Trigger Warning: Fair warning. This chapter discusses the topic of suicide.
Chapter 34:
Rachel hadn't been kidding. Sheriff Harris was Lex’s saving grace. The man had been obsessive about this case. Thank God someone was, because literally nobody else in the world had been.
Lex leafed through the first file with a growing sense of trepidation. What if what he was looking for wasn't in there? What if he'd wasted all this time on a wild goose chase, some trick of the memory? And how much time had it been exactly? A week? He wasn't even sure anymore.
The first few pages were pure legalese, which he skimmed right through. He knew how the trial had ended, he took a little pride in that fact. He'd been the key to putting a murderer behind bars.
He might also have subsequently ruined his whole life by doing so.
His stomach flipped as he turned over the next page and was confronted with the sight of the victim's mottled face. He shuddered, reading the name off the label at the bottom of the page. Jason Trask, 29. So young. At the time, he himself had only been 25. It was sickening.
He felt worse about not remembering the dead man's name.
He jotted the name down on a yellow legal pad next to him, trying to keep track of all the facts. Surprisingly, Trask hadn't been a big feature in the actual trial. Of course, as the victim, he had been mentioned. But Lex knew very little about the man himself. He scoured the next few pages, looking for anything on the guy. All he could come up with was that he was apart of the military— although even the branch he'd served in wasn't mentioned— and that he was dishonorably discharged a few years before. Nothing about why he had been out here in Podunk Kansas, or anything resembling a connection to the Kents. He frowned. That was a glaring plot hole in the story Jonathan's defense had weaved. All they'd tried for was the self-defense line, claiming the man was going to harm his son.
It didn't stick, of course.
Lex licked his finger as he turned over another page. The boy wasn't mentioned much either. Never by Jonathan, except for that one statement. The boy hadn't been allowed in the courtroom, though, and it seemed from the paperwork that was actually due to a request from Jonathan himself. Curious. A sad, grieving child sitting on his side of the courtroom would only have strengthened his argument, if nothing else.
Maybe Maisie was right. Maybe Jonathan was just being a good father, protecting his son.
He was definitely protecting him from something.
"The car is being taken care of, and the captain said we'll be in the air in about fifteen minutes, and home again in no time."
Nigel's entrance made him jump in his seat, and he flipped the file closed rapidly, tucking it under the crook of his arm. "Excellent, Nigel! Happy to hear it."
He knew the butler's eyes tracked his actions carefully, but the man was wise enough to not say anything about it other than a casual remark or two. "Anything interesting?"
Lex grimaced. "Not so far, no."
Nigel nodded and gestured to the back of the plane. "Then if you don't mind, I'm going to retire for a while. Wake me if you need anything."
"Of course, thank you, Nigel."
It was an excruciating few seconds of waiting as Nigel left his side and got settled in, but Lex managed it. He'd inform Nigel of what he learned afterwards. Right now, he just needed to process things on his own. He wasn't sure what he'd learn from all this.
It was only a few file folders and a notebook. All that remained of the case of the State of Kansas versus Jonathan Kent. Hard to believe, but he'd have to make do. He didn't know what exactly he'd been expecting from Rachel Harris, but he was grateful that he was able to scrounge up anything after this waste of a trip. Lex sighed when he reached the end of the first file. That was little to no help. He'd been present for all that. He didn't need to reread his own testimony about being nearly crippled, spending six weeks in a back brace. He lived it, and once was enough.
The trail of blood dragged across wood floors shocked him back into focus. What a cover photo. The whole next file was all crime scene photos, ones he hadn't seen when he'd sat in that courtroom all those years ago. These were of the Kent residence, the house, the property, the half-dug grave underneath the old oak tree. Lex squinted at one photo in particular. An object in the corner of the image was circled repeatedly in pencil. He couldn't quite make out what it was, though. It was small, in the background. It looked like the corner of a briefcase, perhaps, just a sliver of silver peeking round the edge of the camera's view.
He flipped to the next page, found a similar picture, with the same space circled. Except there was nothing in the circle.
He frowned, flipping back. That was weird. Clearly Harris thought so too, or he wouldn't have circled it so many times.
