Lois slowly became aware of her surroundings. She was in bed with the shades pulled partly back, so Consuela must be nearby. She sucked in a deep breath and was startled at the smell. Had Lex gotten her drunk again? No, she didn’t have a hangover. Besides, it smelled more like a cheap motel room than her—
She catapulted upright and looked around. It was a cheap motel room! And except for not wearing shoes she was fully dressed. What was she doing—
Wait a minute…
Now she remembered.
She was on the run from the Wonder Twins, Nigel and Asabi. One or the other of them was always tracking her, following her, marking her every move. The only chance she’d had to elude them was when Lex had been arrested and they had both been confined to the main house for the morning by the police. Her plans to get free from either the Indian mystic or the defrocked British secret agent had easily fooled the two men who’d taken over for Lex’ two favorite minions that day.
She looked for Clark, who’d gone to sleep – in the bed where she was now resting? How had she gotten there? And where was he?
A clicking noise from the door told her that someone with a card key was coming in.
They’d found her.
She grabbed the first solid thing she could reach, an old ceramic ashtray from the night table, and slid it under the covers beside her leg.
She wouldn’t go quietly.
“Good morning!” Clark almost whispered as he put the grocery bag he was holding on the sorry excuse for a desk. “Are you ready for breakfast? Or brunch, actually?”
Lois released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but how did I wake up in the bed, seeing as how I went to sleep on the floor?”
He grinned and spoke at a normal volume. “Sometime early this morning, you got up, went into the bathroom, then stumbled back in here and lay down on the bed. When I asked you what you were doing, you replied, ‘Mrghphumbler’ or something similar and began snoring very lightly and in a most dainty and ladylike manner. So, since discretion is often the better part of valor, I claimed your spot on the floor until about forty minutes ago. I walked to the deli down the street and picked up an assortment of bagels, spread, and fruit. I also got some fresh fruit juice and a couple of cream sodas in case that was your preference.” He frowned and looked at her arm, which was still under the covers. “What do you have there?”
She grinned sheepishly and pulled out the ashtray. “Sorry about this. I wasn’t sure who you were.”
He shrugged. “No problem. I understand. What flavor of cream cheese do you want, or would you prefer plain butter?”
She put the ashtray back on the night table beside the bed. “Wow. Uh, do you have strawberry cream cheese?”
“Sorry, no. The closest the deli had was raspberry.”
She smiled and stood beside the bed. “That sounds wonderful. Thank you, Clark.”
“You’re more than welcome.”
*****
He forced himself to turn and look at what he was doing before he said something really stupid like, Let’s do this again every morning for the rest of our lives.
He took his time spreading the cream cheese on her bagel, trying to understand where that thought had come from. He couldn’t let himself fall for her. She was a witness in the biggest case he’d ever been involved with. She was the wife of the man who was responsible for at least a dozen deaths in the last five years, not to mention the corruption and intimidation that had flowed from his office. For all he really knew, she’d been part of it the whole time and had offered to testify just to save her own skin.
It was very nice skin, too, creamy and soft and youthful—
Cut it out, Kent! he ordered himself. Even if she were single she’d be so far out of your league that you might as well be an alien from some other solar system entirely! Keep your focus on the mission!
But there was something he needed to do, something she might misinterpret, but it had to be done. He’d been too tired the previous night, and he suspected that his need for sunlight wasn’t being fulfilled by the light that filtered through the tinted glass in the van. He needed a day in the sun, and she needed a day of rest, so he’d planned a little detour without telling her.
“Oh, my!” Lois gasped. “It can’t be that late, can it?”
He nodded without turning around. “It’s a quarter past ten, and I let you sleep because you obviously needed it. I’d imagine you haven’t been sleeping very well for the past few weeks.”
“Well – no, I haven’t. But don’t we need to get to Denver as soon as we can?”
“We need to get there in one piece. You needed the rest, and I need to get out of the van for a few hours. I know a place we can go where your husband’s hunting dogs won’t find us.”
“Huh. My husband.”
