Batman 6 - The Dark Knight (15 page)

A dark shape struck the glass directly in front of the mayor’s face, cracking it. Dent strode to the mayor’s side, looked outside, and gasped. A man in Batman garb was dangling from a rope around his neck. He
had
to be dead. There was a playing card, a Joker, pinned to his chest with a knife.

Dent could read the writing on the card:

WILL THE REAL BATMAN
PLEASE STAND UP?

It took most of the night to identify the murdered pseudo-Batman. The fingerprints weren’t in the system, and nobody seemed to have a dental chart for him. At midnight, someone got around to checking the missing persons file, and there it was, the identity they’d all been seeking: Brian Douglas, late of north Gotham.

A
cross town, Bruce Wayne was entering the living room of his penthouse where Alfred was arranging canapés on a sideboard. A television in the corner tuned to a newscast and turned very low.

“How’s it going?” Bruce asked.

“I think your fund-raiser will be a great success, sir.”

“Alfred, why do you think I wanted to hold a party for Harvey Dent?”

“I assumed it was your usual reason for socializing beyond myself and the scum of Gotham’s underbelly—to try to impress Miss Dawes. Oh, and perhaps to prepare Mr. Dent for taking on that mantle you mentioned.”

“Very droll. But only half-right. Actually, it’s Dent. You see . . .”

Bruce’s voice trailed off as something on the television caught his attention; a Batman hanging from a rope with a question splashed across the bottom of the screen:

BATMAN DEAD?

Bruce picked up a remote and raised the volume. The image changed, from the macabre corpse to a well-coiffed anchorman who was saying: “Police released video footage found concealed on the body. Sensitive viewers be aware—it
is
disturbing.”

The anchorman was gone and in his place, a badly lit picture of a blindfolded man wearing a makeshift Batman costume. The man’s face beneath the mask and blindfold was bruised and bloody. He spoke in a rasp: “Name . . . Brian Douglas.”

An off-screen voice: “Are you the real Batman?”

“No.”

“Why do you dress up like him?”

“He’s a symbol . . . that we don’t have to be afraid . . . of scum like you . . .”

“But you do, Brian. You really do. You think the Batman’s helped Gotham?”

Brian nodded.

“Look at me, Brian.
Look at me!”

Brian looked up, and the camera panned from him to the Joker, in chalk white makeup, a red smear of lipstick across his scars.

The Joker cackled, and said,
“This
is how crazy Batman’s made Gotham. You want order? Batman has to go. Batman has to take off his mask and turn himself in. Every day he doesn’t . . . people will die. Starting tonight. I’m a man of my word.”

The screen was blank for a moment, then the anchorman resumed his report. Bruce and Alfred looked at each other, but neither said a word.

Finally, Bruce asked, “Your computer setup recorded what we just saw?”

“The device would have been activated by the word ‘Batman,’ ” Alfred replied.

“Good. Let’s pull the Joker’s voice from the tape. It might come in handy later.”

At ten minutes after nine that night, Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes got out of an elevator. Dent stopped, scanning the area in front of him, a lavish room almost as big as a basketball court filled with dozens of people, each wearing thousands of dollars worth of clothing and jewelry. Tuxedoed waiters circulated through the crowd offering food and drink from silver trays.

Rachel looked up at Dent. “Now I’ve seen it all—Harvey Dent, scourge of the underworld, scared stiff by the trust fund brigade.”

Rachel waved at someone—Dent couldn’t tell who—and scurried off.

Alfred appeared at Dent’s elbow, holding a tray of drinks, and asked, “A little liquid courage, Mr. Dent?”

“No thanks. You’re Alfred, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rachel talks about you all the time. You’ve known her her whole life?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Any psychotic ex-boyfriends I should be aware of?”

“Oh, you have
no
idea.”

