Batman: No Man's Land Read online

  “TallyMan,” Two-Face said. “Drop the gun.”

  The man in the funny hat dropped the gun, and she saw it bounce onto the carpet by the couch, and next to it she saw a duffel bag. The bag was open, and in it were stacks of American dollars. Cassandra smiled. This made it easier, this made it so much easier.

  She moved Two-Face with her to the couch, dropping the coin as she did, then smoothly lifting the bag. It was heavy, full of money, and that more than anything confirmed for her that it was what she had come looking for. She tightened her grip around the handles, backing toward the door, kicking the gun at her feet across the room.

  “You’re going to die for this,” Two-Face said again.

  She used her grip to spin him around, facing her, then drove her right knee into his solar plexus, letting go of his throat. Two-Face made a noise, doubling over, but by that time she was out of the room and running, sliding once more on the marble as she turned at the top of the stairs. She heard gunshots behind her, the screech of the ricocheting bullets, but she didn’t stop, flying down the steps and through the atrium until she was out in the heat again, racing through the rubble, her prize tight in her hand.

  * * * * *

  It had taken Batman longer than he would have liked to find Gordon again, but shortly after dawn he located the Commissioner in TriCorner, passing the Kelso Blockade on his way back home. He was traveling with Montoya and Bullock, but no other support or officers, and Batman had to wonder why that was the case. The Commissioner certainly knew David Cain had targeted him, yet here he was, out in the open, with a minimum of protection.

  He shadowed their movements south, staying slightly ahead of the small group, scanning. His leg still throbbed from the day before, and he had more bruises on his person than any one man had a right to, but his body was still doing what he asked of it, and he was satisfied with that. One less thing to worry about, the weaknesses of his own flesh.

  He had determined that, after the Clock Tower, the next most logical place for Cain to strike would be at Gordon’s home, and so with five blocks to spare Batman broke away from his shadowing, pulling ahead. Earlier that morning he had made a circuit around the house, seeing only the two guards on post at the front, a third in the garden around back. Again he checked the perimeter, confirming that all of the cops on post were still in place.

  Stopping, the Batman positioned himself on the roof of a neighboring house, feeling the daylight heat center and increase on his motionless form. He felt exposed. Until the No Man’s Land, the Batman had only appeared at night, a technique that helped maintain his terrifying reputation. Batman and daylight seemed somehow wrong, and it made him uncomfortable. He was perspiring slightly beneath the cowl.

  Gordon and the others were at the end of the block, now, still coming forward, all walking in silence.

  Batman turned his head, looking for a shadow to hide in, one that would offer some shelter from the heat of the sun. From his periphery he saw movement at the edge of the rooftop, the long shadow cast by the broken air conditioner there disrupted by another shape. He felt the rooftop vibrate beneath him with the footfalls, and he ducked, rolling back and springing up, David Cain’s first four shots all missing him by mere fractions. The fifth caught him high in the center of the chest, and the Kevlar held, and the kinetic impact rattled through him as if he’d taken a brick to his heart. He staggered back, dipping his shoulder and rolling, forcing himself to resume breathing, and he heard the muffled sound of the silenced shots as Cain kept pulling the trigger.

  He came up with Batarang at the ready, tossing it straight at Cain’s head and knowing full well that his target would dodge the throw. Cain did, jerking his head out of the way, a quick snap of the neck, and Batman took his wrist, locked in his fingers and twisted, bringing his other hand down on the weapon. The gun flew free, clanging as it bounced off the air conditioner, then skittered from the roof, falling to the street.

  The Batarang then arced back and slammed into the back of Cain’s head, pitching him forward, and Batman used the momentum to flip the other man. Cain went over, twisting his wrist and reversing the grip, and Batman was in the air then, too.

  They tumbled to the edge of the roof, Cain on his feet while Batman struggled to rise. Cain took another step, onto the ledge, and leapt, clearing the space between houses, trying to gain distance. Batman followed, crossing the gap and coming down just behind the other man. Below, from the street, he could hear Gordon shouting.