Her flat tone reminded him of their initial meeting where she’d asked to be addressed as “Ms. Galactically Stupid.” He turned to see her take a big bite of bagel. “Can of fruit juice?” he offered. She shook her head. “Cream soda?” She nodded, so he popped the top on one of them and handed it to her.
After two quick sips and a long guzzle, she lowered the can. “Ahh, that’s good and cold. Haven’t had one of those for years. I’m glad you found them.”
He waited for a moment, then prepared another bagel for himself and popped open the other cream soda. “So?”
She gave him a puzzled look and swallowed. “So what?”
“You sounded like you were going to make a comment about your husband.”
“Ah. Well, yes, I was. First, though, I wish you’d stop calling him my husband.”
“Okay. What do you want me to call him?”
Her eyes narrowed and her lips flattened. “How about something like ‘crap-eating rat snake’ for starters? We can get more graphic if we need to.”
He tried to laugh and swallow at the same time and ended up coughing awkwardly into his hand. “Crap-eating rat snake? Come on, Lois, don’t beat around the bush. Tell me how you really feel about him.”
Her face froze for a moment, then the edges of her mouth crooked upward and her eyes glistened. She didn’t quite laugh, but he could feel the tension leak out of her body. “Thanks, I needed that.”
“You’re most welcome. So why else should I not call old Hissy your husband?”
That got a chortle out of her, and he realized that he was doing it again. He was actually trying to make her laugh so he could watch her face light up and hear her mirth.
It was dangerous, frightening, and not a little bit counter-productive. He really shouldn’t be personally involved with her. He really shouldn’t let himself enjoy her company so much. Because of their current circumstances, they had no future as friends, much less as anything more. When he let her out of the van in Denver and handed her over to the marshals, he would probably never see her again.
He replayed her last few words in his mind and caught up with her answer. “Funny. Very funny. No, it’s because I’m going to divorce him as soon as I can, even if we’re both in jail. I probably won’t be able to do it before I testify, but it won’t be very long after the verdict. When I know he’s in prison, I’ll get away from him so fast it’ll make his lawyers’ heads spin.”
Clark had a thought. “Does your – I mean, does old Hissy know about this part of the plan?”
“I haven’t told him, but I’d be surprised if he hasn’t guessed it. But he can look at almost any situation and put his own unique spin on it, make himself believe it, and convince nearly everyone around him that he’s right. So it’s possible that he still thinks I’ll do a Tammy Wynette and stand by him no matter what.”
“Really? Doesn’t that make him just a little nuts?”
All hint of expression fled her face. “Do you really think he could have done all those things to all those people if he were completely sane?”
*****
Had Cathy Ames known what Lois was thinking at that moment, she might have agreed with the sentiment.
Cathy had reported to Nigel on the phone that morning and informed him about the tattoos. Nigel, of course, didn’t think they were significant. But Cathy knew better.
“Look, Mr. St. John, why would Lois Luthor get a tat on her butt that was so intricate? People who get body art like that want to show it off, not hide it. And the fact that the artist called it a fractal design is important.”
“I do not agree, Ms. Ames. The best use of that mark would be to identify her body should she expire while lacking identification.”
“Then why did Mr. Luthor get a similar one?”
She heard his exasperation across the phone line. “Why does any man desire to please a woman? I am certain that he was merely humoring her whim.”
“Mr. St. John, do you know what a fractal design is?”
“I know that it is a mathematical construct and little more.”
“Did you know that it’s capable of containing complex information?”
The silence told her that she’d finally gotten his attention. “No, I did not. Perhaps your theory is not so far-fetched as I originally thought. Please fax the design to me and I will have one of our best people look at it.”
“That’s not good enough.”
She heard his voice turn hard. “It will have to be good enough.”
“No, no, I don’t mean that I’m trying to get more money from you! This design is very intricate and detailed, and a fax doesn’t have enough resolution to let anyone see all the fine lines and angles. The photos were taken with high-resolution film and they’re printed on the best paper available. You need to see the entire design to make any sense of it.”
