkham Asylum coveralls, cowering behind a Dumpster. The inmate began to hop away on one foot and Flass said to Gordon, “Keep your light on him.”

Flass brought the inmate down with a tackle.

“Harassment, I see harassment,” someone yelled from a backyard.

Flass pointed his gun at the nosy neighbor. “Wanna see excess force?”

Gordon pushed Flass’s gun down. “Flass, cool it!”

Gordon stood the inmate on his feet and cuffed him.

The inmate began to whimper.

“Take it easy,” Gordon told him.

“Hey, Gordon,” one of the uniforms shouted, “somebody to see you.”

Gordon flashed his light up the street and saw Rachel Dawes, from the D.A.’s office, coming toward him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her.

“Our . . . mutual friend sent me with this.” She took the two syringes from her purse. “These counteract Crane’s toxin. One is for you, and the other is to start mass production in case things get worse.”

Gordon accepted the syringes.

“Hopefully you won’t need them,” Rachel said.

“I won’t. Not unless the perps have some way of getting it into the air. Okay, Ms. Dawes, thanks. Now you’d better get off the island before they raise the bridges.”

Gordon motioned to the cop, who led Rachel back into the darkness.

The word had finally come through; finally, the cops had permission to raise the bridges. Sergeant Harry Bilkie, who had been waiting for an hour, hung his walkie-talkie on his belt and went into the cramped iron cabin that housed the bridge controls.

A police van tore up the avenue and squealed to a stop. Harry gave it the once-over: regular cop van.

“You guys gotta get across?” he shouted.

“In a hurry,” the driver shouted back.

“Okay, last one,” Harry said, and waved the van on.

Harry waited until he saw the van’s taillights vanish, then pulled a lever. The bridge split in half and each side began to pivot upward.

Harry spoke into his walkie-talkie. “South side’s up.”

There was a squawk and three other voices reported that the north and west sides were up, too, and the tunnel was closed. The Narrows was completely cut off from the rest of the city.

Someone had finally seen the fire on the Wayne property and made the necessary call. The engines from the nearest station arrived ninety minutes after the blaze had been started and the engines from the second nearest did not arrive until almost two hours had passed. The firemen went through the motions of pumping some water onto the conflagration, but realistically, they knew there was nothing they could do except, as one of them said, “Break out the marshmallows and call the insurance company.”

In the vast, dim cavern underneath the remains of Wayne Manor, Bruce Wayne was transforming himself. He seemed to be in no hurry. He put on the flexible tunic, the tights, the boots, the graphite cowl, and the cape. He thrust his hands into the scalloped gloves and buckled the wide, compartmented belt around his waist.

For a moment, he looked up at the bats, barely visible, fluttering among the stalactites. Then he turned to Alfred, who had been watching him, and said, “This might be the Batman’s last ride.”

“Then I suggest you make it a good one.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Batman strode to the Batmobile, climbed into the cabin, and started the engine. It roared, and the bats swarmed from their hiding places.

A few seconds later, the vehicle erupted from behind the waterfall and sped into the night.

Rachel followed the cop down the alley, which ended in a square at the base of a monorail tower. She saw a SWAT van parked nearby and several uniformed, vested men deployed in the area, looking up at the monorail track. A little boy, about six, with blond hair falling in a cowlick over his forehead was tugging at the sleeve of one of the SWATs.

“I can’t find my mom,” the boy said.

The SWAT shoved the boy, who stumbled backward and fought to maintain his balance. Rachel ran to him and put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“What the hell are you doing?” she snapped at the SWAT

The SWAT ignored her and as Rachel held the boy’s hand she shouted at the SWAT “Hey, you. Look at me!”

The SWAT turned, drew a pistol from his holster, and aimed it at Rachel.

“Gentlemen!” It was a voice new to Rachel: deep, grave, impressive. She saw a tall man with deep-set, burning eyes under a ledge of brow step from the rear of the van. Behind him, there was a bulky industrial machine of some sort.