“I could gasp ‘Batman!’ if it will make you feel more impressive.”
He got no response. He cocked his head slightly and continued, “I suppose telling a vigilante such as you that you’re under arrest would be a waste of time.”
When the caped figure spoke, it was in a low voice, just above a whisper. Dent doubted it was his normal speaking voice. It was impossible to determine whether he did it for disguise or effect.
“That’s correct,” was all he said.
Dent started towards him. Batman made no attempt to step backward. Harvey took a few steps, and then stopped. “As an officer of the court, I must advise you to report to the nearest police station and submit yourself to arrest.”
Batman studied him a moment. “If you’re referring to that business with the Penguin, his gang can tell you everything you need to know.”
“Well, they’ve disappeared,” replied Dent. “We’re looking for them, but—”
As if Dent hadn’t spoken, Batman continued, “They’re holed up in a warehouse at 73rd and Grand. There’s a secret room through a revolving wall on the northwest side.” There was a slight glitter from his nearly invisible eyes. “I’m presuming you can get the truth out of them.”
“If you knew where they are, why didn’t you go get them?”
“Are you advocating vigilantism?” There was just the briefest flash of a smile, and then his face grew serious again. “I wanted you to be able to take credit for the arrest. And I wanted to show you I’m capable of working with the authorities. Gordon knows this already. You don’t seem to.”
Dent stared at him, puzzled. “Why do you care what I think?”
He didn’t reply immediately. And then he said, “The local polls place you fairly low in public opinion. You’re not planning to run again for D.A., are you?” He had a habit of phrasing things as questions, but they came out as flat statements.
“I’m strongly considering not doing so, yes,” said Dent. “I feel as if I haven’t been able to keep the promises I made to the people of this city. Plus I have a fiancée . . . we’re talking about starting a family . . . with all that, yes, I’ve been thinking about returning to private practice. Sometimes you dream about doing something, but once you’re out there doing it, it doesn’t seem to accomplish your goals.”
“I know,” said Batman, in a tone of voice that immediately caught Dent’s attention. But it was as if the dark figure had inadvertently let something slip . . . something closer to him than he’d have liked to admit. Immediately the shadows seemed to enfold him, even though he didn’t move an inch. He paused and then said, “I think you’re selling yourself short. You could be the best D.A. this city has ever known. I can be of help to you. My investigations can give you leads, point you in the right direction. We have the same goal, you and I. We’re just two sides of it.”
“Two sides,” echoed Dent. “Let me get this straight. I’m thinking about getting out of this rat race, and you want me to stick my neck out further?”
“Yes,” Batman confirmed. “But I won’t let anyone chop it off.”
“You’ll protect me, you’re saying, from any dire consequences of your ‘investigations’?”
“As much as is humanly possible.”
Dent sighed. “I’ll check out this lead. If it pans out, and if it results in the arrest of the gang, and if they can be ‘convinced’ to give us an account that vindicates you, and if I don’t come to my senses, then maybe we can come to some sort of accord. But that’s a lot of ifs, maybes, and what-have-yous to stake your mask to.”
“It’s good enough for now,” said Batman. Then, without even seeming to move his feet, he drifted backward and melted into the shadows.
“Hey!” shouted Harvey Dent.. “Why are you working so hard to convince me to stay in office, eh?”
“Because together we can be more effective in putting crooks behind bars,” floated back a voice from the darkness. “And because . . . I care.” And then there was a brief rustling that could have been a cape, or perhaps it was massive wings . . .
. . . and he was gone.
N O W
CHAPTER ONE
Doctor Chase Meridian firmly believed that all the stories about how dangerous (make that Dangerous) Gotham City was were just that: stories. This wasn’t the wild West, after all, a place where rules were bent, broken and tossed out the window, where anyone could do whatever they wanted, and all citizens were on their own.
