The Dark Knight Rises: The Official Novelization

  “Really?” Foley was surprised by the revelation— or at least seemed to be. “He’s a hero.”

  “War hero,” Gilly said. “This is peacetime.” He poked Foley in the chest. “Stay smart, the job’s yours.”

  While he let Foley mull that over, Gilly glanced around the party. It was picking up, now that the speeches were finally over and done with. Unlike Gordon, he had better things to do than burn the midnight oil.

  Say, the congressman thought, whatever happened to that cute piece of ass in the maid outfit?

  She could still feel the congressman’s grabby fingers on her butt. Her ire rose at the memory. He’s lucky I didn’t teach him a painful lesson in manners.

  The mansion’s kitchen offered a temporary refuge from the demanding partygoers out on the lawn. A small army of waiters, caterers, and cooks were deployed throughout the spacious area, working overtime to keep the guests lavishly fed and watered. Discarding her empty tray, she dived into the bustling activity, blending in with the rest of the wait staff. Nobody gave her a second look.

  Forget the congressman for now, she reminded herself. Focus.

  She overheard a small cluster of maids gossiping in the corner.

  “They say he never leaves the east wing.”

  “I heard he had an accident, that he’s disfigured.”

  Another maid hurriedly signaled them to shut up. All chatter died as a distinguished older gentleman in a butler’s uniform entered the kitchen. His silvery hair complemented his gentle, careworn features.

  Alfred Pennyworth, she identified him. The faithful family retainer.

  “Mr. Till,” he said, addressing the chief caterer. A cultured British accent betrayed his roots. “Why are your people using the main stairs?”

  Mr. Till murmured an apology that she didn’t bother to hear. Instead she watched carefully as Pennyworth placed a glass of fresh water on a tray beside an assortment of covered plates and dishes. The butler glanced around the kitchen.

  “Where’s Mrs. Bolton?”

  Briskly the maid stepped forward.

  “She’s at the bar, sir,” she said. “Can I help?”

  He sighed, as though not entirely happy with the situation, but handed her the tray and an old-fashioned brass key.

  “The east drawing room,” he instructed. “Unlock the door, place the tray on the table, lock the door again.” He paused for emphasis. “Nothing more.”

  She nodded meekly, keeping her head down, and accepted the key.

  Slipping out of the kitchen before anything could go awry, she made her way through the gigantic mansion toward the east wing. Austere white walls and heavy draperies gave the house a cold, unwelcoming feel. The hubbub of the party gradually died away as she left the celebration behind. She couldn’t help noticing the valuable antiques, tapestries, and paintings gracing the halls, as well as how hushed and lifeless the place seemed. Less like a home than a museum.

  A large oak door barred the entrance to the wing. She tried the key, and the door swung open before her, revealing a richly appointed drawing room that was probably twice the size of her crummy apartment back in Old Town. Hand-turned mahogany furniture had begun life as trees in the Wayne plantations in Belize, she knew. Pricy china, vases, and other knick-knacks adorned the mantle of a large unlit fireplace. Despite its opulence, the room was dimly lit and quiet as a tomb.

  Not exactly the Playboy Mansion, she noted. All this tired old money—just going to waste.

  She glanced around, but didn’t see anybody, not even the famously reclusive master of the house. Placing the tray down on a polished walnut table, she did not exit the chamber as instructed. Instead her eyes locked on an inner door at the other side of the room. It had conveniently been left ajar.

  She grinned mischievously.

  How perfect was that?

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I’m sorry, Miss Tate, but I’ve tried. He won’t see you.”

  Alfred lingered in the hallway to converse with the stylish younger woman who had attempted to enlist his assistance. Miranda Tate—a member of the board of directors of Wayne Enterprises—was probably the most attractive business executive Alfred had encountered in his many decades of service. Lustrous dark hair framed a classically beautiful face. Striking gray-blue eyes shone with intelligence and determination.

  “It’s important, Mr. Pennyworth,” she insisted. Her voice held a faint accent that, despite his extensive travels throughout Europe and elsewhere, he couldn’t quite place.

