7. Labor Day
[September 4, 2015]
Two-Face wavered on his feet outside the GCPD. He had gotten clothing and a bottle of alcohol from some vagrant that was easy to knock out. The bandages covering the left side of his face and his left hand were filthy with grime and blood. The solid weight of a pistol rested in his pocket. He took a swig of booze and glowered at the GCPD.
After all the time Harvey wasted in there, I can't even go near the fucking place.
Two-Face spit, and then retreated down the alley from whence he had come. He was starving and cold and tired. Harvey would have gone running to his rich boyfriend Brucey Wayne in his plush hotel suite, but Two-Face wouldn't have it. He was done with Harvey's weaknesses and submission. He had been waiting for years to control the pathetically idealistic District Attorney, and now he had succeeded. Poor Harvey was hiding somewhere in the back of his mind, cowering like the coward he was, unable to touch the tender spots of his trauma. Good! Let him hide! Two-Face had everything under control.
At least … he had thought he did. The wail of sirens stopped at the end of the alley. He heard the scuffle of boots on pavement, the click of a cocked gun.
"Stop! Police!"
Great. Just what he needed. How the hell did they spot him? Were the GCPD just extra-paranoid after their precious White Knight had been taken down? Was Jim worried about him? Or did he just want to catch him?
"Too bad either way," Two-Face muttered.
He crouched down very fast, and ran down the alley. Police were trained to shoot fixed targets, very few of them could track one that grew or shrank so quickly. He heard the guns go off, but nothing even grazed him. Once he had cleared the alley, he broke into a full-fledged sprint. He heard sirens wailing. Were the bandages making him easy to track? Was Harvey's old friend Batman lending the GCPD a hand with their surveillance?
Fuck it. Doesn't matter.
Two-Face was at a loss when the next alley led to a dead end. He swore furiously and whipped around. The leftovers of sewer maintenance caught his eye on the street. His shoes pounded the pavement as he ran. He grabbed the crowbar abandoned by the "Do Not Cross" tape, pried open the manhole, and climbed down, wrestling the cover over the hole above. Daylight went black. Rank air entered his one exposed nostril. He snorted and went down.
Smells like the city down here, Two-Face thought when he came to the sewer passageway. All the shit and blood and bile they try to flush away ends up right here. Most honest place in Gotham.
Two-Face laughed at that thought as he made his way through the sewer. The sound of traffic above was distorted and hushed, as if he were underwater. There was a sound of dripping water and scurrying rats in the distance. It was cooler than the baking streets above, at least.
Two-Face walked for what seemed like forever. He lost track of the time in the emptiness. An inkling of trepidation set his nerves on edge. He took out his father's—no, his—silver dollar and ran it along his knuckles. The feel of the coin grounded him, comforted him. He could face any situation, so long as the coin told him that it had to be. Once you knew the kind of luck you had, you could cope with anything.
Two-Face stopped suddenly. Another scuffling had joined the sound of the rats' paws. He could have sworn he heard footsteps. He listened. Nothing. But when he resumed walking, so did the footsteps. Harvey would have died of fear, but Two-Face went on walking. He flipped the coin every now and then, and whistled a vague tune.
All at once, Two-Face whipped around. The other footsteps skidded to a halt.
"I know you're there!" he called into the darkness. "Come on, don't be shy."
The shadows stirred, and coalesced into a figure. Even Two-Face took pause at the sight. The weak sunlight shining in through one of the sewer grates illuminated an enormous man, possibly nine feet in height. He wore raggedy clothing, and his skin was pale blue.
"So, it's true," Two-Face remarked. "There really is a zombie livin' in the sewer. How 'bout that?"
"Solomon Grundy," rasped the weird, hulking figure.
Two-Face cocked his head.
"Huh? Oh, yeah?" he asked. "Yeah, I—Harvey—we heard that sometime. How did it go?"
"Solomon Grundy."
"Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday," Two-Face recited. He flipped his coin and caught it. "Er—Christened on Tuesday. Married on Wednesday. Took ill on Thursday. Grew worse on Friday. Died on Saturday. Buried on Sunday. That was the end, of Solomon Grundy."
"Solomon Grundy?"
The zombie or whatever he was came closer to Two-Face. He cocked his head, as if interested in his visitor. Two-Face stared up at him, wondering what horrible fate had brought him down here. The fear had gone. Harvey was the one that cared about his mortality; Two-Face didn't think about it much.
"Solomon … Grundy."
Two-Face recited the nursery rhyme again, to the beat of the rise and fall of his coin as he tossed it. Solomon Grundy (might as well let that be his name) smiled. He nodded, and put a hand on Two-Face's shoulder. Saying his name again (was that all he could say?), he led Two-Face through the sewers. It was amazing the way he knew exactly where he was going. Two-Face might have wandered around the subterranean maze for months and still been lost. They came to an abandoned maintenance office. Upon entering the supervisor's room, Two-Face saw that it had been re-purposed into a bedroom. There was a huge stack of moldy blankets that must have served as Grundy's bed, and strange artifacts the whatever-he-was must have collected: ancient coins, a battered tin soldier, several plastic toys, random shoes, even a Revolution-era musket.
"Solomon Grundy."
Grundy pointed to a pile of pillows and blankets. Two-Face sat on them. Grundy looked pleased. Doesn't get the chance to entertain much, I bet, he thought. He reached into his pocket to make sure his pistol was ready. Don't know if it'd ever work against this guy, though. One guy Harvey thought was delusional said he fired six shots into the zombie in the sewers and he still kept coming at him.
Grundy went into another room. He returned with a tin of sardines and a water bottle. Two-Face was wary, but both items were perfectly sealed. Hunger and thirst got the best of him. He devoured the meager meal within minutes. Grundy stood over him, watching. He seemed pleased.
"Thank you," Harvey said.
"Solomon Grundy."
Harvey clutched his head, pain shooting through it. The food and water had wrenched him back to reality. Two-Face jeered in the back of his mind, but he was in control for the moment. Fear, pain, and shock burned through him like a bullet. He doubled over his knees, sobbing and gasping. What had he done? What had they done, he and Two-Face? He knew how he had retrieved the coin. He knew what he had done to escape the hospital. He shook and cried out and pounded his aching head.
"Solomon Grundy."
Grundy knelt beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. His simple mind could not fathom the small creature, but he was glad that the thing had not run from him or attacked him. The thing was shaking and seemed to be in pain. Grundy kept a hand on it, hoping it would not turn cold and stop moving the way so many things down here did.
"Sir, please, you must eat."
"Not now, Alfred."
Bruce Wayne had been in a strange state since Harvey Dent sedated him before escaping from Gotham General Hospital. He would not discuss his lover at all, but he obsessively tracked his movements. After Harvey Dent had drugged Bruce, he had gotten his hands on a scalpel somehow. He sought out Maroni, and had flown into a rage upon discovering Maroni had been transferred to a prison hospital. After that, he broke into the storage room where patients' belongings were kept. He left his clothes and wallet, taking only the silver dollar his abusive father had left to him. During all this, he killed anyone that got in his way. Five people had died. Since then, he had only been spotted sporadically around the city, though it was becoming clear he was staking out the GCPD.
"Sir—"
"I have to find him," Bruce said. "He was just spotted near the GCPD again, but he took off. Wherever he went must have been in a CCTV blind spot. I need to go back to the GCPD. I never should have left. If I just stay there, he'll show up again. He has to. I know what he wants. He wants to kill Sal Maroni. If I wait there, I'll catch him."
"And then what, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked. "Forgive me for saying so, but the man is deranged and out of all control."
"I will get him all the help that he needs," Bruce said. "Like Harvey always said, I'm rich enough to do whatever I want."
