CHAPTER 36

At twilight, Batman finally began his slow return home. He messaged Alfred to contact Gordon from the cave’s secure line, and within ten minutes, sirens descended on the building where Police Chief Clay Chapman and seven officers found Edward Nygma and Oswald Cobblepot bound and waiting.

The Dark Knight watched from an adjacent building, then, once it was clear they had it under control, he leapt off the building and activated his cape. He hang glided in the air over three blocks, banking with his sore body, and coming down on the street where he had left the Ultra. Amazingly, it was mostly untouched. It appears the rioters had had too much trouble from both police and National Guard troops, and as they’d fled the good guys they hadn’t had time to round up any vehicles.

The streets were littered and the stores on all sides were gutted and smashed. Batman was the only person out at the moment, the riots and the riot police had pushed on. He stepped around a small puddle of blood to get to the Ultra bike. He revved it up, and made his way down the closest alley. He set his GPS to find him the stealthiest route through the city, and compared that with radio chatter that detailed where the remaining flash mobs were at. He wanted to help, but he was in no condition to do much else right now.

Beaten and bloodied, the Batman trundled through the streets of Gotham City, unnoticed for the most part. He made it to one of his secret stations on Fine Peak Avenue, into a freight yard owned by Wayne Enterprises and hardly ever used. One of the large steel containers held another Batcycle inside, this one a different make and model than the Ultra. He parked the Ultra beside the other bike for now, and undressed. He always kept two spare bundles of clothing at these stations. He had a hard time pulling all the clothes on, though.

Bruce Wayne now sat in the steel container, alone, meditating, and breathing slowly, deeply. He had texted Alfred once at the freight yard, waiting until the last moment in case police had found him in the streets and given him chase, and after thirty minutes of meditation he finally got the knock at the door.

When the door opened, Alfred’s mouth hung open. “Dear God, sir…”

“Is it that bad?” Bruce said. It hurt to even talk.

“C’mon, young man. Let’s get you home.”

* * *

JAMES GORDON WAS lying in his hospital bed after surgery when he got the news. Barbara came into the room, teary-eyed, and hugged him. She started sobbing immediately, and Gordon believed the news was bad. Sarah…no…no, not her. But when Barbara tore away from him, she said, “I thought…I thought I was going to lose you back there in that room…”

“We’re fine now, honey,” he said, pulling her head down so that he could kiss her. “We’re fine. You…you were amazing. You came at just the right time. It was dangerous what you did, and I wish you hadn’t come up there…but at the same time I’m glad you did.”

Behind Barbara, a large, round, bearded man in glasses stepped into the room. Barb rubbed her eyes with her sleeve. “Jim, this is Lenny. He called the police as soon as he heard the shots, just like I told him to.”

Gordon held out a hand. “Thank you, Lenny, for all you’ve done.”

The big man blushed. “Hey, Commish,” he said, shaking his hand, “what was I gonna do? Just sit there and do nothin’?”

“A lot of people would have.”

Lenny blushed even brighter.

“What about Sarah?” Gordon asked.

“She’s in surgery now. She’s doing a bit better, but they’re not taking her out of CCU. The bullet hit an artery in her abdomen. They said it caused severe hematoma.”

“What about Batman? One of the officers outside my room said that Chapman found Nygma and Cobblepot on top of a roof somewhere?”

“That’s what I heard on the news.”

Gordon nodded. That was good news. “And the Joker?”

Barbara shook her head. “I haven’t really heard anything about him yet, just that they’re still looking for him.”

Gordon sighed. That wasn’t good news. “And the riots?” he said.

“I think there’s just two flash mobs left roaming around Parkinson Avenue, but even they’re retreating into the Bowery,” she said. “There’s been something like three thousand arrests, most of them done by the National Guard. The man in charge of the Guard is General Laurence Foster Kinnear. He’s been on TV a lot, pretty much taking Walden’s place updating everybody. It looks like ANGS was saved from meltdown at the last minute. Some Air Force pilots and tech guys from Wayne Enterprises are saying it was Batman who stopped it.”

He sat with that for a moment, and then, something else occurred to him. “The boy,” he said. “What about the boy?”

Barbara knew who he was talking about. “I asked the officers about him, too. They’ve taken him in for a statement, but he’s pretty…well, you saw him. It looks like he’s right about his parents being dead; they died on their trapeze while practicing. One of your pals, uh, Adam Paxton? He called to see how you were doing, and he said he’s looked into it all. He said that, while the training equipment and the safety net appear to have been tampered with, they can’t prove it was the guy the boy blames, this Tony Zucco guy. But Paxton said the boy is convinced it was him.”

