Wayne of Gotham (33 page)

He crouched down low, drew in a breath, grabbed the handles, and threw them open.

Crime Alley / Park Row / Gotham / 10:46 p.m. / Present Day

The territory was horribly familiar.

Bruce slammed the doors open, rolling quickly to the right. The alley was narrow, but he remembered there was a parking alcove to the right of the exit. There had been a car parked there that night of August 15, 1971 …

Bruce rolled against the curved bumper of the car. It was a 1966 Pontiac Grand Prix—white with a black roof—identical to the one that had parked in the same spot that night. He spun around in his crouch between the car and the wall of the alley, his senses heightened.

Nothing moved.

From the distance down the alley, he could hear a song playing. He remembered it as having being sung by an artist with the unlikely name of Gilbert O'Sullivan.

Footsteps approached from down the alleyway.

Bruce slipped around the car, moving down the opposite wall back toward the alley. There was a large dumpster there that gave him cover from whoever was approaching and, as importantly, was placed such that there was a dark pocket of shadow that could hide his presence. He slipped into the darkness—he owned the night—and tensed. He was prepared to take down this nemesis who had chosen this place—this
sacred
place—to torture him.

The figure stepped into the harsh circle of light cast downward from the exit-door lamp.

“Hello? H-h-hello?”

Bruce, astonished, reached out of the shadows and dragged the woman into his protected corner of the alley. “Nurse Doppel?”

“Mr. Grayson!”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I … I got a message,” she said. She wore jeans and a jacket against the cold, and the same sensible shoes he had always seen her in. “It said that if I wanted Miss Amanda back, I should meet you here. I thought I heard someone behind me in the alley—”

“It isn't safe … you've got to get out of here,” Bruce said, scanning the alley but seeing no movement. “It may be too late as it is.”

“No, Mr. Wayne,” said Nurse Doppel. “I think you're exactly on time.”

It was 10:47 p.m.

The muzzle of the 9 mm semiautomatic pistol caught on Bruce's ribcage as the woman stepped back, causing the bullet to pass under his left lung. It was a hollow-point round expanding on impact and tearing tissue, sinew, organs, and veins in its short, growing path. The impact from the shell threw Bruce backward against the dumpster. He pitched forward, his hands closing over the gaping wound in his father's shirt, fresh blood spilling out over the old stain.

Crime Alley / Park Row / Gotham / 10:47 p.m. / Present Day

Bruce struggled, pushing himself across the pavement, but he could not seem to get his legs under him. His hands tore at this shirt, the old, brittle fabric separating easily. He felt for the wound. The entry was not large, but the pain was excruciating. He knew the real damage was deeper than it appeared and far more extensive. He put pressure on the wound, but the blood kept coming.

Bruce reached up behind his right ear, triggering the subcutaneous transponder.

Alfred will come. He'll be monitoring … Oh, God!

No one would be listening. No reassuring voice sounded through the bones of his ear. He was alone.

“Help!” Bruce's shouts echoed down the alley. “Help me! Please! Somebody …”

“In this part of town, at this time of night?” the woman laughed. “Who are you expecting … Batman?”

Bruce Wayne knew that his clock was ticking now and that he was rapidly running out of time. “Ellen—”

“Marion … I'm Marion,” the woman replied.

“Impossible!” Bruce spat blood as he pulled his knees up under himself. “Marion Richter died in Arkham in 1979. You would have to be—”

“Almost seventy years old?” Marion smiled, circling Bruce with the 9 mm in both her hands still trained on him. “Didn't I tell you the Richter women all carried their age well? It's an inherited genetic trait … one that my father's research greatly enhanced.”

There was far more blood on the ground around him than he would have expected. Though his knees were under him, he seemed to be having far more difficulty straightening up than he should. “You? You have the Richter virus?”

Marion arched her eyebrow. “Of course … don't you?”

Bruce raised his head, glaring at Marion.

“Oh, poor Bruce,” she chuckled. “Why do you think I've gone to all this trouble? I've done you a great service, Mr. Wayne: I've shown you the truth about yourself. Your family robbed me of everything—even the memory of my great father. He was erased, his existence forgotten along with his research by everyone … everyone except me, Mr. Wayne. Everyone except me!”

Bruce reached back with his left hand. The back of his father's coat was torn and slick with gore and blood.

Exit wound. I wonder how bad off I really am? Joe Chill stood under this same lamppost. Now I'm bleeding out into my father's coat.

Bruce tried to lunge up to his feet, but his muscles were not responding normally. He reached toward Marion with both his bloodied hands, surging toward her, but his father's dress shoes slipped in the blood on the ground. Bruce fell forward, the right side of his face slamming into the asphalt.

“Your father created monsters,” Bruce croaked with a strange gurgling sound in his voice.

The gun barked again. Bruce screamed with the searing pain in his right leg.

“My father was a man five decades ahead of his time!” Marion shouted as she continued to hold the gun steady in her hands. “False memory implantation, chemical thought transference, base motivational modifiers all achieved through genetic programming and carried by a virus … ALL were his genius. I've spent my lifetime trying to understand his work. Thanks to modern equipment, I've even managed to perfect it! We'll have the utopia of my father's dreams. I'll bring it about, and when the day comes that crime is finally cured and peace reigns in Gotham, my father's name …
my
father's name … will be honored and shine like a beacon of hope to the world.”

“Tommy?”

Amanda! I told her to stay in the theater!

“Better hurry, sister,” Marion said. “The curtain's about to fall.”

“Tommy! No!” Amanda said, rushing over to Bruce from the open theater exit. She fell kneeling next to Bruce, his blood soaking into his mother's death dress.