“You make a valid point. Very well. Please go to a copy center, have them duplicated, and send them to me as an email attachment.”
“I’m afraid that’s no good either. These pictures don’t show just the designs, Mr. St. John, they show Mr. and Mrs. Luthor’s bare bottoms. The only identification on them is the bar code the artist uses, but a regular copy shop won’t work with these because of the anti-nudity laws in New Troy. I have to bring them to you myself.”
A hint of amusement filtered through. “It sounds as if you have personal experience with these particular laws, Ms. Ames.”
She ignored his jab. “Where can I meet you? I’m guessing you won’t want me to carry these pictures into Luthor Industries’ main entrance.”
“You are correct. Let me think – yes. Do you know the Ace of Diamonds?”
“If it’s the bar on the north edge of Suicide Slum, yeah. That’s kind of a dive, though.”
“I will meet you there in two hours. There are some items which require my immediate attention. Please bring the photos there and I will have an envelope for you.”
“Thanks, Mr. St. John. I’ll be there. We can make it a lunch date.”
He didn’t say it, but Cathy knew he was thinking, In a pig’s left eye, madam.
*****
Clark was deliberately vague about their destination for the day. He wasn’t sure in his own mind if it was due to his natural caution in trusting people – including witnesses in big cases – or some desire within his heart to see Lois smile and fully relax around him. She didn’t say anything when they turned east instead of west on I-70, but she did give him the old side-eye glare.
When they pulled onto the exit ramp leading to Richard Lieber State Park less than half an hour later, she crossed her arms and said, “Either you’ve gone over to the dark side and you’re delivering me to Nigel’s goons or you’ve got some kind of surprise in store for me.”
He flashed his best smile. “Do you fish?”
“You mean like push a hook through a minnow or a grasshopper and tie it to a bobber and throw it out on the pond?”
“That or use a lure.”
She shook her head. “Not for a lot of years. It wasn’t that much fun then anyway.”
“Well, if you don’t want to fish, we can always rent a boat and see the sights on Cagle’s Mill Lake. Or we could hike one of the trails, or pick up a couple of camp chairs and just sit there and watch the sun crawl across the sky. We could even buy some swimsuits and play in the water. Whatever fancies your tickle.”
“’Fancies my tickle?’ Isn’t that backward?”
“It would be if we were driving in from the south. We’re going in the north entrance, so it’s just fine.”
She giggled. “I see. What do you prefer, Mr. Kent?”
He gave her another smile. “Whatever gets me out in the sun.”
*****
Lois hadn’t been completely on board when Clark had first mentioned taking some time for recreation, but the more she thought about it the better she liked it. And when he mentioned swimming, an image of him splashing on the lakeshore in tight spandex trunks popped into her mind and wouldn’t leave.
She’d have to check to be certain, but there was a memory of a dark blue one-piece Catalina swimsuit inside one of the pockets of her suitcase tickling her mind. It was reasonable to assume that her maid Consuela would have packed it, especially since Lois hadn’t told the woman of her final destination. There were limits to trust, after all.
She glanced at Clark’s hands on the steering wheel. Or were there limits? She trusted him with her life, didn’t she? Of course, she hadn’t had a choice after the shooting in Metropolis, but she wanted to believe that she would have trusted him no matter what had or had not happened to them.
And that made her feel guilty about Mayson, so she reached to the dash and turned on the radio. A slight adjustment pulled in a local news station, and she caught the last few words of the talk show host as he mentioned something about an update to the Luthor case after a commercial break.
She needed to hear this.
Clark rolled to a stop at the park gate, chatted with the ranger for a moment, then paid the entrance and use fee, stating that they did not plan to spend the night on the grounds. As Clark tucked the change and the receipt in his shirt pocket and started the van moving again, the talk radio host came back from his break and picked up his rant in mid-word.
