Wayne of Gotham (34 page)

“Amanda,” Bruce groaned. “Get help! Hurry …”

Amanda's hand went limp, the weapon clattering to the ground. She cocked her head to one side, staring down at the gory mess at her feet.

“Ellen?” she murmured.

“Martha!” Bruce could barely speak. “Get … get help.”

“Marion?” Amanda whispered. Suddenly, she threw back her head and screeched. “Marion! Where am I? Who am I? You have to tell me, Marion! You have to
tell
me!”

Amanda collapsed onto the ground, kneeling over the blood-streaked face of Marion Richter and screaming at the dead woman. “Who am I, Marion? You promised to tell me who I was … I … Oh, Tommy! What has she done to you? Where is my child? … Father? When is father coming home? Marion, you promised father was coming home …”

Bruce shuddered. He had seen men die and wondered what they experienced. Amanda, Martha, Ellen—all of them had vanished into a madwoman who no longer was anchored to any of them. Alfred was gone, and the ELT they had gone to such lengths to implant behind his ear would continue to broadcast his distress call on a frequency that now had no one listening to it. He lay in the alley where a young Master Wayne had died all those years ago only to die again.

“Alfred!” Bruce cried out. His vision was failing. “I need you!”

Father … Mother … we've a lot to talk about … a lot to forgive …

Bruce closed his eyes again. He knew it would be for the last time.

Wayne Manor / Bristol / 8:35 p.m. / Present Day

Alfred Pennyworth stood within the center of Wayne Mausoleum and contemplated the column of moonlight that slanted in from the dome overhead. The structure resembled a small version of the Pantheon in Rome, complete with its own miniature oculus—a circular opening in the apex of the dome that allowed sunlight or moonlight into the chamber below. In the center of the floor, directly beneath the oculus, was a fountain arranged so that any rainwater that came in through the opening would gather into it. It required regular cleaning and maintenance, but Alfred did not mind the occasional intrusion among the dead. In many ways, he preferred it.

But his purpose tonight was not housekeeping. He was dressed in his finest suit and made sure his shoes had been polished to a mirror shine. He wore his camel-hair overcoat—the April weather was unseasonably cold, the aftereffect of a prolonged and difficult winter—and leather gloves. The rim of his bowler hat was now clutched in his right hand, while his left gripped a spray of flowers.

He stood before one of the crypts, gazing at the engraving in the stone.

BRUCE PATRICK WAYNE

FEBRUARY 19, 1963—

SON OF THOMAS AND MARTHA WAYNE

“I see they still haven't gotten around to putting in the deceased date,” said the gruff voice behind him.

“One of those details I just haven't gotten around to, Commissioner,” Alfred said, barely turning his head.

“Not that anyone is going to forget the date right away,” James Gordon stepped up next to Alfred, his hands deep in his overcoat pockets. “August fifteenth—just over six months ago. It was quite a memorial service.”

“You mean spectacle, don't you, Commissioner?” Alfred said, his eyes still fixed on the tomb. “I've never known so many people so anxious to get on the guest list for a funeral. You would have thought they all wanted him dead.”

“I wasn't among them,” Gordon replied, running his hand over his thick mustache.

Alfred gave the Commissioner a puzzled look. “My apologies, Commissioner. I thought I had included you on the guest list.”

“Yes, you did,” Gordon nodded, looking down at the ground. “And thank you, Alfred, for thinking of me, but … Well, I didn't want to say goodbye that way. He was a lot of things to a lot of people—good and bad—but to me he was just Bruce, a guy I knew with a quick smile who was generous to a fault and trying to cope with wealth and power he didn't ask for or particularly want. I didn't want to say goodbye that way—not with a big show and streamed mourning on the Internet. That's actually why I'm glad you asked me out here. It gives me a chance to say goodbye properly without having to worry about standing between some politician and a camera.”

“I know what you mean,” Alfred agreed. “It was a circus.”

“I suppose you can hardly blame the moth for being attracted to the flame.” Gordon shrugged with a sigh as he contemplated the tomb. “Bruce's death was international news for nearly two weeks before they ran out of things to say about him. The story had everything: fame, infamy, wealth, and power all brought down on the poor son of Gotham who died of a gunshot wound in the exact same place and same way his parents died over forty years before. Anyone who was anyone wanted to be seen as part of that kind of story.”

“Half of them were here to be seen,” Alfred corrected the Commissioner. “The other half most likely wanted to stick a pin in him to make sure he was dead.”

“Then they were disappointed, I suppose,” Gordon replied with a sad chuckle. “The casket being closed and all.”

“You read the autopsy report,” Alfred sniffed. “Several gunshots to the face. Horrible, really. The morticians simply gave up on reconstructing any reasonable likeness.”

“Yes, well, that's why I asked to see you,” Gordon continued. “Don't get me wrong … I appreciate the chance to come here, but why did you choose this place?”

“Because I like to think he's here somehow,” Alfred replied wistfully. “I'd like to think what you have to say will bring his soul some peace.”

