He couldn’t have known that the hot hand would evaporate, just like that, leaving him cold bones and even deeper in debt. How could he have anticipated it? Just like that, just like that. It wasn’t his fault.
He rolled past the guard at the maximum security point, the wheels on the cart squeaking. The guard, whose name was Irvin, nodded slightly. Richter returned the nod and continued on his way.
He went past cell after call. He was no longer looking around. Instead his focus was utterly on the door that was up and to the right.
Room 22.
He stopped there, waiting for someone to say, “Hey! What’re you doing!” But no one did. He drummed his fingers for a moment on the cart.
Next to the door was a keypad. The combinations were changed electronically and automatically every day. But Richter had managed to sneak into the head office and pick up that day’s combo. He punched in the numbers and heard a soft click. The electronic lock had unlatched. He took a deep breath, and then eased the door open, pulling the cart in behind him.
There was a single stream of light in the cell, coming from a barred window overhead—nowhere near enough to illuminate the entire cell, even as small as it was. Nevertheless, the single occupant of the cell was partly visible. His legs were casually crossed, and Richter could hear something whirring through the air rhythmically. Something small and metallic, tossed in the air and then landing in the occupant’s hand.
“M . . . Mister Dent,” said Richter. “I’m . . . it’s me. Richter.”
“We know it’s you,” came the voice of the man Richter called Dent. He was only distantly related to the Harvey Dent who had met with Batman on the rooftops all that time ago; nominally, they shared a body. But that was all. The mind was something else again.
“I brought what you asked for.” He stopped and fidgeted. “You probably want to see it, don’t you?”
No sound, save for that up and down of the metallic object.
Richter reached down into the cleaning cart, to the hidden compartment he’d rigged up. He pulled out a pair of goggles and an acetylene torch. “Cut through the bars in no time.”
“Put them down where we can see them,” said Dent.
Richter stepped forward and did so. Then he paused and said, “You . . . you remember the deal.”
“We remember it.”
“The money . . . the money you promised me . . . half a million, if I helped you escape . . . you . . . you do have the money . . . ?”
There was a two-second silence.
“You read the newspaper stories, just like everyone else,” came Dent’s voice. “You know we have two million stashed away. Half a mill of it is yours . . . unless, of course . . .”
“Unless what?”
Another two-second pause, and then something was thrust into the light.
It was a coin. It was a special commemorative coin, issued to celebrate the 100th anniversary of “Lady Gotham,” a statue situated in Gotham Harbor. Lady Gotham was depicted in profile on both sides. The coin gleamed in the shaft of light and then, with remarkable dexterity, he turned the coin to reveal the other side. Richter then saw that—whereas Lady Gotham had been pristine on one side—on this other side her head had been disfigured, slashes made through it.
“Would you be interested in . . . double or nothing?” came Dent’s calm voice. “A flip of the coin decides.”
Richter’s immediate impulse was to say “No.” No, not just say it. Shout it. Scream it. Scream, “Are you insane? I’m risking my career, my freedom, violating trust, breaking the law . . . and you’re asking if I want to chance winding up having nothing to show for it except an empty cell, a mountain of debts, and some guys who would rip my insides out just for kicks, much less for the amount of money I owe them?”
All of that very correct, very understandable response, rattled around in his head. But during that time, the twinkle of the coin sparkled in his eyes.
A million bucks . . .
(It’s crazy.)
But a million bucks . . .
(You’ve been hanging around in this nuthouse too long.)
The gambling instincts pounded through him, thudded in his temples until it was all he could hear. A half a million dollars would put him in the clear, sure . . . but a million . . . he’d be set for life . . . forever. Not only could he clear off his debts, but then he and the wife could blow town, go to some small island in the Bahamas or something, live like a king and queen on what was left over.
For years . . . for so many years, she’d considered him a loser, a nowhere bum with dream but no drive. Wouldn’t the expression on her face be worth the risk?
Hell, for that matter . . . the Bahamas beckoned him, and she didn’t necessarily have to be part of the equation. Wouldn’t that be worth the risk?
The night erupted in light and sound, and the coin looked like a hellish ember.
“Well?” said Dent. “Decision time, Richter. Time is money.”
“All right . . . you’re on.”
Barely were the words out of his mouth before the coin was airborne, flashing in the light. “Call it,” said Dent.
He thought of the grotesque, scarred head. “Clean side,” he decided.
The coin seemed to hang in midair, alternatingly beautiful and frightening. Then it spiralled to the floor and landed. It spun for a moment. Richter stepped closer to see for himself what the result was.
It hesitated, carried by its momentum, and then settled. Richter stared down at it.
Scarred side up.
“Too bad,” said Dent.
There was a sudden, swift movement that Richter barely even had time to register. Then he felt a sharp pinch at his throat, and a warmth trickling down it. Automatically he put his hand to the source of the warmth, and came away with a hand coated with his own blood.
“Would you like your palm read?” asked Dent. “Oh . . . too late. It’s red already.”
Richter went to his knees. His already-blurring eyes managed to make out what Dent was now holding in his other hand: A double-edged razor blade. His mouth moved, forming the word, “Why?” but his vocal cords were traumatized and he couldn’t produce the sound.