Alfred said nothing. Bruce had been quoting the bitter District Attorney ever since his attack. Mr. Dent's fatalism proved to have a point, Alfred thought. I hope Master Bruce doesn't let it consume him, though. He's fought so hard to come this far. I don't know what I would do if I had to watch him lose all of it.
"I will save him, Alfred," Bruce said. "I have to. I … I can't lose him. I love him, more than I've loved anyone in my entire life. He's fought harder than Batman has, because he's fought in the light of day. He lost his first love, his wife, because of that bravery. What is Batman if he can't even protect one single man who deserves it? What am I, if I can't protect the man that I love? What are we? What is it all for?"
Bruce slammed his fist into the computer console several times. He pushed himself up out of his chair and paced, a hand covering his eyes. His mouth was severely down-turned, and his nostrils flared with tense inhalations.
"Is it too selfish?" Bruce asked. "Have I been too greedy? Is that it? I thought that I could save the faceless innocent masses and the people that I love all at the same time. I was naive, like Harvey said. I thought that I had finally, finally figured it all out, that I had a handle on this city. I was a fool."
"Master Bruce … "
"I was a fucking idiot!" Bruce shouted. "It was too much. I wanted too much. I should have stayed alone. If I had been, Floyd Lawton would be in prison instead of out there killing people, Bobby wouldn't be so bitter that he's been driven to crime, and Harvey … Harvey … the Batman might have been able to save him. If I had been there as Batman instead of Bruce Wayne, I might have been able to save him. I could have saved him. I could have saved them all. I was a fool."
Alfred was speechless. Bruce rarely swore, and he had not been this emotional in decades. It took Alfred a minute to compose himself.
"Mr. Dent was not the only one that suffered a trauma, Master Bruce," Alfred said. "You must consider yourself, sir. You must take care of yourself."
"What difference does it make?" Bruce asked tiredly. "What difference does anything make?"
Bruce fell back into his chair. The myriad monitors blinked and blipped behind him. The Bat Cave felt colder than ever.
"I'm going to stake out the GCPD," Bruce announced. "Harvey will come back. I know he will. And when he does, I'll … I'll stop him. Everything else can be figured out later. I just need to have him back."
"Sir … "
"Don't wait up for me, Alfred."
"I'll be here to support you, sir. I always am."
Bruce paused. He heard the note of pain in Alfred's voice.
"I won't lose sight of any of this," Bruce tried to reassure him. "I won't cross any lines, and neither will Batman. I just … I have to do everything that I can to save Harvey. You understand, don't you, Alfred?"
"I know who you are, and I trust him, in the suit or out of it," Alfred said. "You are the one I am worried for, Master Bruce. Mr. Dent is ill, I understand, but he has hurt you. He has betrayed you, twice. Please, do not give him the opportunity to do so again."
"No, I know," Bruce said softly. "That's why I have to face him as Batman this time. I hate it. God, I hate it more than anything. But … the next time we meet, it won't be as Bruce Wayne and Harvey Dent. I know that. We have to meet as Batman … and Two-Face."
Gordon was a wreck. He had watched all his allies crumble within the same span of time. That goddamned bastard Maroni had ruined Harvey, possibly for life. Bruce had been thrown into a state of shock nearly as bad, and to top it all off, Batman had vanished. Jim felt more alone than ever. Every time he held his wife and child close, he imagined what the city could do to them. Nonetheless, he kept worrying his wife by smoking nonstop. It was a vicious goddamn cycle, but he could not break it. Everything in the world felt wrong.
Case in point: Sal Maroni was being escorted back to his holding cell in the GCPD tonight. The asshole had taken three shots, but they had all gone straight through him. He would have less scars than Harvey. Jim believed in the law, but a part of him wanted to plug the man in the skull then and there. Instead, he threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out with his shoe.
"Just get him inside," he growled to the officers.