  Cain could hear it, too, and he rounded on Batman, growling, both hands coming around in an attempt to box his ears. Batman blocked with his forearms, and Cain brought his elbow around and up, a killing strike aimed for the temple. Another block, and then they began exchanging blows faster and faster, Cain alternating punches and kicks, each targeting a vital, each intended to kill, and Batman found himself almost entirely on the defensive. He fought for an advantage, breaking an opening and following it with a finger strike, trying to hit Cain between the eyes, trying to disorient him, to buy time. Cain took the hit, lowering his head so that Batman’s fingers bounced off his scalp, and then Cain brought his head up again, trying for a head-butt. Batman dodged it, and for a moment they stood apart, sun burning down on them, each pulling air down into lungs that were aching and empty. The humidity and sweat made Batman’s eyes burn.

  “I know you,” Cain said between breaths, almost with a laugh. “Know all about you. Know your work.”

  “I know yours.”

  “It’s an honor.”

  “Not the work.”

  “The meeting.”

  “For you.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “Watch me.”

  Cain wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, never looking away. Batman adjusted his balance slightly, forcing himself to remain focused for the attack he knew would come. From the street there came only silence, and he hoped that Bullock and Montoya had forced Gordon to cover somewhere.

  “You’ve already lost,” Cain said. “You just don’t know it.”

  “We’ve time.”

  “Not enough. I won’t stop. If you know me, you know that. I won’t stop until the contract is canceled or fulfilled. You’ll have to kill me.” Cain smiled bitterly. “And you won’t do that.”

  “I won’t need to,” Batman said, and then the attack came, a flurry of kicks that pummeled at him one after the other, forcing him to the edge of the roof, coming too fast for him to do anything but block again and again. Then he saw a pattern he recognized, one from long ago when Bruce Wayne had studied for a time with David Cain, before Bruce Wayne had discovered what David Cain really did for a living.

  It was a savate sequence, left coup de pied bas followed by a right coup de pied chasse, and as soon as the second kick came Batman was ready, catching Cain’s leg and using it to take the man down, hard, onto the tar roof. Cain grabbed at him, one hand closing around the back of the cowl, the base of the cape, and he tugged, and Batman went over him, into a roll.

  He came up face-to-face with the girl he had left in Puckett Park. He spun back, preparing to defend again, and saw that Cain had returned to his feet but was now motionless, as well.

  “Get out of here,” Cain said, and Batman knew it wasn’t directed at him.

  The girl stepped around Batman, and he saw her expression from the corner of his eyes, the stone determination, the refusal to retreat. She was holding a small duffel bag, almost a gym bag, and on the humidity of the still air, Batman thought he smelled gasoline.

  “Leave,” Cain said. “If you can understand me, you must leave. This isn’t your fight.”

  The girl dumped the contents of the bag onto the roof in front of Cain. Bills, bundles and bundles of them, and Batman knew intuitively it was Two-Face’s money, and he knew why he was smelling gasoline.

  If there was no money, then there was no payment for Cain. No payment for Cain, then the contract with Two-Face was null and void.

  T
he girl had a book of matches in her hand, and in one fluid motion had torn a single one free, striking it against the rough pad, and then dropped it onto the bills.

  The fire took instantly, the money crackling and curling in the heat.

  The girl was crying.

  The battle mask that David Cain had worn crumbled, and Batman saw tears in the man’s eyes. He wasn’t looking at the flames. Cain extended a hand to the girl.

  She turned her back on him and walked back to Batman’s side.

  Cain stared at her for a moment longer, then seemed to slump, almost shrinking from within.

  The girl looked at Batman, then took his hand in hers. She still wouldn’t look at Cain.

  Cain nodded, then turned away.

  Batman heard him say, “Take good care of her.”

