Batman 6 - The Dark Knight Page 13

  “Rachel, I can’t let anything happen to you,” Dent said. “I love you too much. Is there someone—anyone—in this city we can trust?”

  “Bruce. We can trust Bruce Wayne.”

  “Rachel, I know he’s your friend, but—”

  “Trust me, Harvey. Right now, Bruce’s penthouse is the safest place in the city.”

  “Okay. Go straight there. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. I’ll meet you there. I love you.”

  Harvey Dent hung up the phone and turned to a man with a bandage on his leg and duct tape on his wrists and ankles. Then he started the ambulance up again and drove east.

  When Sal Maroni finally opened his eyes, he didn’t know where he was or what had happened, not at first. Then the masked face swam into his vision—the Batman. The vigilante must have knocked him out in the club.

  “I want the Joker,” Batman growled.

  Maroni twisted around to get a better look at where he was. A fire escape. Outside the club, probably, one floor up.

  “From one professional to another,” Maroni said, “if you’re trying to scare someone, pick a better spot. From this height, the fall wouldn’t kill me.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  Batman released Maroni, who fell hard to the sidewalk and yelped.

  In a moment, Batman was beside him. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Maroni said from between clenched teeth. “He found us”

  “He must have friends.”

  “Friends? You met this guy?”

  “Someone knows where he is.”

  Batman grasped Maroni’s collar and hauled him back up the fire escape.

  Maroni looked at him and sneered. “No one’s gonna tell you anything. They’re wise to your act—you got rules . . . The Joker, he’s got no rules. No one’s gonna cross him for you. You want this guy, you got one way. And you already know what that is. Just take off that mask and let him come find you. Or you want to let a couple more people get killed while you make up your mind?”

  Batman dropped Maroni again and listened to him yell.

  Dent drove until he found what he was looking for, an underground parking garage with an automated ticket dispenser and no attendant in sight. He guided the ambulance down the winding ramp until he stopped on the bottom of the structure, away from security cameras. He went to the rear of the ambulance, searched the bound man’s pockets, and found an address.

  Dent then pulled a .38 revolver from his coat pocket and was holding it inches from the bound man’s nose.

  “I didn’t find anything useful around here,” he said. “But I will get information. Count on it.”

  The man spat at Dent.

  “You want to play games?” Harvey asked. He showed the man a handful of cartridges and fed them into the gun. He snapped the magazine closed and rammed the gun barrel hard against the man’s temple, then pivoted it an inch and fired. The sound was loud in the filthy basement, and the slug pocked the wall behind the bound man’s ear.

  The man’s eyes were wide, his voice unsteady. “You wouldn’t . . .”

  Dent stepped back and took his lucky coin from his pocket. “No, I wouldn’t. That’s why I’m not going to leave it up to me.” Dent held the coin in front of the man’s eyes. “Heads—you get to keep your head. Tails . . . not so lucky. So, you want to tell me about the Joker?”

  The man lowered his eyes, bit his lip, said nothing. Dent flipped the coin, caught it, slapped it on the back of the hand that was holding the gun. Heads.

  “Go again?” Dent asked pleasantly.

  “I don’t know anything,” the man blurted.

  Dent flipped the coin, but did not catch it. Batman did that.

  “You’d leave a man’s life to chance?” Batman asked Dent.

  “Not exactly.”

  “His name’s Thomas Schiff. He’s a paranoid schizophrenic, a former patient at Arkham Asylum. The kind of mind the Joker attracts. What did you expect to learn from him?”

  “The Joker killed Gordon and . . . and Loeb. He’s going to kill Rachel . . .”

  “You’re the symbol of hope that I could never be. Your stand against organized crime is the first legitimate ray of light in Gotham for decades. If anyone saw this, everything would be undone, all the criminals you got off the streets would be released. And Jim Gordon will have died for nothing.” Batman handed the coin to Dent. “You’re going to call a press conference. Tomorrow morning.”

  “Why?”

  “No one else will die because of me. Gotham is in your hands now.”

  “You can’t. You can’t give in.”

