Batman: No Man's Land Page 5

  “Sir! Sir! I’ve got something to show you!”

  Montoya had seen it on the officer’s facet the excitement, the dance in the brown eyes. Whatever it was he wanted to show Gordon, DeFilippis was certainly thrilled about it.

  “It’s over here,” DeFilippis had said, indicating a rooftop across the way. “On the roof. Follow me.”

  So they had all followed, Gordon’s brow furrowed in a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

  DeFilippis had flown up the stairs, was already on the roof when they stepped out into the light snow. The building had been some sort of insurance office, brick and old, and relatively solid. From the roof, there was a nice view of TriCorner, even with the weather.

  “Well?” Gordon had asked.

  With a flourish, DeFilippis had yanked back the tarp concealing a small heap of metal in the center of the roof. Maybe four feet in diameter, a makeshift searchlight, and over the cracked lens, cobbled together from scraps of broken metal, the unmistakable shape of the bat.

  Montoya had recognized what it was instantly, started grinning. Unlike most of the GCPD, she had seen the Batman up close, knew he was real. And she understood what the young cop was trying to do, and she understood exactly why it mattered. She hadn’t been out of the academy a week before she’d snuck up to the roof of Central to see the real Bat-Signal, just to prove to herself it was there, that when things got really bad, it would burn in the sky.

  DeFilippis had started talking, excitedly throwing a switch. There was a grinding of a small motor and a crackling, and the light had come on, and in daylight it wasn’t much to see, but that didn’t matter at all, really. The light glowed pale and weak, but come the night, everyone looking would be able to see it.

  “I used a low voltage quartz bulb,” DeFilippis was saying in a rush. “And then some car batteries that still had charge, mounted the whole thing on a steering mechanism and then routed it through this switch and—”

  “No,” Gordon had said, and the tone in his voice had frozen Montoya in place. Essen had given her husband a look of almost anger, but before she could speak the Commissioner had moved forward, two long, quick strides and was nearly on top of the light.

  Then he’d raised his foot and brought it down on the fragile, cracked glass, and turned the lens into a thousand shards. The bulb crackled and went out.

  Montoya had been utterly stunned.

  Gordon had stepped back, a half hop, setting his foot again on the roof. Specks of blood were visible on the cuff of his pants. He’d turned and leveled his gaze at DeFilippis, whose mouth was still open in surprise.

  “We don’t need this,” Gordon had growled. “We don’t need it because he’s not coming, do you understand that, Officer DeFilippis? He’s not coming!”

  DeFilippis had been speechless, then drew himself to attention and answered, “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

  “Good.”

  “Commissioner,” Montoya had said. “How do you know?”

  “He’d have been here by now.”

  “But maybe he hasn’t shown up because we haven’t called.”

  Gordon had looked at her sadly, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Essen’s mouth had formed a tight line as she focused on her husband. Montoya could see the disapproval in her look.

  “No, Renee,” Gordon said. “He gave up on Gotham like everyone else. He took the easy way out.”

  Montoya had looked at Essen for help, but Sarah had simply shaken her head almost imperceptibly. Don’t, the look had said, it’s not worth it, and Renee realized that Essen had had this conversation with her husband before.

  Renee had tried anyway.

  “But… wouldn’t it be a good idea to make people think he was around, at least?”

  “Why bother?” Gordon had responded. “Why raise false hope?”

  Essen’s look had said, I told you so.

  Before Montoya could think of a counter, Gordon had stepped back, making certain he could address all of them, DeFilippis included. “We have to make our way through this without him,” the Commissioner had said. “No more myths and legends. This time it’s up to us. This time it’s the GCPD that puts the fear into the criminals. We’re taking back Gotham. Us. Understood?”

  Montoya and DeFilippis both answered, “Yes, sir.” Essen hadn’t moved, all but glaring at her husband.

  Gordon’s frown had deepened, and he’d headed back for the stairs, DeFilippis following. Montoya had moved next to Essen, keeping her voice low as they followed the men down, anxious for an explanation. If Jim Gordon, as Commissioner, was her boss, then Sarah Essen, as the Major Crimes Unit shift commander, was her leader, and Renee Montoya trusted the lieutenant implicitly.