Gordon glanced at the tomb, nodded, and went on. “We have a few things left to do to wrap up the investigation, but for the most part we think we have a clear picture of what happened. The Jane Doe you found at the scene remains just that. We haven't been able to identify her through our investigations and questioning her isn't going to help much. She changes personalities at the drop of a hat and claims to be everyone from Bruce Wayne's mother to a clinical psychologist who's been taken prisoner by a demon in her head. The shrinks at Arkham think that last one is a fixation on her therapist. Anyway, it appears she was living with the Doppel woman over on Pearl. Her prints are all over the weapon, along with some partials of the Richter woman. The ballistics were a solid match. We think they may have struggled over the gun. There was a lot of material in the Richter townhouse about Mr. Wayne, and we think the Jane Doe may have been stalking Bruce.”

“What about the other woman—the other victim?” Alfred corrected himself.

“Ellen Doppel?” Gordon pulled out his notebook and pushed his glasses up his nose, but soon gave up trying to read in the soft blue moonlight illuminating the tomb. “Well, the gist of it is that she was living in the Richter townhouse because it had been left to her by the Richter family. CSU went over the house but didn't find anything except a weird stalker shrine in the library. The DA thinks Doppel had been trying to treat the Jane Doe, followed her into the alley, and was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I understand Mr. Wayne had a habit of visiting that alley from time to time.”

“Yes, Commissioner, a tradition which I hope to honor on his behalf,” Alfred said. “So I suppose that's the end of it.”

“Yes, as far as I am concerned,” Gordon replied, pushing his hands back into his coat pockets. “It was decent of the man to leave you so much of the estate in his will.”

“My employer was a most loving and generous man,” Alfred nodded graciously. “Between Mr. Fox and I, we now hold a majority share in Wayne Enterprises.”

“You gonna keep the name?” Gordon asked.

“That name has served Gotham well for some time,” Alfred said. “I think it can still do so for a bit longer. The SEC is no longer interested in pursuing an investigation of the company; they could hardly press RICO charges against Master Wayne now that he is gone.”

“Small good to come for so high a price,” Gordon said. He stepped over to the tomb, placing his hand on the surface of the stone and resting it against the carved name.

“I'm sorry, Bruce,” Gordon said. His voice became low and gruff, barely audible even in the stillness of the night. “I wish I had been there to help you. Goodbye, old friend.”

Gordon turned, his head bowed down.

“Thank you for coming, Commissioner,” Alfred nodded. “Take care on your way home.”

“Sure,” Gordon nodded to Alfred as he walked slowly from the tomb. “Call if you need anything, Alfred.”

The new owner of Wayne Manor stood listening to the retreating footsteps of the police commissioner. When silence had once again descended on the tomb, he drew in a deep breath and turned to look up through the oculus to the starlit sky above.

“Did you hear that?” he said to the stars. “It's over.”

“I did,” answered a winged shape silhouetted against the stars. It descended in a whisper into the chamber, standing next to the old retainer.

“You have done an amazing job, Alfred,” the shadow said. “Thank you.”

“There's no need to thank me, Master—”

The shadow held up a warning hand.

“I meant to say there is no need to thank me,” Alfred amended. “My father did not just teach me how to sweep the halls and dust the furniture. My training in England was not restricted to Eton. My father remained well connected with his OSS friends, and they served to, shall we say, broaden my education and vocational skills.”

“You've demonstrated them well,” the shape said in the darkness. “Why were you monitoring my frequency that night, Alfred?”

“Let's just say I don't give up easily,” Alfred replied. “What about your own investigations?”

“Marion Richter was right,” he answered. “The virus is a major contributing cause to the extreme type of criminal we face too often here in Gotham, but not
the
cause. It amplifies reactions and certain genetic abilities—but it doesn't
cause
criminals.”

“You mean like Joker, sir?” Alfred asked.

“Interesting, isn't it?” the shadow mused. “Marion tried to coerce the Joker into helping her by manipulating his motivations. The one thing Joker cannot abide is control and order—the very things Marion was trying to instill in him. So he rebelled against Marion's programming and tried to save
me
from being drawn further into her web.”

“And, I've been meaning to ask you …”

“No, Alfred,” the shape replied. “I don't have the viral mutation. It wasn't passed to me.”

“But, sir, I thought—”

“I am who I am because I've
chosen
this path, Alfred,” the man said. “And now I've truly chosen it.”

The shape stepped from the shadows into the moonlight. His cape flowed behind him as though it had a will of its own. The familiar cowl covered his head, rising to feral ears on either side. The symbol of a bat was fixed to the front of his exomuscular Batsuit.

Batman took a rose from Alfred's hand and laid it before one crypt.

MARTHA KANE WAYNE

DECEMBER 7, 1937-AUGUST 15, 1971

WIFE AND MOTHER

He then took a second rose and moved to the next vault. Here Batman paused and considered the inscription for a moment.

THOMAS ALAN WAYNE

NOVEMBER 26, 1935-AUGUST 15, 1971

HEALER, PHILANTHROPIST, HUSBAND, AND FATHER

“Do you suppose we ever really know our parents, Alfred?” Batman asked.

“No, sir,” Alfred responded. “And perhaps they are better left to live as we remember them rather than as who they really were.”

Finally, Batman stopped at the third vault.

BRUCE PATRICK WAYNE

FEBRUARY 19, 1963-

SON OF THOMAS AND MARTHA WAYNE

Here he laid a third rose.

“A bit premature, isn't it, sir?” Alfred sniffed.

“Perhaps it's a bit overdue,” Batman answered. “I wonder if Bruce Wayne died years ago and just didn't know it. Do we choose our fate, or does our fate choose us? Either way, the choice has now been made.”