“Now about this Luthor thing – what? No, Mr. Wormsley, I don’t think Lex Luthor should get bail! Look at all that he’s accused of! I mean, he’s got both federal and state charges pending, and the biggest problem I can see is that if he manages to beat the federal rap, the New Troy DA may not be allowed to use some of the evidence the Feds plan to use. I know that doesn’t make sense to normal people! That’s the way the state criminal statutes are written in New Troy, and usually it works out for the best. Of course, if the Feds convict him on those RICO charges, not to mention the drug distribution charges and murder solicitation charges, not to mention the interstate criminal activities he’s charged with, New Troy might have to exhume his body after he dies of old age while serving that sentence to put him on trial for whatever they have against him! And – do what? Yes, I believe that you’re right, Mr. Wormsley, I believe the federal trial will come first. Where? That I do not know, and I prefer not to speculate on it. I’m pretty sure the venue hasn’t been announced to the public yet.
“Now about this shooting the other day, where Luthor’s wife was supposed to have been shot, then it turned out that it was some assistant district attorney who was really shot, and nobody seems to know where Mrs. Luthor is now. Some people say Luthor’s boys tied her to an anchor and dropped her in Hob’s Bay. I’ve also heard that she’s on the run to Canada with a suitcase full of cash, all in hundreds. I personally don’t buy that one. Why? Because I’ve been to Canada, that’s why. They’re pretty strict on Americans bringing in large amounts of cash. Besides, the state of New Troy is supposed to have her passport.”
“Well,” sighed Lois, “this guy’s not totally off the rails. The Metro DA’s office does have my passport.”
“—one I think is true is that Mrs. Luthor has made a deal to testify against her husband in open court. What? No, no, no, that’s not right! A wife can’t be compelled to testify against her husband, but she can volunteer to do so if she chooses to. At least that’s the way it works in Federal court. Yes, apparently she chose to, probably because she didn’t want to rot in jail herself.”
Lois grunted but didn’t speak as the host redirected his rant. “No, I don’t think any kind of prison would be fun. Tell you what, though, that woman ADA who did get shot – what was her name, anyway? I’ve got it somewhere – ah, here we go. Mayson Drake. As of the last news release this morning, she’s on the critical list and still alive. Her doctors say her condition is – and I quote – ‘guarded, and we do not know when she will regain consciousness, much less be able to return to work.’ This may be a smokescreen, people. Sometimes the police will release what is euphemistically called ‘misinformation’ to make the bad guys think ‘A’ when the truth is ‘Q’ or even ‘Z.’ It’s possible that this is one of those times. Although, if she does die, that may be one more murder to lay at Lex Luthor’s feet.”
Clark reached out and snapped the radio off. Lois put her hand on his forearm and said, “She’s alive now, Clark. Hang on to that, okay?”
He glanced at her and nodded. Lois let her hand slide off.
She was almost angry at him for his faithfulness to Mayson. Yet it also accentuated the differences between him and Lex. Clark cared about Mayson’s survival because he apparently cared about everyone’s well-being, and maybe a little more about Mayson because of their relationship, whatever that was. The only concern her soon-to-be ex-husband would have about Mayson would be how much the woman’s death – or survival – would affect him and his business interests.
There might be some confusion about her feelings for Clark, but there was absolutely no ambiguity in her heart concerning Lex.
She hated him.
*****
Mayson slowly drifted into awareness of her surroundings. She seemed to be lashed to a bed with several needles stuck in her arms. A soft, regular beeping came from somewhere near her left shoulder, the one which didn’t seem to have a bone-deep ache in it.
Her tongue ran around her lips and failed to dampen them. The bed was as comfortable as a hospital bed could be, so apparently she’d been hurt somehow—
No.
She’d been shot.
But when? Where was her wound? Why had she been shot?
Those answers were still hidden behind the curtain. Her right hand fluttered in a vain attempt to clear away the cobwebs and let the wizard in front of the curtain explain everything, but all she managed to do was attract the attention of a huge, bullet-headed man just outside the door to her room.
“Mayson?” he whispered. Then a broad grin spread over his face. “Yeah, you’re back. Here, lemme call the nurse.”
