The sitting room was just as expensively furnished as the
rest of the mansion. Despite the urgency of her mission, she couldn’t resist
taking a moment to snoop around.
Careful, she warned herself. Don’t dawdle too long.
A set of framed photos, some noticeably singed around the
edges, occupied a place of honor upon a table She recognized Thomas and Martha
Wayne, tragically murdered in an alley more than three decades ago. A third
frame held a portrait of an attractive brunette who somehow managed to look serious,
even when she was smiling for the camera.
Rachel Dawes, realized the maid, who had done her homework. Harvey
Dent’s dead girlfriend. Killed by the Joker—or so they say—shortly before Dent
was killed by the Batman.
The row of pictures was like a miniature cemetery,
complete with headstones. The maid ran her fingers over the gilded frames
before moving on to the most conspicuous oddity in the room—a full-sized
archery target mounted to a large wooden cabinet. More than a dozen arrows were
stuck in the target, clustered around the bulls-eye. Intrigued, she reached out
to inspect one of them, only to yank her hand back as a new arrow thwacked
into place, only inches from her fingers.
Startled, she spun around to see Bruce Wayne, looking
rather more haggard than the dashing billionaire playboy the world remembered.
He stood at the other end of the room, clutching a large compound bow. She was
impressed, despite herself.
She couldn’t remember the last time someone had snuck up
on her.
Bruce lowered the bow. He put it aside and picked up his
cane.
“I’m. . . I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Wayne,” the maid
stammered sheepishly. She struck him as very young and embarrassed. “It is Mr.
Wayne, isn’t it?”
He nodded and limped toward her.
“Although you don’t have any long nails,” she babbled
nervously, “or facial scars…” Her voice trailed off.
Bruce inspected the inquisitive young intruder. He didn’t
recognize her as one of the regular maids. Must be a temp taken on for
tonight’s festivities, he figured. Couldn’t resist snooping around.
“Is that what they say about me?” he asked. She shrugged.
“It’s just that…nobody ever sees you.”
That’s the idea, he thought.
A flawless pearl necklace graced her slender neck. Bruce
came closer.
“That’s a beautiful necklace,” he commented. “Reminds me
of one that belonged to my mother. It can’t be the same one, though. Her pearls
are in this safe—”
A large mahogany bureau rested against a wall. He used his
cane to press down on a recessed wooden panel, which slid aside to reveal a
hidden compartment.
“—which
the manufacturer assured me was uncrackable.”
The door of the safe swung open.
“Oops,” the maid said. “Nobody told me it was
supposed to be uncrackable.”
Her whole attitude changed in an instant. She dropped the
coy, girlish act and took on a cockier, more confident posture. It reminded him
of the way he had once discarded the role of a careless, immature playboy,
whenever it was time to let his true self out. He was impressed, despite
himself.
Bruce nodded at the pearls.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you take those.” They had been a
gift from his father, which his mother had worn on the night they were both
murdered. In a very real sense, they had cost his parents their lives. He
wasn’t about to let anyone walk away with them.
“Look,” she said, smiling, as she stepped toward him,
acting not at all concerned about being caught red-handed. She sized him up
with a look. “You wouldn’t hit a woman any more than I would beat up a
cripple…”
Without a warning, she kicked the cane out from under him.
A karate chop to his shoulders dropped him to the floor. His bad knee screamed
in protest as he hit the carpet. He clutched the injured joint.
“Of course,” she added, “sometimes exceptions have to be
made.”
With a move worthy of an Olympic gymnast, she vaulted onto
the bureau, taking the pearls with her. A high window provided a ready egress.
“Good night, Mr. Wayne,” she said teasingly, before flipping backward out the
window. Bruce heard her touch down lightly in the gardens outside.
* * *
--Later in the movie, an extensive high-speed road chase takes place after Bane and his crew hijack the Gotham stock exchange. Batman joins the fray and ends up cornered by the police. While an entire car chase scene is certainly incompatible with the written word, an important piece comes at the end of this particular chase scene where Batman finds himself cornered, or so it seems. Whereas in the movie no words are necessary to show that Batman is cornered, in the text, the novelizer has to help us along, making sure that we know that Batman has no escape. The surprise getaway on Batman's part (both visually and aurally) is surprising and thrilling when viewed on-screen, and the audience can see what the policemen see. However, in the text, the description of the vehicle is vague and it is clear that the novelizer could only guess what it was supposed to look like in the finished product. A visually stunning set-piece is reduced to a "black-matte aircraft" with "overlapping wings," "grilled metal vents," and "dual motors" and a "deafening roar" is conveyed by a capital VAROOM with four o's. The author has no choice but to attempt to make the visual verbal.
“How did you let him go?” Foley demanded.
The radio squawked in his grip.
“He’s got a lot of firepower.”
“And you don’t?” Foley wasn’t accepting any excuses.
“We’re not letting one nut with a bad attitude and some
fancy gadgets run this town again, you hear me?”
“He’s heading back downtown.”
Foley grinned.
“Then he’s as dumb as he dresses.” SWAT teams were already
in place downtown following the attack on the stock exchange. He got the horn
to Allen. “Close it down, gentlemen.”
Blake turned the cruiser around, joining the thousands of
other cops converging on the downtown area. He’d never seen this many units
chasing after a single suspect. Jockeying for position amidst the swarm of
vehicles, he managed to get out ahead of the other patrol cars.
His eyes widened as he spotted Batman up ahead. He
recognized the vigilante’s one-of-a-kind cycle from grainy news footage of
Batman’s confrontation with the Joker years ago. Batman had once flipped over a
speeding semi-trailer using the vehicle’s built-in grappling hook and cable.
Despite his visit ot Wayne Manor, Blake had never really expected to see it
with his own eyes.
Is this my fault? he wondered. Did I drag him out of hiding?
Batman zoomed down a wide boulevard, only to find another
wave of cop cars charging at him from the other end of the street. Soaring
choppers caught him in their searchlights, exposing him to the world. He was
trapped in a vise made up of two oncoming walls of cars.
But he didn’t slow down. His cycle did a sharp
ninety-degree turn, flipping over in the process, and darted into the
sheltering darkness of a large blind alley. Cops cars squealed to a halt,
blocking the entrance. The choppers hovered above them, providing air support.
It looked like Batman had nowhere left to go.
Blake hit the breaks at the perimeter of the police lines,
sealing the bottleneck. Foley jumped out of the cruiser and stalked toward the
narrow opening between the buildings.
The young cop hurried after him.
“Like a rat in a trap,” Foley said confidently. He reached
out for a bullhorn which was thrust into his hand. He started to raise it to
his lips.
VAROOOOM.
A deafening roar, coming from the alley, drowned out
whatever the deputy commissioner intended to say. The assembled cops exchanged
puzzled looks. None of them, including Blake, knew what sort of machine could
produce such a roar.
That’s no motorcycle, Blake realized.
“You may have the wrong animal there, sir,” a nearby cop
said.
The copters’ spotlights blew out and a massive dark
cyclone roared out of the narrow roadway, high above the street level, spinning
the choppers sideways. Blake stared in awe at an intimidating matte-black
aircraft like nothing he had ever seen before. Overlapping wings caught the
air, while shielding grilled metal vents. A transparent windshield offered a
glimpse of Btman seated inside a heavily armored cockpit. Dual rotors produced
a powerful downdraft, forcing the cops to the ground. Flying dirt and litter
were whipped about by artificial winds.
The craft thundered over the assemblage of GCPD, taking
off into the sky.
Blake couldn’t resist.
“You sure it was him?” he asked.
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