Maroni was pushed into the police van and the doors slammed shut. Gordon and a young female detective climbed into the front. Gordon took the wheel. The woman was attractive, bold-featured and strong. Her brow was creased, and she seemed deeply troubled. It was not very PC, but Jim felt he should say something to ease the young lady's worries. There were worse crimes than chivalry.
"Never getting outside again," he said. "After what he did, Maroni will probably get the death—"
"It was my fault!"
Gordon raised his eyebrows. He struggled to keep his eyes on the road as the detective wiped her eyes on her sleeve. She did not let more tears fall, but stared morosely at her hands.
"I knew something was wrong, that day in the courtroom," she said. "I couldn't tell what, but I just knew it. They said that damned bottle had been checked by security, but if I had just double-checked, if I had said anything at all, the DA wouldn't be—be—"
"Hey, kid, don't beat yourself up," Gordon said. "There was no way that anyone could have predicted that. Heads in the courthouse security department have rolled, but they all swore they never saw that bottle. It was the acting ADA, Wells. After Luis Castell went, Maroni must have placed his own mole in to take his place. Security never saw the bottle. We're looking for Wells, but he's gone to ground."
"Sir, Luis is missing!" Renee said. "He didn't just leave, he and his parents have been missing for months! I tried to file a report, but I'm not family, and … and my partner, Bullock, he said I was being a drama queen."
"Bullock said that, did he?" Gordon heaved a deep sigh. "I'll have to talk to him. What's your name, detective?"
"Montoya, sir," she said. "Renee Montoya."
"Montoya, you have good instincts," Jim said. "I wish Bullock had listened to you enough to come to me, before—all this. There's no way that the disappearance of the Castell family and Maroni's mole Wells being placed in the ADA's role is a coincidence. I'll look into it."
"Thank you, sir," Renee said. "Luis was a friend. I've been worried about him. He's a good man. Good people are getting harder to find in this city."
"Believe me, Montoya, I know," Gordon said. "I'm probably old enough to be your father, so let me tell you, they were always rare enough. But you're right, it is getting harder to find a decent person here. I don't know. Sign of the times, I guess."
"It's these freaks, sir," Renee said. "I don't know about the Batman. I know you trust him. I, personally, don't know. But the others, the … Joker and those. They've infiltrated the GCPD twice. Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow, falsified his psych evals using that fear toxin. And the Riddler worked there for years! It's messed up. It's so messed up."
"I, er, I was the one that brought Edward Nigma into the GCPD."
"Oh! Oh, I'm, I'm sorry, sir."
"Nah, don't be, I'm just as pissed off as you are," Gordon said. "He was a troubled young guy when I brought him in. I never thought he'd turn out like that. Never thought Harvey would—Yeah. Something about this city just destroys goodness."
"It's not your fault, sir."
"Well, if I'm not to blame for Nigma, you're not to blame for Harvey." Jim gave her a brief smile. "Get it?"
"Thank you, sir."
They parked outside the GCPD. Maroni was unloaded from the back of the prison van and pushed into the precinct. They went in through the back door, to avoid being spotted by the press or Harvey Dent. The maximum security cells in the basement had been emptied out for additional secrecy. Gordon was not prepared to take any chances after what had happened to Dent. He wanted to kill Maroni, but he knew all he could do was make sure the bastard got the death penalty or went to jail for life.
One of the fluorescent lights was blinking and buzzing. Gordon cursed the budget cuts. The government spent less on the GCPD than Bruce Wayne did. It was a damn shame how greedy everyone at the top was. Harvey hadn't been out to line his pockets, and he had—
The lights went out.
"What the fuck!" Jim ejaculated. "Hey, get the power on! Goddamnit!"
"Who's there?" Renee's voice shouted.
Jim heard her grunt and the sound of a body hitting the floor. Similar sounds came from the rest of the team in quick succession. Gordon fumbled for his flashlight.
"Harvey? Is that you?" he asked. "Don't do this, Harvey!"
