Enemies & Allies: A Novel Read online

  He saw flashing red lights, heard sirens coming from the streets outside the park—more policemen homing in on the same quarry: him.

  He slashed the strands of the net with his gauntlet’s sharp razors, pulled himself free, and began to run through the shadow-latticed moonlight.

  The “wino” opened fire, and bullets splintered bark and wood from a thick-boled oak. Swirling his dark cape like a toreador to distract the aggressor, he disguised the position of his body. Bullets stitched along the flailing fabric; none touched his skin. His armored outfit would stop or slow most bullets, but a solid impact from a slug might knock him to the ground.

  And then the police would be able to catch him.

  He made for the trees. Though the police captain’s voice had come from that direction, he had to hope a large contingent of the GCPD wasn’t hiding among the closely packed trunks.

  All this manpower was being wasted on him. The corrupt police force clearly didn’t like the fact that he worked against criminals—successfully, though outside of their laws—and worse, several of his recent captures were little hoodlums who had squealed about cops being on the take, which had led to official investigations. He knew the Gotham City PD protected its own, and they didn’t like to be embarrassed.

  And he had embarrassed them.

  They wanted to bring him down.

  The two men from the park bench rushed toward him, guns drawn. He struck one of them with a hammer blow to the stomach, the other with an uppercut to the jaw. Both men fell hard.

  He refused to kill—not cops, not even criminals—but sometimes he couldn’t avoid inflicting an injury or two, a broken jaw, a shattered tooth. He had to do what was necessary to get away. The pain of bruises and broken bones would heal.

  The pain of his parents’ deaths would not.

  He melted into the trees, trying to be silent, but his boots were heavy, and the underbrush made crackling sounds. Even against a background of wailing sirens and shouting police, the noises seemed incredibly loud.

  But this was the Thomas and Martha Wayne Memorial Park, and it held plenty of secrets. His secrets. If only he could find the cleverly concealed hollow tree stump, his emergency exit.

  Two uniformed policemen from the squad cars tried to cut him off, and now it was time to use his Bat-shuriken, small projectiles he had modeled after ninja throwing stars. They came into the palm of his gauntlet, each one no bigger than his curled forefinger. He threw them accurately, their gleaming black curves shaped like an emblematic bat. The pointed tips nipped his pursuers’ skin, leaving behind small wounds, surprise, and a sting of pain—and a fast-acting tranquilizer he’d obtained from the cloud forests in Ecuador. The two men yelped and went down.

  He kept pushing ahead. The tree stump wasn’t far now.

  Suddenly he came upon a man with glasses, a thick mustache, light brown hair, a police captain’s uniform. James Gordon, recently transferred from Chicago and making quite a name for himself in the Gotham City PD. Apparently not corrupt. Yet. In a ready stance, Gordon pointed the revolver’s barrel directly at the bat symbol in the middle of his chest armor.

  How could the reflection of blue steel be so bright in such a dim forest?

  “There are two ways this can end, Batman. You come with me now—or you die.”

  Policemen had so little imagination. Only two ways? He raised his black-gloved hands as if in surrender. Though Gordon was not fooled, the movement distracted him for a critical instant. A small set of bolos flew forward, tiny balls tethered by high-tensile-strength polymer threads that wrapped themselves around Gordon’s closely aligned wrists. With a reflexive twitch of the trigger finger, Gordon’s gun discharged.

  A quick leap to the left. The bullet smashed into a tree trunk, cutting a long, pale gouge in the fresh wood.

  In an instant he had tackled Gordon, using his larger bulk and greater strength to overpower the captain. “You are wasting my time—and your own,” he growled, the first words he’d spoken since donning the outfit that night. How could he make this man see that they were on the same side? “Gotham would be a safer place if you’d worry less about me and more about criminals.”

  Struggling, Gordon hissed at him, “I am stopping a criminal—it’s what I do. It’s what the police do, not vigilantes. I’ll have you up on charges of assault, avoiding arrest, and terrorizing the citizens of Gotham City.”