Alfred left Dent still standing in front of the elevators and went off to mingle with the partygoers. There was a
chup chup chup
sound that grew steadily louder, and the crowd moved to the french doors that opened onto a wide terrace. A twin-rotored helicopter descended from a cloudy sky and, with a slight shudder, came to rest on a heli-pad above the terrace. A side door slid back and Bruce Wayne, accompanied by a bevy of tall, sleek women wearing colorful cocktail dresses, crossed the terrace and entered the penthouse. He smiled and waved and when he saw Dent, still standing by the elevators, strode across the room and shook the district attorney’s hand.

“Sorry I’m late,” Bruce said. “Glad you started without me. Where’s Rachel?”

Bruce saw Rachel talking to a woman with silver hair piled high atop her head, and raised his voice to address the room: “Rachel Dawes, my oldest friend. When she told me she was dating Harvey Dent, I had one thing to say . . . the guy from those god-awful campaign commercials?”

There was a ripple of laughter. Dent shifted his weight and stared at the floor.

“ ‘I believe in Harvey Dent,’ ” Bruce continued. The room was now quiet except for his voice. “Nice Slogan, Harvey. Certainly caught Rachel’s attention. But then I started paying attention to Harvey and all he’s been doing as our new DA, and you know what?
I
believe in Harvey Dent. On his watch, Gotham can feel a little safer. A little more optimistic. So get our your checkbooks and let’s make sure he stays where all of Gotham wants him . . . All except the criminals, of course.” Bruce took a glass from a passing waiter and raised it. “To the face of Gotham’s bright future—Harvey Dent.” Dent raised his eyes and smiled at the crowd, accepting the toast.

While Bruce Wayne and Harvey Dent were basking in the approval of Gotham City’s elite, James Gordon and Anna Ramirez were squinting down at a sheet of paper that lay flat on Gordon’s desk.

“The card the Joker pinned to the murdered man’s body,” Ramirez said. “Forensics found three sets of DNA.”

“Any matches?” Gordon asked.

“All three. The DNA belongs to Judge Surillo, Harvey Dent, and Commissioner Loeb.”

“The Joker’s telling us who he’s targeting. Get a unit to Surillo’s house, tell Wuertz to find Dent. Get them both into protective custody. Where’s the commissioner?”

“City Hall.”

“Seal the building. No one in or out till I get there.”

Bruce Wayne’s party was in full swing. Most of the glittering crowd were visibly enjoying the food and drink, air-kissing casual acquaintances, gathering in knots of three or four chatting quietly or laughing. Bruce himself was on the terrace staring out at the lights of the city. Rachel Dawes passed through the French doors and joined him.

“Harvey may not know you well enough to know when you’re making fun of him, but I do,” Rachel said.

Bruce shook his head. “I meant every word.” He moved closer to Rachel and rested his hand lightly on her shoulder. “The day you told me about, the day when Gotham no longer needs Batman . . . it’s coming.”

“You can’t ask me to wait for that,” Rachel whispered.

Bruce grasped both of Rachel’s upper arms and stared down into her face, “It’s happening now. Harvey is that hero. He locked up half the city’s criminals, and he did it without wearing a mask. Gotham
needs
a hero with a face.”

Harvey Dent moved through the glass doors and onto the terrace. His voice was jovial: “You can throw a party, Wayne, I’ll give you that. Thanks again. Mind if I borrow Rachel?”

Rachel moved from Bruce to Dent and, with a single, swift backward glance, went inside.

They threaded their way through the remaining partiers, pausing to shake a hand here, speak a word there, until they reached the kitchen. Dent stood leaning against a tall, stainless-steel refrigerator, and Rachel took a place across from him, her back to a butcher block.

“You
cannot
leave me on my own with these people,” he said smiling, but with an edge in his voice.

“The whole mob’s after you, and you’re worried about
these
guys,” Rachel said, her brows rising.

“Compared to this, the mob doesn’t scare me. Although I will say . . . them gunning for you makes me see things clearly.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. It makes you think about what you couldn’t stand losing. And who you want to spend the rest of your life with.”

“The rest of your life, huh? That’s a pretty big commitment.”

“Not if the mob has their way.”

