A/N: So sorry to take so long. I hope this doesn't disappoint. We're nearing the end, folks, just a few more chapters to go!
* * *
As the polluted air of Gotham City hit Harvey Dent's raw and ragged wounds for the first time since the shooting, he felt a surge of power. A power brought about by the elimination of the irrelevant baggage of his life. Things were simple, now; things were pure.
Harvey knew two things, and only these two things mattered. One, the Joker had taken his family away from him forever--he'd killed Rachel, regardless of whoever it was that was walking around in her body these days--and two, the Joker was in town. And, simple math, one plus one equaled one dead Joker.
Escaping from the hospital had been amazingly easy--he had waited until Nurse came to prepare him for a procedure in another room, and once he had both hands free of the restraints, it had been a simple matter to strangle her until her eyes rolled back in her head and she had dropped to the floor in a heap, with a satisfying "whoosh" as she went down. It was the first time she hadn't had anything to say to him, he thought with an inward chuckle. He didn't know, and didn't care, if she was dead; she was just the first obstacle to be methodically dispatched on his way to freedom, and it had felt good. Damn good.
He had dressed in his street clothes, the bloodied ones he'd been wearing when Scalini shot him. The lead shot had left a pattern of small holes and burns in the shoulder of his jacket, and the smell...gunpowder, sweat and thick, dried blood...exhilarated him as he slipped it on his broad shoulders. He'd smelled it before, but only on others....
That shot he took...that had been a mistake. He hadn't counted on the Italian coming after him like that. There was a thread of loyalty in the mob, but not, typically, toward the low level grunts that he had been targeting. They were expendable. What it meant, he had discovered, was that he was getting close. Closer, even, than he had thought. Scalini had let loose of that little bombshell right before he pulled the trigger. The Joker. Running the deceased Maroni's operation from afar. It figured.
He owed Bruce Wayne a debt of gratitude. God knows what he had been doing there at his apartment that night, but if it hadn't been for him jiggling the door handle, Scalini wouldn't have flubbed his shot, and he, Harvey, would be dead. Instead of just...half.
And, amazingly, Bruce had done exactly what he had tried and failed to do himself. Bruce had brought the Joker home. Home, to Gotham City. Right where he belonged. It was a beautiful bonus that Rachel and Jacob had come along, too. Yes...Harvey owed Bruce a lot.
He didn't hold it against Bruce that Scalini's missed shot had taken half of his face off. He didn't care about his looks anymore, anyway. Why pretend to be something he wasn't? The pain, however...the pain he had suffered could have done a lot of things, could have weakened him, but he hadn't allowed that. No, he was strong now, stronger than ever, and he had a purpose, a focus, a mission, one that no one would prevent him from fulfilling.
He was going to find the man--the monster--that had taken his Rachel, that had taken their son, and he was going to kill him. Well, he would kill him, eventually, but first he would make him pay for everything he had done--the pain he had caused Rachel, the torment Harvey had suffered. He would kill him when he was satisfied that the Joker finally understood what he had done to his family. Then, he would take care of...her. That traitor inhabiting Rachel's beautiful body, like a zombie. Defiled, ruined, and maddened as she was, she would be better off dead, he knew that.
And, little Jacob. He was young, still young enough to save. He would take him away with him, they would start over, and Jacob would become his son again. Over time, he'd forget about her, and he'd forget about him, only God knew what horrors that psycho had put the child through, but Harvey would help him heal.
They would help each other heal.
* * *
Batman had a plan. He knew some of the haunts that Harvey had been targeting, and even though he'd left a trail of bodies, that didn't mean that there weren't plenty of players left standing. If there was one thing the mob didn't lack, it was willing members ready at a moment's notice to rise further within the organization.
And, someone would be willing to talk. Batman was an enigma to them. He was a vigilante, dedicated to fighting their hold on his city. But, he did it on his own terms, he wasn't with the police, bound by their rules--he could use them for his own purpose without dragging them off to jail, if it suited him to do so.
Someone would know the truth about the Joker. And they'd tell the Batman.
