Batman: City of Crime #5 (of 5)

Earlier…


This is so not how I saw this going down. The Wrath had left us a riddle. Solve it, and we’d be able to save Tess Hartigan from a death nasty enough to make even the Joker cringe. It was a clue, scrawled in blood on the chest of a dead man that led me to my old gym, Dempsey 77. The old stomping grounds of former heavy weight champ Ted Grant.

I trained there for years when Ted ran the place. He hit his prime just before the days when Nazis were more than b-movie villains. But he was still strong as a raging bull. Naturally, he had a constant flow of visitors to the gym. Celebrities. Reporters. The Greatest even came by once. But in all that mob of glad handers were a group of odd balls. Strange ducks. All about Ted’s age. Well, most anyway. One guy, a creepy blonde, didn’t appear any older than me, but he stuck to the geriatric crowd like glue. They would go into Ted’s office for hours. Sometimes, Ted would toss me the key and say, “Me and my buddies are going for a few brews. Keep an eye on the joint, kid.”

And Ted would be gone for weeks.

Once, about, oh, 12 years ago, Ted and his pack of strange friends left for “brews,” and never came back. Ever. Word has that Grant pops in and out of other gyms now and again but never returned to Dempsey.

The gym’s had a slew of owners ever since. I left the gym about 5 years ago, shortly before it closed. The life sized poster of Jack Dempsey, Ted’s favorite fighter, was still on the door and faded to a mere whisper of the days when boxing mattered. But the old girl still has charms. Every woman does. You just have to know where to look.

I had packed Vicki and the kid into my Charger and made to the gym in record time. Good thing Gotham cops are too busy to worry about traffic duty.

“You used to train in his dump?” Redwing said, climbing out of the car. “And I thought I had it bad.”

“Where do you workout?” Vale said.

“In a cave.”

“Get lost.”

“Would I lie to you?”

I still had the old key and the door creaked open. The whole gym was covered in several inches of dust, lit up by moonlight pouring in through the grimy windows. The ring ropes sagged and several of the heavy bags were rotting from the inside. But you could still smell the sweat and blood in the air.

The place was empty. Only the ghost of old fighters moved through the shadows.

“Ollie-ollie-oxen free!” Redwing shouted, bouncing over the ring ropes onto the canvas. “Any crazy serial killers here? Just askin’.”

We spilt up and searched the place. Came up with nothing.

“What are looking for Marv?” Vale said, sliding up beside me and eyeing the bruise on my cheekbone, which was now turning a dark yellow.

“Stop fussing, Vic,” I said, brushing her aside. “I dunno. Something. Anything. The Wrath didn’t lead us here for no reason. Tess should be here somewhere.”

“Cough. She ain’t under here,” Redwing said, crawling out from under the ring apron. “Maybe he just wanted us out of his way?”

“Crap!” I said, leaning my head back, closing my eyes and rubbing the bridge of my nose. Damn my headache was getting bad. If I didn’t get drink soon I was going to explode. When I opened my eyes, I saw it. Barely there in the moonlight.

“Um,” I said. “Vic, shine your flash light up there.”

And there it was. On the ceiling. Written in what I prayed was red paint:



“So, that wasn’t there before?” the kid asks, pulling a mini-camera from his belt and snapping a shot. “What’s it mean? What beast?”

“Another stupid riddle,” Vale said, taking her own pictures. “A beast that breaks through mountains and weapons? I don’t get it. Maybe a reference to the local arms market? Didn’t you do a story about an ex-KGB agent nicknamed the beast, Marv?”

The hot twist hit my gut and I couldn’t help but wish there was a way to get a hold of Matches again.

“Get back in the car,” I said. “We’re leaving.”

“What? Marv,” Vicki says, chasing after me as I storm out of the gym and hop into Lucile to get her started. “We haven’t finished! Do you know what the riddle means?”

“It’s not a riddle! Get the damn car. We’re going downtown!”

Vicki slipped into the back and the kid jumped into the passenger seat.

“Seriously, dude. We should figure that riddle out first. Maybe I can call the boss….”

“Save your quarter,” I said, giving Lucile a blast of gas as we hit the freeway. “That wasn’t a riddle. It’s a canto.”

“A whatso?”

“Doesn’t Batman make you read?”

