Batman: No Man's Land Page 11

  She’d had absolutely no intention of falling in love as a result of the decision.

  During the battle against the Demonz and the LoBoys over a week before, she’d waded to the front and kicked some serious ass. She’d even saved a couple of lives. DeFilippis’s, when a Demonz skel tried to bury a hatchet in the young cop’s head—Weir had stopped that action with a knee to the groin—then Bullock’s, when the LoBoys had started in with the arrows and she’d pushed him out of the line of fire. She’d almost been too slow then: A shaft of wood had pierced Bullock’s coat.

  “Harvey, Jesus,” she’d said, and Bullock had laughed and pulled back the fabric to show where the arrow had passed through the clothing but missed his skin.

  “I’m only half the man I once was,” he’d told her, pulling on his baggy overcoat to illustrate the weight he’d lost in the last few months. “You keep Jumping on me like this, Weir, I’m gonna accuse you of sexual harassment.”

  She’d blushed and scrambled off him, thinking that he knew, because, after all, he was a detective. But Bullock’s expression hadn’t changed and she had known that she was being paranoid. There was no way any of them knew, she had been certain. She and DeFilippis had been careful.

  By then the fighting had moved on and she’d had to rush to catch up. They’d taken back Central, then Old Gotham, and then Pettit had gotten out of hand. She didn’t want to dwell on that, but it soured the victory. She didn’t want to call what Pettit had done murder, but she sure as hell couldn’t think of another way to put it.

  That night she had wanted to find Andy again, wanted to sneak another few minutes of warmth in his arms, but it hadn’t worked out. She’d been on post outside of the Gordon home until past midnight, and he’d been out at Central, getting things squared away. Just wasn’t possible, and she’d known that, but it had made her moody anyway, and when Donnelly had tried to get her talking about baseball that night on post she hadn’t even responded. She’d gone back to her shelter before three, the gutted remnants of what had once been a liquor store, eaten a cold dinner of Beefaroni straight from the can, removed her boots and body armor, slid into the sleeping bag, and put her head down on the pillow.

  Then she’d raised it again, wondering what was making such a hard lump. She’d found her flashlight, flicked it on just long enough to move the pillow and take a look, and beneath the pillow she’d found a small, miraculously intact music box.

  When she opened it, it had played “Lara’s Theme” from Doctor Zhivago.

  She’d gone to sleep listening to it play.

  * * * * *

  “You’re late, Chris,” Donnelly said to her the next morning when she returned to post.

  “I know,” Weir said, faffing into position beside the front door of the house, feeling her stomach quaver. “Had a can of Beefaroni before bed last night and shot the whole thing back out again this morning.”

  Officer Donnelly looked at her with some concern. “That’s not good. I’ve got some canned tuna if you want. It tastes okay, and it’s pretty mild.”

  She shook her head. “Not really hungry, Brian.”

  He shrugged. “Commissioner wanted to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t say. He’s in the garden.”

  She looked over her shoulder at the closed front door of the house. “Now?”

  “Said as soon as you arrived.”

  Her stomach turned from uneasy to honestly sour. “Be right back,” she said, heading inside.

  “Word of advice, Chris,” Brian called after her. “Don’t say the name, ‘Batman.’ Andy says it’s poison.”

  “Yeah, he told me,” she muttered, already too worried about what it might mean to be summoned to the garden. She had nothing but respect for Gordon, thought of him as a gifted police and a strong leader, but—and she knew this already—if he knew about her and DeFilippis and he wanted it to stop, she was going to have to tell him to keep out of it. She’d spent more than a month thinking about it already, and while she understood the department’s policy against fraternization, she hardly felt it was an issue. And the fact was, if Gordon went there, she’d call him on it. It was the pot and the kettle, as far as she was concerned.

  He was at the workbench when she came in, chipping away at the frozen earth inside a clay pot, but he stopped when he saw her enter, saying, “Chris, come on in.”

