Part Five

By the time Nightwing arrived at the train, all of ninety seconds later, the train's personnel had detached the two cars engulfed in flames and managed to separate them from the rest of the train.

No one was hurt and the damage was confined to those two cars, both residence cars, one of them the car Dick Grayson shared with Mario, Jim and Bill. Those two cars were total losses, everything in them destroyed by either the fire itself or water damage from the hoses to put out the problem.

Because he knew that the local authorities would be surprised to see him this far from his usual stomping grounds and he'd be hard pressed to come up with a feasible explanation about why he cared about something as insignificant as a possible case of minor arson, it was Dick Grayson who appeared beside the local rescue squads and the other responders.

"Officers? Any chance we get inside, see if we can salvage anything?"

"And you are?"

"'Sorry, Dick Grayson. 'The Flying Graysons'. That was my car, well, me and the other guys in the act."

"Not yet, kid—still too hot but it looks like it's pretty well gone; you know anyone you maybe pissed off who might want to get back at you or your friends for some reason?"

"You think it was arson?"

"Yeah, we do. 'Be checking for evidence when it cools down enough but in the meantime, you have any ideas?"

Sure he did, you want that list by category or just alphabetically? "God, no. I mean, we're just circus fliers, y'know?"

"None of you boys maybe got a little too friendly with one of the local girls, pissed off a jealous boyfriend?"

"...Not me, I don't know about the others but I really doubt it. We're pretty careful about that kind of thing; we have to be or we'd get fired. Management keeps a pretty tight lid on that kind of thing—it's bad for business."

"Yeah, I bet." They watched the hoses spray the wreckage for a few minutes, trying to breathe through the stench of the black smoke, the fumes of melted plastic, fabric, wood and whatever else was in there.

"You should be able to look through that in a little while if you're careful."

"Thanks."

"Sure, just watch what you're doing. Oh, and wait til the cops are done with their investigation, okay?"

"Right."

It took a couple more hours but the detectives and forensic guys finished up fairly quickly, all things considered. There had been a couple of witnesses who'd seen someone toss something through the window just before the smoke started. It was took dark to ID the person or even to tell if it was male of female, but arson was pretty clear cut and what the cops would be following up on.

By dawn they could look through what little was left; there wasn't much.

Everything personal was gone. The costumes were burned.

"Lizzie said that if we go over to the costume car she'll fix us up with something for now and, if we tell her what we want, she'll get started on new stuff."

Dick nodded. This sucked, costumes were expensive and the other men couldn't afford to replace them but had no choice, not on top of normal things like jeans, shirts, tooth brushed, shoes and everything else. You couldn't perform in a circus act, not in Barnum and Bailey, without a costume that would let the world know you were someone to watch. Period.

Enough.

He still didn't know exactly why this was happening but he knew who was responsible and this simply confirmed what he'd suspected.

"Hey, Dick, you find anything worth saving?"

"Oh, no. Nothing. 'You?"

Mario shook his head, stoic but clearly shaken to his toes. Dick knew he'd lost that photo of his mother and the brother who'd died in a motorcycle crash a couple of years ago along with pretty much all of his life's savings. Like a lot of people, he didn't trust banks and kept his money hidden and close to him. He was wiped out. Bill and Jim were probably in the same boat.

"Hey, Dick, I'm going over to see what Lizzie might be able to outfit us with for tomorrow, you coming?"

"Nah, whatever she has is okay with me, we're about the same size so just get one for me, too."

"You got it."

He'd known who was behind this from the beginning, the only question, the only thing he didn't know was the why but now, screw it—he'd find out the niceties later. This stopped now.

Nightwing cruised the streets, jump-lining from building to building, pausing here and there to listen with amplified devices if he saw something or someone worth taking a second look at.

He landed in front of a pair of small time soldiers for one of the local crime bosses, almost causing heart attacks. "Might either of you gentlemen know where I could find Joe Frische?"

"I don't know no Joe Fisher, or whoever you're lookin' for."

