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TOCChapter sixty-fiveClark comes through the doors at five past noon.
I know before I look up.
He finds my desk and sets a paper bag down beside my keyboard.
“How’s the story?” he asks.
“Done. Perry’s running it tomorrow.” I look at the bag. “What is it?”
“Soup. And something from the bakery on the corner that the woman said was good for…” He stops, glances around. “She said it was good.”
“Come on.” I stand up. “Let’s eat in the conference room.”
Inside, I look at the bakery item. It’s a small, dense square.
I pick it up and take a bite. Ginger, sweet, warm.
“Did you find anything for Perry?”
He turns his cup without drinking from it. “I found a soup kitchen on Malcolm Street. They’re short-staffed and short on donations. I thought there might be a piece in that alone… a call for volunteers, maybe funding.” He pauses. “Then I stayed to help serve, and something else happened.”
I wait.
“There was a man,” Clark begins. “He didn’t fit with the others. He looked like he hadn’t slept well in years. Probably hadn’t slept indoors, either. But he’s clearly intelligent, well educated, from the way he talks. Nobody there was listening. Why would they? There are too many people to sit down and listen to each of them.”
“I keep thinking someone let him get this far.” He picks at the corner of the bag. “That there was a version of him with an office and a title, and somewhere along the way all of that got taken from him, and nobody caught him on the way down.”
I know what he’s not saying. Another system that hands you a folder and calls it care.
I set down the ginger square. “You could still do the volunteer piece, but if you can add his story and keep him anonymous, that’s what makes people actually read it. Not just
they need help. Who they’re helping.”
“I don’t know if it’s a Planet piece.”
“Write it, and we’ll find out.” I stand, brushing crumbs from my clothes.
“Thanks for listening, Lois.”
When we come out of the conference room, Perry is at his desk. He glances up, just long enough to catch Clark pulling out a notepad, and goes back to whatever’s in front of him.
I log into my computer and let Clark type his notes into a story.
“Read me what you have.”
He does. It’s a good start. It’s also flat in the places where it needs to breathe.
“Cut the third paragraph,” I tell him. “And you’re explaining the soup kitchen before you’ve made anyone care about it. Start with the man.”
“I don’t have a name for him.”
“You don’t need one. Start with what you saw. Someone nobody was looking at twice.” I tap the page. “Explain the kitchen after.”
He rewrites the opening. I read over his shoulder; it’s better. The facts blend with human insight naturally.
Across the floor, Perry’s door is closed.
“This sentence is doing too much work.” I point to his second paragraph. “Split it.”
He does.
By four, Clark has a draft that holds together. Perry’s door is still closed, and I’ve stopped pretending I’m not watching it as much as I’m watching Clark’s piece on the monitor.
The phone in Perry’s office rings again. He picks the receiver up.
Ralph drifts past on his way to the coffee machine, then slows.
“Busy afternoon, Lois?”
“Working, Ralph. Try it sometime.”
His gaze moves from me to Clark, then to Perry’s closed door. “Sure. And King here is helping you with your typing?”
“He’s writing his own story.”
“Uh-huh.” Ralph folds his arms. “Funny. Perry shuts his door all afternoon, and suddenly you’ve got time to teach the new guy how to find a comma.”
Clark keeps typing. “I found the comma on my own.”
Ralph’s smile tightens. “Right.” He glances at me again. “Some people would say Perry’s got a lot of patience with you, Lane. More than most.”
“Some people would say you have a lot of opinions about things you don’t understand.”
“Just an observation.” He picks up his coffee. “Don’t work too hard, King. She’ll have you doing her research next.”
He walks away before Clark can answer.
I look back at Perry’s office. The phone is ringing again.
Perry answers it. This time, he listens for a long moment without writing anything down.
He hangs up, but he does not move for several seconds.
Then he picks up the phone again.
I turn back to Clark’s draft.
“Okay,” I tell him. “Read me the last two paragraphs.”
He does. “Do you think it’s good enough for Perry?”
“You’ll only find out if you send it over to him. I think he’s off the phone for now.”
