Wayne of Gotham Read Online Free PDF Page B

truth: that Bruce reveled in it.
    It all added to the mystery and never approached the truth—an even better cover than before. The connection to Hughes was an obvious one and only needed a little push. Alfred was promoted from “gentleman’s gentleman” to press agent and public relations manager at about that same time. Alfred Pennyworth became the face the media associated with Bruce Wayne whenever anyone came calling or needed a statement. Bruce even reveled in the game, appearing from time to time in a latex mask he had fashioned for himself, hunching over in a wheelchair and wearing large dark glasses, a wide-brimmed panama hat, and an afghan draped around his shoulders. He had forced Alfred to push him around the east gardens in the costume at random intervals until one of the paparazzi showed up on the grounds and managed to snap a slightly out-of-focus image of the two of them going for a stroll. The security sensors placed throughout the grounds of Wayne Manor had alerted Bruce to the intruder’s presence long before the paparazzo saw them. Still, the picture had become the iconic image of Bruce Wayne, the recluse: an incredibly wealthy but broken man. Bruce and Alfred were occasionally forced to repeat versions of this charade whenever other photographers took a chance on the grounds, but that first photograph had become iconic.
    Now maybe they’ll leave me to my work.
    It had been a wonderful dream, but Bruce discovered there is nothing so public as being too private. In time, however, Bruce Wayne faded from interest, only to become a mythic figure whose image had been so reshaped that no one knew any longer what the real Bruce Wayne even looked like.
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    Wayne Estate Grounds / Bristol / 6:32 a.m. / Present Day
    Multibillionaire Bruce Wayne climbed out of the ravine in the cloth canvas jacket, a flat cap on his head. His face was covered in rough stubble. The eyes squinted in the bright, clear morning as he moved from shade to dappled shade beneath the forest of trees. He allowed the footfalls of his hunting boots to smash down through the undergrowth … an unaccustomed luxury.
    The great lawn is across the slope. Father used to host enormous gatherings on that lawn behind the manor.
    The lawns were always impeccably manicured, but now their silence was broken only by the occasional trill of a meadowlark. The magnificent view down toward the north branch of the Gotham River and across the waters to the unique skyline of Gotham itself remained unappreciated. There would be no music. No laughter would disturb a single blade of grass.
    It would make a fine cemetery.
    He needed to think. He had been scanning the invitation card when suddenly, in the darkness of the caverns, his memory had taken him back to a different time.
    Mother enjoyed planning the lawn parties more than all other events; she said the desired result was inevitable if the event was properly arranged. She never could think in the house … she always had to go somewhere she could clear her mind … clear her soul …
    Bruce turned down the slope, away from the lawn just visible through the trees. He had not thought of his mother’s garden in more than a decade. Dead and rotting leaves from unnumbered seasons obscured the old path.
    Bruce stopped, cocking his head to one side.
    The wall was almost completely obscured by tall brush and vines, still full of foliage despite the lateness of the year. He might have missed it altogether except for the fact that the doorway had been completely cleared of brush. The door was weathered and showed only the slightest vestiges of the emerald paint his mother had chosen for it so long ago, but it was free of any debris.
    He had half wondered if the succession of gardeners down the long years had forgotten its existence, as he had. It would seem the garden had been tended after all.
    â€œ If you need to think something through, Bruce,” Martha Wayne said, “you