THE BOOK OF
FIRE
This book is about fighting. The spirit of fire is fierce, whether the
fire be small or big; and so it is with battles… It is difficult for large
numbers of men to change position. An
individual can easily change his mind, so his movements are difficult to
predict…
“100.7, miss.
I do wish you would let me call Dr. Thompkins.”
“No way, Alfred. I
can get plenty of rest and drink lots of liquids on my own.”
Alfred pursed his lips and glared in stern disapproval.
Selina didn’t appear to notice and Alfred recalled, with new sympathy,
the many years Master Bruce had returned to the cave speechless with frustration
because of an unrepentant cat burglar.
“Very well, miss,” he sighed, in the manner of a family
servant used to picking his battles, “I will acquiesce to your wishes for now.
But if your fever reaches 101, I shall call Dr. Thompkins, with your
permission or without it.”
Selina attempted a hiss, which disintegrated into a series
of weak coughs, followed by a wince.
“Not fair,” she grimaced, rearranging her aching legs
under sheets that felt clammy with sweat, “No fair taking advantage, just
because I’m too achy to banter back.”
“On the contrary, Miss Selina,” Alfred replied coolly,
“If I were in any way inclined to ‘banter,’ I would have mentioned that
you picked a most unfortunate time to forego Western medicine and become a
Christian Scientist.”
Not wanting to repeat the hiss-coughing fit, Selina could
only manage the hostile scowl of a cat cornered in an art gallery with a sack
full of Miros. Alfred ignored her
glare as deftly as she had ignored his and continued collecting the empty
glasses from the bedside table.
Bruce returned home from the airport with a new sense of
urgency. The Mission.
The Mission was all. The
Mission came first. The only way to
save the life he had built with Selina was to make sure it would never interfere
with what really mattered. In
reestablishing his priorities, in reestablishing Batman at the heart and soul of
all he did, he could rest easy, knowing the light Selina brought into his life
in no way jeopardized the Mission that was his life.
He bypassed the manor entirely and went straight to the
cave. After a short workout, he
logged into his workstation and began setting up patrol routes for the next few
nights, plotting out stopping points based on recent activity and potential
targets tied to the At-large list. He
transferred these new routes to the Batmobile and OraCom, then went to the
costume vault to change.
When he reemerged, he noticed
it—or the lack of it.
Alfred hadn’t left the inevitable sandwich at his workstation.
No ham and turkey staring up at him like an accusation.
Was it possible his butler finally understood? Perhaps progress was being made after all.
Since Selina moved in, Bruce did take his meals in the manor more often.
Maybe that was all it took to make Alfred see that if he was hungry, he
would sit down to dinner like anyone else.
Good.
It was about time.
He grunted at the empty space where no ham and turkey on
asiago loaf with lettuce and Dijon that he didn’t ask for and didn’t want
sat waiting for him to eat it anyway.
Patrol was invigorating.
First the mugger outside Robinson Park turned out to be a junkie more
than willing to point him to a dealer in order to avoid a prolonged beating.
The dealer was just as eager to point him to a crack lab, although in his
case Batman curtailed the beating with a brutal roundhouse that probably
dislocated the dealer’s jaw and definitely rendered him unconscious.
The scum in the crack lab were not given the option to escape any part of
the beating. Batman knew he could
analyze the coca paste to determine their supplier—or rather, to confirm
their supplier. He was already
certain what he would find, and that could wait until after patrol.
The last hours before returning to the cave he spent
hunting Garfield Lynns, the pyromaniac known as Firefly. It was 14 days since Lynns was released from prison in
Keystone City. And Lynns rarely
went more than 9 days without torching something.
16 days was the record. Batman
was not certain if Lynns had returned to Gotham, but if he had, he would not be
allowed to use any part of Batman’s City to fuel his sick lust to make things
burn. At least Firefly’s
pathology made him predictable: he
favored buildings that would burn a certain way, level by level.
Parking garages were his favorite, the Guggenheim Museum was a likely
target for its spiral structure, and there were certain office complexes with
the right configuration. A quick
survey of these turned up nothing suspicious… until he reached the I-Mark
Plaza. And there he was: Firefly,
attaching thermal detonators on the roof… something new. Batman felt a
nauseous rage building as he worked it out:
remote detonators on the roof to set off… What?
Explosives obviously, but where?
Down on the base columns. Damnably
clever. Once the fire reached the
detonators and hit a certain temperature, the bombs would detonate, blowing out
the main supports, causing the building to collapse in on itself.
The predictable foe had become just that much less predictable.
And Batman expressed his dissatisfaction vehemently on Garfield Lynns’s
jaw, ribs, throat, and solar plexus.
He returned to the cave and quickly typed up the log
entries. Then he took the coca
paste from the crack den into the lab. As
expected, the paste had been made dissolving the leaves of the South American
shrub Erythroxylon coca, not in a mixture of baking soda and kerosene
like most suppliers used, but in a unique mixture of bromide and petroleum
solvent—The Miami Turk’s signature. Up
until now, the Turk was smart enough to avoid Gotham City.
