A poignant memory surfaced briefly. There had been a time, Alfred recalled, when he had spotted a happy couple a few tables away and—just for a moment or two—he had truly thought that the man might be Bruce, at large and at peace. But then the man had turned toward him, revealing the face of a stranger.

He vividly recalled the bitter disappointment he had felt at that moment.

“I never wanted you to come back to Gotham,” he confessed. “I knew there was nothing here for you but pain and tragedy. And I wanted more for you than that.” He paused to let his heartfelt word sink in. “I still do.”

There was nothing more to say. He turned and quietly left the cave, leaving Bruce alone with his obsessions—and the ceaseless rustling of the bats.

CHAPTER FIVE

The sewage treatment plant was on the outskirts of Gotham, near the river. Officer John Blake had expected it to smell, but the odor was more chemical than putrid. Thick pipes and other conduits linked various tanks, pumps, and basins. Squat, ugly buildings were painted a dull industrial green. The whole complex was intended to purify the fetid output of Gotham’s sewers before discharging the excess effluent into the river.

Or at least that was the theory. Blake didn’t want to think about how effective the process was, or wasn’t.

He and his partner, Tyler Ross, got out of their patrol car. Ross was a twenty-something Asian-American, only a few years older than Blake. They had been partners for nearly a year now, with Ross showing him the ropes. Blake knew he could count on his partner to watch his back.

It was early in the morning and they had a long shift ahead of them. Although fall had only just arrived, a nip in the air warned that winter was coming. The plant’s supervisor, a middle-aged guy named Jenkins, led them to a long concrete trough filled with foul-looking water. A greasy film coated the surface—and the lifeless body stretched out on a rusty metal grate above the basin. The body looked young.

“They wash up a couple times a month,” Jenkins explained. “More when it gets colder. Homeless, sheltering in the tunnels. We had to pull him out to clear the basin, but other than that we didn’t touch him.” He kept back, letting the cops approach the corpse. “They come out by the catchment basin.”

Blake knelt to inspect the body, which appeared to belong to a teenage boy, seventeen years old at most. Ragged, well-worn clothes looked like they had seen hard use even before the body had ended up in the sewers. One sneaker had come off the dead kid’s foot. Dead, glassy eyes gazed up into oblivion. Blake took a closer look at the face—and froze.

Oh crap, he thought.

Ross didn’t miss his partner’s reaction.

“What?”

“Name’s Jimmy,” Blake said, feeling sick to his stomach. “He’s from St. Swithin’s, the boy’s home where I…coach ball sometimes.” That wasn’t the full story, but Blake didn’t feel like getting into it right now. Not even with Ross. His throat tightened.