The Dark Knight Rises (17 page)

Nearly scared me out of a year’s growth,
he thought.
Who does he think he is? The Batman?
But he tried to regain control of the situation.

“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded.

“The plan is proceeding as expected,” Bane stated flatly.

Hardly,
Daggett thought. “You see me running Wayne Enterprises?” Regaining his composure, he got in the mercenary’s face. “Your stock exchange hit didn’t work, friend. And now you’ve got my construction crews working all hours around the city? How
exactly
is that supposed to help my company absorb Wayne’s?”

Bane turned toward Stryver.

“Leave us.”

“You stay right there!” Daggett ordered. “I’m in charge.”

Bane placed his hand lightly on Daggett’s shoulder. A hint of amusement showed in his dark eyes.

“Do you feel in charge?” he asked.

A chill ran down Daggett’s spine. He gulped as Stryver crept out of the room, leaving him alone with Bane. His mouth went dry, and suddenly his palms were sweaty.

“I’ve paid you a small fortune—”

“And that gives you power over me?” Bane asked.

It sure didn’t feel like it at the moment. Bane’s hand weighed heavily on Daggett’s shoulder. The frightened millionaire was starting to wish he was still in the Catwoman’s clutches. He tugged on his collar.

“What is this?” he asked nervously.

“Your money and infrastructure have been important,” Bane explained. “Till now.”

Daggett stared in horror at Bane’s grotesque countenance. He had thought that the infamous mercenary was merely another hired gun—somewhat more expensive than most, yet nothing more. But as he peered into the masked man’s pitiless orbs, he finally realized that Bane was working for no one but himself. And he was no mere soldier of fortune.

“What
are
you?”

“Gotham’s reckoning,” Bane answered. “Come to end the borrowed time you’ve all been living on…”

He gently took Daggett’s head in his hands. A primordial dread washed over the tycoon. He looked into the face of his destroyer as he grasped what Bane actually was.

“You are true evil…”

“I am
necessary
evil—”

A sharp crack ended the discussion.

The patrol car cruised through Gotham. Bruce sat in the passenger seat, staring glumly out the window. He and Blake had the car to themselves—apparently, Blake’s partner had taken a day off after chasing Batman all night.

It had been a long night for all of them.

“When you began,” Blake asked, “why the mask?”

Bruce didn’t see any point in denying it any longer. Blake had obviously sussed out the truth. And with Jim Gordon laid-up, he needed a reliable ally inside the police force. The young cop seemed a likely candidate.

“To protect the people closest to me,” he explained. But Blake didn’t buy it.

“You were a loner with no family.”

Not entirely,
Bruce thought. He remembered Rachel—and Alfred.

“There are always people you care about,” he said. “You just don’t realize how much until a bad man points a gun at them. Or until they leave…” His throat tightened and he needed a moment to collect himself. “The idea was to be a symbol. Batman could be anybody—that was the point.” It felt odd to be discussing this openly with anyone besides Alfred, but
who else was he supposed to talk with these days? Miranda Tate?

Selina?

Blake nodded.

“It was damn good to see him back.”

“Not everybody agrees.”

Blake shrugged.

“They’ll figure it out in the end.”

Bruce appreciated the young cop’s faith in Batman. Maybe Blake was someone he could count on after all.

“Got anything on Bane’s whereabouts?” he asked.

“Yeah, I got five
hundred
pages of tunnel records and a flashlight. I could use some help.”

So could I,
Bruce thought. He wondered who else might be able to give them a lead. A thought occurred to him, along with a memory of a certain glamorous cat burglar. And a kiss that still lingered in his memory.

“You know what?” he said. “Drop me off in Old Town…”

A short drive later, Blake pulled up to the curb across from a shabby-looking townhouse that had clearly seen better days. As a cop, he had answered more than a few calls in this notably dicey neighborhood. Mostly drugs, drive-bys, and domestic disturbances. He wondered what business Wayne had here.

“Don’t wait,” Wayne said. “I’ll get a cab.”

“You got money?”

A sheepish look came over Wayne’s face.

“Actually, no.”

Figured as much
, Blake thought. He handed Wayne some bills and watched as the former billionaire crossed the street and disappeared inside the grimy townhouse. He was tempted to wait anyway, but then his radio squawked at him, announcing a nearby fender-bender. He frowned and pulled away from the curb. He felt bad about leaving Wayne in such a scuzzy district, but then he remembered how the one-time playboy really spent his nights.

If Bruce Wayne couldn’t take care of himself, who could?

Selina was busy packing when she heard a familiar uproar out in the hall.

“I told you,” Jen said loudly. “Money first.”

“I don’t think so,” a man replied.

Selina froze, recognizing the voice. She rushed out into hall, where, sure enough, she found Bruce Wayne by the stairwell, talking with Jen. The younger girl grinned in wicked anticipation, waiting for her friend to pounce on the unsuspecting visitor, only to look puzzled when Selina merely scowled at Wayne instead.

“He’s not a mark,” Selina explained. “And he doesn’t have a cent to his name, anyway.”

Not for a moment did she think this was a coincidence. Regarding Wayne suspiciously, she let
him into the crummy two-bedroom walkup she shared with her protege. The peeling wallpaper, leaky faucet, and thrift store furniture were a far cry from stately Wayne Manor. The radiator hissed and wheezed asthmatically. Selina was briefly embarrassed by her low-rent digs, then mad at herself for caring what Wayne thought.

“Yeah, it’s not much,” she admitted with a smirk. “But it’s more than you’ve got right now.”

“Actually, they’re letting me keep the house,” he said.

Selina shook her head in disbelief.

“The rich don’t even
go broke
same as the rest of us, huh?”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead he spotted the open suitcase spread out atop a ratty couch.

“Vacation?” he asked.

