Chapter 9: Multiple Agents
Wayne Estate, Kane County, Seven PM, December 1989
Dick Grayson fell off the tall ledge of the cemetery wall, tumbling down on the outside. In a split second, the tall tips of the mausoleums and obelisks disappearing beyond the travertine masonry. His face fell into the snow, his nose throbbing from it's impact on the frozen earth. He pushed up off of the shallow snow, his gloved hand taking off his jacket's hood. What had happened? What was that bang?
"Master Richard! Master Richard!" Alfred came running, his coat was unbuttoned and flapping in the wind as his long legs went through the snow. "Master Richard, hurry, and stay down!"
"Wha- Mr. Alfred, how can I- agh- stay down and hurry," He stood up, wobbling unsteadily.
"No. No! Master Richard, that was a gunshot! Judging by the noise, it's well inside the grounds. That means that whoever shot it is probably trying to shoot again!"
"Again? What are they trying to shoot?"
"Well, young sir," Alfred took Dick's hand and pulled him behind the wall, "God willing it's just some hooligans trying to look cool or scare us maybe not even a real gun," Alfred breathed uncertainly, looking at the bullet impact on a limestone obelisk. Dick didn't know, but he was calculating the bullet trajectory based on the hole and the location of the gunshot noise's origin.
"But? There's a but, right Alfred?" Dick pulled the butler's arm, but his leather gloves held the boy's left arm in place.
"Shh! Get closer." Alfred sounded more certain. "Yes, of course there's a but. Your parents were killed by the mob. You met that- that bastard Tony Zucco. Trust me, young sir, they aren't unwilling to send a hitman after a child."
"So- they're trying to kill me?" said Dick.
Alfred was uncertain what to think of the expression on his face. The fire in his eyes frightened him a little. "Well.. yes, sir. They are. And to them, you're clearly important, for them to send a hitman after you at a location as secure as Wayne Manor. So let's stay careful, for your sake."
"Got it, Alfred. But.. what are we gonna do?"
"Yes, yes, hurry. The tombs are safe. Underground. Come!"
"Why is there so much empty space if there are tombs?" Dick looked around inquisitively.
"Why are you asking that at a time like this? Different members are assigned different graves. It's complicated," He pulled the boy through a moss-covered stone path between rows of graves, all clearly in groups of immediate families of the hundreds of Waynes and Wayne cousins, before they both settled down behind the crypt of Martha and Thomas Wayne. He pushed his back against the cold marble.
"Well, Alfred," Dick was panting, "What is it?"
"How are you so calm? I don't reckon that I was like this during my military service," He pushed Dick, running over to a marble tree statue in the center, opening the iron gate, and flinging the two inside.
"You know, Alfred, I'm sure he couldn't shoot us from there."
"I know- I know." He was panting. "My lord," he sat down, his long, thin legs stretching out, his gloved hand on his sweating forehead, "I am getting old." He took out a small brick-like plastic thing- a cell phone. He opened it, dialing a number. "I hope we have service."
"And if we don't?"
"Well- there's really nothing stopping him from getting in here."
Dick started to breathe heavily. "I need to sit down.." he said, to which Alfred nodded. He pushed against the rough rock wall with his back and slid down. The young boy's vision blurred, and his head felt light. All he heard were the slight snaps of trees in the frigid wind. Or were they the footsteps of the assassin against the dead twigs of the graveyard. How close was he? Did Alfred hear? How could he run off in this state? He hadn't felt like this since the death of his parents.
"Master Richard- Master Richard- Dick!"
"Wha- I-"
"We're safe- for now! Master Bruce has called the police. Help's on the way, now we must go!" Alfred, surprisingly strong for his thin size, picked up Dick, and started walking down the crypt, walls lined with caskets.
"Mr. Pennyworth-" Alfred didn't correct him this time, seeing how delirious the boy was, "wh-why didn't you just call the police? Bruce can't help.." He muttered something unclear, but it was said with enough vitriol for Alfred to feel truly hurt. This boy didn't know Bruce at all.
"You're smart. But... we can't worry about that now. Let's get going."
They ran, hard soles tapping on the cobblestone floor until they came to the end of the crypts. Alfred laid Dick down onto an old altar. The boy looked around, confused. "What's here? We're trapped! You've trapped us!"
"Shhh!" Be quiet!" Alfred went over to the far wall, decorated in candles which had been burnt to stubs decades ago. He flipped open a panel and tapped a code into a much newer electronic panel, still covered in dust, but clearly put there recently. After the greenish brown screen said 'open', Alfred felt around the black-covered wall before feeling a loose brick, pulling it out and grabbing a latch, which revealed the entire wall to be a door. A few feet into the new passage way, Alfred felt another panel, which he used to turn the lights on not just in the newly revealed cave, but also in their room of the crypt.