The Joker...hmpf, Jack, she calls him. His enemy, his nemesis...how had it come to this? Bringing that madman back to the city, and now...now he was seeking proof of his innocence! Who's the madman, now? he thought grimly as he skulked along a roofline above the Italian section of town.
Rachel. He was doing this for Rachel. The love of his life, now lost to him forever...unless...no, she trusted him. She would believe him. He couldn't very well turn around and go home, tell her that Harvey's story was all true, have Jim bring a damn police squadron or whatever it would take to haul the Joker off to prison once and for all...could he? Maybe that would take the blinders off of her eyes so she could see him, Bruce, see that he'd always been there for her, waiting...but, no. No.
She trusted him.
He loved her.
He couldn't do that to her.
And, the Joker? Damn it. He seemed to trust him, too! He'd come back to Gotham, risked so much...because...he, also, really did love Rachel? Was it even possible for that psycho to feel love? He seemed to. And, if so...he deserved the truth. And if not...the truth would damn him.
Batman had to find the truth.
* * *
The Joker headed out, scanning the street for an appropriate car to steal; as luck would have it, Alfred had moved one of the vehicles--his own sedan--to a reserved space in front of the penthouse, thinking that he might need to go somewhere in a hurry that night. Joker thought of going back and demanding the keys--but, Alfred might give him trouble, plus Jacob would see him in "uniform", and he didn't want that.
He simply pulled a slim-jim out of his well-equipped overcoat, opened the door and quickly hot-wired the luxury sedan. The Joker grinned--he wondered, after all was said and done, if Bruce would have him prosecuted for grand theft auto. Assuming both of them were still alive. And, if one or both of them still had a sense of humor.
He glanced at himself in the rear view mirror, looked at his dark-ringed eyes surrounded by the white greasepaint. It felt kind of good, but it was...strange, now. There was a time when he thought he'd never have do this again, wearing these clothes, painting his face, loading up a pistol. What a joke, he thought, as if he'd ever had a chance for a normal life.
He drove to a very old Italian neighborhood.
The night had just set in, and the bright red neon "Open" sign illuminating the quaint restaurant's picture window gleamed like a beacon. The Joker parked around back and launched himself out of the car, pulled his gun, and slipped stealthily in through the rear door which opened into the kitchen. He quickly assessed the situation and realized there was no threat--yet. He cheerfully addressed the two men doing kitchen work.
"Goood evening, gents, I'm looking for Mr. Scalini. Anybody know where he might be? Oh, pardon me, let me try that again, donde esta Senor Scalini?" The men glanced at each other and one pointed with his thumb at a door behind him. Joker playfully brandished his gun at them, but they merely shrugged and went back to their duties.
The Joker slipped quietly through the door; it appeared to lead to a small storage room, but he reached behind a shelving unit and found the button that slid open a secret panel, and was soon striding down a long hallway. He paused, hearing voices; a door opened and three large Italian men came out, guns drawn.
"Joker!...You're fuckin' kiddin' me." Alberto Scalini took the lead and stared at the Joker in mock astonishment as he aimed an automatic rifle at the clown's midsection.
"They said you was dead! What the fuck are you doin' here?" he continued.
"Aw, playing dumb does not become you, Bertie-boy! Come on, old buddy, you know why I'm here...can't we sit down and have a nice, civilized chat? Hmm? Without your pals, there?" Joker motioned with his gun at the thugs that flanked Scalini.
The man considered, then broke into a broad smile and nodded.
"Sure. Come on, let's have a seat in the living room. You fellas are excused." The other two men looked a bit perturbed, but obediently turned and headed down the hall.
Scalini motioned the Joker into the room, and indicated he should take a seat.
"Can I get you a drink? Wine, beer? Something stronger?"
"Naw, thanks, booze screws with the meds too much. How's about a soda?"
"No problem."
Scalini opened a small refrigerator and took out a can of cola, found a glass and filled it with ice before pouring the drink. He glanced at the Joker and made a show of not adding anything suspicious into the glass.
