Supercop: 2/?
by Nan Smith
Previously:
"I'm fine," Lois said, crossly. "It's barely a scratch and it's already stopped bleeding. Hasn't the Metro PD got anything better to do than harass me when those guys that shot at us are running around loose?"
"We've got an APB out for the car," Henderson said. "I'll never know how you remembered that license plate, with everything that was happening, Clark."
"He's got a photographic memory," Lois said. She glanced at Detective Reed who had been attempting to interview her. "I already told you, I didn't see a thing. I heard a shot and Clark pushed me down against the planter, and then there were some more shots, and I realized the bullet had just grazed me, and then lightning hit the planter. It happened so fast it was all a big blur."
"You three are all lucky to be alive," Reed said. "By all rights, you should have been incinerated." Henderson had to agree with him. He still hadn't quite sorted out the sequence of events in his mind, but Lois's description sounded about right. He glanced at Clark. The man still looked shaken, and Henderson couldn't blame him, since his wife had apparently been the target. He must have moved nearly as fast as the lightning to get the three of them out of the line of fire before the second shot. Adrenaline was an incredible thing, he thought. It made ordinary men into supermen in an emergency.
"Is that all?" Lois persisted. "I want to go home and change my clothes. This skirt is ruined."
It figured, he thought, keeping his face straight with difficulty. Someone had just tried to kill her, and Lois Lane was more concerned about her ruined clothing.
"Fine with me," he said. "Are you sure you don't want a doctor to look at that?"
"I'll put some iodine on it when I get home," Lois said. "Come on, Clark. We've got some work to do. See you later, Henderson."
She pushed open the Courthouse door and marched out into the rain.
**********
And now, Part 2:
Glenn Reed looked after Lane and Kent as they pushed their way through a crowd of their colleagues waiting outside and stuffed his notebook into a back pocket. "How does Kent put up with her?" he asked, rhetorically.
Henderson allowed himself a dry chuckle. "Don't kid yourself," he said. "He doesn't just put up with her. That woman is his reason for breathing."
"Must be a glutton for punishment," Reed said. "I mean, she's easy on the eyes, but she'd drive me bats in a week -- if it took that long."
Henderson shook his head. "Lane's all right," he said. "She's just afraid to admit she's human. She's still one of the best friends the Department has."
Reed gave him an odd look. "You sound like you actually like her."
"I do. But if you ever tell her I said so, I'll call you a liar to your face."
Reed snorted. "Your secret's safe with me. You got a car here, or should I give you a lift back to the Precinct?"
"I'm parked in the lot down the street. If you want to give me a lift over, I won't turn you down. It's raining pitchforks out there."
"Yeah, I noticed. At least it's not as hot." He glanced at the mob just beyond the doors. "Ready to run the gauntlet?"
"As I'll ever be," Henderson said. He pushed open the door and stepped out into the rain. The representatives of the Fourth Estate closed around them like frenzied piranha.
"Henderson!" That was Jenkins from the Star. "Can you give us a statement? What happened? Who was the target? Was it related to the Quigley trial?"
Henderson held up his hands for attention. "All I can say right now is that we don't know. The shots were fired at Lane, Kent and me. Any of us could have been the target. Beyond that, we have no facts yet."
"The rumor is that you've got a license plate." The speaker was George Ware from the Herald. "Is that true?"
It baffled Henderson how these things got out. "We have a possible," he said. He glanced at his notes. "We're looking for a dark blue Ford sedan, probably 1992 or '93 ..." He glanced at Reed, who had pulled out his notebook and read off the license number Kent had given them.
"You three were just missed by a lightning bolt," Linda Adams of the Whisper said. "How does it feel to have been so close to death?"
"We'd just been shot at, Ms. Adams," Henderson said, dryly. "What do you think?"
There was a murmur of laughter from the crowd. Even Linda Adams laughed.
"Granted," she said, "but you don't get nearly struck by lightning often, do you? Can you describe how you felt when you realized you'd escaped being hit?"
"Relieved to be alive," Henderson said. "That's all for now, ladies and gentlemen. No more questions."
Reluctantly, the crowd parted to let him past. As they made their way to his car where it sat in the no parking zone in front of the Courthouse, Reed snorted. "What did she expect you to say? That you'd had a divine revelation or a near death experience?"