He reached over her and pressed something beside her hip. A long blink later, a tall black woman in nursing scrubs leaned over her and smiled. “Ms. Drake? Can you hear me? Here, take my hand. Now squeeze twice if you understand me.”
Mayson tried to crush the woman’s hand twice, but she only smiled again. “Very good! Are you thirsty? I can give you a wet washcloth to suck on until the doctor comes. Okay?”
Mayson’s mouth moved but no sound came out, so she nodded. A moment later a damp cloth touched her lips, and she sucked on it like a newborn kitten working for her mother’s milk. The moisture felt so good that she let out a long satisfied sigh and tried to sit up.
The nurse touched her forehead and pressed lightly. “No, no, Ms. Drake, don’t try to sit up yet. The trauma surgeon needs to examine you first. Do you remember why you’re here?”
Mayson nodded and glanced at the big man who was now just a few feet from her bed. “Hey, May. Remember my name?”
She knew him. She knew his name. But nothing came out of her brain. She wondered if she’d been shot in the head.
Just then a short older man appeared in front of the big man. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Doctor Prescott. I’m glad I was here when you woke up. Now you just relax for a minute while we check you over.”
The doctor shined a penlight into her eyes, then checked her ears and nose. He plugged his stethoscope into his ears and listened to her chest. When he pressed down near her right shoulder, a gasp escaped her lips even though the pain she knew she should be feeling was masked by what had to be some pretty strong drugs.
The surge of discomfort seemed to clear her head a bit and she tried to talk again. “D-doctor?” she croaked. “How – how bad?”
Dr. Prescott smiled down at her. “How badly are you injured?” He waited for her to nod. “Well, you were shot once in the back. You’re fortunate that neither the bullet nor the bone fragments severed a major blood vessel. You do, however, still have a punctured lung, which we have already repaired, and some structural damage to your shoulder. I’m afraid you’re going to live.”
She tilted her head and gave him a puzzled expression. “You’ll live,” he grinned, “but you won’t enjoy the physical therapy you’re going to experience. Most of my patients don’t enjoy it in the slightest.”
“I – I’m alive,” she whispered.
He nodded. “That you are, young lady. And you’re strong, you’re otherwise healthy, and I predict that you’re going to do very well while complaining to your therapists that you’re recovering too slowly. But that’s a conversation for another day.”
“Clark?” she said.
“I’m sorry, what?”
The big man said, “She’s asking about Clark Kent, doctor. He’s a detective who sometimes works with her, and he’s escorting a witness to a federal facility so she can testify in a really big trial.”
Mayson knew she shouldn’t move much – couldn’t move much since she was still strapped down – but she almost rolled to her left, ignoring the shot of real pain that surged through her shoulder. Again, it seemed to clear her head a bit. “Where is Clark?”
“He’s out of the city,” the big man answered. “If he’s contacted anyone in the department, I don’t know about it. On the other hand, the bad guys are still scrambling around like someone kicked their favorite puppy and ran away, so we’re pretty sure they haven’t found him.”
The tall nurse gently pushed her back down on the bed. “I know that hurt, Ms. Drake, and unless you’d like more major surgery you’ll have to lie still. I know it’s not fun, but you’ll recover faster if you don’t hurt yourself before your therapists can do it for you.”
Mayson recognized the truth of what she heard, but the drive to do something, to protect the weak, to defeat the guilty, to make a difference, had all pushed her forward on the days when nothing seemed to work, when the bad guys seemed to be winning, when all her efforts seemed in vain, when she felt she was spending her life accomplishing nothing. It pushed her now, made her grasp the handrail and try to sit up, to say something, to do something, and she was disappointed when the doctor said, “Time for a sedative, Charlene.”
“No – no, I need – need to—”
The nurse smiled and softly said, “Good night, Ms. Drake.”
As the drug flowed through her system and she drifted back down to the depths, she thought she heard someone say, “Hard-headed blonde—” and something else she couldn’t make out. Probably wasn’t a compliment, she mused.
The darkness closed over her and she slept again.