  But Batman was gone.

  It was almost 4:00 A.M. when Bruce Wayne finally got back to his penthouse. He saw light under the door of the guest bedroom and knocked softly on the door.

  Rachel Dawes told him to come in.

  She was sitting on a window seat, staring out at the silhouetted buildings all around, still dressed in her work clothes. She glanced up at Bruce. “Harvey called. He says Batman is going to turn himself in.”

  “I have no choice.”

  “You honestly think it’s going to stop the Joker from killing?”

  “Perhaps not. But I’ve got enough blood on my hands. I’ve seen, now, what I would have to become to stop men like him—what I’ve already become. Last night, I tortured Maroni. The end never justifies that kind of means.”

  Bruce stopped talking and looked past Rachel, out the window. Finally, he said, “You once told me that if the day came when I was finished . . . we’d be together.”

  “Bruce, don’t make me your one hope for a normal life.”

  Bruce moved next to her. “But did you mean it?”

  “Yes.”

  Their faces moved close together, and for a moment, Rachel laid her cheek against Bruce’s. Their lips touched, tentatively at first, then passionately.

  They remained locked in the kiss for a full minute before Rachel pulled away, and said, “But they won’t let us be together after you turn yourself in.”

  Bruce said nothing. He stepped closer to Rachel. She put her hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him away.

  “All right,” he murmured.

  He went to the door, reaching for the knob. He hesitated, turned to look sadly at Rachel over his shoulder, then left the room.

  He went into his own bedroom and lay on top of the covers, lost in thought and feeling melancholy. Eventually, he drifted off to a fitful sleep. Although he knew that he must dream—every sane person did—he usually did not remember his dreams. This night—morning, really—was an exception. He saw his father, not dressed as he had been the night he’d been murdered, not dressed for the opera, but as he used to dress for work, in a doctor’s white jacket with a stethoscope around his neck, and he was frowning, obviously angry, shouting words Bruce could not hear, but somehow understood anyway, words about means and ends and becoming what one beheld . . .

  Bruce awoke with a start, the question ringing in his mind: Have I become what I beheld? Really? And if I have, what am I? A fighter for justice, the salvation of my city, a bulwark, a hero, a champion . . . Or an egoist who enjoys dominating people weaker than I am? Is my whole crusade against crime just an excuse? Everything I said to Dent was true, I must put an end to it. Dent needs to become Gotham’s true hero, not me . . .

  When Alfred arrived in the bunker later that morning, Bruce gave him instructions, and they began to feed documents into an incinerator. Alfred paused, looking down at a book. “Even the diaries?”

  “Anything that could lead back to Lucius or Rachel.”

  Alfred tossed the book into the incinerator and looked questioningly at Bruce.

  “What would you have me do, Alfred? People are dying. What would you have me do?”

  “Endure, Master Bruce. Take it. They’ll hate you for it, but that’s the point of Batman . . . he can be the outcast. He can make the choice no one else will face. The right choice.”

 
Bruce shook his head. “Today I’ve found out what Batman can’t do. He can’t endure this. Today you get to say I told you so.”

  Alfred looked sadly at his master. “Today I don’t want to.”

  Rachel went into the guest bedroom. She had to get some sleep. She lay fully dressed on top of the bedspread and closed her eyes. A clock ticked, and she could hear the distant murmur of the traffic in the street below.

  Suddenly, her eyes opened and she swung her legs over the side of the bed, stood, hurried to a small desk in the corner. She switched on a light, sat, and found a pen and a sheaf of notepaper in a drawer.

  Dear Bruce,

  She began writing, quickly, not rereading, not pausing, her need to get everything on paper too urgent.

  Rachel was exhausted and worried. She rejoined Alfred in the living area and had a sandwich of salmon and French bread and some kind of fantastic coffee, then sat with Alfred at the kitchen counter, nibbling and sipping and watching a press conference on television. The camera zoomed in on Harvey Dent, standing on the steps of City Hall, surrounded by reporters, who were thrusting microphones at him.