  She came down the steps and stopped a respectful ten feet away, keeping her face blank. She’d been a patrol officer before the NML, a sergeant, but she knew the detective tricks well, and she knew how to keep a poker face.

  Gordon studied her for a moment, almost stern, then asked, “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  “Good, good. I heard about what you did, Chris.”

  She kept her mouth shut.

  “It was fine work,” Gordon finished. “In the last week alone I’ve had six people tell me that you retook Central pretty much single-handed. Montoya, Lee, Bullock… all of them have gone out of their way to tell me what a fine job you did.”

  Despite her best efforts the surprise leaked out. “Sir?”

  “It’s mostly because of that that I wanted to talk to you. You know that my daughter is still in the city, right?”

  “Yes, sir. She lives in the Clock Tower.”

  Gordon frowned slightly. “Yes, she does. And she refuses to leave. I told her I’d be happier if she was in TriCorner with the rest of us, and she just wouldn’t listen. About as stubborn as her old man, I guess.”

  Weir nodded, not knowing what to say.

  “We’ve got that area pretty much secured,” Gordon went on. “But I’m a father and I’m nervous, and that’s why I wanted to talk to you.” He wiped his dirty hands against his pants, trying to clean them, then looked back at her. His smile was apologetic. “I want you to take five officers, draw arms and ammunition from Pettit, and get a flare gun. And I’d like you to organize the protection around the Clock Tower.”

  She wasn’t entirely certain she understood. “You want me to protect the Tower?”

  “Not just the tower, no, but of course that’s a large part of it. You’ve seen the map. The border is holding, but that’s the outer edge. It abuts on Penguin’s territory, and Two-Face is to the east, as well. I want a fixed observation post, and I want to make certain my daughter is relatively protected. You’re the best person for the job, Chris.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “If there’s any trouble, send up a flare. Otherwise, I trust you to handle whatever may arise.”

  Weir nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Gordon stuck out his hand. “No, Chris. Thank you.”

  ELEVEN

  BLACK MASK LOOKED AT THE MAN HANGING over the oil drum. The man’s feet had been tied to a length of good rope, the rope slung across the rafters, and the effect was like that of a piñata, dangling at a crowded party. The fire from the oil drum was already singeing the man’s hair, and his sweat sizzled when it splashed down against the heated metal.

  Black Mask removed the blindfold and took the man’s face in his hands, tenderly. He tried to do it the way his mother had before she’d died, before he’d changed from Roman Sionis into the deformed and reborn man he was now. He tried to do it with love, because he wanted the man to truly understand.

  “Do you see?” Black Mask asked.

  “Go to hell,” the man spat.

  Black Mask shut his eyes for a moment and sighed. This was not really an unexpected response, but he had hoped for more understanding, for less drastic measures. He let his hands slip from the man’s face, turning to face the congregation spread out before him. They filled the hall, lit by the burning makeshift torches. He saw the faces of his flock, the scars on each and every one of them. All those scars on the outside, showing the world the truth of what was within each and every one of them.

  “He does not yet see,” Black Mask said, his voice filling the space, echoing.

&nbs
p; The congregation let out a great moan of sadness, nearly fifty voices together in their shared sympathy for the man’s plight.

  “He believes nothing has changed,” Black Mask said. “He believes that the lie can continue. But we know better, do we not We know better now. Once, yes, once I hid behind a mask myself. Once I covered my scars, my true face. I played games, pretending to greatness. I played games, pretending to rule crime.

  “And in one instant I saw it was all false. In that instant, the mask was destroyed.

  “In that instant, Gotham fell. For the house built on a foundation of sand, it will collapse under its own weight, surely. Thus Gotham collapsed, its shining façades giving way to the broken soul it concealed.

  “What they called an earthquake, we now know was more, a warning.”

