Oh, it's part Thirteen. I do hope that's not a bad omen and that you all find this part lives up to previous ones. Once again, please let me know your verdict.

Previously in My Wife The Boss:

With those final words, the group filed up the stairs, Clark giving each a quick glance. They were bowed, but not broken. Jimmy might need a little more persuasion to see things his way, and Matt ... well, he was probably biased in his favor. But Lois ... As she met his eyes, she smiled and gave a tiny nod of her head. Clark felt a spark of energy flow into his weary mind and body. Lane and Kent were once more a team, united in their determination to put this monster behind bars, to find justice for those he had killed and maimed.

While the group said goodnight, he felt Lois slip her hand into his and knew he would find peace in her arms, if only for a few short hours. He just hoped Matt could sleep and wouldn't be haunted by nightmares.

Matt was resolute and strong, but so young to be a hero. He hadn't had time to find his anchor.

In the meantime, Clark resolved to keep a close watch on his boy.

*****
continued ...

Chapter Seven
Frustration

Thomas Timmons stared at the large TV above the bar, grinding his teeth in mounting shock and fury while he listened to the police commissioner's spew. How could the morons at the MPD have gotten it so wrong?

He'd chosen the dimmest booth in a bar near City Hall, where no one could spy on him or his reactions to the press conference. Preferably, he would have been there in person, but wasn't about to risk openly associating himself with the bombings.

His head jerked nervously around the busy room and he took a gulp of his beer, spilling some on the plastic tabletop. He blotted it quickly with a napkin, praying his anxiety wouldn't be noticed. Yet, most of the customers were glued to the TV screen, and judging by their outraged expressions, he doubted his behavior was odd.

No need to worry.

Regardless, he was still frustrated. Very frustrated. The police actually believed that drunken idiot, Bob Tanner, could plan and carry out such a complex mission. Mind you, they didn't know it was Bob, and maybe never would. He doubted there was much left of his partner ... and even if there was, there was little to link the man to himself. He was just an occasional punter in the cafe where Thomas worked.

Thomas had always been very cautious in his few short dealings with Bob, making sure there weren't any witnesses to their private talks, and his final link to Bob was gone. As soon as he'd left the square, along with the panicking hordes, he'd dropped the man's cellphone down a drain. No one had noticed; they'd all been too hysterical and determined to escape.

People were blind and stupid. Take Bob! He'd never realized Thomas had stolen his phone the night before the bombing, nor dreamed his phone could kill him. Thomas was sure Bob hadn't been exactly sober. It had given him a sleepless night, worrying if the fool would screw up his plan, but it had gone like clockwork.

Now all he needed was the rain to arrive and wash the incriminating evidence right into Hobbs Bay ...

“Clark Kent, Daily Planet. How can you be sure this was a suicide bombing?” The voice came from the TV.

What?

Thomas' glance swung back to the TV.

Hey, good on you, pal!

He almost shouted the words aloud, but he quickly doused his enthusiasm and paid closer attention to what was going on at the press conference.

The commissioner cleared his throat, buying himself a few precious seconds. “Mr. Kent,” the large man said politely, “we haven't yet reached any definitive conclusion, but, from the witnesses whom we've been able to question and from the site of the blast, it's a fair assumption that the concession stand contained the explosives. At this time, we have no reason to suspect the bomber was working in conjunction with anyone else.” He paused, glancing at the rest of the crowd, then continued calmly. “But it is far too early in the investigation to be certain. I don't need to tell you that the police will explore every avenue. If the unknown bomber had an accomplice, we will find him or her.”

“Do you have a motive?” Clark asked again. “Most suicide bombers like to lay claim to their work.”

Now frowning in Kent's direction, the commissioner replied, though his tone was sharp. “No group or faction has been in touch with us or any of the media, to my knowledge, laying claim to this atrocity ... and we haven't received a suicide note from the bomber. But again, it is early. If it's out there, we'll find it.”

Turning in the other direction and pointing to another member of the press, the commissioner dismissed Clark, but the veteran reporter was not so easily silenced, and adopting his Superman tone, he continued, undeterred.

“What about a link to the letter bombings? Have you considered this might be the same perpetrator?”

