The Further Adventures of Batman (24 page)

“The redhead sent me.”

“Donna?”

“Who else?”

The fence’s face relaxed into something midway between a scowl and a grin.

“Okay then,” he said. “That last comedian made me jumpy. Comes in here with that goofy cape and wants to sell big jewels. Jerk. I only work in computer parts.”

Wayne nodded. “So he left?”

“A minute ago. Weird son of a bitch. Wouldn’t take off that bat mask.”

“Which way?”

“Huh?”

Wayne grabbed a handful of the fence’s shirt and pulled him halfway over the desk toward him. Between tightly clenched teeth, he asked again.

“I said, which way did he go?”

“T-that way.” The fence pointed to a dark staircase across the hall. Shoving hard, Wayne released the man and dashed out the door. The stairs led down into blackness.

Grappling in his pocket, Wayne pulled out the infrared goggles from the cycle and slapped them on. Gray shadows were transmuted into hellish red and black geometry. He bolted down the stairs. One flight. Two flights.

Below him, he could hear the sound of footsteps running. He quickened his pace, using the handrail for balance. He missed a stair, started to fall, recovered, and kept going.

Three flights.

But he was still too far behind. Wayne bent one knee, grabbed the banister with both hands, vaulted up, over, and down to the final row of stairs, landing on the balls of his feet.

Thank God for that acrobatic training in France, he thought.

Wayne could see the front door swinging wildly. In three strides he was through it and on the street.

The Spencer had come to life again, motor rumbling. Wayne reached for his belt. A shame to have to slash my own tires, he thought. His hands closed on his red silk cummerbund.

He looked down.

And remembered that the only person wearing a utility belt was the man he’d been chasing.

Before he had time to curse, the Spencer moved. Tires squealed as the sleek, dark sedan pulled away from the curb, accelerating from zero to ninety in thirty seconds.

Wayne pounded down the sidewalk to the alley, kicked the cycle into overdrive. He was beginning to get annoyed.

It took fifteen minutes to trail his car back onto the highway, heading out of town.

Giddy with fatigue, Wayne watched the red blip move across the screen of the schematic monitor. He’s going back to my house, he thought. Probably wants to drop off the car and have a drink. When I get there and ring the front doorbell, ‘Batman’ will invite me in for a nightcap. Offer me a bed. Show me the gun collection.

The map shifted to a new quadrant as the Spencer took the exit back to Oakhurst. Wayne pressed the accelerator harder, and roared down the exit ramp and onto Oakdale Avenue. Trees flew by, street lamps, empty intersections. He was five minutes from Wayne Manor. Then the blip turned east on Vanderheel and continued on toward Huntington.

Where in hell was this clown going?

The red blip turned down Radison Drive. Pulled into number 211. Stopped.

Alice Chilton’s house.

Was she in on this? Sweet, gray-haired Mrs. Chilton setting him up in his own home? Wayne was ready to believe anything.

He gunned the motor and made it to his aunt’s driveway in two minutes.

The Spencer sat abandoned in the cul-de-sac near the front door. It was empty and the driver’s door hung open. Out of habit, Wayne paused to shut and lock the door. Not that it would do him any good.

His aunt’s taste in architecture ran to mock-Tudor. Wayne had always thought her house was attractive and inviting. But not tonight. Now each window was shuttered against him. The front door was dark. Odd. Alice usually left her light on all night.

He tried the front entrance. Locked. Well, no surprise there. But precious minutes would be wasted if he jimmied it open. Besides, what if it was armed? He imagined the look on his aunt’s face as she came down the stairs to discover the host of the costume ball breaking into her house at a quarter to two in the morning?

Maybe he should ring the doorbell.

Surely she was home, in bed, the party an hour or so behind her. And if she wasn’t in bed, if she was in league with this fraudulent Batman, it might shake her up to receive a visitor while she was busy counting the loot.

But the doorbell could also act as a warning.

Wayne sighed. Better try the windows.

He worked his way two-thirds around the house before a pantry window creaked open. He struggled through it, landing lightly, with practiced grace.

Tight fit, he thought. Better spend a few more minutes in the weight room.

The kitchen was dark. Wayne held his breath, listening. Footsteps, along the squeaking floorboards of the second story. Was it his aunt? The intruder menacing her? No time to guess. Move.