“Harvey, that’s not funny.”

“Okay, then let’s be serious. What’s your answer?”

Rachel lifted her chin and stared at Dent’s face. “I don’t have an answer.”

Downtown, at City Hall, James Gordon and a retinue of detectives jostled their way through a throng of reporters and cameramen and entered the office of Commissioner Perry Loeb.

Loeb, behind his desk, looked up angrily. “Gordon, what are you playing at?”

Gordon ignored him and checked the office windows. Then he turned to the detectives who had accompanied him, and said, “We’re secure. I want a floor-by-floor search of the entire building.” He watched the detectives file out and turned to Loeb. “I’m sorry, sir. We believe the Joker has made a threat against your life.”

“Gordon, you’re unlikely to discover this for yourself, so take my word for it—the police commissioner earns a lot of threats.” Loeb took a decanter half-full of amber liquid and a crystal tumbler from a drawer. “You get to explain to my wife why I’m late for dinner.”

“Sir,” Gordon said a bit too loudly, “the Joker card had a trace of
your
DNA on it—”

“How’d they get my DNA?” Loeb demanded.

“Somebody with access to your house or office must’ve lifted a tissue or a glass . . .”

Gordon stopped, then took two swift steps to the desk, reaching for the glass that Loeb was draining.

“Wait!”
Gordon shouted.

But Loeb had already dropped the tumbler, spilling the liquid onto the wooden desktop which began to smoke as Loeb grabbed his throat. He made a few gurgling sounds and within seconds he was dead.

Two heavyset men in gray suits left a blue sedan illegally parked and ran up the steps of a brownstone in Gotham Heights, a neighborhood with a reputation for bohemian that hadn’t been deserved for fifty years. Judge Surillo, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, opened the door and listened as the two detectives explained why she needed protection.

“Gordon wants me to go right now?” the judge asked.

“Right now,” said the first detective. “Don’t bother to pack.”

“These are dangerous people,” said the second detective. “Even
we
don’t know where you’re going.” He handed Surillo a sealed envelope. “This’ll tell you where you’re headed.”

Judge Surillo, flanked by the two officers, both of whom scanned the adjoining houses and the street and were holding their pistols, went to the curb and helped the judge into the car.

“Now, let’s see,” Surillo said, opening the envelope with a forefinger. She pulled out a sheet of paper with a single word printed on it:
UP
.

Orange flame gouted from the car as it was lifted off the pavement by the force of the explosion.

There was no longer anything festive about Bruce Wayne’s fund-raiser. For several minutes, the guests had been answering their cell phones or reading text messages, and their smiles were vanishing, replaced by expressions of anxiety. But no one left. Apparently they believed that there was safety in numbers.

Alfred turned on the massive flat screen television and tuned it to a cable news channel. The anchorman confirmed what the partygoers already knew.

Bruce got out his cell phone and speed-dialed a number. He stepped into a spare bedroom, spoke his name and listened, then asked, “Surillo
and
Loeb?”

Meanwhile the door of the private elevator slid open, and the Joker stepped out, holding a shotgun and followed by several other armed men.

“Good evening,” the Joker said, racking a shell into the gun’s firing chamber. “We’re the entertainment.”

Rachel and Dent weren’t aware of what was happening a few feet away in the living room, nor, apparently, of anything in the world except each other. They had barely moved in the five minutes since Rachel had not accepted Dent’s proposal,

Dent sighed, and said, finally, “I guess no answer isn’t ‘no.’ ”

“I’m sorry, Harvey. I just—”

“It’s someone else, isn’t it? Just tell me it’s not Wayne. The guy’s a complete—”

Bruce stepped silently from behind the refrigerator. Rachel’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to say something, but Bruce was already using his fingers to press three spots on Dent’s skull. Dent slumped over, and Bruce caught him.

“What are you doing?” Rachel finally managed to ask.

“They’ve come for him,” Bruce replied, and now there was nothing of the playboy in his manner.

Bruce put Dent in a pantry closet and shoved a broom through the handles.