There was a hushed silence as the reporters present waited to see if the commissioner would deign to answer. It was clear by the mounting color in his cheeks that he was becoming irritated.

As Thomas watched, mesmerized, Metropolis's top policeman coughed and sent a dagger-eyed glare at the reporter. The cameras scanned the crowd and found Kent, giving Thomas his first real view of the man who might be on the right track.

“Again, Mr. Kent, there is a slight likelihood, but those letter bombings were on a much smaller scale, and our profilers generally agree these criminals seldom change their method.”

“But not impossible?” Clark came back quickly.

“No, not impossible,” the commissioner conceded, and, as the cameras swung back to the podium, Thomas could see the commissioner's expression had turned hard as stone. “Mr. Kent, we called this press conference today to assure the people of this great city that the police department and federal officials are doing everything in their power to prevent further atrocities, not to discuss the details of our investigation. Perhaps, now, you would allow your colleagues to ask their questions. I believe I have given you a fair hearing.”

The cameras swept across the assembled journalists until they focused on the source of the next question.

“Lara Morgan, Star Online,” a blond woman introduced herself. “Have you been able to discover the identity of the suicide bomber?”

“Ms. Morgan, if you mean the person manning the coffee stand, not yet.” The commissioner shot another quick black look at Kent. “I'm sure you can appreciate that identification will be a difficult process, and not just in the case of the bomber. That's why we are asking relatives to come forward to report anyone who has not returned home from the opening ceremony at Metropolis General.”

The rest of the conference was of little interest to Thomas, but an eerie grin twisted his lips, while Kent's determined face remained imprinted on his mind. Finally, he had someone who believed in him.

This man might be his nemesis, but Thomas was up to the challenge.

*****

The press conference had scarcely finished when the gray skies above Metropolis doused the stricken city in a deluge that continued for days, hampering the teams still searching for clues, yet delighting Thomas, holed up in his basement flat. Neither the constant leaks nor the buckets he continually tripped over could dim his sense of achievement. Even the weather was playing into his hands.

In the immediate aftermath of the bombing, the city was quiet, its streets empty of those who had no reason to be outside. The population was collectively nursing its wounds, but the indomitable spirit of the people refused to be cowed. Within days, despite the downpour, candlelight vigils were held all over Metropolis, culminating in the largest in Centennial Park.

As darkness fell on the night of the service, the rain eased to a chill drizzle, blown in from the bay, yet it failed to prevent the people from gathering. They poured in by the thousands to remember the dead, to grieve with those left behind, and to pray for those lost and maimed by the madman who had dared to attack their beloved city.

Believing himself anonymous in the vast crowds, Thomas Timmons came to Centennial Park. He adopted the same mournful posture as those around him as he shielded his homemade lantern from the dampness ... some of its frame made from the leftover materials of his bomb. He was rather pleased about the irony of that.

Wandering through the throng of people, listening as they sang hymns and were led in prayer by various religious leaders, he rejoiced inside. They now knew the grief that he had felt constantly ... for years.

And he had made it happen.

He joined his voice with that of the crowd, allowing his enthusiasm to manifest itself in song. No one could object to him singing hymns. After all, thanks to his holier-than-thou Aunt Ina, he knew all the words, and even she had admitted he had a decent singing voice.

The thought of Aunt Ina threatened to spoil his ebullient mood. Perhaps it was time to take revenge on the old witch.

*****

Lois and Clark, flanked by their three children, all holding their light-sticks aloft, edged slowly closer to the fountain in Centennial Park, a place that had witnessed many private milestones in their lives, and was now the hub of the remembrance service. Tonight, the park, with its myriad of lights, had become an open-air church, and the family was subdued as they passed through the congregation.

Lois noticed Clark's free hand resting around Vicky's shoulder, offering comfort and support, while Sara walked close by Lois' side. Both girls were crying, but Matt was silent, his face set in harsh lines ... too harsh.

Should they have allowed the kids to attend? Lois shook her head slightly. Matt had insisted on it, and she knew she couldn't protect her daughters from the world. Besides, she was shedding a few tears herself ...