In the next photograph, the object was back, circled again. It was more clear from this angle that it was some sort of lead box, smaller than a briefcase in size. Lex didn't remember anything of the sort being entered into evidence at the hearings. He didn't know that it should have been, but it being missing surely meant something.
The photo on the next page had a sticky note attached, and Lex plucked it off gently, trying to decipher the officer's cramped handwriting. Box recovered from Clark, who had somehow taken it in the middle of our investigation. Was just staring at the contents miserably. Contents were sent to two different labs for testing, neither came back.
They never came back? What did that mean? What were the contents? Lex read and reread the note, trying to find a way where it made more sense, but to little avail. He stuck the note back down, copying the information onto his own pad. At least he had confirmation that the boy's name was in fact Clark Kent.
It was slow going, and Lex felt like he had more questions than answers the farther in he got. One file had all the arrest records for Martha Kent, including her two trips to the hospital for an apparent overdose. Another file had all of Clark Kent's adoption records, or lack thereof. It surprised him to learn that the boy was in fact originally adopted by the Kents. Maisie had mentioned as much, but it didn't quite fit with his character. Sure enough, there was a thin paper trail, describing him as some distant cousin's abandoned child they'd taken in. Lex rubbed his temples. It was all rather sketchy. There was a statement by a family doctor, affirming their story and that the child was a perfectly healthy baby, but little else. Shouldn't the state have been involved in some capacity? He supposed a family scandal would be something to keep quiet, but it still raised some red flags. There was more paperwork for every foster home transfer than for his original adoption, and it was a lot of transfers. Twelve different homes in the course of four years, intermixed with brief stays at the county group home and even several interspersed returns to stay with his mother in a "reunification" process.
Ooh. Juvenile Hall records.
Lex studied the document with interest, chewing on his pen cap absentmindedly. The first incident had been for a petty theft of some kind, clearly a cry for attention. In another, he'd been caught with drugs, although he hadn't been marked as under the influence, just possession. Probably his mother's, Lex thought, nose shriveling in distaste. He could hardly believe the crying woman who sat in the back of the courtroom would have lost her senses so, but then again she'd hardly gotten more than a sentence out the whole trial. She was already half a vegetable. Why not go the distance.
He stole a car and drove it through the bowling alley in the middle of the night. Miraculously walked away unscathed. Kid was probably high as a kite, he mused.
Lex flipped through the signatures at the bottom of all the papers, clicking his tongue. All signed by Judge Ross. Poor man couldn't get away from this family.
Lex sighed and shut the thick file with a snap. This was all well and good, but it didn't help much with his problems now. All this proved was the young Clark Kent's life definitely hadn't improved after his father went to jail. Shocker.
His stomach took a dive again at the next file, goosebumps travelling up his arms. It was impossible. It was uncanny. It was definitely the same man as the one he'd met in Metropolis, but at the same time, it couldn't be.
A young Clark Kent, hanging from a tree.
Oh, God. He gagged, turned the page rapidly. He couldn't look at it anymore. He'd thought 29 was young. The boy could hardly be more than sixteen. Examination of the following pages proved he was in fact seventeen— declared dead on March 15th, 1983. He shuddered. The Ides of March. Of course he would.
This didn't make any sense. Lex took in a lungful of air and braved another look at the picture. The photo wasn't the clearest, and it was taken from behind, at an angle, but even still, Lex knew. This was the very same Clark Kent of CK Enterprises. His mind whirled with the implications. Was it possible that he had a twin? A biological sibling, out for revenge perhaps? No, no. That would be too twisted. Even General Hospital wouldn't use such an insane plot.
A phrase jumped out at him from the report, and his heart leapt into his throat. The body mysteriously vanished. Vanished!
Lex laughed. He actually laughed, out loud. The body vanished? Then he wasn't dead after all! Sure, he looked pretty damn dead, but now it made sense. He didn't know how it was possible, how he'd pulled it off, but that had to be the solution.
