Alfred answered the doorbell somewhat reluctantly. He wasn’t expecting anyone and the service people always came around to the trade entrance so this was likely to be something he’d rather not deal with.
“Mr. Fox, what a pleasant surprise to see you again. What might I do for you?”
“Hello, Alfred. I need to see Bruce, would you get him, please.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s not in at the moment. I’d be happy to tell you that you were here and wish to speak with him if you’d like.”
He didn’t move. “Could you tell me when you expect him to be back?”
“I’m really not at liberty to discuss that, sir, however I’ll be sure to mention your concern the moment I see him.”
It was said—as always—politely but with firmness. Lucius knew he’d hit a brick wall as far as this went. “Is Dick here? I haven’t seen him in a while either. Do you mind if I say hello to him?”
Alfred paused for the slightest moment, “Of course, sir. If you’ll follow me I’ll call him for you.” Led to the main living room, Lucius spent several minutes looking at the art on the walls, the Monets and the Renoirs all purchased by and for the late Mrs. Wayne.
“Hi, Mr. Fox.” Dick walked in dressed casually in jeans and a cashmere, dark blue turtleneck. They shook hands with the older man getting the distinct impression that Dick would like him to leave. Now.
“Good to see you again Dick. I was hoping you might have some influence in getting your guardian to favor us with his presence at the office. I don’t think I’ve seen him in almost two months and, frankly, I need to talk some things over with him.”
“He’s not here.”
“I know, Alfred told me but I was hoping that you could get a message to him.” The boy didn’t say anything. “Dick?”
“I’ll tell him as soon as I see him. I promise.” Dick remained standing and was clearly anxious to get on with his evening. “I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but I…”
“…Have things to do. All right, take care of yourself and please tell him I was here.” Lucius left, convinced that neither Dick nor Alfred knew where Bruce was or when he’d be back and for the first time since he’d disappeared, he was worried.
* * *
“Bruce, you finished with those cows already?”
“Just done, ‘There anything else you need done?”
Tom smiled, Bruce was working out better than he could have hoped and he was glad to have him here. It was good to have another man to talk with, too. He loved Martha but she had her point of view and that’s all there was to it. “Let’s get some breakfast before we move on to fixing that fence, okay?”
“’Sounds good, Tom, I’m hungry this morning.”
They started back to the house. “’Late night? You have a girl stashed somewhere you’re not telling me about?”
Bruce’s face went hard for a second before he laughed. “Me? Who’d have me?”
* * *
Back upstairs, Dick knew there was something different about his room and that was why he was so brusque with Lucius. It wasn’t on purpose, but he’d just noticed things when he’d been called down. He looked around until he found what it was; there, right on the top of the bookcase. It was his old scrapbook, the one his parents—well, really his mother, had made with the Flying Grayson’s clippings. It was out of place. He carefully reached up and pulled it down then, sitting on the edge of his bed flipped through the thing, horrified as he turned the pages.
Every image, every picture, every ticket stub and program, every PR shot, every costume swatch, every saved fan letter was marred. The personal family pictures were equally destroyed; everything was torn, slashed, written on, soaked in ink; unreadable, unrepairable, ruined beyond repair.
Dick was stunned, angry, hurt, crushed and disbelieving. Who? How? When? Why?
Looking further around the room he saw other, subtle damage. His computer’s wires were cut. The screen to his TV was scribbled on with marker. His favorite jacket was slashed, still hanging on the back of his desk chair. The framed Flying Grayson poster over his bed had it’s glass cracked in a top corner and some liquid had, somehow, been forced in, marring the print.
Devastated, close to tears of anger and frustration just sat on the bed, wondering how this could have happened.
It was Bruce. It had to be Bruce but what the hell was going on?
* * *
“So Ollie, any word from the Bat? He hasn’t been to a meeting in a couple of months; what’s he up to?”
“’Don’t know, Barry. It’s not like we hang out, y’know.”
“Y’think he’s still upset about Catwoman taking that bellyflop from that building? He had a thing for her, didn’t he?”
“The Bat falling for a woman on the dark side of the force? Yeah, right.”
“’Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.” He stopped. “Well, not to him, no but still. You know those bad girls have their charms.”
“So you’re saying those rumors about him and the kid aren’t true?”
“Not funny, Ollie. Seriously, not funny.”
* * *
Tom was beginning to have major concerns about Bruce. He was still a good worker and a welcomed extra pair of hands, but he was changing and not, it seemed, for the better. For one thing he was getting way the hell too intense about everything. When old Maryellen, a good producing Jersey they’d had for fifteen years, had to be put down the man seemed to take it as a personal affront and muttered something about ‘murdering an old friend’.
Bruce’d taken the old shot gun from the den wall and blasted an empty shed until it looked like Swiss cheese, then come back inside, apologized and spent the next few days repairing the thing. He’d been quiet and touchy for a couple of days after that and kept to himself.