  “Mr. Wayne is as determined to ignore important things as trivial ones,” he replied wryly.

  A derisive chuckle interrupted their conversation. John Daggett strolled up to them, looking smug and obnoxious—as usual. The business tycoon, who had inherited a thriving construction company, boasted a head of sculpted brown hair that would put Donald Trump to shame. His bespoke suit could barely contain his self-importance.

  “Don’t take it personally, Miranda,” he told her. “Everyone knows Wayne’s holed up in there with eight-inch fingernails, peeing into Mason jars.” Turning, he added belatedly, “Alfred…good of you to let me on the grounds.”

  The butler did nothing to conceal his distaste. Daggett was the epitome of greed and vulgarity—quite unlike the Waynes, who had always used their wealth to better the world around them.

  “The Dent Act is about Gotham,” Alfred replied evenly. “Even you, Mr. Daggett.” He bowed his head politely toward Miranda. “Miss Tate, always a pleasure.” He took his leave of them, but could not help overhearing their voices as they echoed down the hall. Alfred stopped some distance away and turned to look.

  “Why waste your time,” Daggett asked Miranda, “trying to talk to the man who threw away your investment on some save-the-world vanity project?” His voice was thick with derision. “He can’t help you get your money back.

  “But I can.”

  She replied coolly.

  “I could try explaining that a save-the-world project, vain or not, is worth investing in, whatever the return. I could try, Mr. Daggett, but you understand only money and the power you think it buys, so why waste my time, indeed.” She spun about and left him standing in the hall. Scowling, he watched her go.

  Bravo, Miss Tate, Alfred thought. Bravo.

  Bruce Wayne had grown up in Wayne Manor, at least in its original incarnation, so he barely noticed the drawing room’s sumptuous decor as he limped toward his dinner. The sole remaining heir to the Wayne fortune leaned heavily upon a single wooden cane, favoring his injured left leg.

  His face was gaunt and drawn. Dark circles haunted his eyes. Traces of gray had infiltrated the dark hair at his temples. A rumpled silk dressing gown was draped over his slumped shoulders. His slippered feet padded noiselessly across the floor.

  A tempting aroma rose from the dinner tray. Bruce lifted a lid, mildly curious to see what Alfred had come up with this evening, only to freeze in mid-motion. His gaze shifted from the tray to the open door leading to the sitting room. Was it just his imagination or was the door slightly more ajar than he had left it before?

  Cool brown eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  Interesting, he thought. What do we have here?

  * * *

  The sitting room was just as expensively furnished as the rest of the mansion. Despite the urgency of her mission, she couldn’t resist taking a moment to snoop around.

  Careful, she warned herself. Don’t dawdle too long.

  A set of framed photos, some noticeably singed around the edges, occupied a place of honor upon a table. She recognized Thomas and Martha Wayne, tragically murdered in an alley more than three decades ago. A third frame held a portrait of an attractive brunette who somehow managed to look serious, even when she was smiling for the camera.

  Rachel Dawes, realized the maid, who had done her homework. Harvey Dent’s dead girlfriend. Killed by the Joker—or so they say—shortly before Dent was killed by the Batman.

  The row of pictures was like a
miniature cemetery, complete with headstones. The maid ran her fingers over the gilded frames before moving on to the most conspicuous oddity in the room—a full-sized archery target mounted to a large wooden cabinet. More than a dozen arrows were stuck in the target, clustered around the bulls-eye. Intrigued, she reached out to inspect one of them, only to yank her hand back as a new arrow thwacked into place, only inches from her fingers.

  Startled, she spun around to see Bruce Wayne himself, looking rather more haggard than the dashing billionaire playboy the world remembered. He stood at the other end of the room, clutching a large compound bow. She was impressed, despite herself.

  She couldn’t remember the last time someone had snuck up on her.

  Bruce lowered the bow. He put it aside and picked up his cane.