Clark Kent's corpse actually disappeared from the face of the planet. It was chalked up to an error in the system, that he was mistakenly cremated, taken to the wrong mortuary, what have you. No one could pinpoint exactly when it happened, either. Not the ambulance drivers, or the cops, nobody. Inexplicably, no one appeared to be responsible.
Lex almost couldn't stop laughing, the giddiness of discovery rapidly spiralling into a sort of mania that was refusing to be tamed. He pushed away the papers before him as he collapsed out of his chair, scattering them across the floor. A cramp spasmed across his abdomen, and he winced as he clutched his side, the laughter not subsiding in the least.
"Mister Luthor? Sir! Are you all right?"
He held out a hand, and Nigel helped him up to a seated position. Lex wiped at his eyes with his free hand. "I'm sorry, Nigel. Thank you. Not sure what, ha, came over me there." He chuckled and reached out to collect the first paper within reach.
Immediately the laughter stopped.
He brought the picture in close, examined it. There stood that same tree, the one that Clark had hanged himself from, and a beautiful young girl underneath it. Lex ran his fingers over her face in the photo gently; face so young, features so delicate, her hair as golden as the sunshine peeking through the leaves, her blue lips painting a stark contrast to the blood-red pool she was lying in, the red tendrils grabbing her by the wrists and pulling her under.
His stomach twisted. This was what everyone had been talking about. Why they all hated Clark Kent and resented any reminders. Why Maisie had called the boy a holy terror and Rachel had urged him to skip town. He reached for the next few pages on the ground, trying to sort through them and find something related. There was another photograph of her, closer up, and of the scene. One was of her suicide note, clutched tight in her bloodied hand.
I'm not crazy.
"Good grief. Who is that?"
Lex swallowed thickly, processing. What did she mean by those words? Who thought she was crazy? Why did they have to leave so quickly? He had so many more questions, more he wanted to investigate. Questions that could only be answered in Smallville. He flipped the next page right-side-up, and scanned the police report. "That is Lana Lang. Committed suicide April first, 1983."
Nigel's response was all background noise to him. Lex slumped back into his seat, stunned beyond all thoughts but one.
Clark Kent really was coming after him.
*****LnC*****
Lois ambled into the kitchen slowly, every step striking her prefrontal cortex with searing pain. She groaned. How much did she drink last night? She could hardly remember, the few scenes she was picturing couldn't possibly have been right. No way was she ever in Clark Kent's arms last night. Clearly that was a fever dream of some sort.
"Morning."
She stopped short, turning to face the source of the deep, rumbly voice with a sense of dread balled up in her gut. No, no, no. That was a dream. That didn't really happen.
Sure enough, Clark Kent was standing there in her apartment, making himself right at home with some scrambled eggs on one burner and pancakes on the other in some feat of cooking wizardry. She eyed him warily, looking him up and down. He was in a white t-shirt, clearly an undershirt of some kind, and he had his slacks on from yesterday. Amusement shown out at her from behind his horn rims at her lack of response, and he nodded over to the bubbling pot of caffeine. "Coffee?"
"Lucy!" she shouted, startling the man in her kitchen and making him jump.
"What? What? God, Lois, what's wrong?" Lucy rounded the corner from the hallway and slid in her fluffy socks.
She thrust out a finger at him accusingly and frowned. "What is he doing here?"
Lucy barked out a short laugh. "Lois, you don't remember? He picked us up last night and drove us home. When he brought you upstairs, you woke up and wouldn't let go of him. It was already like two am so I offered him the couch, since you weren't intent on returning his arm anytime soon."
Her cheeks flamed at the recounting. "Oh god. So it wasn't a dream?"
"Not for me. You know you snore?"
She shot him a withering glare, even though it only seemed to give him more pleasure. Her ire was quickly overpowered by mortification when another thought crossed her mind. "Oh my— we didn't sleep together, did we?" His eyes went wide at the question, the suggestion fading some of his good humor and lighting something else in his eyes, and she was quick to correct herself. "I mean— not together, together. Like, actually sleep, I mean."
"Not at all. I just waited until you fell asleep, carried you to your room, and came back out here and slept on the couch. Scout's honor."
She rolled her eyes, then winced at the pain of the motion and made her way over to the coffee pot. "Why do I doubt you were ever a boy scout?"