Nightwing smiled without humor. "I think that if think hard, you might recall the man." He pulled one of his escrima sticks, letting it fall gently into his opened hand, again and again.

"I think that maybe you do."

"C'mon, man, we don't; swear to god. I don't know nuthin'."

He shook his head in disappointment, moving a few feet closer, the slap of the stick in his gloved hand louder as he let it fall with more and more force. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yeah, sure—right, Mikey?" The other man just nodded then slowly started shaking his head.

"Frische is probably having dinner. He always has the same thing at the same time in the same place; chicken parmigiana at La Cucina, second booth from the back on the left."

"He does? And neither of you gentlemen would be calling him to let him know I'd like to speak with him, now, would you?" The stick continued to slap in his hand, like the ticking of a clock or a metronome set on a very slow speed.

"No—I mean...no. 'Swear to god."

"'Because I'd have to come back here and have another talk with you if he knew I wanted to talk to him before I got there."

The men shook their heads, eyes wide and hands none too steady.

Within an hour he'd found his target, napkin his lap, chicken parm half eaten and a bottle of wine almost empty. Nightwing waited patiently on the roof until he saw the man exit the building, meeting him at his parked car, stepping from the shadows to block his path.

"Enjoy your dinner, Joe?"

No answer.

"I guess you and Steve worked up an appetite over at the tracks. You want to tell me about it?"

Nothing.

"Well, that's okay. I have things I don't like to talk about, myself. What do you say we go over to the police station and maybe you'd like to talk with them, whaddya say?"

"You got nothing. You have proof? Lemme see it and who the hell are you, anyway?"

"Me? Just a citizen who has a police badge and is taking you for questioning as a person of interest."

Bull, I was here eating dinner last night, Sammy will vouch for me; he saw me, he cooked my dinner like he does every night."

"Yeah, I'm sure he does but I know you're the guy, well, you and Steve, who threw the incinderary into the train car; you just got lucky no one was home and they station hands got the cars uncoupled before they could take out the whole train and the station, too."

He shook his head a mile on his face, his manner genial. "No proof, my friend, no proof, just theory."

"Theory and security tapes. But the thing I don't get is why you were trying to take out a trapeze act. I mean, what did they ever do to you?"

"I don't gotta talk to you."

"No, you don't. You don't have to talk to anyone. That's your right and you can get yourself a lawyer as soon as we get to the station and the state will even pay for one for you if you can't pay yourself." This last was said with a touch of sarcasm. "But if you don't talk to me I may have to ask a friend or two of mine to stop by and see if you'll discuss a few things with them and they—well, they get cranky." He rubbed his chin with his hand, as though considering what could happen should his friends feel moved to becoming 'cranky'. "That could get—uncomfortable." It was said with a touch of regret.

"That's a veiled threat. You pull any crap and I'll have a mistrial so fast it will make your head swim."

"Yeah, I guess that could happen..." And clearly thought it was about as likely as pigs flying. "So why did you want to kill some circus performers? 'They ever do anything to you?"

Joe knew when someone else was holding the cards and this was one of those times. "Nah, no. I wouldn't know any of them if I fell over them."

"So why?"

"That bastard Wayne, because of him."

"Excuse me?"

"Wayne, Bruce Wayne, that rich guy in Gotham, the one who..."

"I know who he is, what did he ever do to you and what does it have to do with a circus?"

"He killed my father."

"What?"

"Okay, he didn't actually pull a trigger but it was his fault my dad died. I wanted to get even."

"More details." Ridiculous but shit happens, the guy might have some reason to think Bruce had something to do with—something.

"My dad, he was, we were all going through bad patch. He'd lost his job, things were rough. He made a mistake. It was a mistake, okay? He was desperate and he robed some people. He just wanted money cause we needed to pay the rent."

"And?"

"And it went bad. He panicked and some people got killed. Look, I ain't sayin' he wasn't wrong, he was, but he was scared and he made a mistake, a bad one." He paused a second, took a breath. "He died in jail, heart attack."

