Moonlight rippled atop the water that flowed beneath the metal grate. Bracing himself for the worst, Blake thought he spotted something that poked up briefly through the grille before sinking back into the currents below. Something pale groped for the air.

Fingers?

He ran forward and thrust his hand down into the basin. He groped frantically until—his heart pounding—he caught hold of what felt like another man’s wrist.

Yes! It was Gordon.

Straining, he tugged the commissioner up through an opening in the grille and hauled him onto the concrete pathway. His breathing ragged, the commissioner looked barely alive. His face was gray, and his glasses were missing. Dripping clothes were soaked with blood and water. Crimson swirls streaked the puddle that began pooling beneath his trembling body.

Blake could tell at once that Gordon had been shot more than once. He shouted anxiously for help.

“Man down!” Then he realized the commissioner was trying to speak.

“Bane,” Gordon whispered urgently, almost too softly to hear. “Under the city. Warn Gotham, warn—”

Blake leaned in closer, trying to make out what he was saying. The cop felt torn between fear and relief.

At least he’s still alive, he thought.

But for how much longer?

CHAPTER EIGHT

Blake had never been to Wayne Manor before. Its stately stone walls and towers made it look more like a castle than a house. High lancet windows and marble columns added to the grandeur. Gargoyles gazed down from the upper stories. An elegant parapet circled the roof. Stone spires stabbed at the sky. All that was missing was a moat and drawbridge. The mansion belonged in some far-off European kingdom, not mere miles away from downtown Gotham.

He found it hard to believe that the whole place was home to just one guy, even if that guy was Bruce Wayne. You could move an entire orphanage into it, and still have room for a small army.

An elderly butler greeted him at the door. Based on his research, Blake recognized Alfred Pennyworth, a man who had served the Wayne family for at least two generations. He wondered how much the old servant knew about his master’s secrets.

“I need to see Bruce Wayne,” Blake said.

“I’m sorry,” the butler said. “Mr. Wayne doesn’t take unscheduled calls. Not even from police officers.”

“And if I go to get a warrant, in the investigation of Harvey Dent’s murder?” Blake asked. “Would that still count as ‘unscheduled’?”

The butler frowned and gave the young policeman a closer look.

Minutes later, Blake found himself waiting in an opulent study, surrounded by antiques and heirlooms he was almost afraid to touch. He fidgeted upon a well-upholstered couch, still wondering if he was doing the right thing. He had rehearsed this visit a thousand times in his head, but it was one thing to imagine it, and another thing to actually go through with it. What if he was making a tremendous mistake?