“May I present the
former
Miss Ellen Doppel,” Marion said.

Bruce shook as the woman he knew as Amanda sobbed over him. “Tommy, tell me what to do!”

I feel so cold … and I don't feel anything at all …

“She's my masterwork,” Marion sighed. “When my sister lay in Arkham I managed to harvest some of her memories before she died. This version of Amanda is a bit confused, I'll grant you, as I had to implant a number of false memories as well in order to reel you in. I'll straighten her out once you're out of the way.”

“And so you plan to start this utopia of yours by torturing and killing me?” Bruce grimaced.

“Not just killing you, Mr. Wayne,” Marion responded. “No, you see, as a mental health professional, I felt an obligation to kill your soul as well as your body. I thought it important that you understand the depth of your father's betrayal—of Gotham, of my father, of your mother, and of you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bruce cried.

“Your father's cover-up,” Marion answered. “The Wayne dynasty used its power, money, and influence to bury all its dirty laundry … and buried my father in the process, buried my family … and eventually buried my mother and sister … but it wasn't enough to destroy us. The initial virus spread to six prime carriers. Your father had to hunt them down as well. Without them, the virus would eventually mutate with every iteration, the genetic memory encoding would become corrupted, and the virus would die off. But as long as the original six lived, the virus could survive through them and that your father could not allow. He even patched things up with his old friend Lew Moxon, so that when the last of the six were found, they could all be taken care of quietly. Of course,
your
father only knew of the four Apocalypse and that
my
father had been infected.”

“Who was the sixth?” Bruce was having trouble breathing.

“Unfortunately, while the equipment in the laboratory may have been state-of-the-art for the 1950s, it was inadequate to contain my father's work,” Marion replied. “I suppose your father hoped Moxon would have his henchmen capture the prime carriers, but Moxon contracted a killer to take care of the problem for him. I think you probably know him … Joe Chill.”

Punctured lung. Missed the heart, but the bleeding is bad. May have nicked an artery. Need to stop the bleeding … Getting cold.

“I wonder if your father knew as he lay where you're lying now,” Marion mused, “that he had contracted his own killing?”

Bruce closed his eyes.

“Please, Tommy!” Amanda wailed. “It's me … Martha! Don't leave me! Don't—”

“So we pay for the sins of our fathers?” Bruce whispered hoarsely.

“One of us does,” Marion said, lowering the 9 mm to Bruce's temple.

“NO!” Amanda screamed. The woman leaped up in the stained green formal, shoving Marion's hand aside just as the gun fired. The hollow-point projectile slammed into the asphalt, burying itself even as it flattened from the impact. Amanda—now Martha—launched herself at Marion, her fingers scratching Marion's hands as she clawed for the weapon. Marion stumbled backward toward the trash bin, shocked by the unexpected fury of Amanda's onslaught. Amanda threw herself into Marion without hesitation, slamming the older woman against the trash bin. The force pushed the air out of Marion's lungs.

The 9 mm Browning pistol fell, skittering across the asphalt of the alley and coming to rest in front of Bruce's face. He stared, blinking at the weapon.

Am I the monster? Have I become what I hate
?

The weapon lay within his reach.

“Tommy! Help!” Amanda screamed.

Marion broke free of Amanda's clutches, lunging for the gun.

This is who I am … This is who I chose to be …

Bruce grabbed the gun … and slid it away from him with all the strength he had remaining, drawing in a painful breath.

“Martha!” Bruce yelled. “Help me!”

Marion fell to the ground where the gun had been moments before. She quickly got to her feet, turned to retrieve the weapon … and faced Amanda, who was holding the gun.

“Get
away from him
!” Amanda screeched.

Somewhere in Amanda's confused layers of false and implanted memories, she must have fired a handgun. She held the weapon rock solid in both hands and was braced to shoot.

Marion stood slowly upright, her hands held open in front of her as she worked hard to keep her voice calm. “Be still, sister! I'm Marion. It's almost finished … and then we'll be free.”

“Free?” Amanda giggled the words madly. “You've killed my husband! You've killed my
son
!”

“No,
I've
killed our ghosts, dear sister,” Marion said through a gentle smile. “I've killed the last man who stands in our way. The world will remember what they have done to us—we'll
make
them remember—and the Waynes will haunt us no more. I'll have you back with me, Amanda … and we'll be free.”

Amanda cocked her head suddenly, the curls of the bouffant hairstyle bouncing on the shoulders of the stained emerald dress.

“Amanda,” she said with a curious smile. “Who's Amanda?”

Marion opened her mouth to speak, rushing forward.

Amanda pulled the trigger.

The 9 mm Browning bucked in Amanda's hands. Marion was stopped by the impact of the shell at once, staggering backward. Her sensible shoes slipped slightly in the pooling blood around Bruce, but she regained her footing. Dark crimson was blossoming on her jacket. She screamed, “No, Amanda! Not now!”

“You killed him! You killed him!” Amanda screamed again and again as the Browning muzzle flared repeatedly.

Marion jerked with the next three shots before the impacts drove her back off her feet and she fell to the ground.

Still, Amanda continued to fire, moving toward the fallen form of Marion Richter. The cartridges continued to fly out of the handgun until the bolt stopped in the open position after the eleventh shot.

The last of the shell casings rang against the pavement.

Smoke drifted from the muzzle of the gun.

Marion Richter lay shattered and unmoving on the ground.

Amanda stood over the woman, her eyes wide. She blinked and then looked at the gun as though she had never seen it before.