Wayne of Gotham (10 page)

“Horowitz?” Thomas stopped. “He's the chief of staff. What does he want with an intern?”

“I wouldn't know, sir,” Jarvis answered with diffidence.

Thomas drew in a long, tired breath. “Okay, Jarvis. I'm going upstairs to try to excavate a clean, doctor-to-be from this wreck of a night on the town. Would you see that the car is put away? I'll drive the Buick back to Gotham. Did my father say when I was supposed to meet with Dr. Horowitz?”

“He said that he had arranged the appointment for you at ten o'clock this morning with Dr. Horowitz and that you were not to be late.”

“Fine,” Thomas said, pulling off his tie. “Anything else?”

“Yes, Master Thomas,” Jarvis continued. “Dr. Horowitz's office called to confirm your appointment and said they wanted you to keep your afternoon calendar clear. Dr. Horowitz wants you to meet a gentleman by the name of Dr. Richter.”

“Ernst Richter?” Thomas frowned in thought.

“Yes, sir; I do believe that was the name the gentleman gave,” Jarvis said in his flat, British tones.

Thomas pushed back the tails of his dinner jacket and jammed his hands into his tuxedo pants. “Richter is a research chemist working on special projects. He's got a reputation as a screwball, but his work was being discussed in our graduate year. Something really out of this world about virus mutation, as I recall. I wonder why Horowitz wants me to meet him?”

“Again, sir, I wouldn't know.”

Wayne Manor / Bristol / 6:29 a.m. / Present Day

“
… was of course the first morning that we met at Gotham University Hospital. I had only met Denholm Sinclair the night before. How could I possibly have known that within three months of our …”

Bruce Wayne sat at the table in the kitchen and turned the page over. He had reached the end of the pages found on the podium. Obviously, more were missing. He waited patiently, shuffling the sheets of paper again and again as the old pendulum clock ticked against the wall. It was nearly four o'clock.

He is a creature of habit. He will be here.

The door to the kitchen opened.

“Alfred?”

The old man was visibly startled, nearly dropping a bag of groceries.

“You always cook on Sundays,” Bruce said from where he sat, still gazing at the yellowed papers in his hands without seeing them. “You could have dinner brought in from any restaurant in town and have hired and fired more cooks than I can remember—but you've always, always insisted on cooking my dinner on Sunday at four o'clock. I used to set my watch by it.”

“Old habits are the hardest to break, Mr. Wayne.” Alfred stood in the doorway, looking at Bruce. “It was always a pleasure to cook for the Waynes.”

“The Pennyworths have served in this house a long time,” Bruce nodded, still shuffling the dry, yellowed papers. “Haven't they, Alfred?”

“My grandfather was the first to serve this house, yes, sir,” Alfred replied, walking over to the counter and setting the bag down carefully.

“But your father served my father, did he not?”

Alfred was pulling fresh vegetables from the paper bag, his back to Bruce. “For a time, sir. He served the family from 1946 until I assumed his stewardship in 1967.”

“So you were ten years old in 1957,” Bruce continued, shifting the papers front to back continually examining each page in turn. “Do you remember much about that time, Alfred? Do you remember my father?”

Alfred stopped his work, putting both hands on the counter, his back still turned to Bruce. “He was a great man, Master Wayne.”

“So now I'm back in short pants again, eh?” Bruce said without a smile. “Well, Alfred, tell me if you know anything about this Dr. Richter.”

Bruce watched the elder man with a studied eye. Alfred did not move a muscle for a heartbeat and then spoke.

“I don't recall the name, sir,” Alfred said.

“It's right here,” Bruce said, his voice flat. “Correspondence between my father and this Dr. Richter. It seems to be about my father's early life. I just thought that if I could find this Richter—”

“He is dead, Master Bruce,” Alfred said abruptly. “I recall now that he did some work with your father, but he died when I was young. It was a long time ago, Master Bruce—and if I may suggest, there is nothing to be gained by looking into this.”

“You think I should drop it?”

“The past is the past—and we have troubles enough in our own time. Your father was upset at the passing of a friend, if memory serves me, and that was about all there was to it.”

“Ah, that explains it,” Bruce said, folding up the papers and slipping them into the pocket of his jacket as he got up. “Thanks, Alfred.”

“Sorry, but I just don't recall much more than that,” Alfred said, turning with a smile.

Bruce nodded and walked away, knowing they had both finished with a lie.

Wayne Tower / Gotham / 10:49 p.m. / Present Day

The shadow near the crest of Wayne Tower stood motionless astride the carved head of an eagle jutting out from the upper bulwarks of the dark structure stabbing into the night sky.

The shadow watched over the city.

The streets were broad threads of light far below, weaving the fabric of Gotham at night. The skyscrapers stood out with their illuminated windows—not nearly so many lit up as there were earlier in the evening, but enough to suggest the outlines of their towering, dark forms. The silhouetted figure had chosen the northern face for his perch, affording him an unobstructed view over the lesser buildings of the Diamond District and Robinson Park beyond. Each of the bridges crossing over the Finger River, linking the downtown districts with Midtown, were jammed with evening traffic. Some were moving north toward the theater and dining district near Burnley in Uptown, while the southbound traffic was most likely headed toward some of the more trendy dining in the renovated areas of the Financial District waterfront or in Chinatown. Many may simply be escaping the downtown environs of Gotham, searching out the different bridges leading out of the city proper. Beyond Robinson Park were the high-rise buildings of Coventry District, hiding from view the dark towers of Arkham Asylum.