Lunging out of his hiding space, he made for the front stairs. Even in gloom, the house was familiar. The smell of freshly cleaned carpet and cedarwood summoned memories.

Christmas. New Years. Laughter.

Grimly, Wayne shoved the thoughts away.

On the second floor, he paused by an open doorway. This had to be his aunt’s bedroom. Pink curtains and bedcovers. How she loved that color. The scent of her cologne hung in the air. The Indonesian dance costume was neatly folded over a chair. The room was empty.

A prickle of suspicion halted him in his tracks. Where was she, so late at night?

Moving past the open door, he walked down the hall. The first door he came to was a utility closet. The second, a study, empty save for a walnut antique desk and red easy chair. The third was a pastel-hued guest bedroom. Apparently, a guest had been using it for some time.

The pink chaise lounge was covered with scattered newspapers. Dirty clothing lay in wadded heaps on the yellow rug. The bed was unmade. Empty beer bottles huddled on the nightstand. The room smelled like an old ashtray that someone had forgotten to clean.

A pile of photo albums lay on a yellow bed pillow. Wayne flipped through them. Instead of photographs, each page held a newspaper or magazine clipping. The subject of each clip was the same. Batman. At the back of the last album were several sketches of a Batman costume.

Who would be living with Alice and keeping a record like this? Someone who also came to masquerades, uninvited, impersonating a masked vigilante?

Frustrated, Wayne threw the books down on the bed. The house was empty. His quarry had gotten away, possibly stopping to pick up his accomplice, the gracious Mrs. Chilton.

He was at the landing between floors when a harsh beam of light snapped on. He froze.

“Isn’t it a bit late for trick or treat?” said a rusty tenor voice.

The light pinning Wayne down came from a flashlight. Behind its glare, he could just make out the pointed ears of a Batman mask.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “If you’ve hurt Alice in any way . . .”

“Hurt Alice?” The impostor sounded astonished. Then he laughed. The sound had a high, thin tone that climbed swiftly toward hysteria. “Are you nuts? Why would I hurt Alice? You’re the one who’s breaking and entering.”

“I’m not the only one. You have no right to be here.”

Again, the laugh.

“I have every right to be here,” ‘Batman’ said. “But that doesn’t matter. You’ve made it so easy for me, Wayne. Very thoughtful. I should thank you.”

“What do you mean?”

The flashlight beam was pulled back. Now Wayne could see a snub-nosed pistol pointing directly at him.

“Eccentric millionaire robs his own guests at fancy masked ball. Breaks into home of noted philanthropist to rob her as well. Discovered and shot in the act. It’s perfect.”

The madman’s tone was gloating, triumphant.

Wayne played for time.

“Who are you?”

“Just call me Batman. Soon, everybody will.”

“How did you get in here?”

“What difference does that make? I remind you, I’m holding a gun on you.”

“But you really don’t want to use it.”

“Oh, but I do.”

‘Batman’ tensed, took aim.

“No! Don’t!” cried a woman’s voice.

As he fired, a blurred figure cut in front of Wayne and fell back against him, propelled by the force of the bullet, knocking him to the ground. Aunt Alice.

“Damn you!” the false Batman cried. “See what you made me do!” He fired again, wildly, and bullets tore through the silk wallpaper above Wayne’s head. Then he turned and fled upstairs. The light retreated with him.

For a moment, Wayne lay there, stunned, with Alice slumped against him. She’d taken the bullet meant for him.

Come on, man, move.

He set her gently against the wall, groped his way to the hall light switch, and flicked it on. She half lay, half sat, eyes closed. A dark red stain was widening across the front of her rose-colored nightgown.

Tenderly, Wayne knelt and touched her face. She stirred, opened her eyes.

“Bruce? Dear boy, is it you?”

“Yes. Don’t try to talk.”

There was a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. Wayne’s insides turned to ice.

“Let me call an ambulance . . .”

“No time. Did you catch that phony Batman?”

“Dammit, Alice . . .”

He tried to set her down, but she clung to his lapels with surprising determination.

“Hush. I’m done for. That’s all right. As long as you catch him. He came rampaging in here . . .”

She paused, coughed raggedly, bringing up blood.

Wayne cleaned her lips with the edge of his sleeve.

“Alice, let me get a doctor.”

“Hush, dearie. Almost through. Catch him, Bruce. I know you can do it.”

Wayne stared at her, astonished.