“He tries…”

“A canto is a verse. Like in poetry.”

“Poetry? Aw man…So you know what the beast is in the poem.”

“Yup.”

“Ok, smart alec, stop playing mystery man,” said Vale, leaning forward in her seat. “Who is the beast?”

“The Devil.”

We could already see the flames when we rounded the corner of Miller and Englehart streets. Dante’s Inferno was on fire. The fire seemed only to be in the building’s top storey where the Penguin had his special VIP rooms. Trust me, I’ve been up there. It’s enough to make Larry Flynt blush.

Even so, the Gotham fire department must have been alerted by now, but no fire trucks in sight. You have to understand, this is Gotham. There’s more than one mobster, leg breaker, cop and con man with deep pockets that would be more than happy to see Cobblepot’s empire reduced to ashes. Bribes and pay-off are what makes the world go round in this town.

Gotta love Gotham.

Or not.

I didn’t see him until we pulled up. Sitting on curb, sobbing. His monocle cracked and his beak of a nose bloody. Playing an old, out of tune fiddle. Gotham’s Nero. Oswald Cobblepot. The Penguin.

We piled out of Lucile, and Redwing vanished into the building. “For a quick recon,” he said.

Vicki and I knelt down beside Cobblepot.

“Penguin,” I said. “What the hell is…”

“No!” Cobblepot shrieked, swinging the fiddle at my head. I rolled back on my ass to avoid eating the strings. “No! Do not call me that! Don’t! Ever!”

“I thought you told me he wanted to be called the Penguin,” Vale whispered in my ear.

“I did,” I said. “Uh, Oswald what’s going…”

“I thought I could use it Mr. Fynn. I really did,” Penguin said, plucking at the strings of his fiddle like a forlorn child. “I could be a somebody. Feared and known, you see. Feared and known. So I used it. The name. I used it. Falcone is the one who called me that. The bastard thought it was funny. Penguin. A flightless bird. Can you imagine?”

“Oswald, this isn’t the time…”

“They mocked me, Mr. Fynn. Mocked me. Called me Penguin. So I stole it from them. Yes I did. Stole it. Tried to use it,” he said, breaking a string with one of his stubby fingers. But he kept on plucking. “But now it’s all gone. It’s all going to burn. The man in black said so. Burn. Burn. Burn….”

“Okay…Mr. Cobblepot has gone bye-bye,” Vale said. “But the man in black…”

“The Wrath!” It was Redwing, standing at the side of the building. “The upper floors are cooked, so we don’t have much time. But he’s in there. And he has Hartigan.”


“Ok,” I reached into the car and opened the glove box. It was still there, where I left it. A 9mm glock. Fully loaded. I lit a cigarette and took a long drag. Tasted like heaven. “Let’s go.”

“Uh Mickey, I don’t like guns,” Redwing said.

“And I think your cape is stupid. Let’s go!”

Which brings us to right here, right now. The inferno in the Inferno...


“Cough Vicki must have got Tess out of here, kid,” I say. “I can’t see anything.”

“We should head for that back exit! Maybe we can find them outside”

We stagger along the walls, inching toward the door at the back of the Inferno. Through the smoke I can see the door. It’s only a few feet away. So close so easy. Then I hear that damned hiss.

The kid is knocked to the ground before I can turn around. Jesus, the Wrath is big up close. Maybe bigger than Batman. He backhands me, sending me sprawling along the floor. With a kick, the bastard pushes a burning cross beam down on me. I roll to avoid it, but it pins my legs.

“Ahg!” I squeal, trying to pull free. “Come on you pansy! Lets cough step outside and cough handle this like men…

The Wrath says nothing. Unfazed by the hell fire around us, glides toward the fallen, unmoving Redwing. Silently pulls that flamethrower from his robes again. Points it right at the boy’s head.

“Hey! Hey you son of bitch! We’re not done yet! Come on back over here!” My chest burns from the smoke filling my lungs. My head pounds and my vision is starting to blur. It’s hard to hear anything but the roar of the fire. I’m almost free of the beam, but I’ve run out of time. Finally run out time. Redwing is going to die, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

I hear a thunderclap. Sounds like the roof is finally starting to cave in. I’m going to get crushed by a burning roof a few feet from a door. What a way to end the week. I didn’t even get that last drink.