Nevertheless, Dent was able to make it out. “Why?” he said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “You’re asking why? But . . . isn’t that obvious? It was double or nothing. Nothing means no money . . . no life . . . nothing. Null. Void. Two times zero . . . is zero.”
Richter’s final thought was, I . . . I didn’t know . . . it’s not my fault . . . it’s not fair . . . and then he crashed to the floor, the last sound he would ever be responsible for making. Without bothering to glance at him, Dent—still hidden by shadows—stepped over him and picked up the acetylene torch. As he placed the goggles over his face and fired up the torch, he said to the man who could no longer hear him, “This has been a productive evening, Richter. Thanks to you, we not only escape . . . but we save half a million dollars. We’re doubly grateful.”
He fired up the torch, pushing back the darkness.
The right side of his face was much as it had been back when he had had his meeting with Batman.
The left side of his face looked like a relief map of purgatory . . . except, in this purgatory, there would never be any redemption or forgiveness.
There would just be more, and greater, insanity.
Dr. Burton, the chief psychiatrist of Arkham Asylum, was not particularly looking forward to this session. Meetings with Harvey Dent were not only an exercise in futility, but self-control as well. Staring into that face, that . . . face . . . was a test of Burton’s ability to maintain his own grip on sanity.
He walked the old hallway, glancing around and making mental note of places where plaster was falling, where cracks were forming. They needed money to maintain the place, but the city budget was cut to the bone and it was difficult to get private donations. Arkham Asylum wasn’t one of the “sexier” places where people could contribute.
He stop
ped at the entrance to the maximum security wing and flashed a high sign to Irvin. The guard returned the gesture, and then was almost deafened by a thunderclap overhead. Dr. Burton was somewhat less thrown. He, instead, was counting, as he had been much of the night. The rain had concentrated on Arkham, but the lightning had still been some distance away. Just like his father had taught him when he was little, Burton had been counting off the seconds between the flash of light and the thunder.
It had drawn closer and closer, the count going from ten to five in a dazzlingly short period of time.
“Hell of a night, huh, Doc?”
Burton chucked a thumb and said, “Hell’s in here.”
Irvin nodded in silent agreement. “Want backup, Doc?”
Burton considered it a moment. Then he nodded. Irvin promptly informed the central guard post, via his walkie-talkie, that he was accompanying Burton. Within twenty seconds a replacement would be there, the exit covered. Irvin’s full concentration would be on making sure that Harvey Dent didn’t try any funny stuff.
Burton approached Dent’s cell, which was securely closed, as always. He punched in the release code and then gently pushed the door open. “Mr. Dent . . .” he called, feeling some degree of comfort about Irvin’s presence directly behind him.
He saw Dent’s shadowed form seated in a chair. He garnered some relief from that. If Dent was visible, it meant he couldn’t spring out from hiding.
“Counselor . . .”
No answer. Burton was now completely in the cell, and he stepped toward the unmoving figure, cautious and even a little worried. “Harvey . . .”
Lightning flashed as the body slumped over. It was Richter. The front of his uniform was covered with dried blood.
As if on cue, the inmates in surrounding cells began shrieking. A hideous cacophony of laughter, howling, and demented cackling filled the air.
Irvin was already on the walkie-talkie, but Burton didn’t hear his voice. Instead he looked up . . . up to the grating that had been burned through, iron supports twisted and open.
Lightning came and, reflexively, Burton counted in his head. The thunder rumbled two seconds later, and from the fading light, Burton was able to see something scrawled on the wall. Then it vanished. He moved toward it, his mind still numb.
Lightning and thunder crashed together, and there were the words in blood—Richter’s blood—etched on the wall.
THE BAT MUST DIE
This time, when the inmates screamed, Burton’s voice was raised in chorus with them.
CHAPTER THREE
More and more, Bruce Wayne had been harder to see during the day.
His business associates and employees knew that seeing him in the morning was problematic. Early afternoon the odds rose to about fifty-fifty, and by late afternoon one was far more assured of catching his ear.
Consequently, there had been a subtle shift of hours at the Wayne Foundation. There was no company policy or official memo, but . . . slowly but surely . . . it became acceptable to arrive late and stay late. Wasn’t that bad a deal, really; it was a nice way to avoid rush hour traffic.
Although when it came to beating traffic, it was hard to top the resources at Bruce Wayne’s disposal.
The granite-and-glass towers of the Gotham City skyline shimmered in the autumn sun, hanging low in the western sky. The helicopter sliced through the air smoothly, the pilot being extremely reluctant to jostle his passenger. It was, after all, his boss. His boss, and the boss of a couple thousand other employees.
“You okay back there, Mr. Wayne?” he called, just to make sure.
“No problem, Rudy,” Wayne replied.
His voice was pleasant, as indeed was his entire demeanor. His thick brown hair was neatly coiffed, his square-jawed face annoyingly flawless (annoying to “mere mortals,” as one newspaper gossip columnist was fond of observing). His suit was Savile Row, dark pinstripe, tailored and perfectly pressed.