"She works for the Whisper," Henderson said, laconically. "Expect something like that in the next edition. Along with an exclusive interview with the ghost of Elvis, who saved our lives."
Reed laughed shortly. "Of course. Why didn't I think of that?" He unlocked the passenger door for Henderson and went around to get into the driver's seat.
Henderson pulled the door open and staggered back a step as the handle came off in his hands. He stared at it in surprise. "What the ..."
"What happened?" Reed asked.
"Your handle just fell off," Henderson said.
"That's weird," Reed said. "I better hand this thing over to Maintenance when I get back to the Precinct."
"Yeah." Henderson got into the seat and pulled the door shut. "My car's down that way." He pointed.
Reed pulled into the lot behind Henderson's car a couple of moments later. Henderson pushed the door carefully open. "Thanks for the lift."
"Don't mention it."
He got out, closing the door behind him with equal care. If something had damaged it, he didn't want anything else to fall off.
The rain was still coming down by the bucketful, but the temperature had dropped to a comfortable level and he found that he didn't particularly mind the rain. It was a relief after the muggy heat of earlier in the day. Henderson fished in his pocket for his car keys, inserted the key into the lock and turned it.
The locking button on the inner side of the window snapped up and there was a crunch. He withdrew the stub of a key and swore softly to himself at the realization that his key had just broken off in the lock. Great. Just great. With a sigh, he pushed the button on the handle and pulled the door open very gently, waiting for something else to happen, but nothing did.
Fortunately, there was an extra key under the mat. Feeling slightly paranoid, he eased the remaining key into the ignition and gingerly turned it on.
The engine responded with a smooth purr. He glanced back over his shoulder and with extreme care, began to back the car out of the parking space. With the sensation of dancing on eggs, he pulled out into traffic and drove with more than his usual caution, threading his way through the rush hour traffic toward the Precinct. He didn't understand what had caused this attack of nerves, but somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice was telling him to be careful, that he was walking on the edge of a precipice that he could slip from at any second. Henderson wasn't usually the fanciful type, but he obeyed the impulse, telling himself that he'd had hunches before, and it was usually better to play it safe until you figured out what the problem was.
At last, he pulled the car into his space in the Precinct's lot and cut the engine. He still hadn't figured out the impulse to be extra-cautious, but he closed the door of the car gently behind him. He couldn't lock it because of the end of his other key still stuck in the lock, but at least nothing else was broken -- so far, anyway.
The downpour had subsided to a gentler rain punctuated by rumbles of thunder but at least it wasn't showing any sign of stopping yet, which was a good thing as far as he was concerned. The City could certainly use the relief from the heat. Now if drivers would only use a little common sense and exercise some caution on the highways, maybe the Highway Patrol wouldn't have to cope with too many accidents. That, of course, was probably a pipe dream, he conceded as he went up the steps of the Precinct, but he was an incurable optimist. Oh well; everybody had his own dirty little secret. At least this one wasn't likely to get him into too much trouble as long as he kept it under control.
Chief Dobbs looked up from his desk as Henderson entered the room. "Hey, Henderson! I heard about the close call. You okay?"
"Fine," he responded, wondering which close call Dobbs was talking about. "Any word on that license plate, yet?"
"Yeah; it's a stolen car. The report came in a little while ago."
"Name of the owner?"
"Uhh ..." Dobbs ruffled around on his desk for a minute. "Guy by the name of Minton: George Minton and his wife, Linda. Here's the report."
"Thanks." Henderson took the paper. ""Did you run the owner's name for priors?"
"Not yet. Any reason to think he might be connected?"
"Not really. Olsen here, yet?"
Dobbs jerked his thumb in the direction of an office. "In there. He says it's a long shot."
"That it is." Henderson crossed the room to the office Dobbs had indicated and stuck his head through the door. Jimmy Olsen of the Daily Planet bent over the office computer, frowning as he tapped at the keyboard. He glanced up as Henderson entered.
"How's it going?" Henderson asked.
Olsen sat back and stretched his arms above his head, relieving the tension in his shoulders. "Well, it's a spoofed address, but we figured that," he said. "Whoever this guy is, he's good. He's routed it through at least half a dozen servers in four different countries. This is going to take a while."
Henderson nodded. "Keep plugging," he said. "Somebody took a shot at Lane and Kent at the Courthouse."
