The woman Clark had dealt with the previous night wasn’t on duty, but the girl behind the counter nodded as Clark explained his situation. She tapped a few keys on the computer and handed him the refund without complaint, then pointed him to the nearest McDonald’s. He even remembered to sign the paperwork as Jerome Clark.
At the drive-through window, Lois ordered a large coffee and a breakfast sausage sandwich while Clark settled for a large orange juice and two Danishes. They drove in comfortable silence as Lois sipped her coffee and nibbled on her food. Clark, as usual, inhaled his pastries and slurped his juice in seconds.
He glanced at Lois, who seemed to be enjoying her meal with sensuous pleasure, then said, “We’re changing our route. I-80 becomes a toll road and goes north, and I don’t want to get caught between one of the Great Lakes and a car full of bad guys on a highway with so few exits.”
She finished chewing and swallowed the morsel in her mouth. “I was wondering if you were going to do that. Lex never drove on toll roads either. He said it was too easy to ambush someone on them.”
“That’s why we’re getting off I-80 and going south to I-70. If everything goes well, we’ll sleep over in Terre Haute.”
“How far is that?”
“Drive time, about nine hours, depending on the traffic around Akron. I think there are some construction zones we’ll have to go through, so that will slow us down a bit. I don’t want to try to go too far in one day. We’ll need to get a full night’s sleep every night to stay alert.”
He saw her nod out of the corner of his eye. “Good to have a plan. I just hope I can be as convincing as you were back in Warren when we check into the motel for the night.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine. Oh – I just thought of something. Do you have any identification with you?”
“I have my New Troy driver’s license that says I’m Lois Luthor, but since I don’t want to get shot in the head I’d really rather not use that one. I bet there are some ID cards in the money belt.”
He noticed that she hadn’t referred to it as “Mayson’s money belt” and briefly wondered what it signified – that she didn’t want to remind him of Mayson, or that she didn’t want to think of Mayson herself. “Why don’t you look for one with your picture? You’ll need it if you do the check-in at the motel.”
“You’re right. I should’ve thought of that.”
She finished her sandwich, put her coffee in the cup holder, and unsnapped her seat belt. She crawled to the front bench seat and reached under it for the money belt, then laid it out on the floor of the van. After a moment she said, “Found it. Wait, no, I found two.”
“What names?”
“One has a picture of me with my blonde highlights, name of Lois Drake. Eww. Was I supposed to be Mayson’s sister?”
Clark gave her a sardonic frown in the rear-view mirror. “I don’t know what she was planning. What name does the other one have?”
“Huh. Joanne Clark. And it’s an older shot of me with my hair cut shorter and pulled back so you really can’t tell the color. The color field says brunette, though. Did you know about this one?”
“No, I didn’t. I just knew that most people don’t think of looking for fugitives who go by their middle names. Worked out pretty well for us last night.”
“Uh-huh. Unless you think I shouldn’t, I’m going to put Joanne Clark in my purse and hide Lois Luthor and Lois Drake in the money belt.”
“Good idea. If we get stopped, we’ll be pretend to be a married couple who are bored with each other. That ought to throw off anyone trying to spot us.”
*****
She bit her tongue before she replied, I could never be bored with you, Clark.
Neither of them needed that kind of complication, especially not now. Besides, he was just being nice to her, trying to soften her up before she testified. Or he was just trying to make the trip go smoothly. There was no way he could care – he couldn’t feel real affection for her. He didn’t know her that well, hadn’t known her that long, and he didn’t know that she didn’t deserve it. And with that dumb pistol stunt, she hadn’t given him anything to make him trust her.
On top of that, she didn’t need any softening up. She needed to be diamond-hard and obsidian-sharp to stand up under the battering of Lex’ lawyers. She knew they would do anything and everything they could to discredit her testimony and malign her honesty. And while the information she would provide them would validate every word she would say, a jury might not buy it if she weren’t clear-eyed and confident on the stand.
Joanne Clark’s driver’s license slid into her purse. Lois Luthor’s ID disappeared into the money belt. And Lois silently slipped back into the passenger seat and watched central Ohio slide behind them.
