Sorry it took so long to write this. Timmy's been feeling under the weather, so I had to do most of this myself. It went a lot slower than expected, and there was a lot I needed to cover, but now it's done.
For those of you who are interested, Friday was a walk in the park. A nice barefoot stroll through an open field. A field which happened to be thoroughly infested with fire ants. Oh, and a nest of angry wasps on the far side. I won't go into detail, but it was just one bad thing after another even before the proceedure started. By the time it stopped, I was in a physical state of shock, and they hadn't gotten anything. We'll try again under different circumstances. In another office. With different equipment. Preformed by a different doctor. Who practices in another state, and actually has afternoon hours. Oh yes, and who won't add insult to injury by politely but firmly trying to blame me if things go wrong.
So, anyway...
A few quick story notes for you.
First, since I'm posting this mid-week, and since there are at least a few people who said they were trying to catch up, and since it's Kerth reading period, I'm going to expand the schedule for this part. I'll post the poll on Monday and it will close the following Thursday. I've got an MRI scheduled for that Friday, but maybe I'll be able to get some of the preliminary writing done while I'm lying inside the machine.
Second, I decided to check around and see what day of the week Feb 4, 1996 was. Turns out it was a Sunday. Did some rewriting. Tried to work with that, but realized that I liked it better as a Thursday. Decided that in this universe, Feb 4 was a Thursday. So there. Did some more rewriting. Lost about a paragraph of stuff I liked, but the rest works out better, I think. So, yes, I changed the day of the week. I have that power. Fear me, mortals!
Also, thanks again to those who have participated so far, in one way or another. Those who have posted feedback, posted suggestions, or voted, as well as those who encouraged me to continue, despite the drop in participation. I appreciate everyone who thought my story was worth the time.
One last thing: with the addition of this part, this is now officially my longest story to date. Cool, huh?
Now, on with the story!
Part 6
Lois's POV
I waited a moment, trying not to think about how dangerous it was to stay there. A few years ago, it wouldn't have even ocurred to me to worry, but that was another life. That was B.C. -- Before Clark. I'd mellowed a little since I'd met him. I could admit that to myself, if no one else. Now, with him in danger, I had to be doubly cautious. Not only was I working without Super backup, but I was endangering Clark's chances of rescue every time I risked myself.
Of course, my "doubly cautious" was probably someone else's "slightly daring," but that someone else was a boring person. Besides, I had to take some risks, or I'd never get anywhere. Speaking of which, I still needed a plan, and all this musing about risk wasn't helping.
I'd already decided that I needed to get out of that room before anyone spotted me. I could come back later, better prepared to get through the door. Maybe Jimmy would know a way to get past that electronic lock. Maybe there was another way in. A whole wing couldn't have just one door, could it?
Maybe, though, I could grab some records on my way out. Medical charts or admissions records could give me more information about who was picked and why. I slipped back out of the room and then walked casually down the hall. There was no one around. Obviously, this was not a particularly well-travelled corridor. Not surprising, really, since they wouldn't want to take the risk that someone would find the secret door. Someone like me, for example.
I wandered around, pretending to be lost. Nothing to see here. Just a harmless girl from the neighborhood, here to visit her brother, but too bubble-headed to keep track of all this new territory. I kept the persona in place, all the while directing my "wanderings" to an office I'd passed earlier. I'd seen a filing cabinet inside, and it seemed as good a place to look as any. The front desk would be more likely to have admissions records, but it was also an area where it was far easier to be spotted looking into the wrong things.
When I reached the office, I carefully glanced around. As I'd hoped, in keeping with the charity clinic facade, the room was sparsely furnished. There was no good place to hide a camera. I picked the cabinet's lock on my first try, then carefully slid the top drawer open. It was the one with the lock on it, and also the most easily accessible. It seemed like the best place to start. I skimmed through the folder labels, looking for any ones containing "Rick," "Mike," or any variation.
After glancing through several about a dozen files, I was pretty sure I'd found the two I'd been looking for. Riccardo Martinez and Michael Harisson. There was a fair amount of medical jargon, but my father was a doctor and my mother had been a nurse. I remembered enough to get the gist of most of it, and I certainly had no trouble understanding phrases like "possible candidate for special treatment."