Olsen looked around. "Are they all right?"
"One shot grazed Lane's arm." He gave a dry smile. "She's fine but it looks like there's more to this than just a crank email."
"I'll find out where it came from, if it's humanly possible." Olsen said.
Henderson nodded. "I'm sure you will. Don't worry about Lois, Jim. She wouldn't even let anyone give her a Band-Aid. Just concentrate on the job."
"I will. Tell her to be careful, would you?"
"I already did, and so did Kent," Henderson said. "I'm thinking of having an extra patrol car check out their place a few times tonight, though."
"Thanks," Olsen said. "They're my friends, you know? I don't want anybody to hurt them."
"They're pretty good at taking care of themselves," Henderson said. "Kent had us down behind a planter before anybody else realized what had happened."
Olsen grinned. "That's CK for you," he said.
"Yeah," Henderson agreed. "Well, I'll let you get back to work. Let me know if you find anything."
"I will." Olsen had already turned back to the screen.
Henderson left the room and headed down the short corridor toward his office. He was still moving with caution, but common sense was telling him that the series of accidents was only that: just a bunch of accidents. Things like that happened. He might even be a little uncoordinated from the lightning strike. An electric shock did tend to foul up your reflexes for a little while -- and that had been one heck of a shock. That probably explained breaking off the key in his door lock. As for the handle of Reed's door, well, it was a weird accident, but it happened sometimes. He could probably dismiss the whole thing as a coincidence. Getting paranoid about it was silly.
Still, he opened the door of his office with a certain amount of caution, but the doorknob didn't fall off in his hand. He let out his breath and entered. With a faint sigh of relief, he settled into his desk chair and began to study the information on the sheet of paper that Dobbs had given him. The stolen car report was a very standard form and the information told him very little that he didn't already know. The car had been reported stolen some ten minutes before the shooting at the Courthouse and so far had not been found, although by now the description would be being reported on all the news networks. Well, hopefully, they would pick it up very soon. He doubted the thief would want to hang onto it when every cop in town was on the lookout for it.
The sudden loud crackle of static from a police radio made him wince and cover his ears. He turned around in annoyance, wondering why his scanner was turned up so loud, but the device was off, just as he had left it this morning. The sound, now that he was paying attention, appeared to be coming from Pierson's office, next door, but the man must have the thing up full blast. The voice of an officer emerged, shouting from the receiver, requesting backup.
It sounded like an emergency, all right. Henderson got to his feet ... and the arm of the chair came off in his hand. He was so startled that he almost missed the replies of several other units, responding to the request.
This was more than a coincidence. He bent to examine the place where the arm had torn loose. The metal was twisted and the bolt that held the arm in place had been literally ripped in two. He stared at the evidence in front of him, his mind racing.
Slowly, he lifted the piece that he still held, staring at the torn metal. He wouldn't have believed the story from anyone else, but the reality was staring him in the face. Deliberately, he gripped the heavy piece of metal in both hands and exerted force, trying to twist it, still half-certain that it wouldn't work, that it was all some strange coincidence or a joke on the part of other officers at the Precinct on the notoriously unflappable Inspector Henderson.
The chair arm bent like rubber. Gently, he laid the telltale piece of metal down across his desk, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. What on Earth was going on? What had happened to him?
He was strong -- super-strong. And the radio in the other room wasn't turned up loud at all. His hearing had suddenly become incredibly acute. Somehow, he had acquired Superman's strength and hearing. How could this be?
There had been that case three years ago, he remembered suddenly, when Resplendent Man, the "Strange Visitor from the heart of Dixie" had appeared out of nowhere -- apparently an ordinary man who had suddenly, for no reason that anyone could determine, developed Superman's powers and just as suddenly lost them. And then, there had been the little boy whose mother had claimed was Superman's son. The Man of Steel had vehemently denied the allegations, and the child had lost his powers too, after a year of being super human. There had been a lightning bolt connected with the incident that time, he recalled. Lightning had struck the plane in which the child had been riding. Superman had saved the plane, then taken pictures with the passengers outside the local motel -- which had allowed the woman to produce a photo of herself and the Man of Steel together.
He'd always wondered about those cases, believing that there was more to them than met the eye. Well, now it had happened to him.