*****
Cathy thought her disguise was good enough, but it was still hard to walk past the cops directing drivers around a broken traffic signal at South 3rd and Main just two blocks from the tattoo shop. But none of them gave her a second look. Either her disguise was even better than she’d thought, or the lunchtime rush was good camouflage. She tried not to appear too relieved.
She looked in the window of the tattoo shop and saw Ben Tremont smiling and nodding to a young preppie couple who seemed to be waffling on getting matching butterfly tats on their shoulders. One of them was probably worried about the cost and the amount of pain involved, while the other was concerned that the ink wouldn’t age well as their bodies did. Cathy guessed that the girl was the one thinking about money, since she was the one Ben spoke to with a more serious look on his face.
As Cathy pushed through the front door, the young man – hardly more than a boy – yelled “Yeah, baby!” and hugged the girl enthusiastically. The girl laughed and patted his head so he could put her down, then said to Ben, “So, seven o’clock tonight?”
Ben smiled and nodded. “Both of you should wear shirts with very loose short sleeves. I’ll have someone here to watch the front, and we’ll just go in the back and ink you up.”
“Great! Hey, man, you take checks, right?”
Ben slowly shook his head. “Sorry, no. Cash or plastic, and no gas cards.”
“Aw, man!”
Ben put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “I have this deal with the banks in Metropolis, my man. I don’t open savings accounts or sell Certificates of Deposit, and they don’t tattoo their customers. Works out pretty well for both of us.”
The girl’s voice was firm. “We’ll bring cash, Mr. Tremont. If I’m going to wear a shoulder tat at my wedding, I want it to look like I’ve had it for more than two weeks.”
The boy pouted, but finally said, “Okay. I’ll hit my savings account this afternoon. We can still go out to dinner after, right, honey?”
She gave him a smiling stare. “No, dear. We’ll go back to your apartment and you can make dinner for us. We probably won’t be all that hungry after getting needles stuck in our arms anyway. And we’ll have to apply that disinfectant cream.”
He rolled his eyes at her. “Fine. Dinner at my place. Hope you still like my pancakes.”
She patted him on the forearm. “That sounds great, babe. Now let’s both get back to work before we get fired for taking too much time at lunch.”
He kissed her quickly and grabbed her hand, then waved at Ben and pulled her out of the shop behind him. The look on her face made Cathy think that her young man was in for a bit of a surprise once they actually tied the knot and she began to ‘guide’ him more forcefully.
Tremont walked over to her and said, “And how may I help you today? Can I interest you in a nice garden rose on your shoulder? Or maybe just a small vine on one ankle?”
She shook her head. “I’m looking for anything you have on Lois Luthor.”
His smile vanished like dew in a heat wave. “I’m sorry, I don’t have anything to tell you. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.”
“You put a pretty complex tat on each of the Luthors a few months ago. I want to know more about it.”
He shook his head. “I can’t talk about my customers or what ink I’ve put on them. I can’t even confirm that the people you’re talking about are my customers.”
“There’s no tattoo-artist-slash-client confidentiality clause in the law. You’re neither an attorney nor a clergyman.”
“I still can’t talk about people who may or may not be my customers.”
“Oh, come on, Paul, you can tell me anything.”
His eyes flickered and she knew she’d hit her target. “I think maybe you have the wrong artist. My name’s Ben Tremont.”
“No, your name is Paul Randall and you spent three years in the Florida state pen for embezzlement, forgery, and assault with a deadly weapon a decade ago, and you testified against your buddies in exchange for a reduced sentence. You’ve been living the straight and narrow since you got out. Almost no one knows who you really are except a very few of your closest friends.” She took off her sunglasses and smiled at him. “And me, of course.”
His eyes hardened and he took a menacing step toward her. “You need to leave right now.”
“I can’t, Paul. I need whatever you know about these folks.”
He stopped just out of arm’s reach. “You know, you aren’t as smart as you seem to think you are. You have me pegged as a violent ex-con who’s hiding his real name, yet you come here alone and threaten to expose me?” His slow grin held no humor. “Think about it and let me know if you really think that’s a good plan.”
“Hang on, okay? You remember the tall skinny British guy with a white beard and mustache? Came with the Luthors? Didn’t you get the idea that he was kind of dangerous?”
