Chapter Thirty-Eight: Shot But Not Killed
Galavan's party was being thrown, regardless of the threat over his head. The Strike Force was ready and staged with their tasks; Jim and Harvey were inside, watching, listening to the clever speeches. But neither of them could be fooled. Butch might have been lying for all they knew, but Jim heard it from the mouth of his sister.
The new Mayor was dirty.
"Detective Gordon," Galavan greeted, smiling widely at him as he came over to get a picture with one of the many who'd publicly endorsed his campaign.
The reporters ate it up like Thanksgiving turkey, catching a few good shots from all angles. They thanked Galavan for his patience and they went to some other politicians and congressmen who were there to celebrate the victory of their new mayor.
"I heard about the shoot-out today," Galavan said nonchalantly. "Something about one of Penguin's former lieutenants, a Butch Gilzean?"
"Some men ambushed us as we were questioning him," Jim informed. "He escaped."
"Did you get anything out of him before he did?"
Jim noted that odd tone, but he said, "Unfortunately, no."
"Well, that's a pity," he lamented.
A pity, indeed.
Jim wasn't easily fooled. He caught Harvey's eye, gesturing for him to follow their wonderful new mayor. Harvey nodded, catching the signal, and doing what he did best: tailing.
It was a surprise that Galavan hadn't asked about his sister, really.
"Detective," rang Martinez on the walkie, "I have a large group of men approaching from the main road. I have eyes on the target. It appears to be Cobblepot, sir."
"Hold your fire," Jim ordered into the walkie. "Perimeter units, prepare to engage."
A moment later: "Target has been taken down, sir."
"I told you to hold your fire, Martinez," Jim scowled.
"It wasn't us, sir," Martinez reported. "We have an unknown shooter on the roof. Repeat: we have an unknown shooter on the roof."
Jim moved through the room, speaking: "Martinez, is Penguin dead?"
"Negative. It's not him, sir."
"Find the other shooter, and find Penguin—we need him alive!" Jim ordered.
"Detective, all the targets are dressed as Penguin and all of them are heavily armed; positive ID is impossible."
Damn it.
"Martinez, you are cleared to engage. All units converge on our perimeter now."
The windows shattered. All of them. Jumping through the windows were multiple people, all dressed in the same deep purple suits, all holding shot guns and discharging their loaded weapons into the crowd of fair-weather attendees.
Innocent people fell face-down to the floor. Police officers drew their own guns, firing at the tidal wave of suspects. Rounds hit the wooden floor, and littered around the dead bodies.
Jim pulled a few people out of the crossfire, ducking a few close calls himself before finding Galavan, who was slumped against the wall, doing his best to evade the bullets as well. Harvey stood in front, leaning against the pillar, using it as a guard.
"We have to get you out of here," Jim growled, looking at Galavan. "Harvey—"
"Got you covered, partner!" Harvey shouted.
"Let's go," Jim said, grabbing Galavan's arm and dragging him out.
The walkie rambled out directions: "...back-entrance. Remaining officers, stay inside and clear the lobby...Confirmed...Primary is en route...Initiating exit plan, using the South Entrance...Roger that. Detective Gordon is en route to the rear entrance with the Mayor. Need that limo in the back service entrance, stat. Copy that."
Jim and Galavan burst out of the door like a bomb was going off—and in a matter of speaking, it was.
"GET THE MAYOR OUT OF HERE!" Jim shouted.
The limo driver hopped out of the driver's seat, and opened the back door. Just as he did, shots fired, and the driver was on the ground. Dead.
Jim shoved Galavan down, and aimed his gun at the suspect.
And lo and behold, it was Penguin. Holding a shot gun.
"Hello, Jim," Oswald greeted less than enthusiastically. "Please step aside."
"You know I can't do that," Jim replied carefully.
"You would if you knew what kind of man you were protecting."
"Shoot him, Detective," Galavan breathed.
"Oswald," Jim said firmly. "Listen to me. You have to put the gun down."
