December 24

Batman could tell by the illumination of the clouds in the night sky that the full moon hung behind them. He was standing in the bell tower of God's Cathedral of Cast Iron in the factory district of Gotham City. The cathedral was by far Gotham's most immediately recognizable architectural feature. It was actually constructed of stone, much like the city's other large churches, but its outside was covered by a two inch layer of cast iron. Batman had often wondered what had possessed the designer of the great church to cover the outer structure with a layer of what had become tarnished, weather-beaten metal. He had never taken the time to look up the exact history of the structure.

It was Christmas, one of the many holidays that held no meaning to the Batman. It was either an overly commercialized excuse to sell aluminum trees and various cotton products, or a religious holiday that no one seemed to be celebrating for the right reasons anymore. Neither interpretation held any meaning whatsoever to the Batman. He never bought Christmas gifts, and if there were any Bibles in his father's library--and there undoubtedly were--Batman hadn't read so much as a verse of the good book in twenty-five years.

While most of the harsher cities of the world seemed to take a break from their hostility during the Christmas season--even New York was a different city in the days before December 25th--no such change in atmosphere could be sensed in Gotham. The Christmas tree lighting ceremony in Gotham Plaza hadn't attracted a crowd of more than a hundred or so people in nearly fifteen years, and once the tree was decorated, dozens of ornaments invariably turned up missing. The crime rate had never dropped during the Yuletide season, not as long as Batman had been alive. In fact, in recent years, it seemed to him that the crimes he had to stop were greater in number on the days leading up to Christmas.

Gotham was a city where everyone, even the innocent, were guilty of something. No one was totally clean. No one was unsoiled by the filth of crime, poverty, violence, or corruption. Everyone was affected by it one way or another, and it was no different on Christmas Eve.

Batman crouched on the ledge of the bell tower window, preparing to jump. His eyes, rolling from side to side beneath his cowl, surveyed the surrounding buildings, then moved down to the streets below. He reached into his utility belt and removed a length of reinforced polyfiber cord, a small grappling hook attached to one end. He also removed from his belt a yellow gun, slightly smaller than an automatic handgun, and pushed the cylindrical end of the grappling hook into the barrel of the gun until a click sounded from inside the gun. Batman selected a target on a building several hundred feet away and prepared to fire the gun.

His ears forced him to look down, hearing three sharp bangs. Batman brought the gun to his chest, then leaned over slightly and peered down at the sidewalk directly in front of the cathedral entrance. Dimly visible thanks to the light of a flickering street lamp was a man, short in stature, white hair sticking out from beneath a hat, pounding on the cathedral door. Batman's eyes zeroed in on the large handgun the old man held in his left hand.

There were undoubtedly people inside the cathedral, if not worshippers, then surely a priest. Batman retracted the grappling hook and cord, replacing everything in his belt, and jumped off the window.

Taking the ends of his cape, Batman used his dark blue cloak as a parachute to slow his fall. He hit the ground several feet to the left of the old man, crouching down, then standing slowly, making sure the old man could see him. The old man seemed unfazed, simply turning to face Batman, the gun at his side.

"Reason why you're carrying a gun, pounding on the door of a church?" Batman asked simply, staring at the man. The old man pushed the brim of his hat up with his index finger, then looked at the gun at his side.

"Someone's going to die tonight," the old man answered calmly, "someone whose time has come." The old man returned his attention to the cathedral door, resuming his pounding. Batman took a step forward, and the old man raised the gun up at him, still looking at the door as if the Batman caused him no concern at all. Batman's leg lanced out from behind his dark cloak, kicking the gun from the old man's hand.

A look of distress on his face, the old man turned and made a dash for the fallen weapon. Batman caught the old man by the collar of his shirt and jerked him up straight, causing his hat to fly off behind him. "Is it the priest?" Batman asked, pulling the old man up to his own face. "Did he molest your daughter? Have an affair with your wife? Or is it someone else inside?" The old man remained silent, most likely from fear. "Answer me!" Batman implored angrily.

"It's not . . . the priest," the old man answered weakly. It was obvious that he was suffering from some sort of respiratory virus; his voice was a phlegmy rasp, and he let out a loud, harsh cough a moment later.

"Then who?"

"Why, me, of course."

After hesitating for a moment, Batman released the old man and stepped back from him several feet. The man made another move for the gun, but Batman quickly stepped between him and the weapon. "Do you mind telling me exactly what you were doing pounding on the door of a cathedral on Christmas Eve--with a handgun--when you're suicidal?"

The old man took in a strained breath, then pushed his hands into his pockets. "My name is Harmon Reynolds." The old man presented the cathedral with a wave of his hand. "I built this place."

