Wayne of Gotham (26 page)

“So am I your friend, Alfred?” Bruce asked.

Alfred drew in a considered breath. “You are as much a friend to me as I could have ever hoped.”

“Well, then, my dear old friend,” Bruce said through a sad smile, “let me see what you're hiding behind your back.”

“It's really nothing, sir. A nasty little joke really.” Alfred moved suddenly toward the kitchen door. “Could I interest you in a little something, Master Bruce? Some sandwiches perhaps or some chamomile tea? It won't take but a few—”

Bruce rocked forward suddenly, bolting from the chair. His arm crossed the kitchen door, barring Alfred's way. Bruce could feel the fire behind his eyes. His voice was barely controlled when he spoke. “No, Alfred! Master Bruce does
not
want his cookies or his milk! Master Bruce does
not
want to be coddled or put to bed. I've been asleep far too long. What I want is for you to explain that book you're holding behind your back!”

Alfred took a step back, bumping into the heavy dining table, causing its legs to squeal across the stone tile floor.

“No, Master Bruce,” the old retainer answered. “This you must not do … I beg of you.”

“You
beg
of me?” Bruce seethed.

“I've never asked anything of you before, Master Wayne,” Alfred said, desperation rising in his voice. “I've done everything that was required of me—of the family and of you even when …”

Bruce took a step toward his former butler. “Even when …
what
?”

“Even … even when you embarked on your mad crusade,” Alfred replied.

“My mad crusade?” Bruce shouted. “
Our
mad crusade, Alfred! You've been a
part
of this mad crusade from the very beginning! Is that what this is all about? Does the faithful retainer suddenly have cold feet and want to pretend the past never happened?

“I didn't know it would come to this, Master Bruce. I certainly never thought it would go this
far
. But the criminals were taking apart the city, and you were always setting things to rights. And I came to believe in what you were trying to do. I've dragged you broken and bleeding back to that black cavern of yours and patched you up more times than I care to count … and through it all I've kept the secrets of this family safe. Now, I beg you, Master Bruce, leave this alone and let me handle it for you. That's part of my job as a press agent, isn't it … to handle messes for you? Just think of this as a mess from which you need some distance. Walk away from this investigation right now and let me handle it for you.”

“Handle this for me?” Bruce was shaking, fighting for control of himself.

“Yes, Master Bruce! Please!”

“Like your father handled my father's messes?”

Alfred's face fell. “No, Bruce. Don't speak of it!”

“But you see, Alfred, I've already
read
the book,” Bruce said. “In fact, I've been doing a lot of interesting reading lately. Your father was not just OSS in the Second World War. I've checked his file. He was original SOE—Special Operations Executive for the British Secret Service. He was a guerilla warfare expert trained to fight the Nazis in their own backyard. It wasn't until late in the war that he was attached to the OSS. He was a spy, trained to operate in extreme conditions, tend his own wounds, kill without question, and, most importantly, clean up after himself so no one could suspect he had ever even been there at all.”

“How dare you!” Alfred stared back in indignation. “My father was a hero!”

“So was mine,” Bruce sneered, stepping up until his face was within inches of the former butler. “That's what you've always told me. But someone's been pointing out the cracks in the marble statues we've built of them, my good man. Your father was enough of a hero to clean up my father's mess at the Arkham Asylum back in 1958.”

“What?” Alfred squeaked. “How did you know?”

Bruce snatched the book from behind the elder man's back. “Because I've already
read
the book, Alfred—and the letters from my father.”

“What letters?” Alfred snapped back. “There were no letters!”

“In my father's hand and on his stationery,” Bruce countered, waving the book menacingly in Alfred's face. “I'm relatively new at this, old bean. When did you find out about it?”

“Please, sir, this isn't going to help any.”

“WHEN?” Bruce shouted.

“1967,” Alfred replied. “Just before my father died.”

Bruce drew in a shuddering breath. “Go on.”

“It was a heart attack, but then he was sixty-nine at the time,” Alfred continued, pulling himself up to sit on the table. He was bent forward now, the paper-wrapped book turning in his hands. “It was right after his first mild episode in the spring that he called me in. He told me everything just as Dr. Wayne had told it to him: the vision he had of using science to rid the city of crime by turning the criminals against themselves, Richter's bold ideas and the behavioral virus and how everything had come apart so quickly. He told me he had cleaned up everything ‘spic-and-span,' as he used to say. My father said that he had done things in his life he wasn't proud of, but that he was hoping to make it right when he recovered. Then he had his massive attack a month afterward and left it all in my hands.”

“That must have made it easy to get your father's position,” Bruce rumbled. “All you had to do was hint at your newly acquired wisdom to my father and make sure the facts were kept off the written résumé.”

“How dare you!”

“So that's what this is all about?” Bruce seethed. “Your father covers up a brutal murder and now you're covering up for him?”

“
My
father?” Alfred yelled back. “My father kept the secrets of this family to his last breath!
My
father covered up for
your
father's complicity in setting the stage for a spree of murders at the end of the '50s and took that secret to the grave with him. And his
son
has been keeping those same secrets for the benefit of this family and its only heir for most of his adult life! It was all under lock and key before the Richter woman showed up.”

“Amanda?”

“Who else would it be?” Alfred grumbled. “I knew she was trouble when she first showed up on the grounds. Now it's missing … the files, the films, the tapes.”

“Tapes?” Bruce demanded. “What tapes?”

“Your father's recorded diary,” Alfred said. “The reels have all gone missing.”

“So you've known about this my entire life,” Bruce breathed, his eyes narrowing. “But that's not all, is it, Alfred, old friend?”

