Batman - Mask of the Phantasm Read online

  From the unkempt appearance of his clothes and hair, Burt guessed that the man had been involved in a mugging, or at least a serious disagreement with a larger individual. The man reached the stairwell and clambered up toward the garage roof with a panicky look on his pale face. Then he was gone. The angle of the window made it impossible to see anything that was happening above the low retaining wall that bordered the rooftop of the garage. Burt was about to look away when something drew his eyes back to the stairs.

  A shadowy figure was moving slowly up through the stairwell, which suddenly seemed to be filling with clouds of murky smoke. Exhaust fumes? It seemed too thick and dark for that. Burt bit his lower lip, torn between the desire to continue his observation of this strange drama, and the realization that he should probably be looking for a way to summon the proper authorities about now. Police? Fire department? He hovered anxiously at the window as the dark figure reached the top of the steps and disappeared from view.

  He scanned the near side of the roof, looking for some sign of either of the two who had ascended the stairs. When he dropped his eyes to the stairwell again, he was startled to see that the dark clouds had almost completely dissipated, only a few stray wisps left swirling by the railing. So much for the fire department. And what could he tell the police that would justify sending out a patrol car? Burt shrugged and gave the rooftop a last inspection, then turned back to the dazzling cityscape.

  He reached into the paper bag and drew out his camera. With the special film he had purchased, he thought he should be able to get several decent pictures of nighttime Gotham. The camera store also carried do-it-yourself postcards with adhesive backs, and he had bought a package of six with yesterday’s snack money. Burt grinned. Wouldn’t his parents be surprised when they received a homemade Gotham City postcard from their inventive son! Burt raised the lens to his eye and began to choose his subject.

  It was about that time that the silver sports car dived off the roof of the garage and spiraled down into the side of the Grand Imperator.

  Burt found the experience very reminiscent of the action movies that were so popular nowadays. He had swung his head around when he heard the initial impact of steel on concrete as the car burst through the retaining wall, and from then on everything seemed to happen in slow motion. He noticed that one of the sports car’s retractable headlights had been damaged by the drive through the wall. He saw the cloud of swirling mist clinging to the sports car’s windshield. He got a close enough look through the driver’s window to identify the driver as the man with the briefcase. Then the car struck the hotel with a resounding crash and everything trembled for a few seconds. As he lowered his hands from his face, Burt’s finger tightened reflexively on the shutter button and the camera went off with a click and a whirr, wasting the first shot on a very expensive roll of film.

  Burt grimaced and gave the camera a shake, as if to reprimand it. Then he had an idea.

  The TV was filled with those eyewitness, I-was-there video programs, and Burt was positive the producers paid big bucks to anyone lucky enough to find themselves and their video camera on the scene at a really big disaster. Burt had never owned a video camera, but he did have almost an entire roll of expensive film and a unique vantage point. Maybe the newspapers would be willing to make a trade: a few award-winning photos of a car embedded in the side of a hotel in exchange for enough cash to get him on a tramp steamer bound for the south seas.

  He frowned, not entirely certain tramp steamers still existed—or if they did, exactly who was living in the south seas, and if they still welcomed tourists. He gave a mental shrug and aimed the camera down at the smoking wreck. He would be more than happy to settle for a six-day cruise to the Caribbean.

  Burt used up most of the roll, hurried down the stairs to the floor below, and headed for the elevator.

  The silver sports car had apparently caused some damage to one of the hotel’s electrical cables, for the lights went out and the elevator car lurched to a stop halfway between the sixth and fifth floors, leaving Burt to cool his heels for a long ten minutes before finally disgorging him into the thronging lobby.

  It was not until the next day, when Burt scanned a seatmate’s morning newspaper on the subway, that he learned about the squall of counterfeit money that had fallen from Chuckie Sol’s car while he loitered between floors—and of the dramatic appearance of the individual most people were calling responsible for the murder of the man with the briefcase: Batman.