"He was a real gentleman, Lois. I swear. I made sure."
The sound of the coveted black liquid hitting the bottom of her empty mug soothed her more than her sister's words even, the aroma drifting up and cradling her gently. She sighed and let her eyes drift shut at her first sip.
"Better?"
She gave her sister a glare of her own over the rim of her mug.
"Anyway, I just figured I'd make you breakfast, as a thank you of sorts. Plus I thought you might have a pretty wicked hangover after all those gin-and-gins."
Lois opened her mouth to protest, but her headache decided to rear its ugly head at that moment, and she scrunched her nose up. "Thanks, then. I appreciate it."
"Why don't you go sit down? I'll bring you your food."
She found herself complying, for whatever odd reason, and took her coffee over to the couch. She sat down, enjoying the scent of food cooking and the sounds of people shuffling around. The signs of life. Even if it was her kid sister cussing as she cut herself shaving again or a man she wasn't entirely comfortable with cooking her breakfast. Her eyes alighted on his dress shirt, casually draped over the end of her chair and his tie on the floor. It wasn't pretty, but it was... nice. She could get used to this.
She hated to admit it, even to herself, but she never once felt this comfortable with Lex.
"Eggs for the lady," he swooped in with a plate from behind her place on the sofa. She smiled brightly at him, pleasantly surprised, and he shot her a quick wink. "Pancakes will be done in a few. Go ahead, eat up."
"I'm honestly surprised you know how to cook, you know, instead of paying a chef to follow you around everywhere."
His eyebrows jumped up and he put a hand over his heart. "Are you kidding me? I grew up in the Midwest. All we do is eat."
"The terms 'eat' and 'cook' are not synonymous, trust me."
He shrugged, and turned back to flip the pancakes. Lois openly admired the way he filled out that too-tight t-shirt as he moved, watching the flex of his muscles. She almost caught herself wishing he'd lose the pants too before she tuned back in to what he was saying. "It's a good skill to know. People value it. Particularly in Kansas. If you can cook somebody a nice breakfast, they'll be less likely to kick you to the curb."
She clicked her tongue and frowned playfully. "Hey now, I don't care how good your pancakes are, you're going to have to leave at some point. Don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."
Clark laughed jovially, and turned back to deliver a couple of pancakes her way before correcting her. "No, I didn't mean here. I know that. I just meant," he trailed off, the expression behind his eyes unreadable, wrought with sudden conflict. He quirked his lips up quickly and smacked his leg in a definitive, dismissive gesture. "People like breakfast."
Lois did the math and figured what he was talking about. "Oh. Sorry, I uh—"
He waved her apologies out of the air as he settled into the seat across from her with his own plate. "Nevermind that. Eat. I don't know if you're off today or if you have to be in at work, but I really have to do some work today."
Her face fell rapidly at the reminder of the reasons she'd ended up at the Metro Club last night. Clark said he loved her. Lex is the Boss. Her life was a disaster. She cut up her pancakes absentmindedly, trying to find her voice. "I'm off today, actually. Might pop by the office to grab some of my stuff, though."
Clark nodded, and they ate in a relative silence until Lucy came back out to greet them, dressed and ready for her day. Lois was grateful for the interruption of her own inner monologue. She had to get going anyway. She didn't lie; she was actually off today. But journalists didn't really get a day off when there was a story the likes of this under their nose.
She readied herself quickly, and was putting on her jacket when she spotted him in the kitchen once again. "You're still here?"
He gestured to the last dish in his hand as he put it away in the cabinet. "Had to clean up."
He did clean up, she noted with a hint of disappointment at finding him fully dressed and ready to leave. She brushed aside the thoughts quickly and grabbed him by the coat sleeve. "Thanks, but I really gotta go. Which means you have to go, because I have to lock up."
His chuckle at her enthusiasm warmed her from her inside out. "All right, all right. I'm going."
They left together, the day greeting them outside too bright and sunny for Lois' headache. He needled her a bit about it, and she ribbed him right back. She'd be hard pressed to admit it, but mornings like this were something she could get used to.