Tremont leaned back and cocked his head. “Keep talking.”
“Well, he’s more than just kind of dangerous. He’s freakin’ scary and more than a little crazy when he gets going. And he wants me to help him find Mrs. Luthor. She’s missing.”
Now he looked puzzled. “Why aren’t the cops helping him look?”
“Because they have her.”
Comprehension dawned in Tremont’s eyes. “I see. She’s turned state’s evidence on him, or they’ve arrested her for something and she’s going to roll on him. Now he has to get her before she gets him.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny those presumptions,” she responded primly.
He grinned and nodded. “Naturally. And, just as naturally, I can’t talk about my customers, assuming that the people you’re talking about are my customers.” He crossed his arms and stared down at her. “Sounds like we’ve reached an impasse.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” As she spoke, she drifted over to a pattern display book and opened it at random. “Like I said, I need to know everything you know about Mrs. Luthor. Naturally, no one would ever suspect where the information came from.” Her eyes smiled at him over a page showing a jousting knight on horseback. “I can be – very discreet.” The smile reached down and enveloped her lips. “And very generous, too.”
“Sure. And if I don’t tell you what I know – providing, of course, that I know anything – you’ll send that dangerous Brit to see me.”
She laughed and shook her head. “I don’t send Mr. St. John anywhere. I don’t control him. He does what he does without any input from me.” She took a slow step closer to Tremont, then another. “Of course, if I don’t learn anything from you, I will have to let him know that I didn’t learn anything, and – well, I don’t have to promise to sign your body cast, do I?”
She held Tremont’s gaze for a long moment, then he sighed and dropped his arms. “Fine. I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Why, thank you, Ben. That’s very kind of you. Oh, and if you could let me know which of those designs made it to Mrs. Luthor’s hip, I’d be most grateful.”
“That part’s easy. She brought it in herself. Said it was a fractal design that expressed their relationship in – what did she call it? Oh, yeah, she said it – quote – ‘expressed our relationship in the most precise manner possible.’ Made me stop several times so she could check it out and make sure it was right.”
“And you gave Mr. Luthor the same tat?”
Tremont shook his head. “No, his was different. It was about the same size but with different lines and angles. And before you ask, I don’t know what either one of them means. I don’t even know what a ‘fractal’ is.”
Cathy nodded. She knew what it was, and she also knew that digital information could be hidden in a fractal design. But it was static, unchanging, and anything that was almost nine months old was old news in business terms. Maybe not in statute of limitations terms, but it was old in her circle of acquaintances.
Unless—
“Did either of them call those designs by a name?”
Tremont looked startled. “Where did you come up with that question?”
“Never mind. Did they?”
“Well, yeah. Mr. Luthor said something about his being the star of the east and hers being the north star. They didn’t explain the names to me and I didn’t ask.”
“Of course, of course, why would you?” She turned away and put her fingernail between her teeth to help her think.
“Yeah, why would I? You want those designs?”
Cathy spun back to face him. “You have them?”
“Well, yeah. I take photos of every finished design. I never include the customer’s face or name in the shot, just a bar code so I can refer back to it later.”
Cathy suppressed a smile. She’d keep it under wraps until after she gave Nigel the pictures of the Luthors’ inked bottoms. Then she’d laugh her head off. “I’m going to need a copy of each of the finished products, Ben.”
He nodded. “No problem. Why don’t you come by this evening about nine? I can have copies printed up for you by then.”
“You still have the negatives, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then you can replace the prints I’m going to take now.”
“Aw, come on! I said I’d give them to you!”
“And I believe you, Ben, but we’re working against a ticking clock on this thing. Nigel needs those pictures as soon as I can get them to him, and that means I need your photos now.”
Ben scowled at her for another long moment, then shook his head. “Fine. Just don’t tell anyone where you got them, okay?”
She smiled impishly. “My lips are sealed, my friend.”
*****
The motel clerk in Terre Haute was even easier to deal with than the one in Warren, or maybe Lois was a better charmer than Clark was. Clark didn’t care which one was true as long as they got to sleep before too much longer. He was starting to feel unusually tired and he didn’t know why, nor did he want to face trouble with a yawn and a stumble.
