Batman - Mask of the Phantasm Read online

  They shook. “Bruce Wayne.”

  “I know.” She gave a wry smile. “ ‘Boy billionaire.’ So tell me, Bruce”—she reached up to straighten his collar—“with all that money and power, how come you always look like you want to jump off the nearest cliff?”

  Bruce smiled in spite of himself. He gave his head a small shake as he followed her back to the convertible. “Why should you care about that?”

  “Oh, I don’t.” She slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The car purred to life. Andrea smiled cheerfully. “Mother was just wondering.” She put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

  Bruce stood watching her, a bemused smile on his face. The autumn breeze was turning brisk and leaves rustled at his feet as the sun drifted behind a bank of high clouds.

  NINE

  In the study, Bruce raised his head, his thoughts called back to the present by a burst of laughter from the main hall. Reluctant to rejoin his guests, he lifted a poker and jabbed idly at the log in the fireplace. His mind wandered back to the past again as the flames leaped in response . . .

  The moon looked like it belonged in an amateur oil painting, too full and bright to have a place in the real world. The wind whistled as a trio of black bats flitted beneath its glowing orb. Wisps of cloud raced across its face in a ragged veil.

  It was late. Gotham Mall had closed its doors to window-shoppers and customers alike hours earlier. Now the stores stood silent, their clever façades making them resemble a row of abandoned playthings.

  A figure clothed in form-fitting black swung into the pale circle of light cast by the nearest streetlight. He released the end of his slender rope and dropped somewhat awkwardly onto the roof of the mall. The intruder skirted around the huge fedora advertising Big Hat men’s clothiers, ducked past the enormous bouquet of Everbloom’s Floral Shoppe, and raced under the smirking clown face propped above the Lucky Chuckles Arcade.

  He paused to catch his breath, the moonlight silvering his features as he peered around the edge of a smoking chimney stack. Bruce Wayne had traded his overcoat for a black turtleneck and a pair of black jeans. Around his waist was a wide leather belt to which had been fastened a second length of rope and half a dozen makeshift pouches. A black wool cap was pulled low on his forehead. He looked around to make sure no one had spotted him, ducked back into the shadows, and moved on.

  A muffled crashing sound came from the other side of the building. Bruce sprinted to the edge of the roof and looked down.

  Four stories below, a semitrailer had been backed down a long narrow alleyway up to one of the mall loading docks. Bruce squinted and made out two burly men in the dim light. One of them was looking down at a smashed VCR, apparently the topmost of the armload he had been carrying from the door to the truck. His partner, a short man whose arms were laden with boxes of jewelry and watches, stepped up to him.

  “Hey, dummy—what’s a matter wit’ choo? Dis is expensive merchandise.” The shorter crook made no attempt to keep his voice down. Kicking the wrecked machine out of his way, he continued on toward the van. The first man followed with a scowl.

  Bruce moved to a better vantage point on the rooftop and gazed down on the scene. Just inside the loading dock, a night guard was tied up on the ground, watching helplessly. As the second crook disappeared into the van of the truck, the guard began to struggle against the ropes.

  “Comin’ through.” A third burglar emerged from the warehouse, a pair of heavy, marble-based table lamps under his arms. He nodded politely to the guard, stepping over the recumbent form on his way to the truck. The guard cringed.

  Bruce surveyed the scene anxiously. After two long minutes passed with no new players, he decided that the three hoodlums he had seen so far constituted the entire gang. He took a deep breath. Then he reached up and unrolled the wool cap into a black ski mask that covered his face with holes for his eyes and mouth. “Here goes,” he murmured to himself, detaching the loop of rope from his belt.

  The third burglar secured the lamps at the rear of the truck, as the short crook pulled a cheap walkie-talkie from his belt. “Okay, Skaz,” he said. “The boys ’n’ me’re done shoppin’.”

  At the far end of the alley another man stepped out of the shadows and waved his arms to his confederate. He was wearing a cap secured with a tie-dyed bandanna. Underneath the colorful scarf was a microphone and headset. He glanced right and left and brought the mike to his lips. The walkie-talkie crackled. “All clear here.”