Batman stared at the man calling himself Harmon Reynolds with a disbelief that would have been plainly evident had not over half of Batman's face been covered by a mask. "Harmon Reynolds, the industrialist?"

The old man put his fist to his mouth as he coughed again. "That's me."

"Then, I assume the reason you were trying to get into the cathedral was because you wanted to die inside a building of your own creation."

Harmon Reynolds nodded. "Pretty close. In fact, this is the last building ever constructed by Reynolds Building Unlimited. I put her up in nineteen forty-six, just after the Second World War." He reached out and pressed the palm of his hand to the side of the building, looking at the old metal with longing affection. "She was my pet, my big, frivolous expenditure. I guess, in some strange way, this place was in celebration of our winning the war."

Batman looked at the old man, watching as Harmon Reynolds ran his hand over the old, weather-beaten iron plates that tiled the outside of the cathedral. "You talk about this place like it was a sad place for you. Was it after you built the cathedral that your company collapsed?"

Reynolds looked at the Batman, amazement in his eyes. "So, you know about my bad fortune after the war?"

"I only know the basics. From what I understand, Reynolds Building Limited folded in the early nineteen fifties, after filing for bankruptcy. It made headlines, since back then a construction factory closing was a very rare occurrence, given the baby boom, and the tremendous rate at which houses were being built."

The old man grinned at Batman, glanced back at his cathedral for a moment, then returned his gaze to Batman. "You know just about all there is to know. Local catholic groups thought the idea of a 'Cast Iron Cathedral' was a mockery. Even the Vatican voiced their extreme disapproval. It was the biggest mistake I ever made, and the last major project my company ever undertook."

Batman raised his chin slightly as a realization hit him. "Then, there's no one inside?"

"Are you kidding?" Reynolds asked, laughing weakly. "After the Vatican condemned the place, no priest would go within a mile of the Cathedral. Why did you think the door was locked? It was a joke, a very offensive one."

"One that cost you your company," Batman added. "But, that was over forty years ago. Why are you attempting suicide now?"

"Perhaps you've noticed my cough. While you might think that it's just a cold, or maybe a case of bronchitis, it is far more serious than that." Batman was looking at Reynolds as empathetically as a man wearing a costume designed to strike fear into people was capable of appearing. "I have advanced tuberculosis in my lungs. I've heard that when you die from TB, you actually drown in your own blood, when it fills your lungs. I haven't survived for the past forty years by the skin of my teeth to just die like that."

Batman gestured behind him at the gun. "So, you're going to shoot yourself?"

Reynolds nodded, smiling. He seemed very cheerful about the idea. "Right in the head. I am going to regain control of my destiny."

Batman was justifiably confused. "You've survived all this time. Forty years. And after all of that struggle, you're just going to kill yourself?"

"I'm going to die one of two ways, my dark friend. If I don't suffocate from having my own blood fill my lungs, then I'm going to die from a self-inflicted bullet wound. The latter might sound a bit harsher, but it is definitely quicker. And, I might add, a damn sight better than drowning to death."

"But, why now? Why Christmas Eve?"

Harmon Reynolds shrugged. "Why not? Actually, December 25 is the anniversary of the day the cathedral was opened for the first time. The only people who showed up were protesters. See, the stone was all up in November of nineteen forty-five, but it took another year to figure out how we were going to get the iron on there."

Batman folded his arms, the first remotely human gesture he had made while talking with Reynolds. "Why did you put iron on the outside of a cathedral, anyway? Seems almost as if you were asking for trouble."

Reynolds smiled in amused agreement. "I dreamt of an iron church a few years before my company got real big during the war. Besides, I was young then. A punk. In a way, I guess I wanted to rile somebody up. I ended up riling nearly everyone. After the cathedral was finished, no one seemed too interested in Reynolds Construction anymore."

Batman regarded Reynolds shrewdly. "You planned on going inside the cathedral, waiting until it was Christmas, then shooting yourself? Am I pretty close?"

Reynolds made an "O" with his thumb and forefinger. "Right on the nose."

"I would assume you had keys to this place, it was so important to you. Why were you pounding on the doors?"

Reynolds dug into his pocket and pulled out an old metal key ring. Three keys hung from it. He tossed it to Batman. "One's to my apartment, about two blocks from here; one's to my lock box, at the bank, and one used to fit the door to this place. But, the damn lock is rusted. I can't even slide the key in."

Batman stepped up to the lock, keeping one eye on Reynolds. "Step back a second," Batman commanded firmly. Reynolds held up the palms of his hands and took two big steps away from Batman.

"Don't trust me?"

Batman took a small, pocket knifelike device from his utility belt, as well as a flashlight. He shined the light into the keyhole, then unfolded a thin lock pick from the pocket knife device. After examining the lock for several seconds, he inserted the lock pick, carefully twisting and sliding it until his trained ear heard the tumblers click into place inside. Standing upright, Batman grasped the handle and pulled the door open.