Alfred's breathing became suddenly shallow and fast.

“There's more to this than my father's funded experiments having gone wrong,” Bruce prompted. “Something you're not telling me.”

“Bruce, I've taken care of you your entire life,” Alfred said, his voice quivering despite his obvious effort at control. “You are as much a son to me as my own flesh and blood could have been. I am telling you for all our sakes that you must let me handle this for you. You must stay out of it entirely, and if you do this, I promise you everything will be all right.”

“Why the hell would you think that?” Bruce snapped. “All these years fighting the darkest souls of humanity … why would you
ever
be so stupid as to think you could bargain with a blackmailer?”

“Because it's always worked before,” Alfred yelped. “This isn't the first time I've heard from the Richters. Their requests have never been unmanageable, and it was your father's wish that they be taken care of. I've always quietly taken care of the problem and they've always gone away, but this time—”

“Things got out of hand,” Bruce growled.

The wall phone in the hall rang loudly.

Bruce and Alfred stared at each other.

The phone rang a second and third time.

“Answer it,” Bruce demanded.

“I … I don't—”

“Now,” Bruce insisted.

Alfred stepped sideways around Bruce and walked briskly toward the phone. Bruce followed uncomfortably close at his heels.

“Wayne Manor, how may I help you?” Alfred said.

“Do you have the item?” It was a woman's voice, muffled and indistinct.

Alfred looked at Bruce. Bruce nodded.

“Yes, I have it.”

“Then I have what you want in return,” the voice said. “You'll know where to bring it. Let the party begin.”

The receiver clicked and went dead.

“She has the tapes,” Alfred said to Bruce. “She'll exchange them for the book, but she has not yet told me where to make the delivery.”

“Like hell,” Bruce shook his head. His smile had a vicious edge to it. “I've been chasing that book across the city. Even the Joker took an interest in keeping me from getting back here tonight as I followed that book … a book that led me right back to you. And when I got back here, do you know what I found?”

Alfred shook his head. “No, sir, how could I … I just got in myself.”

Bruce held up an invitation envelope.

“It's identical to the one delivered to everyone in the city,” Bruce said, turning the envelope through the fingertips of his right hand. “It was waiting on the table—this table here in the servants' hall—when I came in. There was no name on it, so I opened it.”

Always proper. Alfred always taught me to be proper.

“But I locked the house,” Alfred sputtered. “The security system was engaged.”

“The same security system that allowed Amanda access to my mother's garden?” Bruce asked. “Well, I see we'll need to take a look at upgrading the system—or at least changing it up a bit.” He pulled the plain invitation card out of the envelope, holding it up in front of Alfred's face so that he could read it.

… TO A GALA IN YOUR HONOR.

KANE MANSION

MIDNIGHT TONIGHT

“Kane Mansion?” Alfred sputtered. “That residence has been boarded up for two decades!”

“How convenient that it's right next door,” Bruce said. “I think I'll accept.”

“No, Bruce, you must not go there,” Alfred said quickly, grabbing his master's wrist with a surprisingly strong grip. “You have no idea where this hole leads nor where the darkness ends. Your parents are dead … The past is buried with them.
Let them rest
! I've taken care of this family my entire life; it's all I have and all I ever wanted. Leave it alone, Master Bruce. Stay here and everything will be all right.”

“So I'm back in short pants again, am I, Alfred?” Bruce took in a shuddering breath. “You'll clean up this mess and I should just go on with my life?
What life
? I cannot rest because of the life I live. I run after some elusive dream …”

Joe Chill ran down the alley. I cannot catch him. I can never catch him.

“… and every time I think it's in my grasp, it vanishes and is replaced by some new threat to the city. Gotham balances on the edge of an abyss, and I alone feel the weight of holding it precariously there. What kind of a life is that?”

“An important life,” Alfred urged. “A necessary life. A life given so that others might live theirs.”

I'm the guardian. Who guards the guardian
?

Bruce snatched his arm out of Alfred's grasp. “I'm not that boy in the alley anymore, Alfred! It's time to put an end to these games.”

“No, Bruce,” Alfred said sternly. “You must not go over there. There are some things that need to stay buried. I won't let you.”

Bruce turned. “Alfred, you're fired.”

The old retainer blinked. “What, sir?”

“I said you're fired, dismissed, downsized, or whatever you prefer to call it.”

“You … you
can't
do that!” Alfred sputtered.

“The hell I can't,” Bruce said rushing up menacingly once more. “You crossed a line. You're standing between me and my prey.”

“What prey?”

“The truth!”

“The truth can be a terrible beast, Master Bruce,” Alfred said more calmly than he felt. “Sometimes the truth hunts you.”

“Get out,” Bruce snapped. “Out of the manor, off the grounds, and out of my life.”

“No! Sir!”

“Get out while you can, Alfred, because this is the only parachute you're going to get,” Bruce growled. “Cheer up. You're about to get a very nice severance package—including medical, which I sincerely hope will not be needed in the near future. But don't bother packing, it will all be mailed to you. Just take the Bentley and consider it a bonus.”

“Sir! Please—”

“GET OUT!” Bruce screamed, his face purple with rage.

Alfred, his face flush, turned on his heels and vanished out the servants' door. Bruce waited a few moments until he heard the motor of the Bentley come to life and the hush of the wheels diminishing across the gravel driveway.

Bruce choked back a single sob. Alfred had lied in order to hide something from him—had been hiding it from him his entire life. It was a betrayal that Bruce could not accept … and it left him more alone than he could recall feeling in all his life.

“It's time to put an end to the game,” Bruce said, looking at the invitation once more.