  “It’s the criminals who are afraid of me, not the citizens.” This naive and idealistic police captain might have become an ally under other circumstances. “Think, Gordon! How many muggers, thieves, assassins have I taken off the streets? That should be your job. What crimes have I committed, exactly? Taking justice into my own hands when the Gotham police won’t do their work?”

  Though he was pinned to the ground, glasses askew, Gordon looked angry. “A criminal with a moral conscience?”

  “Ask yourself who’s really doing a better job of law enforcement. How many real criminals could your officers have caught tonight if you hadn’t wasted so much manpower trying to trap me?” He jerked his masked head to indicate the police swarming through the park, all the squad cars that had converged on the street. “Those officers could have been on patrol, protecting the innocent. How many people became victims tonight because of your skewed priorities?”

  Gordon appeared briefly confused by the idea—until the quick anesthetic spray beneath his nose sent him into slumberland. At least he would have something to think about. The chemical would put the captain out for an hour.

  Five minutes would have been long enough.

  Slipping away, he covered all traces of his passage, careful to leave no sign that even the police dogs could find in the morning. His boots and uniform were specially treated to leave no scent. He found the disguised tree stump, slipped into the underground passage, and made his way back home.

  To the manor.

  To the Cave.

  The fine dinner Alfred had prepared for him was still warm and waiting for him as though just laid out on the tray, the dishes covered. The sardonic butler always seemed to know exactly when he would return.

  It had been a frustrating night. He had stopped no crimes, saved no innocents. The hollowness in his chest remained unfilled. There was too much work to do in Gotham City, and he was only one person. He had no allies.

  CHAPTER 2

  GOTHAM CITY WAYNE MANOR

  THE ELABORATELY APPOINTED DRAWING ROOM WAS THREE times the size of Clark Kent’s apartment in Metropolis. After the thin butler had ushered them inside and closed the double French doors, Clark and Jimmy Olsen waited for nearly twenty minutes. Bruce Wayne apparently wasn’t a very punctual person, at least when it came to meeting with reporters. Clark supposed that men like him operated on their own schedules, with little regard for regular people.

  Jimmy stashed his Graflex Speed Graphic camera and his leather equipment kit on the seat of a large club chair as he gawked at all the strange items the millionaire had on display. The objets d’art would have been considered museum-quality relics anywhere else, but here they were simply knickknacks.

  “Gosh, Mr. Kent, have you ever been in a house like this?” Jimmy picked up an ornate bronze dagger that had actually been used by a soldier in the Roman legions. Bruce Wayne apparently used it as a letter opener.

  “Don’t break anything, Jimmy.” Clark stood in the middle of the room on a lovely Moroccan carpet, as if keeping a safe distance from all the antiques.

  The young photographer guiltily set down the knife and opened an old leather-bound book. The pages, which seemed to be vellum, slightly frayed at the edges, were covered with handwritten text and lavishly illuminated with gold leaf and colored inks. “I’ll bet Mr. Wayne spends money on antiques like I spend money on bubblegum.”

  The extravagance made Clark uncomfortable. How different this was from the homey Smallville farmhouse where he’d grown up, with its inviting front porch and a kitchen that always seemed to smell of fresh-baked appl
e pie or pot roast. Comparing his home with the lonely, empty luxury here, Clark decided he preferred his own upbringing.

  He straightened his glasses and smoothed back his dark hair. His blue suit was somewhat rumpled, despite his best efforts to be careful during their train trip from Metropolis. He adjusted his tie and, for the tenth time, consulted his new Timex watch.

  The French doors opened, and the butler returned, impeccable in his tuxedo. In one hand he carried an ornate silver tray, polished to a high gleam that reflected the light of the fire blazing in the hearth. Perched atop the tray was a single tumbler filled with a bubbling purple beverage.

  “As requested, sirs, a Nehi grape soda for Mr. Olsen, and nothing for Mr. Kent.” Jimmy took the soda pop, aligned the straw, and drew a long and thankful slurp. The butler paused at the door on his way out. “Master Wayne should be with you shortly.”

  Within moments another man stood at the hall doorway on the opposite side of the drawing room. He wore a flamboyant smoking jacket and exuded a kind of animal magnetism. He was about Clark’s age, with dark hair and handsome features. “Wayne,” he announced. “Bruce Wayne.”