As Dr. Meridian walked briskly down the street during a busy lunch hour, she felt the pulse of humanity around her. It was a cool October day, and clouds were rolling in. There had been light drizzle on and off, and one would think that such weather would somehow make the city feel washed clean. No. It just made the dirt shiny. And with the sky darkening, the rest of the afternoon didn’t look much more promising.
Still, enveloped as she was by walls of moving life on all sides, Dr. Meridian had her thesis reinforced for her. This was a city, a bustling metropolis. Gotham City, not Dodge City.
Nevertheless, she found the mind-set endlessly intriguing. Here was a place where people lived and worked, hoped and dreamed, and tried to deal with the fear that pervaded every moment of their existence. Some hid from it. Some fought it. And some . . .
Some hid and fought back, all at the same time.
Then she thought she saw something. A quick rustling of a cape, maybe, high above on a ledge, yet hidden in the shadows.
She stopped, looked up . . . and saw not Batman, but a small flock of pigeons arc skyward. Her imagination working overtime.
What Dr. Meridian had forgotten, in her brief distraction, was that in the crowded bustling of the city, people take on the aspects of sharks. That is, they have to keep moving or they’re dead. The moment she stopped moving, the good doctor became an immediate target.
A man in a hurry to an illicit affair bumped into her, staggering her slightly. “Excuse me,” she muttered to deaf ears, before being bumped in the other direction by a woman running to catch a bus. Dr. Meridian tried to regain her balance and equilibrium, and it was at her most distracted that she was the most vulnerable.
The purse snatcher seemed to appear from nowhere. Before Dr. Meridian even knew what was happening, he had snagged her brand-new leather Gucci bag and was hightailing it on foot. His long, unwashed hair streamed out behind him, his dirty watch cap pulled down low over his face. Clutching the bag tightly under his arm as if he were charging down the field for a touchdown, the thief barreled down the sidewalk. He slipped in and out of spaces in the flow of humanity with a skill born of long practice.
“Stop him!” shouted Chase Meridian. People looked around in confusion, not sure who was shouting, where the shout was coming from, or whom the plea for intervention applied to. The thief was so slick that, even as a flustered pedestrian became aware of his presence, he was already gone.
Chase started after him, but she was wearing a fairly tight skirt that came down to her knees, not to mention high heels. Neither was conducive to speedy pursuit. She made a game try, but after half a block she stumbled. Her right heel snapped off with a sound like a rifle shot and it was nothing short of miraculous that she didn’t break her ankle. She kicked off her shoes, snatched them up, and continued the pursuit in her stocking feet. But it was more out of a sense of wounded pride than any hope of accomplishing anything. She knew there was no way in hell she was going to catch the little cretin.
The thief saw a break in the crowd. His victim’s cries were echoing behind him, but becoming fainter by the moment as he put more distance between the two of them. And now he was going to be home free.
He darted around a hot dog cart, around a derelict, and now there was no one between him and the entrance to a subway station. This was his particularly favorite station, since there were four different passages to assorted trains waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
The woman had been well dressed and definitely grade-A prime. Probably had a ton o
f cash, and every major credit card. He’d easily be able to get in some early Christmas shopping before she managed to cancel all the cards.
“Stop him!” came the voice again, and he glanced behind himself to make sure that no one was after him.
As a result, he didn’t see the obstruction until it was too late. Then again, even if he’d been watching, there was a good chance he wouldn’t have seen it because the figure was a blur.
There was a parked car next to a lamppost. At the exact moment that the thief’s attention was diverted, a slim, muscular youth darted across the roof of the car. He grabbed the lamppost and, using it as his axis while never slowing down, he swung his legs around and slammed his feet squarely into the thief’s head.
The thief wasn’t entirely clear on what had just happened. One moment his way was clear, and the next he was on the ground, with blood pouring from his nose. He looked around in confusion and then saw his attacker: a sawed-off runt with dark hair and a smug expression. He was clutching the purse tightly to his chest.
