Batman: No Man's Land Page 10

  I had been dreaming about what I was like when I had my legs, or at least, when my legs would listen to my brain. I had been dreaming of the nights when I could almost fly, when I felt beautiful and powerful and did good. Dreaming myself as I had been, as Batgirl. In my dream. Gotham had been whole and vibrant, the lights of the city bright I moved from rooftop to air to rooftop again, and I was happy and certain and feeling so very much alive.

  And then I heard his voice, and I opened my eyes, and it was him, on the radio.

  “I’m back. Just thought you’d like to know.”

  The way he said it, it was like he’d just gone down to the corner for some groceries and been delayed. That’s the way he said it

  “It was you, then,” I said. “Putting the tags up in Dooley Square.

  “Tags?”

  “Bat-tags, yellow paint. Your symbol.”

  “I haven’t been to Dooley Square.”

  “Then who was it?” I asked, but there was no response, just static, and I realized he’d cut the connection.

  I’m looking at the dawn of NML Day 104, and I’m beginning to think that things aren’t getting better.

  I’m beginning to think they’re about to get worse.

  A lot worse.

  EIGHT

  JAMES GORDON WAS WORKING IN THE garden, trying to get frozen earth out of a terra cotta flowerpot. His fingers hurt, and his back, and Sarah had already told him to come inside and go to bed, that it was past midnight, but he knew there was no point to it. If he went to bed he’d stay awake, replaying the moment in his head. If he went to bed he’d close his eyes, and if he closed his eyes, he’d see it all again.

  The LoBoy’s look of surprise that turned to horror in the instant before Pettit pulled the trigger.

  The look in his eyes the moment after the bullet had burst through brain and bone, and the LoBoy had realized he was dead.

  Gordon was clenching his jaw without meaning to, and he had to force himself to relax. Not a LoBoy, he thought. Just a boy. Not older than twenty, at the most. Some scared twenty-year-old kid who tried to survive the No Man’s Land by being tough, finding safety in numbers, and doing what the rest did.

  How was that any damn different from what he and the rest of the GCPD were doing right now?

  He set the pot down, realizing the attempt was futile. The earth was staying put, despite his best intentions. He looked up at the clear sky, the starlight so much brighter in the cold air. After one, now, at least.

  He heard scraping from the far side of the garden, the sounds of pebbles rattling on the ground. More rats running along the edge, looking for food. He and Sarah had found a couple inside in the last few weeks, searching for scraps in the empty kitchen. Gordon doubted they’d had any luck.

  It was Pettit, that was the damn problem. Simply giving the declaration, telling them to stay out, warning them if they ever came back they’d be killed—Pettit had insisted that wasn’t enough.

  “They have to know you mean it, Commissioner,” Pettit had said.

  And Gordon had responded, “I do.”

  He hadn’t been lying.

  But Pettit had killed the boy anyway, and when Gordon, almost spitting in his fury, had demanded why, the response had been unequivocal, almost reasonable.

  “Now they believe us. Now they’ll run all over the city, telling everyone they meet that the Blue Boys aren’t to be messed with. They’ll say we’ve lost it, and that anyone who crosses us is looking for a world of hurt. Now they’ll leave us alone.”

  Pettit was right, of course. The words would not have been enough. It was the action that sold them.

  But it didn’t make Jim Gordon feel any better.

  The rats had stopped their scrabbling, and there was another sound, soft, and Gordon realized he wasn’t alone in the garden any longer. He rose slowly, taking his time to ease his right hand to his hip, and started to tarn for the door back to the house. There was another sound, the slight noise of a foot readjusting on the cold earth, and he could pinpoint it now. He pivoted, drawing, and as he did so he thought that perhaps it might be Batman and not some LoBoy out for revenge, in which case Gordon wouldn’t shoot, but he sure as hell would give the vigilante a piece of his mind.

  “Working the graveyard shift, Commissioner?”

  The voice came from the corner away from the house, deep in the shadow beneath the leafless plum tree. Gordon couldn’t make out the shape of the speaker. But he knew the voice, and he cocked the pistol in his hands, holding it steady.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “Simple. Your men are too tired, too terrified, and too few. You’ve all had a long week, haven’t you? All that running around, chasing the Demonz and the LoBoys … and then that little execution in the street. Didn’t know you had that in you, Jimmy.”

  “Give me a reason I don’t drop you where you stand,” Gordon said.

  “I’ll give you two. First, you haven’t heard what I have to say. Second, you’re still the law.”

  Gordon adjusted his grip, breathing carefully.

  “Want me to continue?” the voice asked.

  “I’m listening.”

  “We can help each other, Jim.”

  “Forget it. You’re psychotic.”

  When the man laughed, it was the laugh Gordon remembered, and it made chills run down his spine.

  “One man’s psychotic is another man’s visionary,” the voice said reasonably. “Besides which, if we’re going to bring up the issue of sanity, what kind of police lets his wife and crippled daughter stay in this godforsaken hellhole? Anyone with half a brain quit while the going was good. All that’s left in Gotham are the degenerates, the same people you’d never have thought twice about rousting before NML.