  Clark stepped forward, extending a hand while purposely yet discreetly catching the toe of his shoe on the fringed edge of the Moroccan rug. He stumbled, caught his balance, and pretended embarrassment. “I’m Clark Kent from the Daily Planet. Thank you for agreeing to this interview.”

  At the same time, Jimmy snatched up his camera, pressed the opening button, and pulled the focus bed down until it locked into position. He inserted a flashbulb and kept himself ready.

  Bruce said airily, “My apologies for being late. This is rather early in the day for me.” He looked a little bleary-eyed as he smoothed a hand down the front of his smoking jacket, then walked over to a tray where Alfred had set out a martini glass containing a clear drink in which floated a twist of lemon peel.

  “But…it’s past noon.” Clark could never forget his years of getting up before dawn to do his farm chores before going to school.

  “I keep late hours.” Bruce sipped his martini, closed his eyes, and smiled with pleasure. “Oh, forgive my manners. Would you like one as well?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Wayne—I don’t drink.”

  Amused, Bruce took another sip. “Exactly what I’ve heard about you.”

  Clark remembered to keep his shoulders somewhat slumped to diminish his physical size. “You checked up on me? I thought I was doing the story.”

  “It never hurts to know who you’re up against.” Bruce lounged in a high-backed club chair near the fireplace. “Too bad Lois Lane isn’t doing this interview. I read that famous profile she did on—what do they call him in Metropolis? ‘Superman’? A very imaginative piece.”

  Jimmy felt the need to defend Lois’s honor (though she could have done so perfectly well herself, had she been there). “Miss Lane really should have won the Pulitzer for that article. We were all rooting for her at the Planet.”

  “Too many people found it preposterous.” Bruce set his martini aside and managed to make himself look even more comfortable than he had a moment earlier. “Is it true that Superman claims to be an alien from another planet? And that Miss Lane took him at his word?”

  Jimmy squared his shoulders. “Gosh, Mr. Wayne, who wouldn’t? Superman flies! Bullets bounce right off his chest—I’ve seen it myself!”

  Bruce rolled his eyes. “Technology can give someone superior abilities. No need to make up aliens. I think you’re all a tad too gullible in Metropolis.”

  Clark cleared his throat, took out his reporter’s notebook, and withdrew one of his three well-sharpened pencils. “At the moment, Miss Lane is on another assignment. The Planet wanted a profile piece on you, Mr. Wayne, not an exposé or headline story.” He flipped to a blank page, keeping up the appearance of slight fumbling. “Could we get started, please?”

  Bruce took another careful sip of his martini, though the liquid level didn’t seem to diminish. “Fire away, Kent. I’m all yours for fifteen minutes, before my next engagement.”

  “Since you raised the question of Superman,” Clark began, “I hear that Gotham has its own costumed hero—or vigilante, depending on whom you ask. The Batman. As one of Gotham City’s most prominent citizens, what are your thoughts on the Batman? Is he a psychopathic vigilante or a self-styled Robin Hood? And if he is one of the good guys, why doesn’t he just cooperate with the police?”

  Bruce let out a very small sigh. “You don’t know the police in Gotham City.”

  “We heard on the radio that the police tried to apprehend the Batman last night,” Clark said. “Apparently, they failed, despite a large-scale manhunt.”

  Bruce looked bored. “That’s local news, nothing the Planet would be interested in.”

  The man seemed inclined to be evasive, and Clark sensed that a stronger hand might be necessary in dealing with him. “Then let’s make it relevant to our profile. Last night, Batman was supposedly lurking in the Thomas and Martha Wayne Memorial Park—a place meant to honor your parents’ memory. According to the Hall of Public Records, the park has become a haven for muggers and drug dealers of late, and no law-abiding citizen would willingly go there. Now it also seems to be the nighttime haunt of the Batman. Any comment?” He held his pencil poised.

  When Bruce Wayne set his martini down and straightened in his chair, Clark noticed just how muscular the man really was. His question seemed to have sparked a hint of anger. Clark didn’t like to upset people, even though Lois advised him that keeping an interview subject off guard was the best way to get candid and interesting answers.