  Then Cain was over the edge and moving out of sight.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  GORDON WAITED IN THE GARDEN, WORKING on the plot of vegetables in the far corner, knowing that sooner or later he would have company. His frown deepened as he dug out the weeds, tossing them aside, creating a small mound of the discarded greenery. Inside the house, Sarah was sleeping, still recovering from the bullet she’d taken during the Penguin offensive. Out front, Officer DeFilippis and Officer Witschi stood guard. Sergeant Weir had offered to take a post too, but Gordon had refused. There was no way he was putting a pregnant woman in the crossfire if he could help it.

  Cain was gone, he knew that. But it didn’t make him feel any safer. He had posts that were empty or staffed now by civilians who were eager to help, but who had no idea of what they were doing. Pettit’s defection was costing them dearly already, and he knew it would get worse. Before nightfall easily half of the remaining Blue Boys had left TriCorner to join the renegade. Gordon knew he would lose more men under the cover of darkness.

  He was more scared than he had ever been in his life, he realized. More scared now than during the war, more scared than when Joker had kidnapped him years ago, trying to drive him mad. More scared than when he realized he was leaving his first wife because he no longer loved her, because he had fallen for a young and pretty detective named Sarah Essen.

  Then he heard the voice.

  “Jim.”

  He got to his feet, dusting himself off. Batman came out of the shadows from the far side of the garden, moving silently as always. Gordon felt the anger simmering in his gut begin to bubble.

  “Leave,” Gordon said.

  “Cain’s gone.”

  “Leave.”

  Batman didn’t speak, didn’t move. Gordon could barely see the man’s features, what little there was to see that was not hidden under the mask.

  “I didn’t want your help,” Gordon said suddenly, his voice rising. “Do you get that? I didn’t ask for your help! I didn’t want it with Cain and I sure don’t want it now!”

  Batman remained silent and immobile and, to Gordon’s eyes, impassive.

  “God dammit! Get out of my garden! Get out of my house!” Gordon moved forward, shouting in the other man’s face, head tilted back to look into those blank, hidden eyes. “Leave!”

  And then he hit him, one punch with everything he had that connected with Batman’s jaw and turned the vigilante’s head almost ninety degrees. The impact rode a shock up Gordon’s forearm, made his knuckles ache.

  Batman brought his head back slowly, looking down at him, and his mouth curved slightly, almost a frown, almost sadness. For several long seconds they stared at one another, and then, finally, Batman turned silently and moved back to the shadows.

  Before he disappeared, Batman said, “Two-Face wasn’t an ally you could trust.”

  “Neither were you,” Gordon spat back.

  But there was no response, no answer at all. Batman had already gone, taking the last word as he had a thousand times before, walking away just as he had all of those times when Gordon still had something to say. It was what defined their relationship; Batman was always gone before James Gordon had finished speaking.

  There was a small, clay flowerpot with a tulip in it that Gordon had been cultivating for Sarah.

  He kicked it across the patio without thinking, breaking it into a thousand shards.

  The door from the house slid back, and Sarah said, “Jim? Jim, are you all right?”

  “Fine. Go back to bed.”

  She shook her head and started down the steps, and Gordon saw she was barefoot, and moved to intercept her.

  “Don’t, you’ll cut your feet open,” he said. “I … I broke a pot…”

  She furrowed her brow, reaching a hand out and touching his cheek. “He was here, wasn’t he?” she asked after a second.

  “Yes.”

  “Come inside.”

  He followed her back to the bedroom, watched by candlelight as she removed her robe. The bandage on her side was clean as best as he could tell, the wound no longer seeping. She sat on the side of the bed, wrapping the blanket around herself, returning his stare.

  “Our darkest hour,” she said softly.

  Gordon sat heavily beside her. “Yeah.”

  “I heard about Pettit. Bullock told me. Said that we’re losing people.”

  “They think I can’t protect them. They think … they think we won’t survive.”

  “We will,” she said, matter-of-factly. “They’re wrong, and sooner or later, they’ll see that. That’s not what’s bothering you, is it?”

  “No,” Gordon admitted. “What’s bothering me is him. That… I thought I’d… he saved my life today, Sarah. If he hadn’t been on that roof, we would have walked right into Cain’s ambush. I would have died, Montoya, Bullock… all of us. You’d be here all alone if Batman hadn’t been watching.”