Oswald's voice cracked as he spoke, "He killed my mother, Jim."
"I know."
Galavan glanced at Jim incredulously. Genuine shock, there.
"Detective Gordon," Galavan said dangerously. "I am ordering you to put that man down now."
Oswald stepped forward, saying, "He had her murdered in front of me. I held her. Watched her die. Do you know what that's like? It changes a person."
Footsteps approached.
Jim felt a little relief as Harvey rounded behind Oswald, cocking his gun, saying, "I'm sorry about your mother, Penguin. But I'm gonna need you to put the shotgun down on the ground...slowly. Now."
Oswald glanced only a little behind him, noticing that it was Harvey. He inhaled deeply, looking straight at Jim.
"One of us is going to die tonight. I've made my peace with that." Oswald said. "I suggest the mayor does as well."
"Don't make us shoot you," Jim warned.
A third gun cocked.
And the sound made Jim and Harvey startle, including Galavan and Oswald. But Sylvia's voice came out clear as day.
"James, if you shoot my husband, I will shoot your partner."
Harvey glanced over his shoulder to see Sylvia—or what sounded like Sylvia—aiming a hand gun straight at his head.
Harvey, Galavan, and Jim stared at Oswald's look-alike. She was a splitting image of him.
"Vee?" Jim gasped.
"Yeah, it's me." Sylvia returned. With her free hand, she ruffled her hair; the bobby pins and rubber bands fell out, prompting her neck-length hair to fall around the top of her shoulders.
"You won't shoot Harvey," Jim said calmly.
"Try me. I've had a very long day, James," Sylvia said darkly. "Your cops just took out my kiddos" (she gestured her free hand to the house) "And the man you're protecting killed my mother-in-law. So fucking try me."
"Oswald," Jim began. "Please. Don't make us shoot you."
"Shoot me," said Oswald angrily, "And you have no idea what his endgame is! And you should. Because it concerns someone you know! Someone you care about!"
Galavan breathed, "Shoot him."
Sylvia let out a high-pitched scream when Oswald grunted, hitting the ground when a bullet caught him in the shoulder.
"ON THE ROOF!" Harvey bellowed.
Jim and Harvey directed their fire towards the roof of the house. To their bewilderment, Oswald was slithering into the driver's seat of the limousine while Sylvia opened the passenger door, getting in.
He grunted through the pain, starting the car and the limo shot down the highway; Sylvia cringed when the bullets hit the roof and sideview mirrors. She wasn't sure how to feel about Jim shooting after her.
When they were a few minutes down the road, Sylvia noticed Oswald becoming weak. He was losing blood, fast.
"Oz, move aside."
"I can do it—"
"You're bleeding and you don't know where to go," Sylvia snapped. "Stop the fucking car, and climb in the back."
Seeing that she had another plan in mind whereas he had been improvising, Oswald stomped on the break and climbed into the back, grimacing painfully as he teetered himself into the back seat. Sylvia strapped herself into the driver's seat, and gunned the gas pedal.
"Where are we going?" Oswald asked painfully.
"To a safe house."
"We have a safe house?" Oswald asked incredulously.
"Yes." Sylvia responded.
"How do we have—"
"While you were accusing me of sleeping with Galavan and betraying you," said Sylvia, looking at him through the rearview mirror, "I was building safe houses."
Oswald stared at her, drifting between lucid fainting and impressive awe.
"All that sneaking around at four in the morning," mumbled Oswald looking up at the roof of the car from his back.
"Yes," said Sylvia.
"Why didn't you tell me..."
"I honestly don't know," Sylvia said truthfully. "I blame it on self-preservation."
He had no response to that, even though Sylvia was certain he would've had one ready. He was starting to get quiet, and she bit her bottom lip knowing what that meant.
"Stay down," Sylvia ordered.
"No problem," he muttered.