  “. . . but that’s not why we’re demanding he turn himself in,” Dent was saying. “We’re doing it because we’re scared. We’ve been happy to let Batman clean up our streets for us until now—”

  “Things are worse than ever,” someone yelled from the crowd.

  “Yes, they are. But the night is darkest just before the dawn. And I promise you, the dawn is coming. One day, Batman will have to answer for the laws he’s broken—but to us, not to this madman.”

  A uniformed police sergeant yelled, “No more dead cops.” Several of his fellow officers echoed him.

  Another group, citizens this time, began to chant, “Where is the Batman?”

  The chanting stopped. Bruce Wayne, standing at the rear of the crowd, began inching forward.

  Dent shrugged. “So be it.” He turned to the knot of police standing on the steps behind him. “Take the Batman into custody.”

  Bruce continued to move determinedly forward.

  “I am the Batman,” Harvey Dent proclaimed.

  Rachel watched Dent being handcuffed on television.

  She turned to Alfred. “Why is he letting Harvey do this?”

  “I don’t know. He went down to the press conference and—”

  “Just stood by!”

  “Perhaps both Bruce and Mr. Dent believe that Batman stands for something more important than a terrorist’s whims, Miss Dawes, even if everyone hates him for it. That’s the sacrifice he’s making—not to be a hero. To be something more.”

  “Well, you’re right about one thing—letting Harvey take the fall is not heroic.” Rachel handed an envelope to Alfred. “You know Bruce best, Alfred . . . give it to him when the time is right.”

  “How will I know?”

  “It’s not sealed.”

  Rachel kissed Alfred’s cheek. “Good-bye, Alfred.”

  “Good-bye, Rachel.”

  The Major Crimes Unit was unusually busy that night. Cops who were off duty hung around because . . . well, it had been a hell of a day and maybe something else might happen, and even if nothing did, there were worse ways to kill a night than drinking coffee and talking.

  A number of cops she’d worked with called greetings to Rachel as she passed through the bullpen and descended the steel steps to the lockup.

  Harvey Dent, in a small cell, seemed to be waiting for her. He smiled at her through the bars, and said, “I’m sorry I didn’t have time to talk this through with you.”

  “I know what you’re doing, Harvey.”

  “They’re transferring me to central holding. This is the Joker’s chance. When he attacks, the Batman will take him down.”

  “No! This is too dangerous . . . Don’t offer yourself as bait!”

  A uniformed guard, flanked by two others, told Dent it was time to go and unlocked the cell door. The guards handcuffed Dent and locked shackles around his ankles, then marched him outside. Nobody seemed to care that Rachel was following. Hampered by the shackles, Dent was taking half steps and Rachel had no trouble keeping pace with him.

  “He’s using you as bait,” she said. “But he doesn’t know if he can get the Joker. He’s failed so far.”

  “How do you know what the Batman’s thinking?” Dent asked.

  “I just do, okay, Harvey? This isn’t just about you. What about all the people counting on you to turn this city around? Tell everyone the truth—”

  Awkwardly, because of the handcuffs, Dent removed his lucky coin from a hip pocket. “Heads I go through with it.”

  “Harvey, this is your life. You don’t leave something like this to chance . . .”

  Dent tossed the coin to her. Rachel caught it and looked: Heads.

  “I’m not leaving anything to chance,” Dent said.

  Rachel turned the coin over. The reverse side was heads, too.

  The guards loaded Dent into the back of a transport van and closed the doors behind him.

  “You make your own luck,” Rachel murmured.

  During his wild years, roaming the globe, often in the company of thieves and killers, Bruce had often done things he considered shameful. But none of those ugly deeds approached what he was doing now, using a good man as a pawn in a game that might end in death.

  If all went well—if all went half-well—the Joker would attack Dent and Batman would attack the Joker and by tomorrow this whole thing would be finished and everyone could get on with their lives.

  Bruce didn’t expect to avoid punishment entirely; he had played fast and loose with the city’s laws, and in the process endangered innocent lives. But he could hope that a judge or jury would see that he had acted in the best interests of his fellow citizens and the city he loved, and be lenient. A big fine, a few months in a minimum-security facility, maybe just community service. Community service—that would be ironic; he planned to devote the rest of his life to serving the community and would welcome an early start as part of the price he had to pay.