Harmon Reynolds stared at the open door for a moment, almost afraid to look inside. He knew full well that no one had been inside this building for well over thirty years. He had rented it out to a charity organization in the late 1950's, but that was the last use it had seen. Reynolds still clung to ownership of the old cathedral, and it was his mere existence that had kept the huge, grotesque stone and iron monstrosity from being demolished. The old man finally took a step forward.

Reynolds entered the building, looking deeply into the darkness that had covered the interior of the building undisturbed for decades. Batman focused his flashlight on the wall of the doorway, finding a set of light switches. Certain that the lights were useless, but curious just the same, he reached out and flipped the switches to the ON positions. To the surprise of both men, the lights of the great church flickered to a slow but nonetheless bright life.

Batman turned instinctively to the opposite wall of the cathedral, where a movement had caught his eye. Four men, all appearing to be in their late twenties, were rising hurriedly from old canvas cots, three of them holding semiautomatic handguns, the other lifting a double barrel 12 gauge shotgun.

"Get outside!" Batman yelled at Reynolds. The old man obeyed as Batman began a careful advance towards the gunmen. Harmon Reynolds scooped up his gun from the sidewalk and turned back for the cathedral. When he reached the door, he saw Batman drop into a low crouch, flooring one of the gunmen with a lightning fast leg sweep.

Batman took hold of the frame of the fallen gun man's bunk and swung it at the next closest aggressor, toppling the grungy thug to the floor. Stepping on that assailant's chest, Batman moved quickly for the shotgun toter. The combatant held the gun up to Batman's chest, but the muzzle was deflected by the masked man's left hand, and the contents of the gun were strewn up at the high ceiling of the cathedral.

"I got the last one, Batman!" Harmon Reynolds shouted out, pulling back the hammer of his weapon. Batman was distracted for only an instant. But in that instant, the one remaining gunman drew a bead on the old man and fired. Batman managed to knock the gun to the side at the last moment, but the bullet still found rest below the left shoulder of Harmon Reynolds.

Batman snatched away the gun, then drove his knee brutally into the gut of the remaining aggressor, following up with a solid right to the jaw of the doubled-over man. Batman quickly surveyed the battle scene, then hurried to the side of Reynolds, who was clutching his shoulder, lying in the doorway, half in and half out of the cathedral.

Pulling away the old man's hand, Batman examined the wound. He removed a disinfectant from his utility belt and applied it evenly over the bullet wound. He reached into his glove and tore away several squares of the insulated inner lining. He put the wad of cloth in Reynolds' right hand, guiding it to the wound. "Here. Press down hard to stop the bleeding. I'll call for an ambulance."

Reynolds grimaced, coughing several times. "That's good, 'cause, you know something?" Batman acknowledged the question with a glance. "I don't want to die this way."

Batman took his hand away from his belt buckle, which controlled the radio transmitter concealed within his cowl. "That's good to hear." Batman put his hand back to his belt buckle, pulled a small microphone to his mouth from inside his cowl, and looked to the side as he spoke, alerting the local ambulance station, as well as the police, of the situation. That done, he knelt down beside Reynolds.

The old man laughed weakly. Batman looked at him inquisitively, and Reynolds said, "And to think I was actually going to shoot myself."

Batman applied pressure to the cloth-covered wound, allowing Reynolds to remove his hand. "I only wish you could have been persuaded in another way. Those punks are homeless. I recognized them. They're small-time drug dealers."

"Must be pretty small-time to be sleeping on cots in an old cathedral," Harmon Reynolds mused, his voice strained. "Hell of a Christmas, eh, Batman?"

Batman just shook his head, looking inside at the men who were lying unconscious on the cathedral floor. "There is no Christmas in Gotham City, Harmon. There never has been."

Harmon Reynolds didn't seem to agree. He opened his eyes, and tried to sit up. "You shouldn't move," Batman offered. Reynolds ignored the advice.

"Help me up, please. I'm sick of lying down." Batman put his arm around the shoulders of Reynolds and helped him to a sitting position. "You're wrong. I can remember a time when Christmas in Gotham was a pretty nice time."

Batman had decided a moment ago that he would stay with Harmon Reynolds until the ambulance arrived. He settled down into a cross-legged sitting position across from the old man. "Really?" Batman prompted. "Could you tell me more?"

Reynolds smiled the smile of a storyteller who ached to mete out his craft again. "Well, this time I'm thinking of was awhile ago. Before I built the cathedral. During the depression, ironically enough . . ."

Batman listened to the old man's tired, raspy voice, and was soon so enthralled that he didn't notice the ambulance until it had stopped in front of them, and turned off its sirens.