  “I’m…I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Wayne,” the maid stammered sheepishly. She struck him as very young and embarrassed. “It is Mr. Wayne, isn’t it?”

  He nodded and limped toward her.

  “Although you don’t have any long nails,” she babbled nervously, “or facial scars…” Her voice trailed off.

  Bruce inspected the inquisitive young intruder. He didn’t recognize her as one of the regular maids. Must be a temp taken on for tonight’s festivities, he figured. Couldn’t resist snooping around.

  “Is that what they say about me?” he asked. She shrugged.

  “It’s just that…nobody ever sees you.”

  That’s the idea, he thought.

  A flawless pearl necklace graced her slender neck. Bruce came closer.

  “That’s a beautiful necklace,” he commented. “Reminds me of one that belonged to my mother. It can’t be the same one, though. Her pearls are in this safe—”

  A large mahogany bureau rested against a wall. He used his cane to press down on a recessed wooden panel, which slid aside to reveal a hidden compartment.

  “—which the manufacturer assured me was uncrackable.”

  The door of the safe swung open.

  “Oops,” the maid said. “Nobody told me it was supposed to be uncrackable.”

  Her whole attitude changed in an instant. She dropped the coy, girlish act and took on a cockier, more confident posture. It reminded him of the way he had once discarded the role of a careless, immature playboy, whenever it was time to let his true self out. He was impressed, despite himself.

  Bruce nodded at the pearls.

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you take those.” They had been a gift from his father, which his mother had worn on the night they were both murdered. In a very real sense, they had cost his parents their lives. He wasn’t about to let anyone walk away with them.

  “Look,” she said, smiling, as she stepped toward him, acting not at all concerned about being caught red-handed. She sized him up with a look. “You wouldn’t hit a woman any more than I would beat up a cripple…”

  Without warning, she kicked the cane out from under him. A karate chop to his shoulders dropped him to the floor. His bad knee screamed in protest as he hit the carpet. He clutched the injured joint.

  “Of course,” she added, “sometimes exceptions have to be made.”

  With a move worthy of an Olympic gymnast, she vaulted onto the bureau, taking the pearls with her. A high window provided a ready egress. “Good night, Mr. Wayne,” she said teasingly, before flipping backward out the window. Bruce heard her touch down lightly in the gardens outside.

  Gathering himself, he chuckled, amused by the woman’s nerve. Ignoring the usual aches and twinges, he rocked forward on his good leg and rose smoothly to his feet. But his brow furrowed as he took a closer look at the violated safe.

  Was that powder on the door?

  Fun’s fun, she thought, but let’s not overstay our welcome.

  The party was starting to break up. Having made her escape from the building, she wasted no time heading for the line of town cars waiting in the driveway. Along the way, she deftly peeled off her servile white apron, cuffs, and collar, discarding those previously handy bits of camouflage in various leafy mounds of shrubbery.

  By the time she reached the drive, what the valets saw was a breathtaking young woman wearing a little black dress and pearls. One of the young men rushed forward to assist her.

  She quickly scanned the row of limos and found just the one she was looking for. She pointed it out to the valet, who obligingly opened the door for her. Thanking him, she slid into the car beside Congressman Gilly, who looked both startled and delighted by her unexpected entrance. Exactly as she had planned from the moment they had met.

  “Can I have a ride?” she purred.

  He leered at her like she was just another tasty morsel for his consumption. Deep in his cups, he slurred his response.

  “You read my mind.”

  The car pulled away from the house and toward the front gate.

  Alfred found Bruce kneeling before the hidden safe, his cane lying on the floor a few feet away. The butler wondered what his troubled employer was looking for.

  “Miss Tate was asking to see you again,” he said.

  Bruce did not look up from the safe.

  “She’s very persistent.”

  “And quite lovely,” Alfred observed. “In case you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Alfred sighed. It was precisely the response he had anticipated. I’m sorry, Miss Tate, he thought. I tried.

  His obligation to Miranda Tate discharged, albeit to no avail, he turned his attention to his employer’s current preoccupation.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Examining print dust,” Bruce said tersely. “We’ve been robbed.”