“Ya little creep!” shouted the thief as he got quickly to his feet. The boy didn’t back down, but instead glared at him with the air of one who was either supremely brave or remarkably stupid.
“Stop him!” came a female voice from behind.
And from off to the left came another voice, male, deep, and alarmed, shouting, “Richard!”
Angry and upset people converging on him was enough of a cue for the thief to realize that this little endeavor was finished. With a low growl directed at the interfering boy, he darted around the youth while at the same time trying to impede the flow of blood from his nose. The boy took a step to block his flight, but apparently realized after a moment that he’d be pressing his luck. So he froze as the thief reached the subway station and safety. He flipped the boy an obscene gesture. The kid stuck his tongue, out in return.
“There he goes!” came a woman’s shout, as the thief vanished down the stairs to the subway.
The teen turned in the direction of the cry and held up the purse. “S’okay!” he called. “I got it back!” His mouth continued to hang open as the woman emerged from the crowd into view. She was attractive, extremely shapely, with a rounded face, lovely blonde hair, and an air of total dishevelment because of her run that he found very fetching. “Calm down. Here you go,” he said.
From another direction came a tall, muscular man who bore a striking resemblance to the young man. The man saw the boy, the woman saw the purse, and both of them said, “Oh, thank God!” at the same time.
“Is this your son?” she asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“He’s very brave, Mr . . .”
“Grayson. I’m John. This is Richard.”
“Mr. Grayson. I’m Dr. Chase Meridian. Richard . . . you’ve earned a reward.”
“Great!” said Richard, already envisioning the largesse that a wealthy doctor might be capable of.
But his father immediately said, “No, that’s . . . quite all right, Doctor. The benefit should be in the act itself. Isn’t that right, Richard?”
He had a firm hand on his son’s shoulder, and it squeezed ever so gently . . . and ever so ungently. “Absolutely, Dad,” said Richard through gritted teeth.
“Are you sure?” asked Dr. Meridian.
“I guess we are,” said Richard. “I just . . . did it for the thrill of the action. And because it was the right thing to do.”
If Dr. Meridian picked up on the sarcasm, she didn’t give any indication of it. Instead her interest seemed piqued. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I’m doing some studies of people who think exactly along those lines. Would you . . . I hate to ask, you’ve done so much . . . would you be interested in spending some time the next few weeks in a series of visits . . . ?”
John Grayson didn’t appear to understand at first, but then he caught on. “You’re a psychiatrist,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“Well, Doctor,” and he glanced down at his son, “I admit my son’s actions might seem a little crazy . . .”
“Oh no!” said Chase quickly. “I never implied, or even thought that. It’s just that I have this study about—”
“It doesn’t matter,” said John. “We’re not in town all that long. Just passing through. And, as a matter of fact, we’re late for an appointment. I’m glad we were able to help you out. Good luck to you,” and with that he trundled Richard away as quickly as he could. Chase watched them go and scratched her chin thoughtfully.
“I wonder what that was about,” she said. Then she shrugged, slipped her shoes back on, and hobbled off to try to find a shoemaker.
“Were you out of your mind?” demanded John.
“I dunno,” said Richard, as they walked briskly down the street. “There was a shrink there. You could’ve asked her. And why’d you tear us outta there so fast? She was pretty nice to look at. What was the hurry?”
John slowed up and sighed. They were walking along the edge of Gotham Park, and John dropped down onto a bench. “Because I’ve run into people like that from time to time,” said John Grayson. “And the moment they find out we’re trapeze artists, they want to start getting into our heads. Get into the entire ‘Cheating death’ business. I don’t need the aggravation, and neither do you. And you,” he said firmly, “you’re the major issue under discussion. Jumping into the middle of a crime situation. That was crazy.”
“He could have gotten away with the purse.”
“He could have pulled a gun! Did you think of that?”
