Thanks to my betas and to all the readers out there that have provided comments. I hope you enjoy the next part.
TOC is here.
~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~
From part 6:
As we walk down the hall to the lift, my thoughts return to Lex and his duplicity and I start to seethe. By the time we step out of the elevator, I’m scowling and my stomach is churning with anger. It helps when I focus on Trask and the pleasure of seeing my byline in print again, but I can’t quite smother the negative feelings completely.
The remnant of my anger finally dissipates when I feel the soft warmth of Clark’s hand at the small of my back. I’m startled not only by the deliciously warm feeling that suffuses my body from the point of contact, but also by how much I like it. I turn to look at him and Clark flashes a brilliant smile at me as we walk down the steps of his building. My mouth stretches into a goofy smile in response.
The thrill I get when imagining my name on a newspaper byline again is exhilarating, but it has nothing on the rush I get from Clark’s smile and the touch of his hand.
~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~
Master of Disguise - Part 7
~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~
After a ten-minute cab ride, we walk into an almost deserted newsroom at the San Francisco Chronicle. Other than a brief pang of nostalgia when I enter the newsroom, my thoughts continue to swirl around Trask and his mysterious Bureau. Determined, I make a beeline from the elevator to Clark’s desk, outlining my plan as I go.
“Why don’t you go see what you can find about Trask or Bureau 39 in the archives while I type up what we have so far and wait for Jimmy to call back?”
I sit down in his desk chair and I hold out one hand for the tape recorder as I pull a notebook out of my bag with the other. As I’m sliding the chair in, I notice that he isn’t moving and his slightly amused expression halts me in mid-movement. I can feel the heat of embarrassment rising to my cheeks.
“I did it again, didn’t I?” I admit sheepishly. “I know this is your turf, but I just thought that…”
He interrupts my nervous explanation with a smile. “It’s fine, Lois. I would have suggested splitting up, too.” He looks around the deserted newsroom. “Since we’re on our own for research tonight, it makes sense. I’m familiar with our archives, so it’ll be faster if I go.”
A tall, lanky man in a wrinkled oxford sticks his head out of the office door next to Clark’s desk. Even without the prominent markings on the door, I would recognize him as a member of the editing staff. His hawkish features are softened by a welcoming smile and the blue pencil hanging precariously from one ear. He directs his question to Clark, but his curious eyes are fixed on me. It’s obvious that he wants to know who I am, but is too reserved to ask.
“Kent?” he says in surprise. “What brings you here in the middle of the night?”
Clark introduces me to the night editor, Walter Johnson, and I have to restrain from grinning as the man falls all over himself after Clark tells him my name. His brief hesitation at having a LNN News Director in his newsroom disappears when I assure him that the Chronicle will get credit as the source of any story we run. His eyes continue to bug out as Clark gives him the highlights of our story and he backs away, not wanting to interfere.
Once we’re alone again, Clark glances at his watch. “Meet you back here in about … twenty minutes?”
“Sounds good.”
He starts walking away and I clear my throat. “Clark?”
“Yes?”
I point at his desktop. “Would you mind?”
“Oops. Sorry about that.” He blushes adorably and reaches over to boot it up. “You seemed so at home that I forgot you don’t actually work here.”
I scoot aside while he logs in and pulls up the Chronicles’ search engine and a word processor. He flashes me an encouraging smile and then trots across the newsroom to disappear into the stairwell.
I type the scant information we have into the search fields and hit enter. As the computer checks the databases for references, I trail my fingertips lightly over the keyboard before running them down across the wood grain of Clark’s desk. Even though it’s late, a small smile plays on my lips as I soak up the atmosphere of the newsroom. Vibrant and questioning in its passionate search for truth – I’ve missed this more than I had realized.
It hits me again how in marrying Lex I’d lost part of myself. In my despondency and confusion, I’d given up Lois Lane to become Lois Luthor. My eyes narrow and my jaw clenches with my resolve. No more. I’ve reclaimed Lois Lane and vow never to lose sight of her again.
The search results appear on the screen before me, bringing me back from my mawkish thoughts. I scan through the references, unable to find anything related or useful and hope that Jimmy and Clark are having better luck. Undeterred, I start typing up the facts we have as I wait for the next batch of search results.