  “Why is he so upset about Batman?” Montoya had asked.

  “Be careful about that,” Essen had cautioned. “It’s gotten so you can’t even say the name in his presence.”

  “I thought… I thought they were friends.”

  Essen had stopped on the stairs, looking at Montoya. “They were.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s been three months, Renee.” Essen had checked the stairs, making certain her husband was out of earshot. “No Batman. Jim’s not unreasonably feeling abandoned.”

  “Maybe… maybe there’s a reason, you know Essen had sighed. “Does it matter? The damage is done. Friends have to trust one another, don’t they? And Jim doesn’t trust him anymore.”

  From outside, they’d heard Gordon’s bellow, questioning if they were coming.

  “Right down,” Essen had shouted back, then smiled sympathetically at Montoya.

  “Do you think he’s right?” Montoya had asked. “Do you think Batman is really gone?”

  “If he’s not, I don’t envy the person who gets to break the news to Jim,” Essen had said, and then turned and continued down.

  * * * * *

  That was the thing, Montoya thought, that was the thing of it all. The Batman had betrayed their trust.

  She hadn’t really considered that he was gone until that moment on the roof when Gordon had said the words. Her experiences with the Batman had been limited at best. She’d seen him a handful of times at crime scenes, a shadow that spoke to the officer in charge and then vanished. Once he’d even spoken directly to her, asked if a ballistics report had come back.

  Given that, it wasn’t unusual for her to go months without seeing a sign of him.

  But if the Commissioner hadn’t seen him either, well, that meant something else.

  She tried to imagine what it would be like to call the Batman your friend. She couldn’t.

  No wonder Gordon feels betrayed, she thought, digging her hands deeper into the pockets of her parka. She kept her head down, watching her footing as she picked her way through the rubble-strewn street.

  A fire was burning in a metal garbage can on the corner, a small group huddled around it, and Montoya exchanged a thin smile with them, counting her blessings. She, at least, had good winter clothes to keep her warm, and she knew that, in the grand scheme of No Man’s Land, she could count herself lucky on that front.

  Since the beginning of the month, Day 62, she had personally seen the bodies of eleven people claimed by the cold.

  But the Blue Boys—she hated the name—had been lucky. Outfitting themselves with what was left of the GCPD’s stores, settling in TriCorner, they’d started out the NML ahead of the game. Clothes, food, shelter, even ammunition… while none of those things were abundant, at least in the Blue Boy neck of the woods, all were available. Elsewhere on the island, she knew, others weren’t as lucky.

  Not for the first time, she thanked God that her parents and brother had made it out before the bridges had been blown.

  Bullock was waiting for her outside the house, talking with the two men on duty. Each of the guards was dressed in damaged riot gear, the dark navy fabric of the GCPD torn and peeling in places on the armor, showing the hardened plastic and Kevlar beneath. Each held a shotg
un casually in their hands. Montoya wondered if the shotguns were loaded; her own sidearm was empty, had been now for weeks, and Pettit was diligent in rationing ammunition. According to the QRT leader, bullets were now worth their weight in gold.

  One of the guards noted her approach, and Bullock turned to greet her, pulling the stick he’d been gnawing on from his mouth. He was long past the nicotine withdrawal stage of his stogie habit, she knew that, and suspected he sucked on the surrogate cigars more to maintain his image than anything else. He turned his head and spat out a sliver of wood, then grinned at her.

  “Howdy, Pard,” Bullock said

  “Howdy, Pard,” Montoya responded. “I’m late?”

  Harvey shrugged, a gesture that had become more pronounced with the twenty-odd pounds he’d lost since the start of the NML The weight loss, not unexpected, had still been sudden enough that his skin had yet to catch up. Beneath the now-baggy clothes, she thought he looked more like a bloodhound than ever before.

  “Waiting on you,” he said. “How’s the Kelso Blockade?”