Lois stepped out of the lobby and waved for him to follow her. Before he could hiss at her to get back in the van, she’d vanished around the corner of the building, and Clark had to force himself not to rev the engine too loud or follow her too quickly.
As it turned out, they were in the very back of the motel, in a separate wing that ran perpendicular to the main building, making the motel look like a disjointed ‘T’ from the air. Clark saw that theirs was the only vehicle on the back row, so he turned and shifted into reverse to put the rear doors of the van right up against the back door of the motel.
They carried in their baggage, this time leaving Mayson’s suitcase in the van. Clark brought in the money belt and hid it under the foot of the mattress while trying not to breathe too deeply. There was definitely a tang of mildew in the air, and he wondered how sensitive Lois’ nose was and whether or not she could smell it.
She answered his unspoken question with an “ick” expression and an apology. “Sorry about the odor. I was trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.”
He shrugged. “This room’s fine. I probably would have picked it too.”
“At least it’s on the first floor.”
“Yep.”
As she put her few hang-up clothes in the tiny closet, she said, “Why don’t you take the bed tonight? You look a little ragged.”
“Not necessary. I’m fine.”
“I’m sure you are, Clark, but I could tell you were getting frustrated this morning. That construction zone west of Akron would have driven Saint Peter to honk his horn.” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen so many people drive so stupid in so short a time.”
“And you’ve driven in Metropolis, right?”
She returned his almost-grin. “So have you. I was impressed with what you said to that guy in the pickup. I thought he was going to get out and come back to discuss the situation with you.”
“I did not curse at him! He was hearing things.”
“You did some fancy dancing right at the edge of cursing him. Verbally, you’re very creative.”
“What can I say? I’m a frustrated writer.”
She paused, then said, “I know how that feels. Seriously, Clark, you take the bed and I’ll sleep on the floor. If anyone tries to come in I’ll scream like a banshee and probably scare you out of a year’s growth.”
His mother would have frowned at him, but after a moment he nodded. “Okay, you’ve talked me into it. Just promise me that you’ll take the bed tomorrow.”
“Done and done. Get some sleep, won’t you? I think you really need it.”
He sat on the bed and was surprised to feel how comfortable it was. “Yeah, I think you’re right. If you’ll let me have the bathroom first, I’ll be asleep by the time you come out.”
*****
When Lois exited the bathroom, Clark was already in the bed and breathing rhythmically. She looked at his face on the pillow and marveled at his sculpted cheekbones, his solid jaw line, his rumpled hair that needed a hand run through it to—
She closed her eyes and shook herself. Thinking about how good-looking this young detective was would probably be the worst way to spend the next eight hours that she could possibly choose. Sure, he was almost beyond handsome, strong, intelligent, compassionate, and flat-out honest, but all he really did was remind Lois how badly she’d misjudged Lex. Six years ago, she’d barely known her husband. Five years ago, they had just returned from their honeymoon and she was deeply in love with the man she believed him to be – a man he was not, never had been, and could never be.
Four years and nine months ago she was in his private hospital, nursing two broken fingers, a bruised spleen, a dislocated elbow, a wrenched back that had her horizontal for a week and in a brace for nearly two more months, and possessed of the sure and certain knowledge that she’d married one of the worst mass murderers in American history.
She was a relationship booby trap just waiting to explode and she knew it. She was like one of those actresses who was said to be “box office poison,” the ones who were talented and intelligent and skilled and who somehow still destroyed the profits on every movie they made because the public wouldn’t buy tickets to see them. She was like that with men, starting with Lex and working backward to every high school date she’d ever had. None of them who were worth anything had stayed around, and the others were uniform wastes of oxygen, food, and water. If Lois had chosen to be a cloistered nun straight out of high school, she and everyone else around her would have been far better off.
She checked the main door – locked and bolted – and the windows – locked – then wedged the desk chair under the main doorknob. It wouldn’t stop a determined killer, but it would slow one down long enough for Clark to draw his service weapon and protect her.