  The short man jammed the antenna into the top of the walkie-talkie and snapped it back on his belt. He walked to the back of the truck and swung the doors shut. “Okay, gents,” he growled. “Let’s blow this clambake!”

  A bloodcurdling cry split the silence, and all three hoods turned to gape upward as a black-clad figure dropped out of the night to land with a loud thud on the roof of the semi. There was a moment’s silence, then the sound of rapid footsteps.

  The intruder suddenly appeared again. Arms and legs pumping, he hurtled headlong off the end of the truck. He tucked his body into a series of graceful somersaults, twisted in midair, and landed on the edge of the loading dock facing the astonished crooks. Bruce wobbled slightly, then regained his balance, straightening into a classic martial arts stance. Behind him in the warehouse entranceway, the security guard’s eyes bulged above the cloth gag.

  “All right,” Bruce said in his most menacing tones. His voice sounded nervous and unsure to him, like a teenager pretending to be a drill sergeant. “Flat on your stomachs,” he barked, “Arms spread—now!”

  The three men at the truck looked at the intruder and then at each other. “Who is dis clown?” snarled the short man. He looked past Bruce at the trussed-up guard. “Hey, sis—you know dis guy?”

  The guard shook her head.

  “You heard me!” Bruce said, his voice faltering slightly. He raised his fist and took a threatening step forward.

  “Oh, yeah—” The short burglar looked apologetic. “We’re really sorry about the delay.” He motioned to his two confederates. “C’mon, boys. You heard Mr. Kung Fu.” Bruce glanced from left to right as the other two crooks moved out a few paces to either side.

  “Yeah, we’re shakin’,” said the hood on the left. He and his partner each took another step, then another, putting Bruce in the center of a tight triangle on the narrow loading dock. The short crook took a step backward and picked up a crowbar from the dock near the truck. He slapped it into his palm with a nasty grin.

  “Now!” he said. The other two whipped guns out of their pockets and advanced toward the unarmed man.

  Bruce stood his ground, his hand unsnapping one of the pouches affixed to his belt. He pulled out a pair of gleaming metal circles with points studding their rims. As the crooks charged him, he spun around, sending a ninja star flying toward each of the hoods.

  The heavyset burglar on the left gave a yelp of pain as the sharp-pointed weapon struck his gun hand. The pistol went spinning off the loading dock onto the pavement. The second star hit the arm of the crook on the right. “Ow! Jeez!” His gun discharged harmlessly onto the ground as he jerked his arm back toward his body. He dropped the pistol, clutching his wounded arm in his other hand with a hoarse cry.

  The short man’s jaw hung open in disbelief. “Get ’im!” he shouted, raising the crowbar over his head and lunging toward Bruce with a ragged battle cry. The black-clad figure crouched, wheeled in a half circle, and kicked the hoodlum in the groin. The short man’s battle cry became a shriek of pain. As his adversary doubled over in shock, Bruce reached out and grabbed the hem of his jacket, pulled it over his head, then brought his knee up to smash the crook’s face. The short man tumbled backward.

  The burglar on the left had circled behind Bruce. Now he raced in and grabbed him in a headlock as his partner ran up from the front. As Bruce struggled with the big man at his back, the second burglar delivered a roundhouse punch to Bruce’s belly, knocking the wind out of him. The man who held him hauled Bruce’s head up, his massive arm cutting off Bruce’s air as the other crook slammed his fist into his face. Bruce grunted and fell limp in the hulking crook’s arms.

  “Aww, I think our little ka-rah-tay kid’s had enough,” the big man cooed. Just then Bruce thrust his head back, slamming into the burglar’s forehead with the back of his skull. There was an awful cracking sound and the crook lurched backward, stunned. Bruce ducked through the big man’s arms just as the last thug wound up for a knockout punch. The punch struck the big crook, who keeled over like a felled oak.