  “Fine. Some Street Demonz formed up at the end of the opposite block last night, but nothing came of it.” Montoya gestured to the house with a tilt of her head. “Shall we?”

  “Ladies first.”

  She grinned at that, because it was so far from the truth. For as long as she’d partnered with Harvey Bullock, gender had never been an issue. She’d always appreciated that of him. He’d never cared she was a woman, that she was Latina, that Spanish was her first tongue, or that she was young—almost too young by department standards—for a detective. Harvey had only cared that she could do the job. Once she’d proven that, he’d made it plain they were equals.

  He held the door for her as she went into the house, felt the slight change of temperature against her face. There was no electricity or gas in the Gordon/Essen home—none working anywhere on the island that she knew of—but the shelter was sturdy and well insulated, and retained what warmth the fireplace generated. Built before the First World War, the house was brick and wood, and like a handful of others hi the neighborhood, had managed to survive the earthquake relatively unscathed.

  They made their way down the long hall, silently, Montoya looking again at the framed photographs on the walls, as she always did. Pictures of Gordon and Essen at different functions, civic award ceremonies. One of them on vacation in Hawaii, maybe during their honeymoon. Another of Gordon hugging his daughter, Barbara, at her graduation from Gotham State University.

  Again, Montoya found herself thinking of her own family, glad that they were safe and well. Her parents had owned a bodega in Burnley, on the southern part of the north island. More commonly called Spanish Burnley, it had been an immigrant community since the dawn of time, the Gotham equivalent of New York’s South Bronx. Though she knew her old neighborhood was probably full of people who could use a hand, she’d had no opportunities to make it that far north since Black Monday. The journey was now an all but impossible one, through at least ten differently held territories—and some of those territories, she knew, wouldn’t let a cop through alive.

  She and Bullock entered the War Room, the rec room where the Commissioner had once run his model trains. Now the trains were gone, the space cleared for chairs, with a city map of Gotham tacked to the far wall. The others were waiting, Essen, Pettit, and Foley, with Gordon standing opposite his wife.

  “Take a seat,” Gordon told them as they entered.

  “How’s Kelso holding?” Pettit asked.

  “Fine,” Montoya answered. “They could use more ammunition, but the border’s secure.”

  Pettit nodded. “See what I can do.”

  Gordon cleared his throat, and they all put their attention on him.

  “Situation report, as of today, Day 90,” Gordon said. “TriCorner is ours. We’ve made it a week now without any incursions from the Street Demonz or the LoBoys, and it looks like most of our residents seem content with the protection we’re providing. Right now we’re still holding with twenty-three officers fit for duty, plus another fifty-odd residents who have expressed their desire to help. Pettit’s been working with them for the last month now, and he informed me this morning that he thinks they’re ready for action.”

  “Ready and waiting,” Pettit said, grinning. “Just point and shoot, Jim.”

  Gordon nodded slowly, then smoothed his mustache. “We’re ready for the next phase.”

  “Which would be?” Foley asked.

  “Old Gotham, everything between here and Central. I want it all back.”

  Montoya kept her mouth from dropping open in surprise. Back to Central, to the main precinct, over a mile from the edge of TriCorner. And to secure that much area they’d have to take out both the Demonz and the LoBoys, combined numbers of over a hundred men who didn’t feel any need to fight fair, who had long since given up any pretense of civilized behavior.

  She glanced around the room, at the faces and reactions. Essen had obviously seen this coming, and was still sitting calmly. Pettit looked positively delighted. At her side, Harvey just grunted.

  Foley, frowning, said, “I think it’s a bad idea, Commissioner.”

  “What would you suggest?”

  “Shoring up our own territory should be the priority. Making sure we can defend what we’ve got here.”

  Pettit turned in his chair to address Foley. “We’re not playing a defensive game anymore, Hugh. That’s old-style cop-think you’re using. We’re on offense now.”

  “Bill is right,” Gordon said. “As the GCPD, we were a reactive force for the most part. What we’re talking about now is being proactive, plain and simple. The Demonz and the LoBoys, they’re just biding their time. Sooner or later, one of them will incorporate the other, and when that happens, you know they’ll head south. We’ve got to hit them first.”