  Bruce flushed as if embarrassed. “Last night’s incident made it plain that I have to make a priority of cleaning the place up. I’m ashamed I allowed the park to become so run-down. Wayne Enterprises keeps me a very busy man, but that’s no excuse.”

  Clark wasn’t buying it. “Really? I’ve heard from other sources that you don’t put much time into running the company. Your board of directors handles most of the decisions.”

  Bruce spread his hands. “Well, to an outsider maybe a gigantic company seems to run itself, but in truth I am responsible for hundreds of vital decisions.”

  In an effort to capture this vague answer verbatim, Clark began scribbling with his pencil. The lead point snapped off, and he was disconcerted by his momentary loss of restraint. At least he hadn’t accidentally pulverized the pencil into sawdust as he clenched his fist. He smoothly pulled out another and continued transcribing Bruce Wayne’s answer. He added, “Lex Luthor himself has been quoted as saying that he thinks you should take a closer personal interest in running your company.”

  “Mr. Luthor has a different managerial style.” Bruce gave a casually dismissive wave. “He tends to all the minutiae of his business because he doesn’t trust his subordinates. My board of directors, on the other hand, has helped keep Wayne Enterprises strong and lucrative since I was a young boy. They ran the company quite profitably while I was abroad for many years.”

  Clark skimmed down his list of questions and notes. “If I might change subjects, you’ve been called Gotham’s most eligible bachelor, Mr. Wayne. Suave, rich, and single, you’re practically made for media attention, yet in most ways you remain a mystery.”

  Bruce visibly relaxed, as though glad to be in safer territory. “I’ll tell you a secret, Kent. I take my inspiration from Ian Fleming’s novels. James Bond is a truly intriguing character—well dressed, cultured, leading a life full of action and romance. Isn’t that something we could all aspire to?” He raised his martini glass. “Like this, for instance. A Vesper: three parts gin, one part vodka, half a part Kina Lillet, a slice of lemon peel. Shaken, not stirred.” He took another appreciative sip. “Delicious discovery.”

  Jimmy butted in. “Gosh, you read James Bond novels, Mr. Wayne?”

  “Diligently. In fact, I am such an admirer of Mr. Fleming’s works that I can’t wait for the American editions, so as soon as Jonathan C
ape publishes them in Britain, I have a copy flown over here. I find the books highly entertaining, though I must admit that some of the Bond villains are a little outrageous.”

  Clark pressed, still looking for his lead. “Besides imitating James Bond, what are your other secrets? Do you emulate any other fictional characters? Our readers want to know.”

  Bruce chuckled. “It’s difficult to keep secrets when people like you are watching my every move, Kent. Photographers everywhere, reporters, gossip columnists. I can’t go out to dinner without the whole world knowing what I order or how many crumbs I leave on the tablecloth.”

  Obviously, Wayne didn’t completely avoid media attention, though most of the articles about him were surprisingly shallow and devoid of facts. Clark wasn’t sure he liked this aloof and hedonistic man. Yes, he had a tragic past and an isolated upbringing, but he also bore the hallmarks of a spoiled rich kid with more money than he could spend. Clark supposed that Bruce Wayne had never really needed to work a day in his life. A week on the Kent farm in Kansas would certainly have taught Bruce Wayne a little humility and a solid work ethic.

  The butler stepped through the French doors and raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Wayne, the commissioner of police is ready for your luncheon. Shall I have the Bentley brought around?”

  Bruce glanced at the gold Rolex Oyster Perpetual on his wrist. “Sorry, Kent, but I do have another engagement. Alfred, please see these gentlemen out.”

  “Wait just a moment, please!” Jimmy, who had been listening with rapt attention, held up his camera. “I need some photos.”

  Striking a casual pose, Bruce stood by the club chair near the fireplace, accustomed to having his photo taken. Jimmy adjusted the focusing bed and pushed the button, and the flashbulb erupted. He quickly unscrewed the hot bulb with his fingertips, wincing, and replaced it with another. “I’d better get a few more shots.”