Dick grinned lopsidedly, not looking especially disturbed. “But we’re in the ‘cheating death business.’ You said so yourself. We always have been.”
“Richard,” said his father, taking him firmly by the arms, “there’s an element of truth to that. But we do everything we can to minimize the risk. What you did maximized it. Risking death is one thing, but staring it straight in the face and saying ‘Take your best shot’ is something else again.”
“And that’s what I did, huh?”
“Yes. That’s what you did.”
“But what about that time with Chris? Remember?”
“Yes,” sighed John.
“You told me how brave I was! When the wire broke—”
“Yes, yes, I know, Richard. And it was brave. And it was very likely even more dangerous than what you just did. But your brother’s life was at stake. Laying it on the line when it’s life or death is not remotely the same as taking chances to save somebody’s handbag. The stakes are different.”
“The stakes are different, but the idea is the same: helping people.”
“It’s degrees, Richard. It’s . . .” Then he shook his head. With a gruff sigh, and ruffled his son’s hair. “Just don’t do it again, okay? If you go and get yourself killed, your mother and I would have to go and make another baby to be in the act . . . wait for him to grow up . . . the whole business would just take forever. So be careful, okay?”
“Sure, Dad,” said Dick, grin still firmly in place.
There was a distant rumble of thunder and John looked up in concern. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s pick up those costume items your mom wanted and get back to the circus. I think a storm’s rolling in and, from the look of it . . . it’s going to be a rough one.”
CHAPTER TWO
The crack of lightning momentarily drowned out the screams from within Arkham Asylum. But barely had the thunder rumbled away before the shrieks could be heard once more, unabated.
Arkham had a long and impressive history. Of course, so did war, pestilence, famine, and death. The mere existence of that tradition was not enough to instill confidence.
Arkham, named for its founder, was a dark and terrifying place. It had not always been that way. Once, in the dim past, it had merely been a dark and fearsome place. Time had a way of taking the various psychoses and illnesses that infested the human mind and upping the stakes.
To the normal asylums and instit
utions were consigned those who were merely a danger to themselves. To the abnormal asylums and institutions went those who were a danger to themselves and to society.
It was said that Arkham got those who were a danger to God.
This was an exaggeration, of course.
But not by much.
Arkham sat behind a massive fence with the Asylum’s name etched in great twisted metal letters over the gate. The building itself didn’t sit on the hill so much as squat there, like a great spider positioned and waiting for prey. The storm that had been threatening the area for some days had finally arrived, and it seemed as if it had settled directly over the gothically styled building. This wasn’t unusual. Arkham always appeared to be a sort of lightning rod for every disruption and abomination that nature could possibly conceive of hurling at humanity.
The building was filled with people who were desperate, on edge, over the edge.
And that was just the staff . . .
The orderly’s name was Richter, and Richter was in deep, deep trouble.
He slowly pushed along a cleanup cart, looking nervously right and left. His bald head was thick with sweat. His legs felt rubbery, and he was leaning on the cart as much to stand as to push the cart along.
Despite the thunder and lightning, the screams and the flickering lights, the overall stench of disinfectant and fear . . . despite all that, Richter’s mind was nevertheless on anything but his job. He was dwelling on the people to whom he owed money. A lot of money. More money than he would see this month, or even this year.
If only the damned horse had paid off. It should have. Why should Richter be held responsible for the stupid horse’s leg breaking in the middle of the race? It wasn’t fair . . .
And then there was that lousy run of luck at the card game. How could he have been expected to know that the other guy could beat an ace-high straight? It wasn’t his fault . . .
And that night playing craps . . . he’d been on a roll. The money had been flowing and he’d had a hot hand, that rare feeling when you touch the dice and they’re yours to command. By all rights, he should have been able to recoup all his losses and more, pay off the loan sharks, buy the wife that coat she’d been wanting, maybe even get enough in the bank that he could quit and survive for a year or more while looking for a good job, a decent job.