"See, Master Richard," he chuckled at Dick, walking around the large door to face him on the altar, "You had nothing to -"
Dick wasn't there.
"Master Richard? Dick? Dick, where are you? This isn't funny!" His voice raised, but he was afraid to yell. "Oh, dammit," he muttered, beginning to run up the sloped stairs, "You better not be doing what I think you're doing!"
Dick was running through the pitch black of the crypt tunnel, but slowed when he heard more footsteps. It took him a while, but he soon realized that the assassin and Alfred were fast approaching. He had to act fast. As he continued up, stepping with less and less weight with every stone he pushed his small body up on. He began to press his body against the wall when he saw a faint light coming from the spiral staircase going up, indicating a flashlight, be one belonging to the assassin or Bruce- or, if he was lucky, the Batman. Dick, however, didn't want to take chances.
The man came down. As he feared, it was a man with a gun- a machine pistol- meaning that this was indeed the assassin. Dick hid behind a wall, but the man was approaching. Soon, although the man couldn't see him, Dick was barely a foot from the barrel of the gun, albeit on the side, where the flashlight couldn't shine.
Silently, Dick picked up a rock, and, before the assassin could move, ran up and smashed the flashlight, flying it across the room.
Before letting his eyes adjust, the assassin began to fire. The bullets sliced through and broke a multitude of graves, filling the room with dust as Dick hopped away, barely being grazed by any bullets or shrapnel.
Dick ran under the man, picked up another rock, and pushed into his legs with all he could muster. The man slipped, but steadied himself. Dick quickly, operating on finely tuned instinct, threw the rock at the man's nose, knocking him down. Dick flew into fury.
"YOU!" He picked up the heavy metal flashlight, looking at the man head on. He had yellow-orange hair, with an angular face, wearing green sniper's goggles. His nose, of course, was bent and bleeding badly. "You helped the man who killed my parents!" Dick smacked the side of his face, bruising his cheekbone. "Why come after me now!"
The man started pushing off. "You know, no witnesses!" He stood up unsteadily, reaching for his pistol.
Dick, still furious. Lobbed another stone at his hand. He grabbed two more such rocks, flinging them at his face again. He collapsed again, and before he could get up, was rushed by a 50 year-old man in a bowtie and winter coat.
He screamed, but, due to his various rock induced head injuries, and, unbeknownst to Dick, Alfred's intense military training, soon was down for the count.
"Master Richard! Have you no- no self-preservation instinct? That man very well could have shot you, dead, in an instant! What on earth were you thinking! What am I going to tell Master Bruce!"
Dick was hysterical. "What do you mean dead? If I hid I'd be dead, like- like a coward! And you only beat him because I ambushed him here! And Bruce? BRUCE? You called him before the cops! Y-you never even called the cops! What's your problem! I-I never should've I..." Dick tumbled down as he tried to climb the stairs. He began to cry. Running away. Again.
Alfred walked up to the but, putting his hand on his shoulder. "Master Richard, I'm sorry for frightening you. And now- well, it is time to call the police. Hopefully the mob won't bail him out," Alfred took out the phone."
"Mob? You mean Zucco, right?" Dick realized why Alfred wouldn't call the cops first.
"Yes, but at this point, we have to rely on the police. Either way, it's unlikely that whoever hired that man doesn't have multiple agents, so we're going. Now!"
"Okay but.. what about Batman?"
"Batman?"
"Yeah. He fights crime. He could do it better. Should do it better."
"Well, Master Richard," breathed Alfred, not expecting this turn, "we can't exactly call him." They continued up the stairs, soon emerging from the crypt. "Besides, I'm sure he's already on the case."
Novick Street, North Gotham, Seven O-Six PM
Batman pushed his sleek armored car's gas pedal down further as he pushed the audiotape back into his car's radio, clicking 'play' for the fourth or fifth time, scanning it for all he could get.
Cloth ruffled. "Thanks again for your protection, officers," it was Edwards, who had presumably just turned on his hidden audiotape.
"Protect and serve, Mr. Edwards. I'm sure you know that." said an officer.
"Well, you've done a lot more of protecting and serving at my establishment," said Edwards, more casually now.
"Well we ain't gonna do squat there anymore," said the other officer, prompting laughter from the front seat.
"That was uncalled for," came Edwards.
"Well, so was the arson!" More laughter, even some from Edwards. "Laughter- see, Chuck, he's fine. We got an easy gig tonight."
"Well, easy gigs don't pay as much," said the other officer. Batman growled. He hated corrupt cops.
"Hey- make this easy, and I'll give you some of the the, eh, special privileges to my club- or wherever I find my next employ." Edwards sounded very confident, and, to Batman, much more detestable.
"Well, sure. I hope you know, the whole legal and, heh, extralegal community in Gotham is on your side."
"Hmmf. I doubt that. Mob tensions are rising, and I was a target."