  “But Central’s miles away. There’s no point in reclaiming it,” Foley said softly. “Any gear that was there has long since been looted, you know that.”

  “It’s our HQ,” Pettit said. “It’s where the Blue Boys need to be. The propaganda value of having the GCPD back where they belong could do wonders. Or would you rather have some class-A skel going through your desk drawers and wandering around in our colors? Don’t be so gutless, Hugh.” Foley stiffened, cheeks raging with color. “It’s not gutless. It’s practical. It at least acknowledges our situation.”

  “Meaning what?” Gordon asked.

  “Meaning I think you’ve got an ulterior motive here, Commissioner. Your daughter lives near Central, doesn’t she?”

  Montoya saw the line of Gordon’s jaw tighten for a moment, the muscles flexing. “She does.”

  “So maybe this is less about propaganda and taking what’s ‘ours’ than it is about you wanting to protect what’s yours. And if that’s the case, you could at least acknowledge it.”

  “Gladly,” Gordon said. “I want to protect my daughter, I make no bones about it. There’s nothing ulterior in that, Hugh. It’s called being a father.”

  “There are too many of them,” Foley said, quieter, changing his tack. “We can’t take them all on. We’d lose what’s left of our ammunition. We’d lose men.”

  “I have no intention of launching a frontal assault or losing our people.”

  “Well, they’re not just going to surrender to us when they see the badges we’re all wearing.”

  “Yes they will. If we pick the right moment … no, if we make the right moment.”

  Montoya cleared her throat. “And that would be what, sir?”

  He looked at her, and she saw the corner of his mouth turn down slightly. “We’re going to get them to kill each other off. We’re going to incite them to war. And when it’s over, when they’ve blown their strength and lowered their numbers, that’s when we’ll move.”

  Montoya wasn’t quite certain she’d heard him correctly, but Pettit was speaking, saying, “That’s beautiful, Jim, that’s perfect! I couldn’t have come up with
better myself.”

  “It’s pragmatic, that’s all, Bill.”

  Bullock pulled the stick from his mouth. “Am I hearing you right, Commish?”

  Gordon’s look was as serious and solemn as any Montoya had seen on him before. It was the look she’d marked on him at crime scenes, where innocents lay dead at the hands of madmen. He knew exactly what he was saying, she realized. He’d already thought this through, had been thinking on it for a while now. Whether or not she agreed with the decision, she knew it was one the Commissioner had reached only through long consideration.

  As if to confirm, Gordon said, “Yes, Harvey. We’re going to get them to kill one another.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Foley managed.

  “You have a better way?” Pettit asked.

  “We’re talking about manipulating people to commit murder, Bill!”

  Pettit shook his head, almost amused, almost condescending. “We’re at war. Out there, beyond TriCorner, it’s chaos, plain and simple. We’re the only order left in this burg, and if we want the burg to survive, it’s up to us to impose it on the rest of the island. And the only way to do that is by being stronger, by being meaner.”

  Montoya heard Bullock settling in the chair beside her, the sound of his teeth digging farther into the stick in his mouth. Essen was still motionless in her seat, listening. Foley had looked back to the Commissioner. No one spoke.

  “Then we start tonight,” Gordon said. “Dismissed.”

  * * * * *

  She was in the backyard, sitting on the cold concrete steps down from the cracked sliding glass door, eating her lunch, when he found her.

  “Renee,” Gordon said, settling next to the detective. “How’s the meal?”

  She held up the can of vegetarian chili for him to see. “Passable, sir. Cooked in the can, gives it that extra-tinny flavor.”

  Gordon smiled briefly at the bad joke, eyes surveying his garden. Since the start of the No Man’s Land he’d put considerable effort into the yard, preparing it, optimistically, for spring. Montoya had been with him when, last month, they’d gone through the wreckage of a Yards and Yards Home Supply store, looking for tools and supplies. She had left carrying axes, shovels, and pry bars. The Commissioner had left with boxes of vegetable seeds and six books on gardening.