The Wrath doesn’t move though. In fact, he’s just standing there, still pointing that tube at the kid. Another thunderclap and he jerks back a bit. Another, and the Wrath falls back into the smoke and flame. There’s a sound like the sky has just cracked in two and a pile of burning debris lands on the bastard.

“Get the hell up Marvin. The building’s coming down.” It’s Vale. Holding my smoking glock.

“Marry me,” I say dragging myself to my feet. I pull the kid up off the floor and follow Vicky out the back door. She’s already got Lucile running, and Tess strapped into the front seat.

“Is she…”

“Drugged. But ok, I think. Get the kid in the back. I’m driving “

We pull out as the roof finally and completely collapses in a heap. The building shudders for a moment, as if to take one last hedonistic breath, and the walls cave in. I twist around to watch the rubble burn out of the rear window as Vale steps on the gas. Still playing his fiddle before the ashes of his empire, stands The Penguin.

I pull my last Camel out of my pocket and light up. Vale gives me her look, but says nothing.

“Cough. Cough. Hey…Mickey….did we get ‘im?” the kid says, trying to sit up. “Jeez, man, you look like crap.”

“Takes one to know one kiddo. Yeah we got him,” I say.

“You drag me outta there?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks Mickey. Cough. Thanks.”

“No worries kid. And call me Marv.”

Redwing sits up straight, and pulls his hood up over his head. It covers most of his face. Only his bright blue eyes are easily seen.

“Jason,” he says. “You can call me Jason.”

Epilogue Two:

[shadow=blue,left,300]NEW EMAIL[/shadow]

TO: mfynn@gothamgazette.net

FROM: WofK

RE: INFERNO

Little Friend. You are no doubt surprised to hear I am alive and well. Perhaps you thought I died in those flames. Perhaps. But your thinking is so limited as you do not yet understand the true meaning of the Great Work.

But you have played your role well, Little Friend. Very well. Much better than I expected. Had you not proved yourself that night, you and Miss Hartigan would have been sent to see Her. But you passed the test and have told the world of the Great Work. Now I can truly begin, Little Friend. She will waken. The gate will one day be opened for Her.

I will return to Gotham. Soon I will return. Batman’s young charge will have to be dealt with properly. He is Chosen and must be Sent.

Watch for the signs of my return, Little Friend. Watch for the signs.

The Wrath.

PS. Tell Ms. Vale I’ll be seeing her soon.


THE END?

From the Secret Files of Henri Ducard - Interpol.


Subject: The Wrath

Classification: Serial Killer. Risk Level Assessed A1.

Real name: Unknown

Age: Unknown

Base of operations: Unknown, presumed mobile.

Powers/Skills: Unknown. Believed to expert hand to hand fighter, expert in computer technology and the occult.

Weapons: Small arms, bladed weapons, flame throwers.


NOTES:

Very little is known about the serial killer known only as The Wrath.
Although at least a dozen occult murders are connected to this man, it was not until a recent incident in Gotham City that the existence of the Wrath was confirmed, and even so, several questions remain unanswered.

It appears, and this remains yet to be confirmed, that the Wrath is related somehow to an extinct cult in India that worshiped Kali, the goddess of death. His murders, almost always involving strangling a victim to death before cutting off their hands (we have no idea why this is so. Perhaps he keeps them as trophies?) seem to be done with a religious aim of appeasing this goddess.

He seems to divide people into three groups - the "chosen" and the "selected." Based on intercepted Internet traffic the "chosen" are his intended victims. We do not yet known how or why he chooses certain people. The "selected" are those he wishes to do particular tasks for him. Such as the late Gotham City police Capt. Max Maddox. Maddox appears to have aided the Wrath for several years, although we do not know why or how they met.

The "selected" may well be killed by the Wrath, although not in the above ritual manner.

The "forgotten" are merely those the Wrath has no interest in at all.

His methods remains utterly mysterious. In some ways they mirror the methods of the Batman of Gotham City, albeit with a more lethal end goal in mind.

Although we can track his victims going back to 1998, the Wrath has only been seen once, in Gotham, and no clear photos were taken. We were able to create the above composite image of The Wrath based on information from Marvin Fynn of the Gotham Gazette and other sources. It is a best fit image, and should not be taken as 100 percent accurate.