I’m lost to the work and after what seems like only seconds, the elevator pings, disgorging Clark with a single sheet of paper in his hand. He looks up from the paper to smile, a warm grin that I find reassuring and more than a little sexy. I feel a flutter in my stomach and drop my eyes, not wanting him to know how it affects me. I breathe a sigh of relief as my phone rings.
As Clark perches on the corner of his desk, I flip the phone open and hold it away from my ear, inviting him to listen in. He leans close and my breath hitches as I catch another whiff of his aftershave. Mentally, I shake myself, trying to ignore the way the heat from his skin seems to seep into mine, sending prickles down my spine.
Through great effort, I return my attention to the phone and issue my standard greeting. “What have you got?”
“Lois, this guy is practically a ghost. Other than his birth certificate and driver’s license, I could only find one reference to a Jason Trask, US Air Force – a headline reading ‘UFO Sighting Really Swamp Gas’ in the 1960’s.”
With a flourish, Clark hands me a print out of the article and I squint at the grainy picture there.
“Too old Jimmy. Anything more recent.”
“Nada. No military service record that I can find. There was one picture with the article that listed two other officers: George Thompson, now with the State Department, and a Burton Newcomb, a general just retired from Fort Truman.”
I start in surprise when he mentions Newcomb’s name and squint to read the caption on the article Clark brought. I wave off Clark’s unspoken question as grab a pen from the holder. “Do you have my rolodex with you? Great, get me the number listed under ‘GBN’.”
He reads the number and I write it down, still ignoring the questioning looks from Clark. “Good work, Jimmy. Clark and I can take it from here. Get some sleep, will you.”
“Right,” Jimmy laughs. “Night, Lois.”
I put the phone away and bite at my lip, wondering if it really could be this easy to track this guy down. I try to hide the excitement I feel, but my self-satisfied grin gives me away.
“I’m not sure what that smile means, but I think I like it,” Clark states.
“Did you know,” I ask, tapping the paper against his arm. “That my father was a military doctor before he started his private practice? We were stationed at Fort Truman for six years and I spent a lot of time on the base getting myself into mischief. I was on a first name basis with all of the MPs and one General Burton Newcomb became a close family friend. I think I ought to give him a call, don’t you?”
“Now? It’s almost three o’clock in the morning in Metropolis.”
I smile wryly in response and dial the number Jimmy gave me. The phone rings ten times before a gruff, sleep-filled voice answers. “Who are you and why are you torturing me?”
“General Comb-over?”
A pause. “Lo-lo, is that you?”
I roll my eyes at Clark when his eyebrows climb his forehead, his mouth forming my nickname in disbelief. “Yes, it’s me. Sorry to call you so late, but I need your help.”
He smothers a yawn to answer. “Anything for you, sugar.”
“I had an unpleasant run-in with a Colonel Jason Trask this evening and was hoping you could tell me about Bureau 39.”
“Trask, eh?” There’s an uncomfortable pause and I see Clark tilt his head, trying to hear something from the other end. He nods, encouraging me to continue, but I wait. I know from experience that pressuring the General is a sure way to failure. “What happened?” the General asks.
“Trespass and aggravated assault on a civilian to start. He was looking for Superman and is convinced that he’s the forerunner for an alien invasion. Trask claimed the Bureau existed to protect us and then proceeded to interrogate us using somewhat questionable techniques.”
“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
I smile at the concern in his voice. “No, I’m fine, but he did rough-up my partner a little.”
“Trask is a nasty piece of work – has been from the beginning,” he grumbles, the loathing evident in his tone of voice.
“Uncle Burt, I know you were in Project Blue Book together, but wasn’t that disbanded in the sixties?” I keep my fingers crossed that his contempt for Trask will override the need for confidentiality. It does.
“That was the official story, yes. Unofficially, extraterrestrial investigations shifted to Bureau 39, which ran into the eighties before defense budget cuts finally shut the program down.”
“So he’s a rogue agent acting without official sanction, then?”
There’s another long pause and I wait, holding my breath. There’s a long pause and then an equally long sigh, accompanied by the muted clacking of the General’s computer keyboard. Clark opens his mouth to ask a question and I hold up my hand, asking him to wait. After another agonizing moment, our patience is rewarded.