  Snikkkt. The remaining thug brandished a six-inch switchblade. Bruce feinted back as the enraged man began slashing the air between them. One slash cut Bruce’s sweater open at the level of his stomach. The crook narrowed his eyes triumphantly. On the next thrust, Bruce’s hand struck the knife arm like a cobra, his fingers clamping hard on the other man’s wrist. Bruce drew his leg up and delivered a pair of savage kicks just beneath the hood’s armpit. Pirouetting like a dancer, Bruce swung his heel into the crook’s esophagus, sending him flying into a trio of garbage cans lined up against the wall just to the right of the night guard. The bound woman stared, struggling to sit upright as the body struck the cans and dropped to the floor of the dock, out cold.

  Bruce stood with feet spread wide, hands poised in the air at his sides, ready for the next assault. Only his rapid breathing betrayed the exertion of the last few minutes. He looked from one unconscious body to the next, excitement growing inside. “Yes!” he exulted, slamming his fist into his palm. He heard an urgent-sounding mumble and looked to where the security guard had managed to struggle to her feet against the loading dock entranceway. She gestured desperately with her head, trying to draw his attention to the other end of the alley.

  The first shot whizzed past him as he turned to look down the side of the long truck. Bruce leaped to one side and somersaulted along the loading dock as the man called Skaz peppered the dock with gunfire. As he fired, Skaz climbed up to the cab of the semi and pulled the door open. Bruce lunged for the nearest garbage can and held it in front of his body like a shield. A bullet struck the metal with a loud ping. He dropped the can and somersaulted toward the entrance to the building, grabbing the helpless guard when he reached the doorway and pulling her inside with him. The shooting stopped a few seconds later. Bruce heard the cab door slam shut and the truck’s motor rev. He was lying half sprawled across the guard’s supine body. He got to his feet and gave her an apologetic nod. “Excuse me,” he said politely.

  In the cab, Skaz slipped the clutch into first and gunned the motor.

  Bruce dashed back onto the dock just as the truck lurched forward. At its rear, the unlocked doors swung open and loose boxes and appliances began to spill out into the alleyway. Bruce leaped down from the loading dock, twisting his leg slightly as he landed on the slick cylinder of one of the marble lamps. The guard craned her neck around the edge of the doorway to watch in wonder as the man in black took off at a limping run after the accelerating truck.

  A pair of speed bumps was evenly spaced along the alley. A minor avalanche occurred as the truck hit each bump, and a steady stream of stolen items tumbled out onto the pavement.

  Bruce pounded down the alleyway, gradually catching up to the truck as he dodged microwaves and leaped over VCRs. He had almost reached the rear doors when the truck barreled out of the alleyway and started across the mail’s parking lot.

  Skaz put the engine into high gear and jammed his foot down on the gas pedal. Bruce took a deep breath and made a flying leap after the retreating truck. The left-hand door was swinging toward him. He tried to grab its handle as body and door came together, but the impact knocked his hand aside. He dropped just short of the truck, his fingers closing on the bottom of the door at the last instant.

  He hung on desperately as the truck trundled across the empty lot, his boots sliding and skipping along the pavement. He finally found a better grip and strained to pull himself up and into the back of the truck. There was a heavy-duty hammer lying on the floor of the truck just inside the door. Bruce bent to retrieve it, jamming it into the rear of his belt. The huge vehicle swung out onto the main road just then, dislodging a box of jewelry that opened as it fell toward him. He deflected the box with his arm, grimacing as necklaces and bracelets draped themselves momentarily over his ski mask. Pulling himself deeper into the van, he saw that nearly half its contents had already fallen out. What remained were mainly heavy-duty items, including a combination washer-dryer and a couple of mammoth refrigerators. Bruce inspected them with concern. The rope that bound them to the sides of the van looked none too sturdy. He turned to peer out the back of the vehicle, trying to get his bearings.

  The semi swerved over a low curb as Skaz headed toward a highway entrance ramp. As the truck lurched onto the incline, the rope holding the refrigerators snapped neatly in two.

  Bruce heard a rumbling noise at his back. He turned to see the pair of huge refrigerators sliding toward him. He dodged frantically. One of the massive appliances struck his side as they hurtled out the door, knocking him over the edge of the van.

  He thrust out his hand, his fingers closing on the handle of the left-hand door as he lost his footing. He swung out to the side as the appliances crashed onto the ramp behind the truck.

  The semi picked up speed on the flat road, rushing like a juggernaut into the heart of Gotham.

