Chapter 11
Gordon lay awake in his bed, having just been woken by a surreptitious tapping on the window. He shot up at the sound, quickly scanning the bedroom for any signs of an intruder. The image of that poor girl on the street that previous night flashed through his mind. For just a moment, he became panicked, as if Barbara were that girl, as if the Joker had sliced her, too. His heart raced, until he glanced at the figure of his wife sleeping beside him, so undisturbed by that bump in the night.
He sat there for a minute. Suddenly, the air in the room had begun to chill. Didn't he close the windows? Apparently not. They were open just a crack. Gordon forced himself onto his feet and threw on his robe and glasses, then slinked across his bedroom toward the window. He reached to close it, but didn't. What time was it? He glanced at the clock hanging over the bedpost. 2:13 A.M. Too early to get up. But he couldn't go back to sleep now. Once he got up, he was too awake to sleep again. It had always plagued him, but it made him a natural night owl, perfect for the force. He pulled a packet of cigarettes from the outer pocket of his robe. Maybe a smoke would help calm his nerves. Now where was that matchbox?
He heard the tapping again. They were on the third story, and there weren't any trees by the window. He tensed again. He needed that smoke. He fumbled toward the kitchen and grabbed a match laying by the stove, struck it and lit his cigarette. Then the tapping again.
He spun around and glanced at the window, open, with the drapes billowing in the dense night air. The tapping was louder now, faster. He inhaled as he cautiously approached the window. There was nothing outside, just an empty alleyway and a fire escape. He leaned on the windowsill and exhaled hugely. The puffs of smoke drifted outside and over the street like rainclouds over a desert. He glanced inside for a second. 2:16 A.M. It was going to be a long night.
He turned to the window to puff again, and then he was there. The shadowy figure sat crouched over the fire escape, his hollow eyes staring unflinchingly into Gordon's. "Evening, Jim."
Gordon gave a muffled yelp and dropped the cigarette. "What are you doing here?"
"You've seen why. Last night under the lamppost at Kane and Miller."
"What? Don't tell me you had something to do with that?"
"Of course not. I don't kill people. Not my style."
"Thought that."
"But you have access to the evidence collected at the crime scene."
"You mean we beat you to this one?"
"Just the girl. I looked over the bosses just before you got there. I took a sample of the chemicals from the trick grenade. I still can't identify it."
"You mean even you can't figure out who this Joker is?"
"It doesn't matter who he is. I can't let him do this again."
Gordon lowered his head to pull another cigarette out of his pocket. "Well, the body's at the morgue now. All locked up and—"
He glanced up at where Batman had been. He wasn't there anymore. He had vanished like the living shadow he was. Why had he been here, anyway? He knew even less than the police. How could Gordon help him? Maybe he was just checking up on him. What was that Barbara had said? Maybe he was like Jim's guardian angel. Maybe he was the guardian angel for the whole city, checking up to make sure that the devil wasn't at their door.