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handcuffed him to a drainpipe.
At least one of you is staying put, he said.
Then he got out his cell phone again and speed-dialed headquarters.
Flass and a dozen patrolmen arrived ten minutes later. They examined the hole in the wall, an absolutely
useless waste of time in Gordon s opinion, and flashed their lights around the yard, presumably
searching for anyone who had not yet fled.
Flass joined Gordon. They re all gone?
Gordon nodded yes and both men stared through the gap into the dark street.
How many were in maximum security? Flass asked.
Dozens . . . serial killers, rapists, assorted sociopaths. I called the city works office and asked them
to raise the bridges, maybe keep some of the nutcases on the island. I m still waiting for an answer. By
the time I get one, it ll probably be too late.
Yeah, probably. So we got a whole lot of homicidal maniacs running loose in Gotham, that what
you re telling me, Gordon?
That s what I m telling you.
Alfred accelerated. He skidded through the manor s front gate and his worst fears were confirmed . . .
No, not his worst fears. The house was afire and that was terrible, but his worst fears concerned the
location of Bruce.
First things first: get help. He braked and picked up the car phone. No signal, not this far from
downtown Gotham. To be expected.
He drove toward the house and saw something that did not belong, a tractor-trailer truck parked on
the lawn, on top of a flower bed. There were no cars in the driveway, which meant that the guests had
already gone, but in the glow of the fire, he could see strange men standing at intervals around the
blaze. Guards? Almost certainly. But they were looking toward the house which meant . . . ?
Which meant that their job was to prevent anyone from leaving the conflagration!
They would not welcome the Waynes sixty-something butler, of that Alfred was certain. No, were he
to appear, they would do him harm. But their position meant that someone was still in the house and that
someone very likely was Master Bruce. He might already be dead but Alfred refused to make such an
assumption. Therefore, he must get past the guards. But how? He was not a violent man, nor an
especially athletic one. True, he had played cricket effectively as a youngster back in Nottingham, but
that was long ago, in another country, before he had met Thomas Wayne and his life had really begun.
No matter. As always, he would do what must be done. He was probably no match for the intruders in
hand-to-hand combat, about which Alfred knew extremely little, and without doubt they were armed. A
weapon was in order. There were a pair of eighteenth-century dueling pistols in the library, alleged to be
those used by Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr in their fatal encounter, but they were hardly of any
use to Alfred here, assuming they could be made to function. And there were no other firearms on the
estate. But guns were not the only weapons. There were arrows and swords and cudgels . . . Cudgels?
Now that was a thought! Of course, he had no access to an actual cudgel, but perhaps he could employ
a substitute. And he knew just what it would be! He stopped the car beneath a beech tree and pulled a
golf club a nine iron from the bag in the backseat.
He crept forward. The house was now fully aflame, sending torrents of sparks into the night sky. It
was almost beautiful, yet it was the most horrid thing Alfred had ever seen and his stomach churned. He
wanted nothing more than to lie down and be sick, but he could not, not until he had ascertained Bruce s
fate and helped, if help was possible.
The truck and another vehicle were at the front of the house. Therefore, it seemed likely that the
greatest opposition would be encountered there. Perhaps there would be fewer potential obstacles at the
rear, near the greenhouse and the old well. Moving as quickly as his somewhat arthritic bones allowed,
Alfred circled the house, keeping just outside the glow cast by the fire. He paused and squinted. He
could see only one man, who was standing, arms akimbo, in the courtyard by the kitchen door.
He approached the guard from the rear and swung the nine iron at the man s back and the metal
connected with skin and bone and made a sickening clunk, and the man dropped to the grass. Alfred
stared. It was justified, what he had just done, and even necessary, but it was also bestially violent and
he was deeply shocked that he had been capable of it, had done it without thinking. Perhaps that was the
reason he had been able to do it: He had acted without thought.
But had he killed a man?
He knelt, placed two fingers on the man s neck, and thank heaven felt a pulse.
A bit of flaming debris landed on the grass nearby and smoldered briefly. Well! That reminded Alfred
that work had to be done! It wouldn t get any easier, putting it off!
He ran into the house.
It was as though he had run into a wall, so intense was the heat. The air was sucked from his lungs
and he stopped dead in his tracks. Then there was a muffled whumpf and Alfred was flung backward,
out through the door into the garden. He surmised that the cooking gas had just ignited and thus the
explosion. Through the door he could see what appeared to be a solid wall of flame. No getting into the
manor that way, not anymore!
But the greenhouse . . . ?
He went into the glass structure and . . . yes! There were a couple of old blankets, too worn to be used
inside, but put here in case some botanical use might be found for them. And he had personally
supervised the reinstallation of the plumbing; he knew the water faucets were functioning. And indeed
they were! He soaked the blankets until they were saturated, wrapped them around his head, filled his
lungs with cool air, and getting a running start, again ventured into the inferno. This time, thanks to the
blankets, he was able to penetrate the fiery wall and, choking and coughing, made his way into the long
corridor that skirted the ballroom. He tried to call Bruce s name, but his voice was a thin rasp, inaudible
in the roar and crackle all around him. Nothing to do but soldier on!
A few yards farther, he saw the young man on the floor, mostly hidden by a heavy oak beam. Alfred
knelt by him, and as loudly as he was able, croaked, Master Bruce!
Bruce s eyelids fluttered and his lips parted. Alfred wrung a bit of moisture from the corner of one of
the blankets. The water dropped into Bruce s mouth and his eyes came fully open.
Alfred began: Sir, I m afraid
I know, Alfred.
Bruce twisted his body. The beam did not move.
Can t budge it, Bruce whispered.
Alfred injected a modicum of exasperation into what was left of his voice. Sir, whatever is the point
of all those push-ups if you can t even
Can it, Alfred, Bruce said, and got his palms under the beam. He bent his knees, exhaled loudly,
and pushed.
The beam inched upward, but not far enough. Alfred lay next to Bruce and put his hands on the
beam. Together, they strained. The beam moved, not much, but Bruce rolled out from under it. The
beam dropped to the floor.
Bruce managed to stand, swayed, then fell.
Very well, Alfred said. He put one of the blankets around Bruce, grabbed him beneath the armpits,
and dragged him to the mirror near the piano. He played the four notes Thank the stars that the fire
had not yet damaged this delicate mechanism! and the mirror swung on its hinges. Alfred pulled
Bruce into the hidden passageway and onto the elevator. Shrugging off the blanket, now almost
completely dry, he pushed a button and heard the generator start somewhere. The lights below flickered
on. With a creak, the elevator began to descend into the cave.
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