  TEN

  Officer Raymond T. O’Neil was nearing the end of his worst day in a week filled with lousy days. If life could just once go the way he wanted it to, he thought, he’d be home this very minute eating corned beef and cabbage with his wife, Eileen, and their twins, Troy and Mary.

  As he drove the police cruiser along the wide boulevard in Gotham’s midtown, O’Neil glared over at the source of his recent misery: his new partner, one Harvey T. Bullock by name.

  Bullock was a thoroughly obnoxious man and a slovenly one to boot, whose uniform seemed to spontaneously break out in stains short minutes after he put it on each day. As O’Neil watched, Bullock was in the process of washing down the last of the three doughnuts he had managed to consume since the two men began their beat. How Bullock was able to eat and drink—and belch—continuously, all without ever removing the wooden toothpick he kept clamped in the corner of his mouth, was beyond O’Neil’s ability to comprehend. He snorted with disgust and returned his gaze to the road.

  A large semitrailer had begun to pull up alongside them on the right. Officer Bullock glanced idly over as the truck went by. The rear doors of the truck’s van were swinging loose, he noticed. Definitely worth a citation. Bullock took another swallow of coffee and looked again. Hanging onto the nearest door, his legs dangling above the street, was a black-clad man in a black ski mask.

  Interesting way to travel, Bullock thought, lifting his Styrofoam cup. Then the realization of what he had just seen sank in, and the next moment, the thickset officer was spitting half a cup of coffee and one soggy toothpick onto the windshield in front of him.

  Raymond T. O’Neil grimaced in fury as he watched the brown stream splatter against the glass. O’Neil had had all that he could take of his partner’s filthy habits. As he prepared to reprimand the younger man in the sternest terms possible, Bullock pointed to the rear of the passing truck. “There’s a guy out there in a black mask,” the big man stammered, “swingin’ back and forth like a lantern on a caboose!”

  “Wha-a-at!” After twisting his neck for a corroborating glance, O’Neil turned on the flashing lights and punched the siren. Then he floored the gas and took off after the truck and its unusual passenger.

  Officer Bullock reached inside his uniform and stuck a new toothpick in the corner of his mouth. Grinning at his partner, he tightened his seat belt around his ample waist and leaned back in anticipation. He’d only just transferred to this precinct, and he’d expected to have to wait a while before his first car chase. This must be his lucky day!

  ELEVEN

  The crook called Skaz had checked his rearview mirror as soon as he heard the siren start. He saw the approaching police car with its red and blue lights spinning and wondered who they were after. He bit his lower lip as they swung into the lane behind him, hoping there was nothing wrong with the truck’s headlights that could cause the cops to stop him. Then the lefthand rear door swung out into view and Skaz saw the masked man hanging on for dear life from its handle. He swore as he realized what had gotten the cops so agitated. Then he floored the gas pedal. There was no way he could let them stop him now.

  The cops were coming up fast on his left side. Skaz gave the steering wheel a sudden turn. The truck veered sharply into the left lane in front of the police car.

  He looked up ahead and got an idea. He yanked the wheel again. The truck swerved and suddenly there was a jarring impact. Skaz laughed. He had maneuvered the truck to smash the swinging back door into a lamppost. His unwanted passenger held on desperately. A few more of those, Skaz thought, and he’d be rid of half his problem, anyway.

  The police car had fallen back and moved into the right lane. It increased speed, gaining slowly on the swerving truck. Skaz looked back and forth, dividing his attention between the man swinging from the door in his left rearview mirror and the cop car starting to pass him in his right. He eased up slightly on the gas, scowling menacingly as the police car nosed ahead and slid into the lane in front of him.

  He jammed his foot down hard on the gas pedal. The truck surged forward, ramming the much smaller vehicle in the rear bumper. Skaz grinned in satisfaction as he saw the two officers jerk forward from the impact.

  In the police car, Bullock fumbled for his hat as the impact knocked it onto the dashboard. Officer O’Neil made a strangled sound in the driver’s seat. As Bullock reseated the hat on his head, he saw that the other man was fighting for control of the car. O’Neil lost the fight.