"Here ya go, and safe as mother's milk."
"Hey, I trust you, Al. You're not a sneak like some people...or, you didn't used to be."
"Joker, if I wanted you dead, you'd be on the floor by now."
"I know that. How you been, man? Long time no see."
"Great, just great. Keepin' it real, you know? Taking care of business, just like Uncle Sal woulda wanted me to...."
"Yeeeah, that's kinda what I wanted to talk to you about. How come you're going around telling Harvey Dent a bunch of shit about me running Sally's franchise? Hmm?" The Joker fixed him with a squinty stare of inquisition. But, before Scalini could answer, a door at the back of the room opened and a gray-haired man in a wheelchair rolled in.
"'Cause he's a good boy. Always does what his Uncle Sal tells 'im to do. Don'tcha, Alberto?" Salvatore Maroni asked fondly.
"I can handle this, Sal. Leave it to me," the younger man hissed.
"Don't be silly! This is the moment I've been waiting for, for so damn long...my little Jackie, back where he belongs..."
The Joker stared hard at Salvatore Maroni. Tears stung his eyes and his stomach churned as if he'd been punched. He felt disoriented and wondered if this was what confronting a ghost felt like.
"Sal...you fucking bastard. What the hell, what the fucking hell...." the Joker croaked hoarsely.
"Jackie, baby, sorry to surprise you like this! Alberto, I mean it, leave us alone. My old friend and I have a lot to talk about. In private." Maroni gestured with his chin toward the door.
"But..." Albert was confused. Things had been going just as expected, and now Uncle Sal was changing the game....
"Get. Out." Maroni stared daggers at his nephew, who paused a moment and, lips pursed in anger, strode out of the room, stopping at the door to glance back at the two men. Dear, double-crossing Uncle Sal...he knew he couldn't trust him, he thought bitterly. He headed for a certain room to listen in on the bug he had placed recently, surreptitiously attaching it to the back of Sal's chair. At one time, he couldn't have gotten away with it, but now...Sal wasn't as sharp as he used to be, plus he had severely limited mobility. Not that that was stopping him from screwing Albert over, apparently....
"Thought you were dead, old man." The Joker had managed to regain his composure and was now methodically running through the various scenarios that he would have to consider if he were ever to get out of there alive.
"Well, almost!" laughed Sal cheerfully. "It was a funny thing...those damn Jamaicans came after me in my own restaurant, can you believe it? Put a few slugs in me all right. Lucky my nephew's quick on the draw, or they'd of finished me off. In fact...I really did die, Jackie. I was on the operatin' table, and conked out for three minutes, white light and everything...they brought me back, though."
The older man took a cigar out of his pocket and began lighting up.
"Al's a smart kid...he had a great idea! He made sure no one spilled the beans...you know, he took a page from your book! Did a great job, everyone thought I was permanently out of the picture...ah, there's a lot of freedom that goes with bein' dead! Yep, he got the gang bangers off my back, as well as the cops, even my own men who had it in for me...made it look like he was runnin' things, which made my recovery time a lot easier. I wouldn't have wanted to look weak, ya know. Still don't, which is why only a select few know I'm still around, stuck in this wheelchair like a gimp."
He took a long drag on the stogie and puffed out a series of perfect smoke rings.
"And the beauty of it all--my little Jackie thought it was safe to come back to Gotham!" He laughed a deep, throaty laugh.
"So, you had Dent blown half to hell to lure Rachel back, knowing I'd come along..."
"Yeah..."
"Told him I was running things so I'd make my way back here..."
"Uh-huh."
"How'd you know Wayne would find us?"
"He's a rich bastard, and he's in love with your little squeeze. Plus, he's all hot for keeping Dent healthy, so that he can go on 'cleaning up' the city. But, Dent's been loony-tunes for a long time now, picking off my grunts like they was flies. Yeah, he's nuts over your girl, too! That one must give some incredible pussy, am I right? You'll have to tell me all about it sometime, huh? But, yeah, anyway, all I had to do was raise the stakes high enough, and I knew one of your broken down old handymen would crack, once enough of Wayne's dough was on the table."