Clark submits the story to Perry. Then we go back to our research on Trask and Bureau 39.
Around five, Perry walks over to my desk, a serious expression on his face. Aside from us, only a few people are left in the newsroom.
He has spent most of the afternoon behind his closed door. I have seen him answer the phone more times than I can count, write down names or numbers, then sit staring at the page as if he is deciding which fire needs putting out first.
“Do you already have dinner plans?”
I blink. “No. Why?”
Perry glances toward the glass wall of his office, then back at me. “Henderson called.”
“I noticed you were busy.” I glance toward his office. “I assumed some of it was Henderson and the warehouse.”
“It was.” He looks at me for a moment. “Some of it concerned you. Not all of it is mine to tell you yet.”
My stomach tightens. “The warehouse?”
“They went in.” His face gives nothing away. “Something happened. Several officers were hurt. Nothing life-threatening, but Henderson couldn’t give details over the phone. He’ll talk when he can.”
I look at Clark. His expression has gone still.
“Are they all right?”
“I don’t know yet. There were armed men in the building.” Perry’s tone softens slightly. “But Henderson said no one died. Right now, that’s what matters.”
Cat has stopped typing. “And the rest of those calls?”
Perry looks at her, then at me. “One of them was about Claude.”
The name lands like a small stone in my stomach.
“What about him?”
“Not here.” Perry’s jaw tightens. “But there’s fallout, and there are things I don’t want discussed in the middle of my newsroom.”
“That sounds comforting,” Cat comments dryly.
“It isn’t supposed to be.”
He pauses. For the first time since walking over, something in his face becomes less editor and more careful.
I study him. “Perry…”
“I want you all somewhere private, with food in front of you, before this day gets any longer. There are things I need to confirm before I can give you the whole story.”
He looks between Cat, Clark, and me.
“There’s an Italian restaurant with a private room. The owner is a friend of mine.”
Cat picks up her bag. “Private room, ominous editor, unspecified developments. I assume dinner is on you?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m in.”
Cat presses the button for the lobby. “Perry, should I be worried?”
“You should be hungry.” He doesn’t look at her, which tells me more than the words do.
Perry turns toward the elevators. “Let’s go.”
We pack our things and step into the elevator.
The doors close. Nobody says anything else. I watch the floor numbers count down and think about phone calls I wasn’t supposed to notice, a door that stayed closed most of the afternoon. Whatever Perry wants to talk about, it has nothing to do with dinner.
Clark’s hand finds the small of my back.
The doors open on the lobby, and Perry leads the way out.
The elevator doors are almost closed when I remember. “Wait…” I catch them with my hand. “I left my notepad upstairs.”
“I’ll go,” Clark offers.
“No, stay. Two minutes.” I’m already stepping back in. “Don’t start without me.”
The doors close on his face before he can argue.
My notepad is exactly where I left it, under a stack of unrelated pages I’d used to hide it in plain sight. I grab it and I’m back at the elevator in ninety seconds, tapping my foot through the descent.
The car feels too quiet. Too empty.
I tell myself it’s just the day catching up with me.
It doesn’t quite work.
The doors open, and I know something is wrong before I know why.
I stay inside the elevator long enough to take in the lobby.
I do not step out yet.
Clark is sitting on the bench along the far wall, directly in my line of sight, elbows on his knees. One hand presses briefly to his sternum before he catches himself and drops it to his lap.
Perry and Cat stand over him in a loose circle, not facing him so much as shielding him from the rest of the room.
“…and that’s why he’s called the King,” Perry is saying, loud enough to carry. “You should visit Graceland, if you have the chance.”
Cat laughs, a beat too bright.
I know them both well enough to see straight through it.
Then Clark looks up.
My steps through the lobby are slow, though every part of me wants to run.
My eyes move past them, checking the front doors, the reception desk, the security station.
From the corner of my eye, security is escorting two men in dark jackets out of the lobby. They are already near the doors, well away from the bench.
Clark’s eyes meet mine across the lobby, and that is all it takes. I know that look. I have seen it before. I read every word of it.
Trask’s men.