Gordon said, “Zucco was a small-timer, who got cleared of all charges on a technicality years back, and Walden had been known to meet with him from time to time. In fact, they went to Haley’s Circus together last week.” He licked his lips, his mouth feeling dry from the anesthesia they had given him. “If Zucco wanted to suddenly jump up in status and rank in the underworld, then I guess there would’ve been no better time to do it than while everyone was distracted by the riots. If he did it, then who knows what else he did to solidify his power during the riots? Killing a couple of trapeze artists to make some kind of point would’ve been small fry. We’ll need to look for bodies popping up in Gotham River in the next few weeks. Zucco might’ve taken the opportunity to settle a lot of old scores—”

“Sweetie,” Barbara said. “I’m glad you’re feeling better and everything, but let’s not think about those things right now. Tony Zucco can wait.” She reached out to touch his hand.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Behind her, Lenny cleared his throat and said, “I’ll, uh, I’ll just wait outside. It was nice meeting you, Commissioner. I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Thanks again, Lenny. I’m gonna make sure you get some kind o’ commendation or medal.” When Lenny was gone, Gordon looked at his wife, smiled, and said, “Come here.” Barb leaned over the hospital bed, and hugged her man like she might lose him if she didn’t. “Thank you, too, honey. Thanks for being there.”

“You’re not going anywhere without me again, Jim Gordon. I mean it.”

He laughed. A nurse came in, but dipped right back out after it became obvious she wasn’t going to be able to split the couple up anytime soon. She may have also known, of course, that there was more to healing than what she’d learned in medical school.

* * *

BY MORNING, IT became evident that Bruce’s injuries needed serious medical attention. Alfred had cleaned him up as best he could, but eventually he convinced his master to go to the hospital. At Gillian Loeb Memorial, the staff jumped when Bruce Wayne entered with his butler helping him walk up the steps. Alfred explained that Bruce had been out and about when rioters had attacked him. It was true enough.

After X-raying him, they found that he had two cracked ribs, and while he didn’t need surgery on his ACL, he would be in a brace for at least the next few weeks. When they saw some of his older injuries, such as those from the night he’d caught the Molehill Mobsters after their robbery, Alfred explained that they had happened in a hang gliding accident weeks beforehand. The doctors accepted that, because, well, they had to—GL Memorial was absolutely flooded with people injured in the riots. The National Guard had provided their own medics to help, and Bruce was seen to by a woman, Dr. Pritchard, who ordered the staff to take his pants off.

Bruce winced as they did so. “Seems like every woman I meet…gives me that same order…”

The doctors around him chuckled, including Dr. Pritchard. “Now, now, Mr. Wayne, let’s not get excited.” She looked over his bruised and battered body. “Some of these bruises look particularly rounded—did you get shot with a bulletproof vest on?”

“No,” he laughed. “I just got beat like a sissy. So much for all those self-defense classes I took.” Bruce winked at her. “But, it’ll all be worth it if I get to take you out to dinner at least once.”

More chuckles, and Dr. Pritchard shook her head, blushing.

It had been reflex to slip into his “personality” was Bruce Wayne, as reflexive as it had been to chase after the two monsters fleeing the Iceberg Lounge, as reflexive as it had been to fly out to ANGS to face the Riddler’s puzzle head on. While they examined him, Bruce considered his discussion with Nygma, and wondered if the maniac really would keep his secret. In a strange way, Bruce was actually counting on the man’s madness, narcissism, and need to hold power over others to make sure that the Riddler kept a lid on it.

He wasn’t lying, he thought. He won’t tell anyone. If he did, he would lose all the power. Indeed, law enforcement officials would descend on Bruce, and the Riddler knew that. The Riddler would be all but forgotten once he’d told his tale. Even if law enforcement didn’t believe his story enough to truly search Wayne Manor, then the syndicates in the city would certainly be willing to nab him while he was out in the street, or while making an appearance at a fundraiser, or…or targeting the people he cared about, like Alfred.

If any of that happened, the Riddler would forever be a footnote in the story of the Batman, because most of the focus would shift to capturing or killing Bruce Wayne. And then there would be the trial. And then, it would be all over. For a narcissist like the Riddler, the worst thing that could happen to him was to be forgotten and underappreciated. Right now, he was a mastermind, likely to see his name in newspapers around the world for what he’d done.