It was a bit much; this was a working farm and they dealt with this sort of thing all the time. The man had to learn to cope better than that.
Then there was the business about his walking the fields and taking off in his jeep for hours at night, often not coming in until close to dawn with no explanations. All right, sure, he didn’t really owe them any explanations but it was still odd night after night.
Then there was the whole privacy thing. Okay, the man deserved his privacy as much as anyone, but the day Martha tried to do him a favor by washing his clothes for him, you’d have thought she’d burst in and strip searched him instead of just going into his room to pick up dirty clothes.
And that was another thing, the man was as secret as the damn CIA, for God’s sake. Tom wasn’t stupid; he knew damn well who Bruce Thomas Wayne was. He might live on a farm in the boonies, but they had a TV and he knew his way around a computer as well as the next man. You had to when you were trying to run a small business.
He’d figured that one out a couple of weeks after he’d arrived on their doorstep and then he’d had Steve over at the local police station run his plates and found out the jeep was registered to a Bruce T Wayne of 1 Brixton Lane, Brixton, New York.
Bruce Wayne, multi-billionaire, owner of Wayne Enterprises, well-known lady’s man and someone who’d been dodging those rumors about some teenaged kid for years. Hell’s bells, you practically couldn’t open People magazine without seeing his face plastered on some story.
About the only thing Tom didn’t think about was why the man was in his guestroom; people have a million reasons for wanting to disappear for a while and that was none of his business. There weren’t any suggestions that he was hiding from the law or that he’d done anything wrong. Maybe he just wanted a challenge. Maybe he wanted to see how the other ninety-nine percent of the world lived. Maybe he was tired of the rat race. Maybe he liked farm work. Maybe he was curious about what it was like to be a nobody.
It didn’t matter why he was here as far as Tom was concerned. Bruce wasn’t trouble, he hadn’t harmed anyone so far as he knew and he was usually good company.
But it was still damn odd and the man seemed to have some demons that needed to be worked out.
* * *
“Clark? I’m really sorry to bother you, but do you have a couple of minutes? I mean I can wait if you’re busy, but I was kind of hoping…”
“No problem, Dick. You know you can always call me. I’ll be right there.” And he was, in less than five minutes Clark was sitting with Dick in the conservatory adjacent to the indoor pool, talking.
“I know you know where he is, I know you’ve been keeping an eye on him but I don’t think you’re aware of some of the things that have been going on.” Dick told him about the ruined stuff in his room, about the destroyed bike and the feeling that he was being watched and followed.
“Roy spoke to me yesterday, he’s concerned about you, so are the Justice Leaguers.”
“I’ll be okay…”
“Hear me out, please. Bruce isn’t that far from here; he’s upstate working as a hired hand on a small dairy farm.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Dick, please. You must realize that as soon as he went missing I was made aware of it. When ‘things’ started happening I made a point of finding him. I’ve been watching him the last few weeks and I’m convinced that Selina’s death has finally driven him over the edge. You know better than I do how close he’s always been there, certainly as long as you’ve known him. He’s never come to grips with the Wayne’s deaths, thus the whole Batman persona. When he brought you into this house he was much better for a long time, for years. You were the perspective and the lightness to his darkness that he needed.”
“I know that but…”
“I’m convinced that he’s become psychotic, at least temporarily and is blaming you for her death.”
“But I had nothing to do with…”
“I know that, so do you, but that’s not what he believes.”
“So that’s why he’s wrecked my stuff, to get even?”
“Partly, yes, but I think that, more to the point, it’s a warning.”
“Of what?”
“That if he isn’t reined in or doesn’t get help, he may well try to kill you.”
Dick blinked a couple of times. Bruce try to really hurt him? Never happen. Not in this world, not never. “Seriously…”
“There have been other things happening I know you’ve been kept unaware of. Someone with inside knowledge went through Bruce’s private office and the hard files kept there. His e-mail accounts and his personal computers both in his office and here in the study have been used in the last two weeks.”
“He was here in the house? Are you kidding me?”
“Dick, this is Batman we’re dealing with. I’d like you to move out of the Manor for a while, until this is resolved. It’s for your own safety.”
He considered then nodded his head. Jesus, Clark was probably right. Or he might be, anyway. “I’ll go over to the Tower.”
“Too obvious. I’d rather you stayed with me.”
“What about Alfred?’
“I don’t think he’s in any danger, at least not at this point. I’ll keep watch, of course, though. And he can’t know where you are. I’ll let him know you’re safe, but that’s all he needs to know now; for his own safety.”
“Clark, c’mon. Bruce wouldn’t ever hurt me or Alf. He just wouldn’t.” He stopped, paused for a few moments while he mentally reviewed the last couple of months. “Okay, just let me get some stuff and we’ll go.”