  Black Mask moved around to stand beside the dangling man, still addressing the congregation. From his pocket he removed the straight razor he had used to reveal his own true face, the very blade that had cut the mask from him once and for all. With it he had drawn the lines across the face blackened and burnt so many years before, making cuts that turned the shining and smooth skin into the patchwork of pieces that represented his soul.

  “All of us must show our true face or pay the price.’

  “Amen,” said the congregation.

  “He must see.”

  “He must see,” echoed the congregation.

  “We make the cuts …” Black Mask said, reaching out with the blade.

  “…that open our souls,” the congregation finished.

  Black Mask made the cuts. Blood spattered and sizzled into the flames.

  When the man’s screams subsided, Black Mask leaned close enough to feel the heat searing at the too sensitive skin on his face. “Do you see?” he asked.

  The man was crying, tears mixing with the blood racing along the split skin of his face.

  Black Mask smiled and addressed the congregation once more.

  “He sees,” he said.

  “Hallelujah,” the congregation cried.

  He raised an arm, pointing out the shattered windows of the building in the distance, still standing arrogantly against the broken skyline of the No-Man’s Land.

  “We destroy the lies,” he cried. “What has been revealed must remain uncovered. What still stands as a mask must be torn down. Those people who are blind, they must-be made to see. Those buildings that still stand, they too must fall. For Gotham to be redeemed, all of its scars must show. Look upon the affront to us, know it for what it is.”

  The congregation turned, each, set of eyes settling on the building in the distance, the tower with the giant clock.

  “Do you see?” Black Mask demanded.

  “We see,” the congregation murmured.

  “And shall you act?”

  “We shall act.”

  “Then prepare yourselves well, for the time is, short. We will march soon. We will burn it down. And God help anyone who tries to protect the lies.

  “Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  TWELVE

  “BLACK MASK HAS TAKEN THREE MORE buildings in the last two days,” Batgirl said. “But each time I arrive, he and his followers have already vanished. I don’t know where he’s hiding, I don’t know where he’s working from.”

  “How many men does he have?” Batman demanded. “I don’t know that, either. I’ve heard reports of sixty, probably more. It’s a cult of some sort, that’s about all I’ve figured out so far. It’s … it’s pretty bad.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that everywhere he’s struck, he’s left people either dead or mutilated. Cuts, mostly, but some branding. Uniformly to the face.”

  Batman nodded, then reached for the canisters resting on the workbench and offered one to her. “Tear gas,” he said. “Very potent, special mixture. Use it sparingly.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  “What can you tell me about the buildings?”

  “They’ve all been tall, over six stories.”

  “Built by Wayne Enterprises,” Batman said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Wayne buildings are the only big ones still standing in Gotham. He was the only builder smart enough to quake-proof his structures. ‘Course, at the time, everyone thought it was just another example of his remarkable stupidity.”

  “Then he was lucky,” Barman said, spreading a map of the city on the now-cleared worktable. “Show me where the buildings were.”

  She drew a line with her gloved finger, down along the East Side, toward the south and Old Gotham. “Consistently been moving south.”

  “He’s going for the Clock Tower.”

  “You think?”

  “I know. It represents Gotham. It was built by Wayne Enterprises. Roman Sionis hates Wayne. If the Clock Tower is not his next target, it’s certainly on the short list.” He looked up from the map. She felt the glare from behind his hidden eyes, and found herself wondering what she might have done wrong. “You’re going to stop him. He will not take the Clock Tower. Is that understood?”

  “I’ll try, but—”

  “Don’t try. Keep it from happening.” He held the gaze, then added, “And stay out of sight.”

  “I can do one or the other, not both.”

  “Then you’re not worthy of the mantle.” He pivoted silently, moving to the stairs that would lead out of the basement and back into the night. “Prove me wrong.”

  Batgirl watched him leave. After a time, she realized her fists were clenched, and she forced her fingers open, felt the circulation returning to her hands. Batgirl cursed him softly under her breath, and then began gathering the equipment she’d need for the job.