The Joker inhaled the familiar, sharp, sweet cigar smell and stared out the window.
"What do you want from me, Sal?" he asked almost absently.
"I just want my Jackie back. I just want you doing what you was born to do--helpin' me run this organization the way it was meant to be done. Return us to the days of our former greatness..."
"What's the matter with Al? You said it yourself, he's smart."
"Yeah, but not like you are. He's too soft! And, anyway, you can give me something he can't--after all, he's my nephew...even I'm not that creepy. Plus, his mom woulda had me shot if I laid a hand on 'im...like that." He grinned mischievously. "I want you back in my bed again, Jackie. I miss fucking you."
The Joker glared at the man balefully and used his gun to point at the wheelchair.
"Doesn't look like you're up to the task, old man, or does that chair recline?"
Maroni laughed, and said jovially "Now, that's a thought..."
"Well, none of that's going to happen. I've started over, and I'm not going to get dragged down into your world again no matter what, so just forget it."
"Really? So, what, you just gonna let me kill you?"
"I'll kill you first," he said, leveling the gun at Maroni's head.
"Aw, well, I don't doubt that. I did train you well. So, maybe I let you go. But, you won't get far, and you won't make it back to your little lady and your kid, that's for sure. Even if they manage to stay alive."
"Don't threaten my family or this will all be over a lot quicker than you think..."
"No threat, just fact."
"Oh, come on, even you wouldn't kill an innocent woman and child..."
The older man shrugged.
"You'd be surprised at what I'd do to get what I want. Or, maybe you wouldn't be..."
"What does that mean?"
"I remember a poor young boy, finally got his ass off the streets, workin' at a diner, all in looove, with a kid on the way..."
"What the fuck..." The Joker's eyes narrowed, and his lips twisted in anger as he realized what the man was referring to--his long-dead love, Claire, murdered so many years ago, pregnant with his child...
"Yeah, back then you were still all full of ideals, weren't ya, kid? Back then, you still thought if you worked hard enough, tried hard enough, that everything would work out all right, didn't ya?"
The Joker felt a sob welling in his throat, and he stood, strode over to Maroni, stuck the gun under his chin and hissed, "What are you saying, Maroni?"
The don cast a pitying smile at the clown.
"Well...if you'll recall, you thought you didn't have the stomach for my line of work. Wouldn't leave the 'path of righteousness' to come to work for a killer, huh? You turned me down flat, them gorgeous eyes of yours looking brave and honest like a Boy Scout. Oh, it was precious." He shook his head, smiling at the sweet memory.
"But I saw it in you, kid, I knew you had what it takes to be one of the greats. A killer's heart, a killer's hands....And...I was right. But I knew it would take something...special...to take you over the edge. I had to bide my time, but once I found out you was in love, well...the rest was easy."
"You...you had Claire murdered? Right before my eyes?" Joker asked brokenly. Too weakened to stand, he crouched down next to the mobster, still aiming the gun at him, but pressing the heel of his other palm into his eye to keep from screaming.
"To tell you the truth, kid, I didn't mean for it to go that far. They was supposed to put her in the car, rough her up, take her off somewhere and have a little fun with her, then drop her on your doorstep. I figured that would be enough...but they screwed it up, big time. Back in those days, I still had a soft spot or two, and I was stupid--I picked the wrong men for the job. But it couldn't have worked out better if I'd planned it," he chortled triumphantly.
"You fucking bastard," Jack said, choking back tears.
"When you called to tell me you iced them retards, I couldn't of had a better present. Your own daddy set it in motion all them years ago, and Sal Maroni finished it off. We created the Joker, your pop and me, signed, sealed and delivered right to my door! It was...perfect."
"I'm going to kill you right now...."
"No, you won't. If I'm dead, Rachel and the kid'll get it. Right now, they're safe and warm in Bruce Wayne's penthouse, but if anything happens to me, that whole joint'll be blown sky high. Like I said, my boy Alberto learned a lot from you, baby...."