“What do you mean?”

Alice gave a feeble chuckle. “Don’t play innocent with me, boy. You never could. It takes the real thing to catch an impostor.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. Her voice was barely a whisper. “This crime fighting—good job. Parents would be proud.”

She opened one eye, feebly touched his face.

“But what about love, Bruce? Don’t forget love.”

With a sigh, she was gone.

Wayne put his head against her shoulder, tears slipping from beneath clenched lids.

What about love? The little he had known of it lay lifeless in his arms, gone forever.

He pressed his lips to his aunt’s forehead and set her down gently, taking care not to touch the seeping wound in her chest.

Tears turned to rage.

The Batman impostor would regret this evening in spades before Wayne was through with him.

He raced up the stairs.

‘Batman’ was in Alice’s bedroom, opening the French windows that led out to the deck. Night wind caught the sheer curtains, swirling them about the gunman, ensnaring him long enough for Wayne to cross the room.

His first blow knocked the impostor against the doorframe. His next doubled him over. ‘Batman’ wobbled, taken by surprise. Then he straightened up.

“You can’t hurt Batman,” he cried, and smashed his fist into Wayne’s collarbone.

Wayne staggered backward, the wind knocked out of him. The impostor tore loose from the curtains and dashed past, through the bedroom door and out into the hall.

Come on. Get up. You’re not going to let a phony Batman get the best of you, are you?

Gasping, Wayne half ran toward the stairs.

‘Batman’ was on the landing. In a moment, he’d be out of the house. Free.

Wayne bent at the knees, jumped, and catapulted himself over the railing. He came down two steps in front of the masquerader, cutting him off.

Savagely, Wayne launched a flying kick and caught the gunman in the shoulder, knocking him into the wall.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“I told you,” the impostor said, gasping for breath. “Batman.”

The words were maddening. How could he be so crazy? With renewed fury, Wayne pulled him to his feet and flung him against the banister.

“There is only one Batman,” he said coldly. “You’re either a lunatic or an impostor. And a murderer!”

“Liar!”

For a moment, the gunman struggled in Wayne’s grip. Then, seemingly exhausted, he relaxed, hanging his head.

That’s better, Wayne thought. He pulled one hand back to wipe sweat from his chin.

With a violent heave, the impostor butted Wayne under the chin, shoved him aside, and ran down the stairs.

Got to stop him before he gets to the car, Wayne thought. He took the stairs in threes, praying for balance. For time.

The impostor had pulled the front door open.

From five stairs up, Wayne leaped. He tackled ‘Batman’ hard, knocking him to the floor. Desperately, they struggled. The impostor seemed to have endless reserves of mad energy.

He kicked Wayne in the knee. Then he punched him savagely, a sharp blow to his kidneys.

Gasping, almost paralyzed, Wayne fell back. He heard the sound of footsteps moving up the stairs. Now what?

“I’ll prove to you I’m Batman,” the impostor shouted. His voice was high, wild.

Still immobilized by pain, Wayne opened his eyes. ‘Batman’ was pulling a cord out of his utility belt. It glittered oddly.

“Sure,” he said. “You think I’m just Joey, Alice’s son. But I’ll prove it to you. I’ll prove it to everybody. I’m really Batman.”

Alice’s son? Wayne winced. Now he remembered. Her eldest son. Suffered from delusional episodes. Institutionalized years ago. Wayne had forgotten all about him. The whole world had. But Alice must have brought him home.

“I’m going to escape by swinging out the door,” Joe Chilton announced. “That should convince you. Only the real Batman could do that.”

He prepared to lasso the crystal chandelier with his glittering rope.

“You fool,” Wayne cried. “Don’t! Wait!”

The cord hooked around the light fixture. Faceted crystal teardrops danced and tinkled crazily. There was a flash. A pop. Joe Chilton screamed and kicked convulsively, like a puppet being jerked upward by its strings. A plume of smoke rose from the chandelier, and then the light went out. ‘Batman’ tumbled forward, over the banister, down to the first floor, landing with a thud. He didn’t move.

Slowly, painfully, Wayne pulled himself to his feet. His kidneys throbbed. His knee felt like it was on fire. With one hand on his lower back, he limped over to where Chilton lay, taking care to avoid the dangling rope. He didn’t have to touch Chilton to know the truth. He was dead. Electrocuted. That shiny rope was metal cord.