  THIRTEEN

  FOR THE FIRST COUPLE OF DAYS, THE POSTING went fine. Weir set up a rotating schedule outside of the Clock Tower, three shifts of two cops each, herself included. Gordon let her take Donnelly as her second in command, and he ran the day shift, while Weir took the second shift. Way she figured it, they’d stick to the schedule as it was for a week, then swap around so she could get some daylight time in, too. That way it would be fair, and that way none of the cops would become complacent.

  Pettit had granted them all five shells for their shotguns, and Weir had drawn a flare gun, too, as requested. It was the emergency beacon, only to be fired off if things really started to go sour.

  She settled into position, watching the sunset. Turner was on post with her, another rookie, like Donnelly, one who had yet to distinguish himself in her eyes. Andy had referred to him a couple of times as “the minnow,” and looking at him now, Chris had to suppress a grin. Turner was thin and tall and towheaded, and he looked like a worried fish the way his eyes wandered up and down the street.

  Her stomach was still bothering her, had been throughout the week. For a while she’d thought it was the water, that maybe it wasn’t as purified as the Blue Boys had hoped, but no one else seemed to be reacting to it. For now, she was grinning and bearing it. Worse came to worst, she’d try to make her way up the East Side to the MASH Sector, maybe see the doctor there. If in fact there was a doctor there; the MASH Sector was really nothing more than a rumor as far as she knew, but it seemed plausible that one doctor in all of Gotham City would have been just crazy enough to remain.

  The dark finally crept its way in, and the night mmcd colder. Not as bad as it had been even a week before, and Weir wondered if spring was finally en route. That’d be nice, she thought. A little warmth, something to melt the snow away.

  * * * * *

  Weir heard it before Turner, and for a moment she thought it was the sound of drums, like some Revolutionary War party was approaching from the distance. But as the noise grew it also became more distinct, and she heard the metal undertone to it, the thudding rhythmic and almost immediately frightening. Through the rubble, it was impossible to determine which direction it was coming from.

  “What is that?” Turner asked.

  “Shut up.” She brought the sh
otgun up to her shoulder, chambering the first round, using the barrel to guide her search as she swept the length of the street.

  Doors were closed. No one was out.

  It was getting louder.

  “What the hell is that?” Turner asked again, more insistently, and Weir could see where he, too, had brought his weapon to his shoulder.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Fire the flare!” he hissed.

  “No, not yet. Not until we know what it is.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s not good,” Turner insisted. “Come on, Chris, fire the flare. We need reinforcements.”

  She shook her head, digging the butt of the weapon against her shoulder. She wasn’t going to cry wolf; she wasn’t going to ask for help until she was damn certain help was needed.

  The noise, which had continued to grow, suddenly stopped.

  Silence ran down the length of the street, the No Man’s Land quiet that Weir heard in the night. The city without noise, no voices, no engines, at times seemed without life itself. Absolute.

  That scared her more than the noise did.

  Then they appeared at the ends of the street as if by magic, and she thought perhaps her eyes were playing tricks on her. The darkness, perhaps, that was what made them look so awful, so completely pitiless and horrifying. Even at the distance, the faces seemed grotesque, marred, and evil.

  One of the figures stepped forward, and she saw he was holding a pistol, a big one, maybe a .357.

  “Surrender,” Black Mask said. “Or die.”

  * * * * *

  From her angle, Batgirl saw Black Mask leading the larger of the two groups to the north end of the block. Thirty-three of his followers, all of them armed with the weaponry of the NML, bats and clubs and axes and knives. They had only one firearm among them, she was certain, and that was the pistol in Black Mask’s hand.

  Makes sense, she thought. With the gun, he’s in control. Anyone else with a gun, they’re a threat.

  She checked the harness, making certain the straps were tight, fitted properly. She hoped to God that the wings would hold. She hoped to God she could control her descent and make the right kind of entrance, the entrance that would cut the head off the beast. There was only one way to do this now, and whether Batman approved of it or not, she would go through with it.