  SIX

  Clouds raced and roiled around the body of the sleek passenger plane. Below, the sprawl of miniature buildings caught in a baffling web of thread-sized highways had begun to grow into an imposing cityscape as the airplane started its slow approach to the Gotham City Airport.

  “We should be touching down any minute now.” Andrea Beaumont sat forward in her first-class seat and gazed out the small window as she spoke softly into a portable phone. She was a strikingly attractive, smartly dressed woman in her late twenties, with compelling blue-green eyes and chestnut hair arranged in the latest style. An antique gold locket hung on a chain about her slender neck. “It’ll be good to see you again, Arthur.”

  “You, too,” came the voice from the phone. Andrea imagined Councilman Arthur Reeves sitting back in a black leather chair in his tastefully furnished city office. Knowing Arthur, he was probably checking his appearance in a pocket mirror while they spoke. “Don’t worry about a thing,” Reeves told her in carefully modulated tones. “We’ll clear up these old family finances in no time. Don’t forget—you’ve got a big-time city councilman on your side.”

  “I appreciate that, Arthur.” Andrea tilted her head, gazing raptly down at the city swelling darkly beneath her. “Gotham,” she murmured, her thoughts beginning to wander. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years . . .”

  “So. Thinking of looking up some old friends?” Reeves prompted after several moments of silence. The heartiness in his voice sounded forced.

  Andrea frowned, glancing down almost guiltily at the copy of Success magazine resting on her lap. The cover sported a portrait of a ruggedly handsome, dark-haired man, under a banner that announced PROFILE: BRUCE WAYNE.

  Andrea touched the picture gently with the tips of her fingers. “Oh, Arthur,” she said into the phone, “don’t start that again. He’s ancient history.”

  “That’s encouraging,” Reeves said. “Then I’ll see you soon—and happy landing.”

  Andrea lowered the phone and sat looking at the glossy picture. She raised her head with a start when a flight attendant appeared at the front of the cabin.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the young man said, including Andrea in his professional smile. “Please fasten your seat belts. We’re beginning our descent into Gotham City.”

  Andrea checked her seat belt obediently. She started to slide the magazine into her bag, hesitated, and slipped it into the pocket of the seat in front of her instead. Then she turned back to the window and watched as the great city rose to meet her.

  SEVEN

  Outside the huge structure, rain fell steadily on the dozens of expensive automobiles that lined the great circular driveway of Wayne Manor. Inside, an entire room had been set aside for the guests’ umbrellas. Alfred added a large model with alternating white and maroon panels to the collection and returned to the main hall.

  The mansion echoed with the sounds of laughter and soft music. Moving carefully under Alfred’s watchful eye, half a dozen waiters carried trays laden with pale champagne and colorful delicacies along their assigned routes from one side of the hall to the other. The butler surveyed the nearby guests, noting the usual mixture of politicians, media personalities, and wealthy entrepreneurs. Like every other aspect of Master Bruce’s life, Alfred reflected, the young billionaire’s parties were masterpieces of artfully disguised calculation. He scanned the room, his lips quirking ironically when he spotted his employer. He watched for a few moments, then turned with a barely perceptible shake of his head and went to straighten the collar of one of the waiters.

  Bruce stood at the heart of the great hall, at the center of his guests’ attention in the middle of a trio of beautiful women.

  The three seemed to be involved in a contest to see which could stand closest to their wealthy host.

  “Come on, Bruce,” said the tanned blonde on his left, pressing her hip against his as she reached up to brush an imaginary eyelash from his cheek. “All alone in this big mansion, with rooms for days and all these toys. Haven’t you ever thought about marriage—not even once?”

  The ebony-skinned woman on his immediate right went up on tiptoe to place her hands playfully over his ears. “Oh, never say the M word in front of Bruce, darling,” she cooed. “It makes him nervous.”