Funny, she mused, that she trusted a man she’d met the day before far more than she trusted any other man she’d ever met. He’d fail eventually, of course, and disappoint her deeply – just like every other man she’d ever known – but there was something in her mind and heart that told her that Clark Kent would engage in hand-to-bumper combat with a battalion of armored vehicles to protect her from harm before he would quit trying and stop fighting. It made her feel safer than she had ever felt before, even when she was still lying to herself about Lex.
Her bed might be the floor of a cheap and shop-worn motel. Her traveling companion might be a relative stranger. Her sense of identity might have been dumped in a blender and pureed beyond recognition. But she still drifted off to sleep with her heart more at peace than it had been for a long, long time.
*****
Nigel transitioned from sleep to action in milliseconds. He felt the nudge on his shoulder, snapped his hand under his pillow, and had his weapon pointed in the general direction of the intruder before he realized who it was. An instant later he realized that his hand was being held by crossed wooden rods, which was all that was keeping the muzzle of his pistol from zeroing in on his target.
He wished he could shoot the intruder and be done with him, but he still needed the man.
“Mister Asabi,” he grunted, trying to put reproof toward his nominal equal in the emphasis of his words. “I have lost count of the number of times I have requested that you not awaken me from sleep in that manner.”
Asabi put his escrima sticks back in their holster and nodded. “You have indeed made that request a great many times, Mr. St. John, and I must apologize for disregarding your wishes. However, there are exigent circumstances which have prompted me to take this risk and awaken you in this precipitous manner.”
Nigel put his pistol back under his pillow. “What exigent circumstances might those be?”
“I have discovered a description of the vehicle used by Mrs. Luthor to leave the city. I have also discovered the general direction she traveled when she departed from Metropolis.”
Nigel sat up. “That is very good news. Did you manage to discover the license plate number also?”
“I fear not. My source did not know it, and I did not wish to alarm him. He is not one of our usual informants.”
“Perhaps he would be more cooperative were you to ask him once more.”
Asabi shook his head. “The man does not know that he is giving us information. The young woman to whom he is relating this – I believe it is called ‘pillow talk’ – is one of our occasional operatives, and she cannot appear too eager to garner information from this man.”
“Can you at least tell me his name and how he has what little information he has relayed to us?”
“Of course. His name is Dennis Franklin, and he is an investigator with the city District Attorney’s office. His information is always reliable, despite his not knowing the ultimate recipient of his late-night confessions.”
“I see. Please tell me about the vehicle.”
“It is a recent-model Ford Econoline 150 van, white with red trim. It was last seen traveling west on Interstate Highway 80, although none of my people have reported seeing it since then.”
“I see.” Nigel brooded for a moment, then asked, “Do you think she has gone to ground somewhere between here and West Virginia?”
Asabi shook his head. “I do not. We have many assets between here and that courthouse, and I cannot believe that she and her escort have not been spotted in their travels. I believe that they have chosen a different destination.”
Nigel’s eyebrows rose, surprised that Asabi was thinking along the same lines as he had been. “We should assume that their destination is a Federal facility of some kind, since those are the charges Mr. Luthor will most likely face first. To which facility do you believe they will go?”
“Denver, Chicago, and New Orleans are all potential destinations. But both Denver and New Orleans have a significant Intergang presence, and the district attorney’s office is surely aware of that. I believe they will head to the nearest destination, Chicago.”
“Mmm. I am not so certain. Al Capone may be dead and buried, along with his associates, but there are still gang families active in Chicago, and indeed, the entire state of Illinois. Given those three choices, I would expect them to head toward Denver. The FBI, the US Marshal’s Bureau, and the Secret Service all maintain offices there. And they all have a number of personnel available for any action they might wish to take.”
Asabi frowned for a long moment, thinking, then nodded. “Your logic is sound, as usual. Shall I direct our assets to concentrate on the Denver area?”
“I do not believe we should do that, at least not yet. I do not discount your own thinking either, so I believe we should put a secondary force near Chicago and have them ready to move on a moment’s notice.”
Asabi smiled, then put his hands together and bowed. “Your preparation is, of course, superior. I shall see to it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Asabi. And do not forget to set aside some time to rest. You may require it in the days to come.”
As Asabi slipped out the door, Nigel took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It wouldn’t be long before he was free of that Oriental impediment to his plans. And as far as Nigel was concerned, it couldn’t be soon enough.