She ducked as she hit the gate; the officers guarding it were all up in an uproar—no doubt an APB was placed on them. She straightened, glancing carefully at the rearview mirror to see the officers pointing their guns and starting to fire at the car; but by the time they'd thought to fire, the car was already halfway down the highway.
"Don't fall asleep, Oswald." Sylvia said, reaching behind to the backseat and patting his leg. "You need to stay awake."
"Considering the fact that I've not slept in days," Oswald responded vaguely, "I doubt that's possible."
"Well, find the fucking will and do it," Sylvia snapped. "Once we get to the safe house, we'll be fine. But I need you stay awake."
Oswald grumbled under his breath. He sat up, hissing. She couldn't imagine the pain he was in—then again, she'd been shot in the neck a year before, but she passed out the moment it happened. Sylvia put the pedal to the metal, shooting down the road like a speed racer. Once she was in decent perimeter, she drove the car into the woods, going as deep into it as vehicular possible.
If the car was off the road, it would be harder to track. Further from the safe house, the better—but for Oswald's sake, it had to be within a reasonable walking distance. He would be weaker, and less compliant than usual. She jumped out of the driver's side and trudged through the vines and foliage, opening the back seat.
"Ozzie, grab my hand."
With the hand of his better arm, he held it out towards her. She took it, and pulled him out. She wrapped this arm over her shoulder and neck; her other arm went around his waist, hooking him to her.
She was strong enough to push a 21-year-old man up a pillar when she was pissed. Sylvia had no doubt that she could string along her husband through the woods for two miles with just her rage alone; the fact that he was hurt made her rage burn that much brighter.
She lugged the two of them through the woods, following her personal markers for two miles. By herself, she could walk two miles in about 30 minutes, and that was at a leisure pace. With Oswald, it had taken her about 40 minutes, and she was sore by the time they reached the trailer.
Vanderhill had been good on his word—the safe house was small, nothing anyone would look twice at, and it would serve its purpose. Sylvia opened the door and Oswald mumbled something; at this point, she couldn't understand him. He was frequently drifting in and out of consciousness. Quickly, she closed and locked the door and laid him down on the couch.
Sylvia said softly, "Talk to me, Oswald. Remember—you can't fall asleep."
Oswald looked up at her irritably.
"That's it," said Sylvia, smirking. "I'd rather you be irate with me than die on me, so deal with me for another hour, okay?"
Per her request, Vanderhill had stocked the trailer with plenty of First Aid supplies, to include splints and a few crutches which were all located in the bathroom.
There was nothing in the refrigerator, but all the non-perishables were in the cabinet.
Sylvia grabbed several items from the bathroom and pulled off her dress jacket, throwing it to the floor and folding her sleeves above her elbows, after undoing the vest she wore and throwing it over the arm of the couch. Oswald watched her, more in loving awe at how quickly she moved—or maybe the time of his reality was all just relative and she was moving at normal speed...he couldn't be sure.
Oswald looked at her with a great deal of confusion when she undressed his upper half, but didn't seem to give a damn. The pain of the tweezers digging into his shoulder didn't nearly affect him—she'd masked his pain with numbing agents from a syringe she'd poked him with only a minute before she began digging.
When she stopped minding him, Oswald looked at her. Confused, again.
"What?" He asked.
"What do you mean 'what'?" Sylvia asked lightly.
"Did you get it?" Oswald asked, licking his lips.
"Yes." Sylvia answered. "I got the bullet out. It wasn't a clean shot, but…it should be okay now. I stitched you up, and you're all bandaged up. The bleeding will stop momentarily…but we're going to need more help eventually. We can't stay in this trailer forever."
"Mmm..." Oswald mumbled, looking at her. From the waist up, he was bandaged. His arms were free though.
He felt light-headed, but ironically giddy—despite everything that had happened to him. To them.
"What did you stick me with?" Oswald murmured.
"Morphine," Sylvia answered gently. "You can go to sleep now, Oswald."
"Don't tell me...me what to do," Oswald muttered before he laid his head on her lap and slipped deep into a sound sleep.