  “And you resent that.”

  “He abandoned us. He betrayed our trust and now he’s back, Just like that, and he’s baby-sitting me?”

  “Do you really think that’s what he was doing?”

  “I don’t know what he was doing.”

  “He was trying to keep a life from being lost. You know that. It’s what he’s always done.” She leaned to the side, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’ve never been his number one fan. I disapprove of vigilantism, and I disapprove of him. But while I’ve had thousands of doubts about him, about your relationship with him, I’ve never had any doubts about one thing. No one dies if he can help it. No one.”

  “I’m just… so angry, Sarah.”

  “At him?”

  Gordon removed his glasses, rubbing at the skin behind his ears, and then he laughed, softly. “You’re good,” he said.

  “Am I?”

  “Yeah, you are. I am angry at him. But I’m angry at myself, too. I was Commissioner of Police in this town for years, and all that time he was here, and maybe … maybe I grew to count on him too much, to rely on him too much. And maybe it’s not what Batman did that’s burning me so hard right now, Sarah…”

  “It’s what he didn’t do,” she finished softly.

  “Maybe.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, buried his nose in her hair. It smelled slightly of mint, and he wondered how she could make it do that given everything else around them.

  * * * * *

  Alfred was in his tent at the MASH unit, alone, reading the volume of Browning he had packed before leaving behind the ruins of Wayne Manor many months before. Since Batman’s arrival, he had spent much of his time with Dr. Thompkins, supplementing her medical efforts with his own meager skills. Staying in the encampment allowed Alfred company and relative safety, and also enough time and freedom to go where Batman needed him whenever he was required.

  He had just finished rereading “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came” when he glanced up and saw the Batman standing just inside the entrance, the tent flap already closed and secured behind him. One look was enough to make Alfred’s heart break. It was in the younger man’s posture, he could see it, and it was as if the twenty-five years since that horrible night had contracte
d, as if the time had never passed at all.

  Batman pulled back his cowl, revealing the haunted eyes of Bruce Wayne.

  “You have the look of a man losing a war with himself, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, closing his book and setting it aside.

  It took Bruce a moment, as if he needed to focus, to remember where he was, and then he nodded. He moved to the bench opposite the cot, and as he sat Alfred could see it once more: that terrible weight pressing on Bruce’s shoulders, so heavy it seemed it could push the man through the very earth and down to hell.

  To the world, to those who knew, the Batman was a force, potent and mythic, and duly terrifying.

  To Alfred, though, there were times when he was still an eight-year-old boy, demanding to know why the world had betrayed him so cruelly.

  Somewhere outside a baby was crying in one of the other tents.

  “I’ve lost my way,” Bruce said, softly.

  “Master Bruce …”

  “It’s all gone gray, Alfred.” He looked at the butler helplessly. “The doubt and the confusion… I can’t see the way any longer. The bodies keep piling higher… Pettit murdered seven people this afternoon and I wasn’t there to stop it… I’m making mistakes, I can’t trust my own judgment. I made an ally of Penguin, who betrayed me, I trusted a Batgirl when I should have known better and I … I just don’t know how to do this anymore.

  “I don’t know how to fix it.”

  He looked just like a boy for a second.

  “I saw Gordon.” His voice was barely audible, almost less than a whisper, and Alfred had to strain to hear him. “I saw Gordon. I tried to talk to him. He told me to leave. He wanted nothing to do with me.”

  On Bruce’s left cheek, below the eye, the beginnings of a bruise were evident, the skin starting to swell.

  “Did the Commissioner give you that shiner?” Alfred asked.

  Bruce barely nodded.

  “You let him hit you,” Alfred said.

  “I let him,” Bruce admitted. “He had made a deal with Two-Face, Alfred. Jim Gordon made a deal with Harvey Dent. It must have been for land … certainly it was how the Blue Boy offensive against Penguin was so successful. It’s a theory. Whatever it was, I don’t know the details, but…”