“Security has always been tight on the project,” the General explains. “Access to the classified materials were given to only a few of us. We took an oath to protect America from outside threats on August the second, nineteen forty-seven. That’s about all I can tell you, sugar. Now, if you and your sister Bethany want to come over sometime soon, we can catch up on old times.”
“I will, Uncle Burt, and thanks.” I hang up and smile victoriously at Clark, who lifts an eyebrow in question. Ignoring his inquiry, I write down a series of numbers and the name on the sheet of paper before offering Clark his chair. He sits down and his furrowed brow makes me giggle.
“I’m very confused right now,” he says. “A little help here, please?”
“My sister’s name is Lucy.” I tap the paper with my finger “Uncle Burt gave us his access code and password. How would you like to take a peek into the Army’s Bureau 39 files?”
~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~
“No, go back and change that,” I advise, pointing at the screen. “Trask has been reprimanded for *five* counts of aggravated assault on civilians with three instances of trespass and theft.”
“Are you always this bossy?” Clark asks, turning to look at me.
I can’t quite tell if he’s annoyed or teasing me so I assume the latter. “Yes. Now add the part about running rough-shod over constitutional protections.”
I lean over Clark’s shoulder as he makes the changes, already reading ahead. “They’ve been funded by the State Department and private donors for the past few years and are based at Fort Truman in Metropolis. I wonder what they’ve got in that warehouse on Bessolo Boulevard?” I muse out loud. “No, don’t put that in; let’s save that for a follow-up after we have a chance to see what’s inside tomorrow.”
As Clark deletes the last sentence, his growl of irritation warns me to back off. I’m not too worried about stepping on his toes. I know he’s enjoying writing the story with me as much as I enjoy writing with him. Neither of us can believe how much we’ve been able to accomplish in one night. If we’d had access to the warehouse in Metropolis, we might have been able to print everything in tomorrow’s afternoon edition. I’m half way through my re-read when I realize something’s missing.
“You left out the meteorite.”
Clark’s fingers freeze above the keyboard. “Yes,” he answers in a cautious voice.
“Trask is walking around with a radioactive substance that might be harmful to Superman. Don’t you think reporting that is important?”
For a long moment, Clark stays frozen in his seat, his shoulders tense. For a split second, I sense barely restrained energy emanating from him, like it’s all he can do to continue sitting there. As the silence stretches out, I can almost hear the gears spinning in his head. His jaw clenches several times before he turns to address me and I’m taken aback by the intensity in his gaze.
“Do we know it’ll hurt him? Even Trask said it was speculation. I don’t want to mention it without knowing all of the facts.”
I open my mouth to reply – okay, to argue with him – that we can corroborate each other, but Perry’s voice in my memory demands ‘hard facts’ and I stop. My mouth closes and twists in reluctant concession; Clark may be right about having proof. Stubbornly, I still think we should mention it, but before I can get a word in, Clark is talking again.
“Besides,” he continues, “why would you want to tell the world there’s something out there that can hurt Superman? Don’t you realize that he uses his powers to protect innocent people from getting hurt? And don’t get me started on how many times he’s been attacked directly. The criminals would love to see Superman disappear. Personally, I don’t want to be responsible for printing anything that’ll put him at risk, do you?”
I’m a little taken aback by the passion in Clark’s voice and I wonder again at how much he really knows about the superhero. He’s obviously given this topic a lot of thought. Is Trask right? Is there some connection between Clark and Superman?
I know Clark regards the hero with respect bordering on adoration, but his protectiveness is a little extreme. Begrudgingly, I admit he’s right about the criminals. Just tonight, Clark listened to our surveillance tapes of Lex that proved he had been testing Superman’s abilities. And I’m sure Lex isn’t the only one. Clark undoubtedly has more eye-witness experience with the superhero than anyone else. He must have observed some of that himself.
I shrug my suspicions off and give in. Not knowing more about the meteorite galls me, but Clark is right about not including it in our article. “Okay,” I concede. “We’ll leave it out.”
Clark freezes again, his mouth open in mid-protest. His eyebrows climb above the rim of his glasses and he tips his head toward me in surprise. “You’re agreeing with me?” he asks.