But crackdowns in Bludhaven, Philadelphia, Buffalo and Hartford had been
cutting into his cash flow. Batman
had wondered if desperation might lead the Turk to this fatal mistake:
moving his filthy business into Gotham.
Batman smiled down at the mortar and pestle, Petrie dish,
and microscope slides on the worktable. It
was not an amused twitch-smile or a warm playboy grin; it was a long, slow smile
of deep and quiet menace. There was
a principle, long-remembered from his studies. The Book of Five Rings, the
chapter on battle tactics, called the Book of Fire:
To hit the enemy “In One Timing” means when you have closed with
the enemy to hit him as quickly and directly as possible without moving your
body or unsettling your spirit… That
is exactly what Batman had planned for The Miami Turk if he dared enter Gotham.
He opened a secured landline to Keystone City.
In the 17 rings it took a sleepy voice to answer, Batman reconsidered and
re-rejected the JLA Comlink. Those
channels were too often monitored, and if he wanted to put up with questions, he
could ask Clark or J’onn. Clark would want to investigate the Turk himself
before acting, unless Batman submitted to the 2,000 questions necessary to
reassure The Boy Scout he was doing the right thing.
J’onn would at least postpone the questions until after the job was
done—once Bruce explained the time factor.
A time factor that shouldn’t need explaining, a factor that
should be perfectly obvious to anybody that knew him.
Batman hated “farming out” a job like this.
He preferred handling such matters personally—as witnessed by the
discreet alert beeping in the corner of the computer screen indicating a new
inmate (one Lynns, Garfield) admitted to the Arkham infirmary.
But in a case like The Miami Turk, it was more important that the response
be immediate. The Turk brought his
filth into Gotham City and BAM, the steel jaws clamped shut on his ass. Now, not three months from now when he made another run, and
not letting him back into the city, even to get his ass kicked.
No, Batman needed it to happen now, with lightening speed.
Someone with ties enough to law enforcement to be familiar with the Turk.
Someone who could handle the situation quickly and discreetly, but still
publicly enough for word to get around. And
most of all, someone who would answer Batman’s summons with little more than a
“Sir, yes, sir.”
:: H-Hello? :: a groggy voice warbled on the other end of
the phone.
Police ties, willingness to help out and speed…
“Flash,” Batman growled, “Got a job for you.”
Feeling a warm and intense satisfaction at a job well done,
Batman entered the costume vault. As
expected, the mere fact that Batman called him to collaborate on a case perked
up Wally West’s ears. He had read
enough Fed bulletins on the Turk to need no more info than the scumbag’s last
known coordinates. And, just so
the Turk was absolutely aware which was the fatal mistake that led to his downfall,
Flash was quite clear about the message he was to deliver before ending The
Miami Turk for good: “Batman
sends his regards.” Just as
the Book of Fire instructed, it was quick, it was direct, and he didn’t even
have to stir from his chair.
Yes, a job well done.
Batman removed the cowl, cape, utility belt, chest plate and leggings,
and then reached for the kimono.
This was just as it should be. No thought of her all night.
Just him, alone with his Mission. And
now, after patrol and a job well done, the kimono—Selina’s gift—so he
didn’t have to change back into Bruce Wayne’s shirt and slacks just to go up
to bed. Purrfect.
At the end of the clock passageway, he considered a stop in
the kitchen. But he was too tired.
Morning would come soon enough and he’d grab a bite.
He climbed the stairs wearily, running an absent finger over the kimono,
black and slate gray woven in a tight herringbone pattern with black piping.
His mind wandered back to another climb up these stairs after a late
patrol.
It was early in their relationship, not long after he’d
revealed his identity. They’d
slept together, of course, most often at her place, but occasionally at his.
But that night was very different. It
wasn’t bedding down for the night after sex.
He was coming home from patrol, as he had so often, to a dark, still
house. He had hired her to help
improve Wayne Enterprises security. She’d
been working mostly from a laptop in his study.
It got late, it was a long drive back to her place in the city, and he
did have those 25 spare bedrooms. Alfred
set her up in the Chinese Room, and Bruce had gone out on patrol.
When he returned, just as he climbed these stairs, he’d had the oddest
feeling at the sudden realization: She
was there… Selina… Catwoman…
was sleeping under his roof. She was in
the Chinese room, right across the hall from his bedroom, at that very moment. He didn’t have to retire to a lonely cold bed and conjure
memories of a fantasy cat. She was right
there. He could knock on the
door, he could go inside, he could touch. It
was early enough in their relationship that that part was still new.
He was allowed to touch. Catwoman—Selina—was right there for him to touch.
At that moment, the Bruce of the present had reached his
own bedroom and realized with a start that right there Selina was not.
He stared stupidly at the empty bed for a moment, and then
turned, looking around the room as if trying to confirm that he was still in the
present. His fingers touched the
silk of the kimono again. Yes, the present.
Selina’s gift. From Tokyo.