All around her, emotions seemed to mingle with the light rain, becoming almost tangible, as the people of Metropolis shared the pain and sadness of the bereaved. Compassion had united them ... but beneath the mourning, there was a determination to show those who attacked them that they held no dominion over their city.

At times like this, Lois was proud to be a Metropolitan. She was not, however, so pleased with the Metropolis Police Department ... or certain officers. From that first press conference, it had been obvious that its investigation was following the assumption that the bomber had intended to kill himself along with a number of his fellow citizens, and injure many more.

She was honest enough with herself to concede the police could be correct, but she did believe Clark's gut instinct. And yet, Clark had done himself no favors with his pointed line of questioning at the press conference. The commissioner had told his staff not to cooperate with nosy reporters, and particularly with one who was looking to regain a name for himself. There had been almost a news blackout on any positive results of the investigation.

But Lois was determined to put an end to the logjam of information. While she'd been a reporter, she'd had a provocative but civil relationship with Inspector Henderson ... she and Clark. Now Henderson was their friend. One of the few who was in on the family secret, and had sworn to protect it.

Earlier in the day, Lois had asked James to set up a meeting in his apartment for after the candlelight vigil. She and Clark would leave the two girls with their grandparents and head over to James' place, where they'd meet up with Henderson, and hopefully Jed Peterson. She'd chosen James' apartment, because she doubted Jed would have come anywhere near The Planet or the Kent home.

There was also a friendship between James and Jed; she'd heard they had similar interests in computing science. Plus, she was fairly certain Jed would have heard about Henderson's reputation as a good cop, if he'd never actually met the inspector. Maybe the young sergeant would open up in the company of friends and old colleagues.

Her attention was diverted by the Archbishop giving his final blessing, and she dropped her head in prayer, more of a believer than she once had been. Standing close to Clark, she could hear him murmuring the words and felt warm inside; he, too, believed divine intervention had brought him home safely.

The benediction completed, there was movement by the fountain as a Presbyterian minister came forward to ask the congregation to leave the grounds in a respectful and orderly manner, while singing the closing hymn.

*****

Nearby, at the close of the service, Thomas' frustration mounted. He wasn't ready to go home, yet he was a little mollified as they announced the last hymn, Abide With Me -- one of Mary's favorites. He threw back his head and sang for his wife, hardly registering the glances of appraisal being sent his way. Stepping sideways without looking, he felt himself come up hard against a solid body -- and his singing ceased abruptly.

“Sorry,” he said, turning around. His manners had been drummed into him by Aunt Ina, and he couldn't break the habit.

He came face to face with the reporter he'd last seen on TV. Clark Kent. Thomas' breath caught in his throat as the guy looked back at him, smiling faintly in glow of the lantern he held.

“No problem,” came the answer, the tone friendly. “It's a bit crowded around here. There's no harm done ... if you're OK?”

Taken aback, Thomas found it difficult to speak.

“Are you OK?” Kent asked again, sounding concerned.

“Yes,” Thomas said, quietly. Then his power of speech returned. “Oh, yes. I'm fine, thank you.” He had to keep his wits about him, had to act naturally. “How about you?”

Kent was nodding. “I'm all right.”

“You're right about it being crowded.” Thomas added, feeling that a few neighborly words wouldn't seem out of place.

“I'm glad so many people turned out. I was afraid the weather might put them off, but it's good to know that the people of Metropolis care what happens to their fellow citizens and are so generous to a good cause.”

Thomas' eyes narrowed. “Good cause?”

Sending a glance toward a group of people who were standing along the path leading out of the park, holding collection baskets. “They're taking up a collection for the families of those who died, and for the people who were injured in the explosion.”

“Oh, right.” Thomas hadn't known, and he didn't have much money, but he couldn't alert suspicion. His lantern dropped to his side, almost forgotten, while with his free hand he fished around in his pocket and found some change. “Thanks for reminding me. I'll go and donate right now.”

He backed away toward one of the collectors. “See ya,” he cried over his shoulder, dropping his contribution into the bucket and heading into the throng of people, desperate to make a hasty exit from the one man in Metropolis who could be looking for him.

It was weird. Fate had brought them together.

*****

To Be Continued ...