“I’m still curious about the rock, but I can agree with your opinion when it makes sense.” I smile ironically at him. “Just don’t get used to it, Kent.”
His posture relaxes and he smiles at me before turning back to his terminal. I take the opportunity to get a fresh cup of coffee while he fills in the blanks of our story. Our story – I really like the sound of that. Not as good as *my* story, but it feels pretty nice anyway.
I stir some sweetener into my cup and sit back down in Clark’s visitor chair. As his fingers gain speed, I slide my chair close, cross my legs and take a sip at the tepid brew. It’s not as good as the Daily Planet sludge, but it’s not bad.
I'm rereading the article from the beginning when I notice Clark's hands have stopped moving. I look over at him and notice that the story no longer holds his attention and he’s looking down at my lap. I follow his gaze and realize that when I sat down, I unintentionally shifted my skirt so that now a generous amount of my thigh is peeking out of the slit.
My eyes snap back to his face, but his dark eyes are fixed on his screen, a tick pulsing along his jaw line as he clenches his teeth. While he's staring at the monitor like it holds the answers to life, I reach down to tug my skirt flap closed. I bring the cup back to my mouth, hiding a grin with another sip of my coffee. For the first time, I'm grateful to Lex for influencing my wardrobe. At the Planet, I wore boxy, long-skirted business suits; now my suits tend to be shorter and a lot sexier than before.
"Do you want to mention the EPRAD connection?" I prompt. He starts typing again and I smother a grin. It's good to know that Clark finds me attractive and even more thrilling that my attraction to Clark isn't completely one-sided. Not bad, for an old married lady.
We discuss a few additional details and I lean close to reread the final paragraph when Clark stops typing again. Wondering what distracted him this time, I see him looking just above his monitor, his head cocked slightly to the side. I follow his gaze, trying figure out what might have caught his interest, but all I see is an empty hallway leading to the restrooms. I look back at Clark, who is now fidgeting with the end of his tie. Without warning, he slides his chair back and springs to his feet.
“I need to go for a few minutes. Why don’t you go ahead and finish it out the way you want.”
“Now? What errand could you possibly need to run this late?”
“I just need to go and do … something that needs doing.”
I stand up as Clark speaks and advance on him as he edges toward the empty corridor. “But we’re almost done. Clark!”
“Really, this’ll only take a minute.” He turns and practically sprints down the hall, waving over his shoulder when I call to him again.
“Clark?”
Exasperated, I flop down into his chair and cross my arms, releasing an expletive about unreliable partners under my breath. I hear a chuckle and look up to see Walter walking toward me.
“He’ll be back.”
“Does he do that a lot?” I ask.
“Constantly. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”
“But…where does he go?”
“None of us know, but he usually returns with a great story or a hot lead. Our Editor-In-Chief figures it’s his intuition or subconscious kicking in, helping him to put pieces of evidence together, giving him insight to his investigations. I thought he might be psychic since he sometimes returns with information on a breaking story, but the Chief doesn’t believe in all that ‘hocus-pocus hooey.’”
He shrugs. “In the end, it doesn’t really matter to us. Kent’s a good worker and a team player. As long as he finishes his assignments and brings in hard-hitting stuff, we give him the leeway he needs.”
The sound of a distant toilet flushing causes both of us to look up. Clark exits the men’s room, wiping his hands dry on a paper towel and Walter chuckles. “Of course, sometimes it means the man just needs to use the restroom.”
I stare at Clark as the night editor walks back into his office, thinking about what he’d said. It might be a west-coast thing, this laid-back attitude toward Clark’s behavior, but I don’t think so. Perry had given me that kind of freedom in choosing my work, too. My methods were sometimes questionable and often erratic, but Perry put up with it because I always got the scoops. I feel a wave of sadness mixed with jealousy wash over me and I clench my fist with determination. I can’t wait to break open both of these investigations and get back into print journalism.
Clark notices me staring as he approaches and his expression turns wary. He looks behind him and then surreptitiously checks his tie and then his fly. I smile.
“Come on, Farmboy. Let’s finish this up and get out of here. I need to get to sleep if we’re going undercover tomorrow.”
~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~
tbc...