  The third beauty was pale, with short red hair. She surveyed the scene with a tiny frown, as if trying to figure out a route past her competition and into their host’s arms. “What about the I word, then?” she inquired innocently.

  Bruce turned to regard her quizzically, his attention snared. “The I word?” he asked.

  “You know”—she batted her long lashes—“ingagement.”

  Bruce gave his crooked half smile as the nearby onlookers reacted with glee. Bachelorette number three was preparing to pursue her advantage with a frontal attack, when a sharp elbow caught her in the ribs. A fourth woman, dressed in a revealing black gown, stepped past her to smile up at Bruce. She was also beautiful, her skin the color of old ivory and her long straight hair as black as a raven’s wing. She smiled sardonically as she tipped her drink at their host.

  “I’d watch out for Brucie if I were you, girls.” Her voice had the first traces of an alcohol-induced slur. “First he wines and dines you,” she went on, fixing Bruc
e with a wavering stare. “Makes you think you’re the only woman he’s ever been interested in. And just when you’re wondering where to register the china pattern—” She paused dramatically, her lips drawing back from perfect white teeth. “—He forgets your phone number.”

  Bruce was watching the proceedings with a casual detachment. It wasn’t the first time one too many trips to an open bar had caused this kind of confrontation with one of the women he had briefly dated. He waited with an air of faint amusement for the woman to run out of steam.

  Then a look of sudden fury appeared on her carefully decorated features and she hauled her slim arm back and threw her drink in his face.

  There was a mutual gasp as his trio of admirers drew back in horror. The black-haired woman gave her head a short, sharp nod and stalked off in the direction of the bar.

  Bruce stood stock-still. Then he lifted his hand and wiped his eyes with his fingers, stone-faced.

  “Excuse me,” he said with a small bow to the three women. He turned on his heel and strode off.

  “A friend in need?”

  Bruce recognized the suave tones before he saw the face. Then Arthur Reeves appeared at his side, dangling a linen handkerchief in front of the other man’s face. Bruce took the square of cloth and swabbed at his eyes and cheeks.

  “Councilman,” he said with a nod. “So how goes the bat bashing?”

  “Better than your love life, apparently.” Reeves raised his brows toward the scene of Bruce’s recent dampening. “Really, old man, it’s almost as if you pick them deliberately because you know there’s absolutely no chance for a serious relationship.” Alfred hove into view bearing a tray of champagne flutes. The councilman plucked one from the tray as it passed by, earning himself a sideward glance of disapproval from the proper butler. “Although there was that one girl . . . Oh, let me see—” He screwed his face up in an expression of exaggerated concentration. “What was her name?”

  Bruce had been dabbing at his collar with the handkerchief. He stood frozen as Reeves continued his game.

  “Hmmm,” the councilman mused. “Was it Anne . . . Andi . . . Andrea!” He smiled lazily at Bruce. “That was it. Andrea Beaumont. Now there was a sweet number. How’d you let that one fall out of your address book?”

  Bruce carefully folded the stained handkerchief, his eyes on the floor. “Thanks for the use of the rag, Arthur,” he said in a low, controlled voice. “You know where you can stick it.” He reached out and stuffed the damp cloth deep into Reeves’s breast pocket, turned, and stalked off.

  Alfred glided by again as Reeves stood staring after his host. “You may wish to freshen up, Councilman,” the butler said with a nod at the twisted end of handkerchief protruding from the other man’s pocket. “Your clothing seems to have become a bit disarrayed.”

  EIGHT

  Bruce entered his study and closed the door behind him, a dark expression on his face. Rain fell in sheets against the window and lightning tore the sky. He stood at his desk and toyed with a paperweight made from a fossilized ammonite, his eyes on the portrait of his late parents that hung above the crackling fireplace.

  The faces in the picture seemed stern and unsmiling this evening, with an aura of Victorian propriety. Bruce crossed slowly to the fireplace and leaned his arm on the mantle, staring down into the fire. Images seemed to dance and flicker in the leaping flames as his thoughts drifted back to a day ten years past.