  Alfred was startled by the news. Wayne Manor’s security was state-of-the-art, and then some. They had never been burgled before.

  “And this is your idea of raising the alarm?” he asked. Wayne just shrugged.

  “She took the pearls,” he answered. “Tracking device and all.”

  Alfred recalled the precautions Bruce had taken to protect his late mother’s pearls. Poor Mrs. Wayne had been wearing those pearls the night she and her husband had lost their lives. It would be tragic if they were not recovered.

  Then he realized…

  “She?”

  “One of the maids.” Bruce gave Alfred a wry look. “Perhaps you should stop letting them into this side of the house.”

  “Perhaps you should learn to make your own bed, then.” He bent to look over Bruce’s shoulder. “Why are you dusting for prints?”

  “I’m not,” Bruce said. “She was.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The rooftop of police headquarters had become Commissioner Gordon’s personal refuge, away from the nonstop phone calls, emails, faxes, meetings, and bureaucracy that came with the job. He liked to think he did his best detective work here, where he could actually concentrate without being interrupted—at least some of the time.

  On clear nights like this one, the roof offered a good view of midtown, the bridges, and the adjoining islands. The city appeared quiet, but Gordon knew that looks could be deceptive. Who knew what was going on behind closed doors and in the murky back alleys? Let the politicians brag that Gotham had been cleaned up for good. Gordon had been a cop too long to take anything for granted. Crime never slept, so he couldn’t afford to, either.

  Especially now that he didn’t have a certain Dark Knight backing him up.

  He yawned. It was late, but he was in no hurry to return to his depressingly empty apartment. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered keeping it—he practically lived at Police HQ anyway, or so Barbara had always complained. Smacking a thick stack of files against a nearby air duct to shake off the dust, he settled back against the railing to read. A shattered searchlight, rusted over and corroded, sat neglected a few yards away. Gordon had personally smashed it with a sledgehammer almost eight years ago. But he had never had the heart to remove it.

  Maybe someday. . .

  “Sir?” A young uniforme
d officer joined him on the rooftop. He approached Gordon tentatively. “I didn’t want to bother you up here, but they’re looking for you.”

  Gordon glanced up from the reports.

  “What’s the problem, son?”

  “Congressman Gilly’s wife has been calling. He hasn’t made it home from the Wayne Foundation event.”

  Gordon remembered Gilly pawing that poor maid. Maybe he had found a more cooperative plaything.

  “That’s a job for the police?” he asked.

  “Sir,” the rookie said, “I’ve been a cop for a year, and I’ve only logged half a dozen arrests. When you and Dent cleaned up the streets, you cleaned them up good.” He shrugged. “Pretty soon we’ll be chasing overdue library books.”

  Gordon smiled. He appreciated the young officer’s candor.

  “But here you are, sir.” He indicated the large stack of files Gordon held in his hands. “Like we’re still at war.”

  “Old habits,” Gordon said.

  “Or instinct?”

  Gordon heard something in the younger man’s voice. He gave the rookie a closer look. He was a husky young man with short, neatly cropped dark brown hair. He seemed shockingly young and fresh-faced, but Gordon recognized a hungry look in the youth’s eyes and the set of his jaw—an eagerness and curiosity Gordon remembered from his own early days as a beat cop in Chicago.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Blake, sir.”

  Gordon put down the files.

  “You have something you want to ask me, Officer Blake?”

  Blake hesitated, then spit it out.

  “It’s that night,” he said eagerly. “This night, eight years ago. The night Dent died.”

  “What about it?”

  “The last confirmed sighting of the Batman,” Blake said. He shook his head as if something didn’t add up. “He murders those people, takes out two SWAT teams, breaks Dent’s neck, and then just vanishes?”

  Officially, the masked vigilante known as Batman had been blamed for the murders of five people, including two cops and a prominent mob boss. Only Batman and Gordon knew who was truly responsible for those killings. Or how Harvey Dent had really fallen to his death.