The city was filled with life tonight, busy and bustling beneath him, but for the Batman, this was his temple of peace, far more of a sanctuary than the Batcave or his reclusive home. Here, or atop a number of different vantage points he cherished above the city, he could rest his soul, watch over the city he treasured, and, in his vigilance, know that balance had, for the moment, been achieved. In every other place he felt himself in constant motion, anxious and restless. But here, holding perfectly still in the night with the city spread below his watchful gaze, he could stop and allow himself the luxury of contemplation and true rest.

Here, he thought, was balance in watchfulness.

But tonight the balance would not come.

He let his eye wander over the city, and it came to rest for the first time in a long time beyond the shores of Gotham, upon the dark rolling hills of Bristol across the river and the dim glimmer of flickering light, obstructed by haze and distance, of the Wayne Estate.

The papers he had recovered from the corpse of Dr. Moon—his father's papers—and their words took him back more than a half century to the grand paneled office now six stories beneath his perch.

Wayne Tower / Gotham / 11:28 a.m. / October 5, 1957

Thomas stood before the familiar burled wood paneling that decorated the enormous art deco doors. He reached up without thinking to adjust his tie yet again and then, realizing what he was doing, sighed in frustration, clasped his hands together behind his back, and tried consciously to slow down his shallow breaths.

“Mr. Wayne will see you now, Thomas.”

“Thank you, Liz,” Thomas said to the secretary behind the desk. She had been with his father for as long as he could remember, though he could not recall her last name. She wore her mouse-brown hair pulled back into a tight bun and wore an enormous set of horn-rimmed glasses. She always wore the same gray business suit in the office. Thomas had given up speculating just how many of this same outfit she must have in her closet. She was a virtuoso when it came to the enormous, complex intercom box sitting at the corner of her desk, and both her stenographic and typing skills were legendary. Still, he thought she might appreciate some human interaction. “It's nice to see you again.”

“Best not to keep him waiting,” she replied evenly.

I guess not.
Thomas shrugged, turned toward the twelve-foot-tall double doors and pulled the left one open. He knew his father always kept the right one closed with locking pins at the top and bottom. Visitors always chose the wrong door when entering. It was more than an amusement to his father, of course; it was another way of putting everyone else off balance.

The office extended upward two stories, a vaulting space of art deco extravagance. A large globe sat on the floor in its frame beneath the built-in bookcase lining the right wall of the room, it opened into a bar the elder Wayne found convenient both for clients and for personal use. The books were an elegant selection, although so far as Thomas knew, his father had never once deigned to take one of them down from their perfectly organized shelves. The opposite wall featured a gallery of painting, an eclectic collection of original Matisses, Monets, and Renoirs that had been purchased more as an investment than for any appreciation of the art involved. At the far end, opposite the doors, an enormous cherrywood desk, highly polished, sat before a towering glass window rising up to the full height of the room. Two overstuffed, red-leather chairs sat facing the desk like stooped acolytes in prayer. The high-fidelity stereo system lay dormant. The only sound in the room was a chattering of ticker tape near the desk, behind which sat a swivel chair, its winged back facing Thomas.

It was the cathedral of Patrick Wayne, Thomas thought, and he always felt like an infidel when he entered it.

The chair swiveled around silently, its occupant deigning to acknowledge the young man's presence at last.

“You're late.”

Not late enough
, Thomas thought. “Dr. Horowitz kept me longer than expected … and good afternoon to you, too, Father.”

“Good afternoon, then,” Patrick answered with a single, humorless chortle. Patrick Wayne's shoulders were still broad but had become somewhat bowed with time and the weight of carrying Wayne Enterprises. His hair had gone white and was thinning perceptibly at the crown. His large hands had grown somewhat gnarled with arthritis, but they still looked strong enough to tear the Gotham phone book in half twice. His tone was casual, even pleasant. “I trust you had a good time last night?”

“Yes, thank you,” Thomas crossed the long floor over to stand in front of his father's desk. “It was Martha Kane's party.”

“From what I hear, she has a lot of them,” Patrick said, and seeing his son's look, he raised a hand. “No, I don't mean anything by it. She's always been a spirited girl, Thomas, you know that. Sit down. I think it's about time we talked, you and I.”

Thomas raised his eyebrow and then sat down on the arm of one of the leather chairs. He had learned long ago that his father had a full inch cut off the bottom of these chairs just to ensure that anyone who sat there would be slightly below his eye level. “What would you like to talk about, sir?”

Patrick reached across the desk, pulling a large folder out of a stack and opening it in front of him. “Well, actually it's about Martha Kane … and the company she keeps.”

“Sir, you are way out of line.”

“Damn it, boy, stop talking and pay attention for once,” Patrick barked, picking up the sheaf of papers in front of him. A number of black-and-white photographs spilled out from between the pages. Some of them looked as though they were not quite dry. “The Kane family are our neighbors. Hell, Roddy Kane and I have been trading golf scores for more than a decade now, but that girl just seems to attract trouble. She doesn't take to the right people, boy. She's brushed off every matron of Gotham society, including your mother, yet she has time to go slumming in the Bowery or that little apartment she keeps in Otisburg for who knows what purposes! And now she's started running around with this Sinclair hood—”

“I know all about Denholm Sinclair, sir,” Thomas countered, standing up.

“Do you, boy?” Patrick shuffled through the papers, quickly finding the one he wanted. “Then I suppose you know that he's working for the Rossetti mob. He's into them for the kind of money he can't hope to pay off.”

“Denny and Martha are both full grown, sir,” Thomas countered. “They know what they're doing.”

“Oh? And I suppose that means you do, too?” Patrick shot back across the desk. “You haven't been home more than a day, fresh plucked from almighty Harvard Medical School, and I wake up to hear that you've been hanging around Lewis Moxon's little café. Damn it, boy, the man's Julius Moxon's kid, the biggest crime lord this city's ever seen.”