And his attention was not remotely on the pilot’s query, or the quality of the helicopter ride. Instead, his concentration was squarely on the video screen situated directly in front of him.
There was a photo of Harvey Dent . . . Dent as he had been, a lifetime ago, illuminating the upper right-hand side of the screen. And the newscaster, appropriately grim, was saying, “And in Gotham City last night, ex-District Attorney Harvey Dent escaped from Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Dent, once Gotham’s leading contender for mayor, was horribly scarred by underworld kingpin Boss Maroni during an indictment hearing. Dent, whose resulting left-brain damage transformed him into a violent criminal, launched a grisly crime spree before being captured by the Batman. Reported to have sworn revenge on the Dark Knight, he is extremely dangerous. Repeat . . .”
Words.
Just words. Words that covered the surface aspect of the situation, but didn’t begin to approach the depth of what had happened. Didn’t come close to the core of guilt that Wayne carried with him to this day.
It was one of those moments where he had done everything right . . . and it had still gone horribly wrong.
There he’d been at the indictment, seated some rows back, in disguise (since he didn’t want the high-profile Bruce Wayne to be a presence at criminal proceedings. He always preferred to err on the side of overcaution).
The collaring of Maroni had been the latest success in the private little arrangement between Batman and Harvey Dent. The improvement in Batman’s ability to operate had been fairly immediate. Commissioner Gordon had been a longtime supporter of the Batman and his “questionable” activities. But the mayor and the city council were far more political animals, and were concerned about how the Dark Knight’s shadow cast itself over Gotham.
It had been Harvey Dent who had swung the balance of public opinion (not to mention behind-closed-doors and smoke-filled-room opinion) toward Batman. Dent had been the first to go on record that Batman apparently had been framed by Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, dubbed “The Penguin” by the same media that had crucified Batman until Dent spoke out on his behalf. And Batman, in turn, had saved Dent when the D.A. came up against the demented villain known as “Poison Ivy.”
With all of that, with all that history, there had developed a bond and trust between the two. And so, on the bigger trials, Bruce felt a need to be present, even if Harvey was unaware of it. It felt . . . right . . . somehow.
A hundred, a thousand times since then, Bruce Wayne’s mind had replayed that moment. It had seemed to stretch out into infinity. Boss Maroni stepping out of the witness box, a substantially changed man from when he’d first stepped into it. He had been swaggering and confident when Harvey Dent first started questioning him. Harvey’s courtly, gentlemanly demeanor could be very disarming if one wasn’t prepared, and the overly assured Maroni was as far from prepared as one could get. His lawyers had warned him, but he hadn’t listened.
But as Harvey Dent had slowly and methodically torn him to shreds, watching Maroni had been like watching a deflating balloon become smaller and shriveled and pathetic. By the time Dent had finished with him, it had seemed like there was nothing left.
There had been, though. There had been the desperate act of an infuriated man. It was as if somehow Maroni had had a premonition of how things might, in some unimaginable reality, go. And he had decided before setting foot in the courtroom that if he did go down in flames, there would be some final, furious act of defiance. No one, but no one, was going to get away with embarrassing and humiliating Boss Maroni.
“Hey! Dent! Cross-examine this!” he’d shouted, standing in the witness box. His hand had dipped into his pocket and he had yanked out a small vial. His throw had been smooth and flawless.
If Harvey had just stepped back . . .
. . . or ducked . . .
. . . or anything, then the vial would have wound up as glass shards, its contents bubbling away viciously but harmlessly on the courtroom floor, it would have been a simple charge of “attempted assault” tacked
onto the lengthy criminal indictments already facing him, and that would have been that.
But he stood bolt still, surprised, a deer in the headlights, as the vial’s contents splashed all over the left side of his face.
There were certain sounds that Bruce Wayne would always carry with him. Sounds like his parents’ screams, or the tinkling of his mother’s broken pearl necklace falling to the ground.
The flapping of wings and the screech of bats, although somehow the memories of the circumstances themselves were somewhat blurred.
The crack of Catwoman’s whip.
A couple of other sounds . . . and now this. This hideous, unspeakable moment, and he would never forget the sound of the acid bubbling and burning and eating away at Harvey’s face. Harvey’s scream was almost secondary, as had been the panicked cries of other people in the courtroom. He’d heard screams before, and certainly enough sounds of a confused and shouting mob. But he’d never, before or since, heard the sound of flesh just being eaten away.
That night he’d come to the hospital as Batman. It seemed to him that Harvey was beyond pain. Instead Harvey was looking up at him with his one good eye, and there was something in there . . . a look of hate and betrayal and anger . . .
Batman knew that look all too well. It was the look on his face every night when he slid the mask down that covered his features.
It was disturbing to see it turned back at him. Disturbing and something that boded ill for the future.
“Nice protection,” was all Harvey said, and then turned away. He said nothing more.
The next time Batman would see him would be weeks later, after Harvey’s devastating crime spree with his new nom de guerre of “Two-Face.” There was Batman, Dent’s former ally, now his pursuer and, eventually, captor. “We made it that much easier for you to operate in this town,” Two-Face had growled, “And now you leave us . . . double-crossed. We will not forget that. Not ever. Not ever.”