  It was late autumn. Brown and gold leaves blew through the cemetery with a faint clattering sound. A youthful Bruce stood with his arm resting on the marble monument that marked his parents’ grave. The wind had pushed his collar askew and his dark hair was disheveled. He held two long-stemmed roses in his hand. He knelt solemnly to lay them on the manicured grass in front of the headstone. Then he got to his feet and stood with his hands thrust into the pockets of his overcoat, a brooding expression on his face.

  “That’s right. And if Daddy gets any more protective, I might as well join the Young Republicans . . .”

  Bruce lifted his head in surprise and craned his neck toward the sound of the voice. A young woman was standing among a group of headstones not far from the Wayne monument. She gestured with her arms and made a comment Bruce could not hear. From his vantage point, she appeared to be standing by herself. Puzzled, he moved closer.

  “It’s times like this I wish you were around to . . .” Her voice dipped out of range again as the breeze lifted her light brown hair into a flowing nimbus about her profile. She was reaching up a hand to smooth it back when Bruce’s shadow crept into view on the ground beside her. She wheeled around to face him. “Yes?”

  “Uh. Excuse me.” Bruce felt his cheeks redden under her stare. “I thought you were saying something. To me, I mean.”

  Andrea raised her eyes as if gauging the distance between her location and the Wayne monument. “No,” she said shortly and turned her back.

  “Oh,” Bruce stood for an awkward moment, looking at the graceful lines of her back. As far as he could see, there was no one else in the immediate vicinity. “O-kay,” he said slowly. He turned and walked away.

  “Know who that was?” The brown-haired woman looked down at her feet. Her voice sounded excited. “That was Bruce Wayne. You know—Wayne Enterprises? I’ve seen him on campus. Very moody. Cute, though—don’t you think?”

  Bruce was several yards away by this time. He stopped and shook his head, then turned back with a sigh.

  The young woman looked back over her shoulder at the sound, her eyebrows lifted in polite inquiry. “Yes?”

  Bruce glanced to right and left, satisfying himself that there was indeed no one else in the area. “I heard my name mentioned,” he began. “I thought . . .” He exhaled with a shrug. “Look—who are you talking to?”

  The young woman brushed a wisp of hair back from her cheek and gestured to the ground in front of her. “My mother.” For the first time Bruce noticed the simple stone marker laid flush with the grass.

  IN LOVING MEMORY

  VICTORIA BEAUMONT

  “Oh,” Bruce flushed with embarrassment, looking from the grave marker to the bright-eyed young woman. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “That’s okay. We’re done.” She picked up her bag and patted his arm. “Mom doesn’t have much to say today.” She caught his sidelong glance as she walked by. “Hey, I’m not the only one who talks to their loved ones, you know,” she said defensively. She slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and headed for the path.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Bruce called after her. He hesitated for a moment, then turned to follow. He caught up to her and they continued side by side down the path toward the cemetery gate.

  “It’s just that when I talk to her out loud, it’s easier to imagine how she’d reply,” Andrea said as they walked. “Like she’s right there.” She shrugged. “It makes a difference, somehow.”

  Bruce nodded thoughtfully. “I talked to my parents after they died,” he said. “Once.”

  “What did you say?”

  He ushered her through the big wrought-iron gate. “I made a vow.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “What vow?”

  “A secret one.” His tone had become a bit distant.

  “Oooh—a man of mystery!” She turned to study his face, her hands clasped at her breast in mock fascination. “And have you kept your vow?”

  His expression stayed sober. “So far.”

  They had reached the street outside the cemetery. A sleek convertible was parked at the curb in front of Bruce’s staid roadster. Andrea walked over to the car and dropped her bag onto the passenger seat. Then she turned and walked back to Bruce.

  “Andrea Beaumont.” She extended her hand in a formal gesture.