"Joe Chill killed Wayne's parents, I read up about the case." This didn't make sense. "So why go after the performers?" Though he was catching on to the reason.

"Yeah, Joe was my dad. I was named after him."

"You're name is Frische."

"'My mom's idea. 'Easier to move past the thing, people didn't talk when we had a new name. Frische is German for Chill, my mother's family was from Munich."

"You lost your father and so you wanted to take Wayne's son from him."

"Payback, yeah."

"Wayne was a kid when his parents were shot, he had nothing to do with..."

Dick's response was a hard look. In Joe's mind Bruce was to blame. Somehow. It didn't make sense but that small detail didn't matter. Joe suffered from the death of his father, Bruce would suffer by his own loss. "So you were trying to Kill Grayson."

"...Yeah. 'Came damn close, too."

What about Steve?"

"He's nobody, just workin' f'the money I was payin' hm."

"You're under arrest for attempted murder."

"'Your word against mine. It'll never stick."

Nightwing opened one of the small compartments on his left love, removing a small recorder. "Not really."

Three weeks later he played his final performance with Barnum and Bailey at least for the time being.

"Dick, a pleasure, a real pleasure to have you with us. Any time you want to come back, just let us know, all right?" He gave the younger man a heartfelt hug, followed by hand shakes and hugs from Bill and Jim as well.

"The act is going to suck without you."

"I know it will."

"Bite me, Grayson." But it was said with a smile.

"So, now what?"

"I got a letter from GCPD last week, they have an assignment for me. I report Monday at seven AM. I'm officially a cop."

This was what he wanted, his friends knew that, he'd been talking about it, how much he was looking forward to starting work, how much he wanted to do in the city.

"Keep your head down."

"Yeah, be careful."

He lifted his bag onto his shoulder, it would be strapped on the back of his bike in a few minutes. "Thanks, thanks for everything. It's been incredible—I'll be back."

"Make sure you are, this is your home, Dick."

Turning onto the Interstate, he would be back at the Manor in a couple of days of easy riding.

Mario was wrong, the circus wasn't his home, not anymore and that saddened a very real part of him. He loved the circus, the people, the smells, the noise, the closeness, the intimacy, the travel—he loved all of it but it wasn't his home anymore. It was like going back to visit the town you used to live and all your old friends are there and your house is there and the school you used to go to. It's all these, maybe changed a little—the trees might be taller and the house was painted a different color and maybe someone new has moved in down the street. He didn't live here anymore. He was a visitor, a welcomed visitor but that was all he was.

He wasn't part of the fabric. He was an outsider stopping by.

And if he didn't have a life, a new life, he'd probably turn the bike around and head back but he didn't, he turned the accelerator a little pushed the machine up to seventy-five.

He knew Bruce was upset and disappointed with his choice to join a regular police department but it was the right thing for him, at least for now and Alfred would talk to him about it, try to get him to see Dick's point of view about working f from the inside to clean up the mess that was Bludhaven PD. Meanwhile, no reason to tell him about this; it wasn't like there was anything he could do about it and, knowing Bruce, he'd pitch about twenty fits. His boxers could stay unknotted this time.

He gunned the engine.

Back in the Batcave Batman read the report he'd pulled up from the out of state arrest resulting from an arson attack on the circus train. His teeth clenched and grinding.

"It was Dick, his MO is all over this."

"Of course it was Master Richard, sir, whom else would it be?" Alfred placed the tray with the coffee and turkey sandwich on the table beside the master.

"He could have been killed."

"I find that seriously unlikely, sir. The criminal element was significantly unimposing."

"I don't understand why he'd waste his time with something like this when he was there as Dick Grayson. The possibility of someone making the connection..."

"I'm sure he had good reason, possibly something as simple as his own need to relieve the tedium of touring."

He shook his head, the cowl thrown back. "No, there's something about this. I'm sure he had some other motivation."

"...Which he will share with us if and when he feels the need. Now, shall I expect you home at the usual time?"

6/24/10