  “But here you are, Jimmy, with no legal jurisdiction and no powers of the state behind you. Why’d you stay?”

  “Someone had to,” Gordon said. “Law must be maintained. There has to be order.”

  “Exactly? Justice must prevail, even in a lawless land. That’s why I’m here. We’re two of a kind, Commissioner. Anarchy has forged some strange allies here. Why not us?”

  Gordon swallowed, feeling the ache in his triceps from holding the gun steady for so long. “Because you’re a killer,” he whispered.

  “Really? Then the joke’s on you, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play coy. I heard about your stunt with the Demonz and the LoBoys, playing them off against each other while you and yours sat back and watched.” The voice stopped for a second. When it resumed, its tone was friendly. “It was a good move. Tactically brilliant. Ruthless. I liked it.”

  “This is war,” Gordon spat.

  “I know.”

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  “Jim, you’re preaching to the choir, here. You’ve got nothing to lose by hearing me out.”

  Gordon looked at the shape in the shadows, saw both hands come up, palms out and empty. The ache in his arms was fierce, now, and the pain in his back was getting worse. With a shock, he realized that he was feeling truly old.

  He put his thumb on the hammer and uncocked the pistol, lowering the weapon to point at the ground.

  “Talk,” Gordon said. “I’ll listen.”

  * * * * *

  Sarah was asleep when he crawled into bed, finally, just before dawn. Gordon tried to settle in without disrupting her, and he’d finally forced his body to relax, letting his head truly sink back into the pillow, when she rolled to look at him.

  “Jim?”

  “Go back to sleep.”

  “I thought I heard voices,” she said, softly. “In the garden.”

  Gordon shook his head slightly, putting an arm around his wife, and she moved in closer and he felt her warmth chasing the chill away from his own body.

  “Was someone out there?” Sarah asked, sleepily.

  “No, shamus. Just me.”

  She yawned. “Must
have dreamt it.”

  “Must have.”

  He felt her breathing lengthen and grow regular once more, and he knew she had fallen back asleep, probably had never truly woken at all. In the morning, the odds were she wouldn’t remember the conversation ever taking place.

  James Gordon stared at the ceiling.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw the boy’s face.

  NINE

  THE WOMAN WHO HAD MADE HERSELF into the new Batgirl had never known all that much about Black Mask. But it seemed to her that, this time, the criminal had finally gone off the deep end. She knew the man who had once called himself Roman

  Sionis had started life as a spoiled and rich brat, heir to the Sionis cosmetics fortune, an empire of makeup and perfumes created by Roman’s parents. She knew that somewhere along the line, little Roman had become obsessed with masks—both literal and figurative. She was hazy on a lot of the details, but some stuck in memory—the fact that Sionis’s face had been horribly burnt in a chemical fire, one that had left his skin shiny and black; the fact that Sionis had fashioned his mask from the lid of his mother’s ebony coffin; the fact that Sionis, upon creating himself as Black Mask, had gathered to him those criminals he could, calling them the False Face Society; that the False Face Society had been some of Gotham’s worst and most diehard felons, all of them masked, all of them eager to do violence in the name of their work.

  For a couple of years, despite Sionis’s clearly slipping grip on sanity, he had ruled the Gotham underworld, had even managed to expand operations as far south as Blüdhaven, down the coast. Crazy he might have been all along, but it hadn’t gotten in his way.

  Not anymore, she thought.

  For the better part of a week now, every night after finishing her other duties and donning the costume, the new Batgirl had headed out from her home and worked her way along the East Side, trying to track Black Mask’s movements, or if not him precisely, at least the movements of his gang. The Street Demonz and LoBoys had been taken down finally by the GCPD, and she felt it was time to expand her purview, as well; time to take down another of the warlords, and try to keep Gotham from spiraling entirely into the pit.

  She had chosen Black Mask as her target for a couple of reasons, not the least of which being he was a “named” criminal, and she wanted that cachet. She wanted it in spades, so everyone in Gotham would know that the Bat still haunted the night, and that criminals had damn well better beware. She didn’t know if Batman himself was ever coming back—if indeed he was truly gone, rather than just lying low—but she knew the power of the symbol, what the Bat meant to Gotham, and she was going to make certain nobody forgot.

  So that was the first reason for her choice. The second was more practical. Black Mask’s followers had been appearing more and more frequently in what she considered to be her neck of the woods, and their appearances were consistently unpleasant. The followers were maybe as crazy as Black Mask himself, self-mutilated men and women who dressed in rags and tatters, fresh scars showing on every inch of their exposed flesh. From what Batgirl had heard, they were collecting people; to what end she did not know.

  But those reasons aside, there was one other, just as important and certainly more motivating, at least for her. If and when the Batman came back, she wanted to be able to look him in the eye, to make it perfectly clear that she was, if not his equal, at least worthy of playing on the same team.

  If she could take down Black Mask, that would do it. If she did that, he’d have no choice but to accept her.

  She harbored no illusions about how the Batman would respond to her. By donning the mantle of the Bat without his permission, indeed, without his knowledge, she had issued a challenge. And she knew enough about him to know he wouldn’t like that. His partners in the past—Robin and Nightwing—they had been authorized help, trained by him personally. Even with that she knew for a fact that they were ridden hard, that Batman demanded as much from them as from himself. In his book, there was no room at all for failure. You could do the job or you couldn’t, and that was the end of the discussion.