So where was she?
“Alfred!” Bruce called, stepping out into the hall,
heedless of the hour.
Fortunately the manservant was already up, albeit dressed
informally in a bathrobe, and hastened from a doorway at the far end of the hall
near his own room.
“Oh good evening, sir,” Alfred began in a hushed tone
as soon as he was close enough, “I see that you are back.
I trust you had a satisfactory evening, sir.”
“Alfred, what’s going on?
Where’s Selina?”
“I regret, sir, that Miss Selina is unwell.
She is experiencing a fever. A touch of the flu, perhaps, or a mild
virus. We thought it best for her comfort and your own well-being, seeing that
she might be contagious, if we moved her out of your bedroom.”
Bruce gave a mild sigh of relief, and mentally kicked
Batman for not remembering the first rule of detection: the simplest explanations are always the most likely.
“So she’s in her own suite for the duration?” he
asked.
“No, sir. There is no longer a bed in those rooms since
she moved in her own furniture. I
have put her in the Rose Room.”
“The Rose Room!” Bruce hissed in an indignant whisper,
“You put her in the Rose Bedroom. Alfred,
that’s the Bimbo Room, what are you thinking?”
Alfred raised a disapproving eyebrow.
And Bruce glared a hostile bat-glare.
At 4:15 a.m., Bruce stormed into the kitchen gripped in a
complex jumble of emotions he would be hard-pressed to describe.
He opened the refrigerator door as if to surprise a criminal cabal
planning some kind of uprising. He
took out the ham, turkey, lettuce and mustard as if he was rousting suspects.
He laid out the asiago loaf and paused before slicing, as if the bread
knife were a threat meant to terrify a reluctant stoolie into talking.
Then he massaged his brow, feeling like a man utterly out
of control, and calmly finished making himself the sandwich he should have eaten
nine hours earlier.
He turned back to the refrigerator suddenly, as if
remembering something, opened it again and took out a half-bottle of dry white
Bordeaux. He poured, sipped, and
looked thoughtfully at the glass, remembering:
“Once I took a girl to Maison de Pierre, world-famous
for their wine cellar…”
The roof of the opera house, at the very beginning…
His ‘first date’ with Selina… a picnic basket and a bottle of
Bordeaux it took him forever to open. Catwoman
was not like other women. Catwoman
he could talk to about the way things were.
“Once I took a girl to Maison de Pierre, world-famous
for their wine cellar. I was
patrolling later, so I didn’t drink. She noticed, didn’t say anything, just
filed it away. When she got around to breaking up with me, she included in the
laundry list of my faults my dishonesty in never telling her I was a recovering
alcoholic.”
She laughed. She
saw it at once, the ironic absurdity of it all.
She was like him, she knew what it was to have a part of you they can
never see. She understood.
For the first time in his life, he found himself able to speak honestly,
as he was, on a date with a woman. And
she laughed, and she smiled, and she kissed him.
She smiled at him, at the man he really was.
How could Alfred put her in the Bimbo Room like it was
nothing, like it was a mere household expedient?
Bruce Wayne rarely had sex with the bimbos.
In the early days, the occasional torn muscle or random bruise was easily
explained: “That new ADA Harvey Dent plays a mean game of squash.”
But Bruce was no fool. He knew he had only a limited time in which to
establish the playboy persona before his body amassed too many scars to pass as
a mere “rabid sports nut.”
There are other arts besides karate and meditation taught
in the Far East. A few tricks from
here and there made Bruce seem an inventive and far more experienced lover than
he truly was, and soon there was tittering at all the debutante balls about
Bruce Wayne’s “skills.” That
was really all it took. After that,
no self-respecting debutante, divorcee or actress/model/whatever was going to
admit going on a date with THE Bruce Wayne and not getting “the W
treatment.” He became a legend
with astonishingly little effort on his part.
Maintaining the reputation couldn’t have been simpler.
A little too much champagne in front of a warm fire or in a steamy hot
tub resulted in a very sleepy date, one that could be carried upstairs, placed
in the bed and left for morning. The
Rose Room was chosen because it was closest to Alfred’s own room, where he
would notice if any sleeping beauty woke in the night and wandered.
It was also farthest from Bruce’s room, where they would be least
likely to hear anything when he returned from patrol.
In the morning, Bambi, Greta or Daphne would be greeted by a rather
distinguished butler. He would
apologize that Mr. Wayne had to run off on business, give her a full breakfast,
and call her a taxi—or if she were a socialite of sufficient standing,
Alfred would chauffeur her home in one of Mr. Wayne’s many fine automobiles. Again, the Fop’s reputation took care of the rest.
And that was the bedroom where Alfred installed Selina.
Where he put Selina! It was
outrageous. How could Alfred, of all people, be so callous and
thoughtless? Selina had
changed everything. She changed his
life. She made him happy.
How could he toss her into the Rose Room like some bimbo?
Like she was a prop only here for him to manipulate for the sake of a
smokescreen?

To be continued…
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