Just then, Scalini entered the room, his gun drawn.
"So, Uncle Sally...all this time you been feedin' me a line, huh? About how I'm the one to take over when you're finally ready to give up the throne? How I'm the one, the chosen one? And that all you wanted was revenge on the Joker for betraying you?" He advanced into the room, his automatic weapon trained on his uncle.
"But, it was a lie, wasn't it? All a fucking lie! You just wanted the clown back. You wanted him to be your number one. You couldn't wait to get him back here, under your thumb, could ya? Could ya? And, what about me? Your own flesh and blood, what was to become of me? HUH?"
Maroni snickered evilly.
"I'm gonna leave that up to Jackie--he's a pretty good judge of character, I'm sure he'll know just what to do with ya..."
Just then, in one fluid motion, the Joker stood, energized, and, keeping the gun trained on Scalini, he took a knife out of his pocket. He coolly jabbed it into the older man's throat, and sliced it across the side of Maroni's neck in a deep, clean cut that severed the old mobster's carotid artery, producing a steady stream of blood that immediately soaked his white hand-tailored shirt.
Maroni, shocked, turned his head toward the Joker in disbelief. One hand went to his throat, and he shakily drew it back, covered in blood.
"Jackie...you..."
"Rot in hell, you sick motherfucker..." spat the Joker in a rasping whisper as he wiped the don's dripping blood from the shining steel blade with the kerchief he pulled from Maroni's own breast pocket.
"Kill...him..." were Maroni's last gasping words to his nephew.
"Sorry, Sal...I don't kill people who do me such great favors."
Both men stood silently and watched as Salvatore Maroni took his last, struggling breath.
The Joker turned to Scalini, keeping the gun steady.
"So...what'll it be?" he asked wearily. "Knives, guns...your choice, my friend. I won't let you kill my family."
"No need. No killing. I meant what I said--you did me a favor, something I should have done myself a long time ago. You go on and get out of here, go back to your woman and son. I'll get this...mess...taken care of."
"The cops..."
"Hey--you can't kill a man who's already dead!...Uncle Sal's going to have a lovely burial at sea. No one'll ever connect you to this, and I'll take my rightful place as the head of the organization. I'm in your debt, Joker, so if there's anything you ever need...."
"Um...dismantle the bomb at Wayne's place?"
The man took out a cell phone, punched in a number and barked some cryptic instructions.
"Done."
"Oh, and get the word to Batman that I haven't been playing with you boys these last few years, will ya? So he'll get off my back? He's so ready to kick my ass into prison, it's not even funny."
"Don't worry, nobody's happier to dispel that rumor than me. How pissed do you think I've been, givin' you credit for all my hard work?" Both men laughed ruefully, and the Joker took one last look at Maroni and his grin faded. He sighed heavily.
"I used to love him, Al. He really was like a father to me, once. A sick fuck of a father, maybe, but still..."
"Yeah, I know. You...he loved you, too, in his own freakazoid little way. In his eyes, I was never going to be as good as you..."
"He killed Claire..." the Joker whispered, amazed at how sharp the pain in his heart was, even after all these years.
"I know. He used to tell me about it, over and over, like a fuckin' bedtime story. How he got the Joker into the family. But...you didn't stay there, did ya? You got out. I always admired that about you. How'd you have the guts to do it?"
The Joker grinned just a little.
"I dunno. Helps to be bat-shit crazy, though."
With that he glanced at the window.
"This way out?" he asked.
"Naw, man, you can use the door...."
The Joker gave an appreciative laugh, and slunk out of the room, carefully watching to be sure he wasn't double-crossed.
It was only when he had Alfred's sedan rolling away from the restaurant that he relaxed enough to allow the pressure building in his chest to escape in the form of a raw, primal scream that slowly degenerated into a howl of sick, hysterical laughter. He pulled the car into an alley, got out, fell to his knees and puked his guts out beside a dumpster.
When he could breathe normally again, he got back in the car. He had to find Two-Face.
Before Two-Face found him.
Or Rachel.