Part Six
"He hasn't shown up for work in over a week. No one's heard from him, he's not on any cases that anyone knows about and he's not on a vacation unless it's a secret one he hasn't told anyone about. I even checked the hospitals in both Gotham and Bludhaven and no one's seen either Dick Grayson or Nightwing."
"That's not like him, he's so anal he'd show up early for his own funeral."
Wally looked at Roy, confused. "But..."
"Never mind."
Donna turned back to the boys, it was still raining outside and she'd been watching the drops against the window. "I spoke with Alfred last night and he said they haven't heard from him in a week or so either. He tried to pass it off as nothing but he was worried."
"Dick goes off on his own sometimes."
"I know, but he always makes sure that Alfred has a number for him or something, just in case. I really think that something may be wrong." She'd made a decision. "Without Dick here, I'm leader and I want us to find him."
"Ah, c'mon." Roy was clearly unimpressed by the other's concern. "You know he's probably fine and so when we find him, he'll be incredibly pissed in that controlled way he has. Give the guy a few days off, willya?"
He received a hard look for his efforts. "You do whatever you want but I'm going to find him—jerk. Wally?"
"Whatever you want, I'm there."
"Roy, you're such an—oh, never mind."
"Hey, kidding. Donna, I'm with you, you know that. I love the guy like a brother. He's fine, I swear. Hey, wait up..."
* * *
It was their regular three PM appointment, trying to assess where John Doe was in germs of his recovery. Physically he seemed to be making amazing progress, as far as his memory, not so much."I want to get a job, maybe something will jog my memory if I'm out and working instead of sitting around here."
The social worker nodded. "'Good idea, any thoughts about what kind of thing you're looking for."
"No." He had a hundred ideas, but no clue which one to go with so he opted for the short answer.
"Tell you what, John, why don't you try to get something in a place where you'd have to do a lot of different things, that way maybe something will seem familiar or come easier to you."
"'Like maybe I've done whatever it is before? Okay, sounds good, any ideas?"
"Your hands are callused, so you've probably done something manual for a living. How about some kind of construction, see where that takes you? 'You think you're up to it, feel well enough?"
"I think so, I'll give it a try, anyway." He'd try standing on his head if it would help.
Thanks to the social worker calling in a favor, he started two days later on a construction site over by the Moore Housing project, a low income place mostly populated by druggies, derelicts, deviants and rodents. The building they were supposed to be renovating was dirty inside and out, plus it smelled like boiled cabbage and stale urine. The only people they saw who weren't scary or pathetic were a few parents trying to get themselves and their kids out of the place and a few youngsters who hung around the workmen, hoping for a free soda or maybe to pick up some spare change for running some errands.
He was there for three days and somehow it seemed familiar, which he found depressing. It wasn't that he recognized the building itself, it was more that he seemed to have been in places like it too many times and it reinforced his fear that he was a regular in the projects.
The work wasn't hard, at last not mentally, but it wasn't something he seemed to have any knowledge of. Though he could use a sledge hammer, it wasn't comfortable to him, nor was a jack hammer or the bolt cutters.
Whatever he'd done, it probably wasn't this.
This was getting him nowhere and he was transferred to the main office for paper work, which he left after two days of misfiling and bad typing. He wasn't surprised and was relieved when he was told to move on.
By the end of the week he was ready to try something else and the social worker arranged for janitorial work at a local high school. There was something about this which seemed to reach him and, as he swept the floors and emptied the waste baskets, he realized that it wasn't the school itself or the work, it was being around youngsters, listening to them, and watching them.
That drew him up short and he wondered if he was a dealer who targeted schools. God, he'd hate if that was the answer.
And that didn't explain his hands.
Next he was moved to a car repair garage, fixing transmissions and replacing mufflers. He seemed to have some aptitude for this and knew what he was doing, which was encouraging and he was happy for the first time since waking up in the hospital. He liked making broken things work again, liked the feel of being able to take a piece of machinery and make it hum and liked the feel of oil on his hands and dirt under his fingernails. Clearly he was comfortable with the blue collar side of things and he'd done this before.
Maybe this was it, maybe he'd been an auto mechanic. It would make some sense and it was something he wasn't ashamed of. This was good.
"Hey, Johnnie—you get the fan belt on the Buick changed yet?"
"Just finished, you want me to swap out that carburetor on the Volvo?"
"Take lunch first then, yeah. Good work, kid."
Smiling, he felt like he was home—or on the way.
* * *
"Find anything?" The three Titans were comparing notes, Donna taking the lead.
"Maybe. The last time anyone saw him was when he was finishing his shift at Hogan's almost two weeks ago. Hank Hogan said Dick closed up for him and then didn't show up for his shift the next day and hasn't called in or anything since then. No word, nothing."
"Has Hogan tried to call him, see why he's not there?"
"He just said it happens all the time with bar workers so, no."
Wally made a face. "But that's not like Dick, you know how he is about things and he's like the walking definition of a work ethic. 'You think that maybe he was called in to work some case no one knows about?"
"Like what, genius?" Roy was less than impressed by Wally's suggestion. "If he was working with the JL or the US Government or Interpol of the friggin' Fantastic Four, c'mon—like we couldn't find out? I really think they'd tell us."
"Well sure, probably, but what if it's top secret or something?"
Donna was, as ever, tactful. "He'd have told Bruce, no matter what. It's one of their unbreakable rules; they always tell each other what case they're on, just to have back up if it's needed. Always, no exceptions."
"Well, yeah, but..."
"Keep looking. What's happening with checking the hospital admittance records?"
"Nothing at any of the Gotham or tri-state hospitals. The computers at Rabe are still down and they don't expect to have them fixed for at least another week. No computer, no records and they don't have hard copies for anything that came in during the last month."
"Incredible, how does that place stay open?"
* * *
It had been a long day and John Doe was tired, relaxing after a dinner of boxed mac and cheese at the rehab place. He was stretched out on the old recliner, not watching the game show and skimming through an old issue of Time magazine while his mind wandered. His plans for the evening were to veg for a while, take the hottest shower he could and then hit the sack. He found that he was liking the auto mechanics, had clearly done this kind of work before and enjoyed it but there was something in the back of him mind which made him think that, while this may have been a hobby or even his job, there was more and this wasn't all he did.
He hoped like hell the missing puzzle piece wasn't his being a dealer. He really didn't want that to be the answer and if it was, well, he just wouldn't do it anymore.
The articles didn't interest; the economy, heath care, another politician caught cheating on his wife, global warming. Same old, same old. There was an essay about Superman, something about how he represented a white knight for everyone on the planet, always there when needed, always stalwart, brave and true, always honest and blah, blah, blah. There was a picture of him, a photo taken on a sunny day with his features strong and clearly defined, set in a warm smile.
Idly he thought that he was a handsome man, maybe a little over-developed muscle-wise, but still a striking and charismatic personality. From all reports he was a nice man, one on one and John idly wondered if his wife, if Lois, had noticed that he seemed to have a new smile line by the outer corner of his left eye.
He stopped breathing for a long count of seconds, the magazine in his hands. How the hell did he know the name of Superman's—no, Clark's—wife?
Superman's real name, his secret identity name was Clark and no one was ever to supposed to know that for security reasons.
His friends called him Clark.
His name was Clark and he was married to Lois.
Holy fuck.
TBC