  So the new Batgirl would show him just how well she could do the job.

  * * * * *

  She’d tracked a group of Black Mask’s followers from Puckett Park on the Upper East Side all the way to where the Sprang River separated the north and south parts of the island that was Gotham. There had been six of them in the group, all in the same mixture of torn rags and tatters, and all with horrible mutilations to their faces and arms. Most had shaved their heads, and a couple had managed makeshift piercings through their skin, thin strips of metal that dangled and glinted in the night, swaying from their faces.

  Batgirl watched as they entered the remnants of St. Vincent’s off what had once been Dillon Avenue, waited another twenty seconds, and then slid through the shadows until she was close enough to get a look inside. Light was flickering from within. One source, she thought, probably a single fire. There was the soft sound of voices.

  Inside, beyond the pews, she saw the group seated together around the fire. One of them was handing out bundles from a small cloth bag. She watched as each of the followers speared their bundle on the end of a long spike, then held it over the fire. The stink of burning fur assaulted her.

  Rats, she thought. They’re eating rats.

  She held still for almost another minute, watching, then resolved that the group would be staying put for some time. Her back was exposed, too, and that made her very uncomfortable, and so she stepped silently away, scaling the side of a nearby building, testing the wall as she climbed. Up top, she turned and settled in to watch the entrance of the church. They’d be coming out soon, probably when it was darker. She’d follow them if she could, and maybe they’d lead her to Black Mask himself, and maybe, just maybe, she could figure out his agenda.

  Didn’t make sense, she thought again. In a city where more of the structures have collapsed than are still standing, Black Mask is having his folks burn down those that remain.

  And it wasn’t even that he was going after all of the standing structures; the fact that she had her current perch and that they were inside St. Vincent’s right now was proof of that. No, it seemed to be only certain buildings. She had heard from someone in the MASH Sector that a whole mob of Black Mask’s followers had descended on the old Embassy Orient and driven out all of the squatters. And then they’d burnt the place to the ground, destroying the shelter used by over sixty of Gotham’s refugees.

  From what Batgirl had heard, there had been over fifty people in Black Mask’s mob. Practically an army in the No Man’s Land, and terrifying to contemplate even for a moment. Fifty of the mutilated monsters, all descending on the Embassy Orient. It was a miracle no one had died.

  “Nice costume.”

  Batgirl stiffened, taking her time to turn, telling herself she had known this was coming all along. She forced herself to meet his eyes, but he wasn’t ready for the stare-down yet. He looked her over slowly, starting with the boots, then tracking up until he reached her fully concealed face.

  “Glad you approve,” she said. She did a good job keeping her voice neutral, and thought she sounded nearly as arrogant and dispassionate as he.

  “I don’t,” Batman said.

  “Gotham needed a Bat. You weren’t around.”

  “Where I’ve been and why, those reasons are my own.”

  She thought he sounded almost defensive, and that gave her confidence that she had made the right choice in donning the costume. She took a step closer, and now he was meeting her eyes.

  “But now you’re back,” she said. “And you’re going to need help.”

  “No.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  His voice was harder, though no louder. “Then I’ll learn that on my own.”

  She adjusted her stance, reminding herself to hold her ground. “I’ve been doing this for weeks now. It’s made a difference.”

  “The work or the symbol?” He never look
ed away from her, and behind the mask his eyes were hidden, but she was certain they were locked on her own.

  “The Bat is a powerful image, as you know,” she said. “Very primal. Very potent. It’s made things… easier.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “If you tell me to take it off, I will.” She made it sound matter-of-fact, not a concession, simply an agreement. “But I won’t stop the work.”

  He nodded slowly, as if accepting the concession and the terms. Then he gestured to her waist with his chin, where the can of spray paint was affixed to her belt. “The tagging. That’s been you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a good idea. I intend to adopt it.”

  “Thanks.”

  He looked past her for a moment, to the horizon. “You’re right about one thing. This city does need a Bat.”

  “Maybe more than one.”

  His head came back to her quickly, and for a moment she thought she’d pushed it too far, that she’d blown it. But when he spoke, his tone was the same level one, all restraint and control.

  “Don’t disgrace the symbol.”

  “Then I’m approved?”

  “No,” he said. “But you’re not disapproved.”

  “Fair enough. For now.”

  Batman turned, the cape billowing back for a moment as he stepped up to the edge of the roof. Without looking back, he said, “Keep your watch on Black Mask. I’ll be in touch.”

  And then he stepped off into the air, and fell into the darkness.

  TEN

  CHRISTINA WEIR HAD SEEN A COP FOR eight years before the No Man’s Land was declared; she loved her job, and she was damn good at it. That was why she’d stayed in Gotham. She was GCPD. It was what she was supposed to do. Even before Gordon and Essen had announced that they were staying behind on Black Monday, even before the other officers—DeFilippis and Montoya and Bullock and the rest—all threw their lot in with the Commissioner, she had decided to stay.