I wish,
she thought. “Let’s just say that I’ve incurred the wrath of some people less susceptible to my charms than you.”

“My powerful friend hopes to change your mind about leaving,” he said.

She remembered ditching Batman on the roof.

“And how would he do that?”

“By giving you what you want.”

If only,
she thought. “It doesn’t exist,” she replied.

“He says it does,” Wayne said, and he sounded certain. “He wants to meet. Tonight.”

For a moment, she wondered how Batman knew about the Clean Slate anyway. Then she realized that he must have been eavesdropping on her rooftop confrontation with Daggett.

“Why?” she asked.

“He needs to find Bane. He thinks you’d know how.”

She repressed a shudder at the mention. She’d had dealings with a lot of bad people in her time, but the masked mercenary was one of the few individuals who had ever truly scared her. Bane was the reason she had been packing.

“Tell him I’ll think about it.”

Wayne nodded and started to leave. She called out to him before he left.

“Mr. Wayne? I’m sorry they took all your money.”

He glanced back, seeing right through her.

“No, you’re not.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Blake rushed through the hospital, searching for the right room. A pair of uniformed cops, posted outside a closed door, indicated that he had reached his destination.

The cops recognized him and waved him through.

He found Gordon sitting up in bed, talking to Foley. The injured commissioner was still pale, and uncomfortably gaunt, but he looked much better than he had when Blake had dragged him from the sewers. A new pair of glasses rested on his nose. An oxygen mask lay to the side.

Apparently it took more than a few bullets to take Gotham’s top cop out of the game.

“Can we help you, officer?” Foley asked, scowling. He didn’t look pleased to see the young cop.

“John Daggett’s body was found in a dumpster an
hour ago,” Blake reported. “I thought you might like to know.”

Gordon eyed him curiously.

“Why?”

“Because Daggett’s name is all over the permits I pulled to map the tunnels under Gotham.” He handed Gordon a stack of files, the relevant documents flagged with Post-Its. Foley gave Blake the evil eye, but the young officer ignored him and spoke directly to Gordon instead.

“MTA maintenance, sewer construction…”

Gordon looked at Foley.

“Where did you get to with the tunnel searches?”

“Remind me to tell the detail to keep the hotheads out,” Foley muttered, glaring at Blake. Then he turned back to Gordon. “We’ve had teams down there, but it’s a huge network.”

“Get more men,” Gordon ordered. “Work a grid. I want him found—”

“Yeah, yeah. The masked man,” Foley said. But he made it sound as if it was low on his list of priorities, especially now that Batman was back. “We’re on it,” he added.

Gordon leafed through the files, flipping through the pages and eyeing them hungrily.

“This is good work,” he told Blake, looking up from the files. “Lose the uniform. You’re working for me now.” He cast a sideways glance at Foley. “We could use some hotter heads around here.”

Foley purpled with suppressed anger, but kept his mouth shut.

“This could just be a coincidence,” Blake hedged. Although thrilled by the promotion, he was acutely aware of the responsibility Gordon had just placed on him. He didn’t want to inadvertently steer the commissioner in the wrong direction.
What if I’m wrong about this?

“You’re a detective now, son,” Gordon said. “You’re not allowed to believe in coincidence anymore.”

Blake tried not to grin in front of Foley.

The sun was going down by the time the cab dropped Bruce off in front of the manor. A pounding rain drenched him as he splashed up the driveway, holding Lucius’s newspaper over his head. The soggy tabloid provided meager protection from the downpour, quickly collapsing under the weight of the deluge. Soaked to the skin, he reached the relative shelter of the portico, where he rang the bell impatiently.

“Nobody’s answering.”

Miranda Tate stepped out from behind a marble column, looking similarly sodden. He wondered how long she had been waiting there.

“No,” he replied ruefully. “I’m on my own, now.”

“Do you have keys?” she asked.

He looked at her helplessly.

“I never needed them…” Alfred had always let him in before.

She took his hand.

“Let’s find a window,” she suggested.

Breaking and entering proved distressingly easy. Bruce guessed that the servants had neglected to activate the household security system before departing in search of steadier paychecks. Shivering, he and Miranda forced open the French windows and took refuge in the great room. Water dripped off them onto the carpet.

He turned on the lights.

“Fox worked the board like you’ve never seen,” she reported, shaking the rain from her dark hair. “Daggett’s out of the picture, and he’s not happy.”

He set the wet newspaper down on a table. Ink bled from the headline on page one of the business section.

FROM BILLIONAIRE TO BUM

“I’ll take care of your parents’ legacy,” Miranda promised.

He believed her.

“Hope you didn’t just like me for my money,” he said.

She kicked off her wet shoes and came in closer. Her striking blue-gray eyes looked deeply into his. He caught another whiff of her perfume.

“Suffering builds character,” she whispered, and then she kissed him—passionately. Surprised by the heat of her ardor, he took her in his arms and kissed her back, feeling her soft curves through their soggy garments. He couldn’t help comparing her kiss to the one Selina Kyle had planted on him at the masquerade.

Miranda’s kiss felt less like a challenge and much more intimate. It was just what he needed right now.

Without warning, the lights went out.

Their lips came apart. They clung to each other in the darkness.

“What’s that?” she asked.

Bruce looked at her sheepishly.

“I think my power’s been shut off.”

A short time later, they nestled together in front of a crackling fire. Wet clothes lay discarded upon the floor. Heaps of fluffy cushions and comforters formed a cozy love nest in front of the hearth. Miranda extricated herself from Bruce’s arms long enough to tend the blaze.

“You’re pretty good at that,” he commented.

She stirred the burning logs, the glow of the fire burnishing her bare skin.

“When I was a child we had almost nothing,” she said, and her voice sounded distant. “But on the nights when we had a fire, we felt very rich, indeed.”