Something happened here in the minutes I was gone, and I have no way of knowing what.
I reach the bench. “Charles.”
“I’m fine.”
He is pale enough that I do not believe a word of it. He is not running as high a fever as he did in Smallville, but he is still far too hot beneath my hand.
Clark’s shoulders don’t drop until the lobby doors have swallowed both men.
Cat’s watching us.
Perry’s hand finds my shoulder.
“We’re not doing this here.” His voice has dropped, all performance gone out of it. “Elevator. Now.”
“Can you stand?” I ask.
Clark nods.
Perry’s hand stays on my shoulder as he guides us toward the elevators. Cat falls in beside us.
Clark’s balance wavers. I move to his side and let it look like a friendly hug.
We move toward the elevator. The lobby feels too open, too exposed. The two men are gone, but the air they left behind still feels contaminated.
Perry hits the call button.
The doors open immediately.
We step inside. Perry reaches past me and hits the right button, then the
close doors button, twice, trying to shut the world out faster.
The moment the elevator starts rising, Clark’s hand finds the rail behind him.
Cat sees it.
Perry lifts a hand.
“Let him breathe.”
Clark’s eyes close for a second. Just one. But it’s enough to make my heart climb into my throat.
I move closer, Cat and Perry are watching, but I don’t care.
“Clark,” I whisper.
His eyes open. They’re unfocused, but he’s trying.
“I’m okay.”
Cat crosses her arms, defensive and worried all at once. “No offense, Clark, but you look like hell.”
“Son, you scared the life out of us down there.”
Clark swallows.
“I just… got dizzy.”
His voice is too weak for the lie to hold.
Cat’s eyebrows rise. She doesn’t buy it for a second.
The elevator hums upward.
Clark’s breathing is shallow. His fingers twitch toward mine, then stop, curling back into his palm.
He’s still affected.
Still burning from whatever those men carried.
The elevator slows.
Clark’s jaw tightens.
The doors open.
Perry steps out first, scanning the newsroom, it’s empty. Cat follows.
Clark moves to step forward, and his knee buckles.
I catch him.
Cat turns sharply.
“Clark!”
Perry’s hand closes around Clark’s upper arm. His expression changes.
“Great shades of Elvis.”
“What?” Cat asks.
Perry looks at his hand. “Something’s not right here.”
Clark straightens, breath shaking. “I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.” Perry’s voice has gone quiet. He touches Clark’s sleeve again, more carefully this time, as though he might have imagined something.
Perry’s expression hardens. “Office. Now.”
Clark nods, barely.
Once the door is closed and locked behind us, I’m able to take a breath.
Perry’s already at the phone, dialing from memory.
“Carmino. Perry White.” A pause. “Change of plans. Can’t make it in tonight. Can you send it instead? Two large, whatever’s fastest. No seafood.” Another pause. “You’re a good man. Twenty minutes?” He hangs up without waiting for goodbyes.
Cat’s already pulled the blinds. Perry drops into his chair and looks at Clark.
Clark has already collapsed onto the office couch. I sit beside him.
“Someone tell me what happened.” I look from Perry to Cat, then back to Clark.
He is bent forward. His skin is pale beneath the newsroom lights. One hand presses against his ribs, though there is no visible injury.
Perry’s expression is angry. Cat stands near Clark, arms folded, her attention fixed on him rather than on me.
“The two men.” Perry watches us, eyes narrowed, tapping his pen against the desk. “In the lobby. They weren’t big fans of the Planet, it seems.”
“Bureau 39,” Clark murmurs to me.
“I know.”
But the name still goes through me like a knife.
My hand moves to the small swell of my stomach before I can stop it. Searching for the change in my body beneath my palm. They are here. They are safe. My body turns toward them anyway, shielding them before my mind has caught up.
I make myself lower my hand. I do not look at Clark. I cannot. If I do, Perry and Cat might see what the name means to us.
Bureau 39.
They have found him.
They know about him.
Or worse: they came here because they already knew exactly where to look.
My hand finds Clark’s instead, hidden between us on the couch.
Whatever they came here for, they will not get it.
T. B. C.