"Fuck you, Dent!" Maroni yelled. "You gonna come for me? Then come on! You stinkin' rat bast—"
Two shots, the report of the gun muffled. Jim tripped and fell against the wall. He shone his flashlight beam up, and could only gape in shock.
"You—no, you—you're—"
"I am Holiday."
Alberto Falcone aimed his pistol, a .22 silenced with a baby bottle nipple, down at Jim Gordon. He fit Luis Castell's description: a man of medium height, thin, with a long coat and a dark suit. Tonight, he wore no mask, only glasses with round lenses of purple-tinted glass. His dark eyes were cold, and his hand was all too steady. Jim immediately knew that Alberto had not bothered with a mask because he did not intend to leave survivors. Is this it? Jim wondered. This is how it ends, huh? Labor Day, not even some big holiday like Christmas or Halloween. Christ.
The shadows shifted behind Alberto, and Gordon felt a twinge of hope. Could it be?
"You died," Gordon said, hoping to stall for time. "New Years. You were killed."
"No," Alberto said simply. "But you are going to be. Good night, Commi—urgh!"
Gauntlet-covered hands wrapped around Alberto's neck and lifted his arm high above his head. The gun popped off uselessly. Batman smashed his gauntlet-covered fist into Alberto's midsection. Gordon could only watch in awe and horror.
He's small, so small, like his gun, Bruce thought beneath the mask. Alberto fought, but he was no combatant. Batman broke his right arm, and then his left wrist. The screams gratified him. So many lives torn apart because of this small man and his small gun. The city is in chaos. Harvey lost his wife, and I lost Harvey. Harvey … Harvey … I lost Harvey because of this man. I lost him. I couldn't protect him. And it all comes back to Holiday.
Bruce and Batman both went blank after that. They had no desire to control the violence on this night, no belief that it could be controlled. If Bruce could not tame it, he would indulge in it. If a force opposed him, he would simply break it. His fists pumped like pistons of a machine. The yells grew dull, then ceased.
"Batman, that's enough!"
Batman looked up at Gordon. For a moment, he saw him as easy opposition. The instinct wore away quickly. He looked down at the battered piece of meat beneath him.
"I'm sorry," Gordon said. "But I've got to stop you before you do something we'll both regret."
Batman stood up off of Holiday. He stared down at the unconscious man for a long moment. Gordon held his breath.
"Then … you do what needs to be done," Batman told him.
With that, Batman disappeared into the night. Gordon handcuffed Alberto, who was groggily coming back to life. He read him his rights. In his heart of hearts, it was all he could do not to shoot the bastard himself.
[September 5, 2015]
"FUCK! Oh, fuck! FUCKING HELL!"
Solomon Grundy lifted his head from his new treasure: a rusty old bicycle whose wheel he enjoyed spinning. The little creature he had taken in some time ago had been staring at the panel he had gotten for him and listening to the words the pictures said. Now he had flown to his feet and was frantically pacing around the abandoned maintenance room.
"How the fuck did they kill 'im?" Two-Face roared at the TV. "I was supposed to kill Maroni! ME! Not that fuckin'—Holiday!"
Two-Face removed the pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He had ventured up to the streets to steal them and the lighter, since Grundy could not understand what a cigarette was (it had taken a great deal of sign language and frustration just to get the TV). He sucked down smoke and tried to still his shaking hands. Decrepit bandages hung off of the left side of his face, exposing a few splotches of bare muscle and purple, crumpled flesh.
"Solomon Grundy," Grundy said sagely.
"Born on a Monday," Two-Face said automatically. "No, no, this ain't right. No, maybe it is. Maybe it's just right. Maroni was only one, but there were two. One down, one to go. Yeah. Yeah, that's it. One down, one to go. Take 'em both out."
"Solomon Grundy," Grundy agreed.
"Yeah, exactly."
Two-Face stopped pacing in front of Grundy and looked down at him. The zombie had shared his home and food with him while he recovered his strength. Two-Face had developed a sympathetic kinship for the freak. He knelt down in front of the giant.