Henderson found that he was looking at his hands. They didn't *look* any different than they had before, but those hands had just ripped a metal arm from his desk chair and then twisted the metal into a horseshoe. He was a loaded weapon, just waiting to go off. He needed help, or he was going to kill someone by accident and there was only one being on the planet that knew how to handle these abilities. Somehow, he had to get hold of Superman.
**********
Lois pushed open the Courthouse door and marched out into the rain.
Clark followed her. Lois was acting in character, but he could tell that something wasn't right. The term "acting" applied literally. She was *acting*. Her heart was pounding like a drum, twice as fast as normal. He might have thought that she was shaken by the experience of being shot at, or irritated at the questions of the police detective who had been taking the report of the attempted assassination, but her scent wasn't right. Lois was agitated, but not from fear and not from irritation. She was acting annoyed, but that wasn't it either.
Correctly assuming that she didn't want him to ask questions that she wasn't ready to answer -- especially while the members of the press who had come to report on the Quigley trial and been present to see something quite different were hemming them in -- he remained silent and let his wife deal with their colleagues, which she did in her usual no-nonsense way.
"Talk to Henderson!" she snapped, sacrificing the Police Inspector without hesitation. "He's got the whole report!"
"Come on, Lois," Jenkins from the Star almost whined, "what happened?"
"I didn't see anything," she said, plowing forward through the crowd. "I was too busy ducking!"
Somehow, such was the force of her personality that the crowd gave way in front of her and they headed down the steps without slowing. Clark kept a sharp lookout for anything that could indicate that the shooter was anywhere around, but there was nothing.
"Honey," he ventured as they reached the sidewalk, "is something the matter?"
"Later," she said.
Clark fell silent. She had a point, he thought. There were too many people around to make a private discussion completely private. He maintained his silence as they strode down the sidewalk to the lot where Lois had left the Cherokee. The fact that it was pouring buckets didn't seem to bother his wife at all, which wasn't surprising. When Lois was concentrating on something important, little things like getting soaked were not allowed to distract her from the main subject. It wasn't until they had climbed into the Jeep and closed the doors that he again ventured to bring up the subject.
"By the way," he said, as an opening. "That was quick thinking -- telling them that the lightning hit the planter."
"Well, I could hardly tell them that it hit *you*," she said, and now a slightly shrill note had entered her voice.
"I know," he said. "Lois, what's going on? What's the matter?"
"Look," she said, thrusting her arm at him.
"What am I looking at?" he asked, confused.
"Nothing," she said. "That's the point. The place where the bullet grazed me -- it's all healed up."
Clark stared at her arm, taking in the fact. The ugly furrow in the smooth flesh of her arm, that had dripped enough blood on her skirt to preclude its ever being worn again, had disappeared without a trace. The rain had washed away the crusting of blood that had coated the skin, and there was nothing to indicate that there had ever been a wound.
"Oh man," he whispered. Then, aware of the total inadequacy of the remark, he added, "Oh *man*!"
Lois began to giggle. There was a slight note of hysteria in it, but he could hardly blame her.
"Watch it," she choked. "You'll turn the air blue with that kind of language!"
He snorted. "I'll watch my step. Seriously, honey, is Ultra Woman back?"
Her laughter died. "Well, I have your powers. I'm not so sure about Ultra Woman. You weren't too happy about it the last time."
"That was different," he said. "Ultra Woman had my powers and I didn't. I still have them, this time." He ran a finger over the place where the wound had been. "All in all, I'm pretty happy you have them. If someone tries to shoot you again, he's going to be in for a shock."
"That's true." She started the engine. "Let's get out of here. I need to go home and change."
Absently, he pulled the seat belt over his shoulder, regarding his wife as she backed the Jeep expertly out of the parking space. "This kind of changes the situation," he said.
"That's for sure." Lois pulled out on the street and inserted the nose of the Jeep firmly into a space about half the length of her car between a pickup and a minivan. The driver of the van blew his horn and braked to avoid her. Tires screeched and more horns blew. Lois ignored them. So did Clark.
"Who do you suppose was behind the shooting?" Lois asked. "And why?"
"Chances are, whoever sent that email," Clark said. "With luck, Jimmy will track him down. As to why, somebody doesn't want Quigley convicted, at a guess."
"But why? Who would support a monster like him?"
"Somebody with something to gain," Clark said. "I guess that's where we start looking, next."
**********
(tbc)