  First, however, was the Joker. That lunatic had become his priority, more important to him than the mob, the corruption, any of it. The Joker had killed Loeb. The Joker had tried to kill Harvey Dent and was going to try for Rachel next. The Joker had to be stopped. By any means necessary . . .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It was something rarely seen on city streets, a convoy, with two patrol cars leading the armored van, followed by two SWAT vans, all speeding down a freeway, past roadblocks that denied traffic access from side streets and on-ramps. Suddenly, a truck lumbered to a stop at an intersection where a police officer was holding up traffic.

  The cop ran from his post at one of the barricades and approached the cab. “You wait like everyone else,” he told the driver, then died from a shotgun blast.

  A second truck pulled off the exit ramp and stopped in the middle of the avenue, a bright red fire department hook-and-ladder. A minute later, it burst into flame, completely blocking both sides of the freeway and isolating the middle and rear of the convoy.

  In the cab of the armored car, the driver and his companion were listening to words crackling from the radio: “All units be advised. Obstruction ahead. All units will exit down to lower Fifth.”

  “Lower Fifth?” the SWAT officer riding shotgun muttered. “We’ll be like ducks in a barrel down there.”

  The convoy left the freeway by the nearest ramp and rolled through the underground highway. A garbage truck casually swiped the rear vehicles of the convoy off the road, and from there chaos erupted.

  “Get us out of here,” the SWAT officer said as the garbage truck filled the rearview mirror. “We’ve got company back there!”

  Both men were knocked for a loop as the garbage truck rammed the car’s rear bumper, smashing it forward.

  At the head of the convoy, a second truck smashed into the SWAT van, smashing it through the concrete barrier on the side of the road and into
the river. The truck then pulled alongside the armored car. The driver could see that the LAUGHTER IS THE BEST MEDICINE logo on the side had a crude “S” painted next to it so that it now read SLAUGHTER, along with “HA HA HA” repeated all along the side.

  A second later the side door slid open to reveal the Joker brandishing a machine gun. The armored car locked its brakes, but the garbage truck attached to it from behind kept pushing it forward. The Joker fired the gun with abandon, bullets riddling the side of the armored car.

  Inside the van, the guards flinched at the bullet fire and lifted their guns as Harvey Dent sat calmly in the midst of the pandemonium.

  The Joker dropped the machine gun and picked up an RPG, but stopped before firing at the driver of the armored car. Instead, he stared behind him as the Batmobile raced toward the garbage truck attached to the armored car.

  Seconds later, it plowed into the garbage truck, throwing it up into the concrete ceiling. The Batmobile continued forward on its own momentum as the garbage truck came apart behind it, then whipped around and headed back to the armored car.

  Inside the Batmobile, Batman shook his head and heard the vehicle’s computer speaking to him: Damage catastrophic. Initiate eject and self-destruct.

  Batman adjusted his position in the seat and hit a button. Armed guards grabbed at Batman’s forearms as explosive bolts fired all around the pod.

  The Joker and his driver looked back at the Batmobile, a huge grin on his face.

  “Is that him?” the driver gasped.

  “Anyone could be driving that thing,” the Joker said. “Stay on Dent.”

  The Joker lined up his RPG and aimed at the armored car. He fired as the armored car began braking. The RPG slammed into the squad car in front of the armored car, and the squad car exploded. The armored van kept on going, and the Batmobile sped up to join the pursuit.

  As the Joker turned the RPG toward the armored car and fired, the Batmobile crashed down in the open space between them and took the hit. The rocket struck the Batmobile’s rear and exploded. Fire bathed the street and the Batmobile crashed through a retaining wall and landed in an access road alongside the underground highway. For a moment, the air seemed to be filled with spinning shards of dark metal as the Tumbler disintegrated. One of these shards smashed through the driver’s side window of the Joker’s truck and buried itself in the driver’s head, killing him.