"Will you help me, Grundy?" he asked. "I can get you better stuff than this lousy bicycle. Whaddaya say?"
"Solomon … Grundy?"
"Born on a Monday," Two-Face said. "You won't let anyone hurt me, right? We're friends, right?"
"Solomon Grundy!"
Two-Face thought he heard enthusiasm in his voice. He half-grinned.
"Yeah, and you're not the only freak in town by far," Two-Face said. "Grundy, I think it's time for you and me to go topside. One down, one to go."
Batman stared at Alberto Falcone through the double-sided glass of the interrogation room. He should have felt relief, satisfaction, anything, but he was numb. With random criminals, it was easy to not think of their random victims, easy to focus on the prize rather than the cost. But Bruce had seen the cost of this manhunt firsthand. He would have killed Alberto without a second thought if it would undo the damage Holiday had done. The thought chilled him, made him question everything he thought Batman stood for, but he could not deny it.
"Do you need anything?" Carmine Falcone asked in the interrogation room. "Some clothes, some food? Those glasses you like, with the purple lens? How about those? What do you want? Tell me."
Alberto Falcone was smoking a cigarette as best he could with his hands in hard casts. He had his plain black-framed glasses on his bruised face. He stared coldly across the table at his father through them.
"No, papa, I don't need anything from you," he said. "Thanks."
Carmine leaned across the table to whisper to his son.
"I can get you out of here," he said. "Say you killed Maroni. So what? Everyone knows our families had a thing. All you have to do is give up this Holiday nonsense. That's all. I'll get you out of here, quick."
"Bull. Shit."
Carmine sank back into his chair. Alberto took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled smoke.
"I was born on a holiday," Alberto said. "Do you remember which one? No? Was it … Halloween? Father's Day? Independence Day? Or maybe it was Mother's Day? Christmas?"
Carmine glanced at the double-sided glass nervously.
"Okay, just calm down."
"I will not calm down," Alberto said.
Alberto's voice was clipped and educated. There was a deep, dark rage in him, but he never let it take control. He snuffed his cigarette out on the table.
"It was February fourteenth," he said. "Valentine's Day. Not that you would know. You always had business."
Alberto stood up and glared down at his father.
"Every. Single. Year."
"I thought you understood that," Carmine said. "I thought you knew, all I've done, all I've sacrificed, for you, and for Sofia! I've sweated and bled for you, for my children!"
"Oh, I understand, papa," Alberto said, sitting back down. "I understand. That's why you sent me to Oxford, isn't it? So that I wouldn't have to bleed and sweat, right?"
"Yes, yes, that's right."
"Even though you let Sofia, my sister, into the business, while you never asked for my help!" Alberto laughed. "You want me to believe that it was all for me? Really? Why don't you just admit it?"
"Alberto—"
"You never thought I was good enough to be your son!" Alberto exclaimed. "You never, ever thought I was good enough to even be your associate! Well, guess what?"
Carmine was dumbfounded by the seething declaration. Alberto leaned over the table, so their faces were close. Father and son, but they were worlds apart in every aspect.
"Gotham doesn't want your kind anymore," Alberto said. "It doesn't want the old rules and the old standards and the old, stale codes of conduct. I came back, papa, and I came back to be bigger than you! All of you! I'm bigger than you, bigger than Maroni, bigger than ALL of you! I am—HOLIDAY!"
Carmine sat stock still. On the other side of the interrogation room window, Batman walked out. If he stayed any longer, he knew that he would kill Alberto Falcone.
I missed it, Batman thought as he shut himself inside the Batmobile. The answer was there all along, and I missed it. Almost an entire year has gone by, and I've been clueless, one step behind. It started with Floyd, and then there was Bobby, and finally … Harvey. I hurt all of them. I hurt them all by loving them. And I hurt Batman's hunt for Holiday by being distracted by all that drama. This can't continue. I can't be Bruce Wayne and Batman. Holiday proves it.