He’ll wait, Bruce thought. But not forever. Eventually, others will come along to steal the spotlight, and he’ll feel the need to steal it back, even for a moment. He’ll keep the knowledge of my identity close. Like a secret weapon, he’ll keep it until the moment when it suits him best to use it.

Would Bruce be ready then? He had many contingency plans for disappearing off the face of the Earth—he had more than twenty fake IDs prepared and a couple of places in the Canadian wilderness he’d scouted out, as well as a few places in Siberian Russia, China, and Australia. If need be, he could vanish this very instant, tonight…but then there was Alfred.

And, of course, there was Gotham City.

Bruce felt at least partially responsible for everything that had happened. Certainly, he had brought about the Riddler, who had upped the stakes. But then, the people of Gotham, the corrupt police forces, and the various criminal syndicates had brought about the Batman.

And while I’m inside, you can work on the last riddle, Nygma had said to him. And what riddle might that be? Bruce hadn’t been able to shake those ominous words from his head for the last few hours. They stuck with him, constantly accusing him of not having finished it all. Was there more to solve? Was there some other ploy left to unriddle?

When he had asked the Riddler why he had wanted the Penguin to give Gordon a full and accurate description of him, the Riddler had replied, Why, indeed. Bruce now figured he knew the answer to that question: Because he wanted me to come after him. He wanted me to close in on him. He wanted me to find him. As much as Nygma may have liked his anonymity, a true narcissist liked getting credit for their work, they had a grandiose sense of self-worth, and they were callous and lacked empathy. Everything and everyone around them served to help their gains.

“A couple of the hits you took on your arm may require some pins to be put in,” Dr. Pritchard was saying. “Hairline fractures, it looks like.”

“I hate needles,” he said. “And pins, too.”

After they had placed the bandages around his ribs and all the doctors had finally left him alone to let the painkillers set in, Bruce started to feel sleepy. He could barely keep his eyes open now. Alfred remained nearby, reading a book and occasionally glancing up to check on him. Bruce asked, “Can you turn on the TV, Alfred?”

“Of course, sir.”

The TV news stations now had so much footage from the day’s events they didn’t know which one to show first. There was the Bat Hawk, racing down the streets, followed closely by Rook in her Harrier jet. There were numerous storefronts being destroyed in the riots. There was the Batman racing through the city, evading police officers. There was the Batman again, closing in on the black sedan and shooting out its front left tire. And, of course, there was Mayor Walden, taking a bullet to his spine, killed instantly.

If Agent Essen had been right about Marcellus Walden, then he was probably the most powerful corrupted official in Gotham’s history. That did not bode well. It meant that the syndicates of Gotham City had figured out a way to infiltrate levels of government hitherto believed impossible. Still, killing him like that, where his wife and children could see…

“Alfred?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ve changed my mind. Switch it off.”

“Of course, sir.” Alfred turned off the TV and then walked over to his bed. “Is there anything I can get you, Master Bruce?”

“No,” he said. “But…I’ve been thinking, Alfred. I’ve been thinking about what you said to me before, about needing a partner, or enlisting someone else to help us.” Alfred’s interest was piqued. “I could just retire, and call it a day. I did the best I could, and all that, but I’m also partially responsible for what’s been going on. This city does need protection, though, there’s no denying that. It’s become a huge, enticing target for certain personality types. Gotham City has gained a kind of culture…a culture that attracts and harbors these types.” He shook his head. “But I can’t do this alone anymore. I nearly…I nearly lost it today. Several times, I was put in a rock and a hard place and wasn’t sure I was going to make it out. Gordon and Essen were also put in a position where they couldn’t help themselves, much less me. You lend good technical support while I’m out there, but I don’t mind saying that it would’ve been very useful to have someone else out there with me, a partner I could count on while out in the field.”

Alfred nodded. “So glad you agree,” he said. “But, sir, where might we find this person? Have you thought of anybody?”

“Someone that committed?” Bruce shook his head. “No. And…I’m not even sure what sort of process…we would use to find somebody like that…but…we’d need…” He was started to drift off. The painkillers were pretty strong.

“Rest now, Master Bruce.”

“Yeah…yeah, I’m…” He thought one last time about the Riddler’s final tease. And while I’m inside, you can work on the last riddle.

Then, Bruce finally closed his eyes, and let sleep take him.