"Yeah, but I'm sure they'd leave you alone. Have you heard about the hat guy?" Said the second officer.
"Hat guy? No, what's his deal?" asked Edwards.
"He's stirrin' up trouble between some of the big bosses. Probably influenced some of this arson shit."
"With who?" it sounded like Edwards moved forward, "Zucco?"
"Zucco?" more shuffling from the front, "Well... yeah. What makes you say?" The officer's tone lowered.
"I- well, Batman asked about it. Betrayal in his mob, gossip, basic Batfreak stu- whoa! Whoa! Put the gun away, son!"
"So, Ronny, what did you tell him?" said the officer venomously."
"I told him I've been hearing the name 'Garfield Lynns' a lot, but-" the gun cocked, "Hey, HEY! I didn't even mention what his deal was with the Grayson boy!"
"Good. And you won't say a word about Lynns, to anyone, understa-" glass shattered, and the tape cut out.
Batman rounded a hill, nearly at Wayne Manor. He had been trying to focus on the tape to distract him. It had stopped working, and now he sat wordlessly, the well-muffled hum of the engine and the blood pumping through his ears. His heart was up in his throat, his fear surging. He hoped to God that nothing had happened to Dick or Alfred. Suddenly, his in-car phone rang. It was Alfred.
"Alfred! Tell me it's alright!"
"Master Bruce, the assassin has been apprehended, with no small thanks to Master Richard."
Bruce let off the gas, slowing the car down to a repetitively slow 90 miles per hour. He sighed with relief. "Well, tell him I said thank you."
"I won't Master Bruce," declared Alfred dryly, "I won't have thoughts of vigilantism getting to his head." He paused. "He was.. enthralled with the Bat signal. What was that for?"
"I didn't go. I'll.. turn around now," he did just that.
"Very well, sir. And.. what are your plans for young Mr. Grayson?"
Batman sighed. "I- Bruce Wayne and Batman- am going to protect him and make sure Zucco and all of his accomplices get a fair trial, and get put away for a long, long time, so that he never turns out like me."
"Then what, Master Bruce? Will you leave him in the Manor for the next decade? He needs a father. Only you can be there for him."
That didn't make sense to Bruce, but he didn't say anything. "Can you research a man named Garfield Lynns."
"Right away, sir." He let Batman drive for a minute. "We... have a problem, sir."
"Just say it, Alfred."
"Mr. Lynns is dead sir. A fire on a military base in Nicuragua seven years ago led to 17 reported dead, including Mr. Lynns.
"Body?"
"None, sir, but only 14 bodies were found, and only 8 definitively identified. These images, sir..."
"What was the excellerant in the fire?"
"Jet Fuel, Gasoline, and Propane were all combustion agents. There was no identifiable cause to the fire."
"Multiple agents- just like at the Club. It can't be a-"
"Sir, it's probably a coincidence. Alcohol and Gasoline. Not at all related."
"I doubt it." He narrowed his eyes as he rounded another hill, the city skyline coming into view.
He hung up.
Falcone Shipping (whats left of it), North Gotham, Seven Twenty-Five PM
Batman slammed on his brakes, allowing his momentum to boost his eject, the armored man closing his body as he flew out, rolled in the air, and released his cape to glide down in the midst of the GCPD circle.
The mangled iron corpse of the Falcone building was a good symbol for their weakened crime family. Still, Batman didn't enjoy seeing it. Ever. Under what used to be the entryway was a man in the distinctive sky blue of a police uniform, pacing back and forth, wearing a comically large hat, surrounded by other officers.
"Batman- Batman's here"
"What the hell?"
"It's the goddamn Bat!"
"Is he allowed to be here?"
A fat man walked forward. "Hey! I'm OIC until the comish gets here, and since this guy's logo's in the damn sky, he's allowed in- this time, at least."
"Thank you, Bullock." Batman waked forward, asking, "Who's this officer? What's the hat? What's he saying?"
"Don- don't thank me. I don't really like you, but- this is weird. As hell," he took off his hat, pointing at the pacing, muttering man, "This is- hopefully still is- Officer Dervick. We're not sure if we should take off the hat. He's muttered some garbage about winter and a tea party and a ball. Never seen anytin' like it."
Batman looked over. "The policeman's ball is in a week and a half. On the winter solstice."
"Yeah- we figured as much, but we have no clue what he means by that. The poor guy doesn't seem to be physically hurt, at least," the sergeant scratched the graying hairs on the back of his head. "He, uh, also had a paintbrush in hand. I guess you haven't seen this- AY! Montoya! Give the Bat a light!"
She flipped on a large flashlight, showing Batman a banner, made of torn white cloth, strung between two tortured iron bars. Batman first assumed that it was a stray sheet that chanced upon the scene, but now it was shown to be bearing a message, crudely written in green paint.
Get Ready 4 WONDERLAND