Riccardo, it seemed, had come in with a broken leg. Michael had been shot in the arm. Both were relatively minor wounds -- enough to keep them in the clinic for a while, but nothing life threatening. Both had apparently met certain criteria involving, among other things, blood type, muscle development, and various physical proportions. Both also fit some kind of psychological profile, and had the "correct group affiliation to maintain the balance."
I was wondering what that was supposed to mean when I heard footsteps in the hallway. I hurriedly replaced the files, then eased the drawer closed and sat down in a chair, as if I was waiting for the doctor. I tried to think up some story, but fortunately the footsteps moved past the door. I waited a little while longer, just to be sure, then got the files back out.
I didn't have time to read any more, I knew, and the outfit I was wearing left no place to hide them. Fortunately, I'd come prepared. In my purse was a small camera that I kept for just such an occasion. It was a cheap model. Not the best quality, by any means, but it wouldn't be too hard to explain why "Angel" was carrying it around. With decent lighting and a short focus, the pictures should come out clearly enough.
Keeping an ear out for trouble, I hastily took a snapshot of each page. Then I carefully put the folders back together, replaced them in their proper locations, and closed the drawer. It took a little while to lock the drawer, since I was more skilled at to using my picks to open looks, but I managed to get it right.
I listened at the door before opening it again. When I was as sure as I'd ever be that there was no one nearby, I got back in character, put on the vaguely sheepish expression of someone who had yet again gotten lost and wandered into the wrong room, and stepped back out into the hallway.
I wandered around for a little while until I happened across a staff member who seemed to be taking a break, or at least not going anywhere in a particular hurry. I saw his eyes flick up and down when he saw me and noticed that his posture straightened a little. I smiled at him. A faint blush colored his cheeks. I walked over. "Hi, can you help me? I think I'm a little lost. I was looking for my brother, but he's not here. Now I can't find my way out. These hallways are so confusing!"
He smiled. "Yeah, they look a lot alike, don't they? Took me a while to get used to it when I first started working here. Come with me. I'll take you back to the lobby."
"Oh, thank you!" I said, flashing him a bright smile. This must be what it felt like to be Mindy Church, I thought suddenly. It was not an especially pleasing realization.
He led me down the hall, occasionally asking questions. I fed him my cover story, but thwarted all attempts at any kind of lasting conversation with strategic flakiness. Even as I concentrated on deflecting his conversational thrusts with deceptively fluffy finesse, I realized our path to the lobby was somewhat more circuitous than necessary. I worked the phrase "my boyfriend, Sean" into my artful babblings, and noted with amused satisfaction that our next turn put us on a more direct route.
Once we were close enough that the lobby door was clearly visible, my guide pointed it out and, claiming he needed to return to work, took his leave. I smiled to myself. Now, if anyone at the clinic asked about me, I'd be remembered as a complete airhead who had come frantically searching for her brother, only to find out that she was in the wrong hospital. I walked past the desk, looking disappointed and confused. The woman behind it was busy and didn't really seem to notice me.
When I got back to the Jeep, Jimmy looked intensely relieved to see me. He settled down quickly, though, and before I'd driven more than a block away, he started asking questions. I told him about my wanderings and the door I'd found.
"S. Rogers?" he repeated when I got to that part. "Whoa, just like Captain America!"
"What?"
"Captain America. From the comic books."
I'd known that much. I had a vague image of a man in a red, white, and blue costume which, for some reason, had wings over the ears.
"His real name is Steve Rogers," Jimmy added after a brief pause.
I shook my head. Only Jimmy could hear a name from a serious investigation of an Intergang-owned hospital and somehow connect it with a comic book character. He continued to babble for a while about World War II, patriotism, an invulnerable shield that somehow acted like a boomerang, and some kid named Bucky. I ignored it, lost in more pressing thoughts. Then, something filtered its way up through my conciousness. "Wait a second, Jimmy. Say that again."
"Say what again?"
"That part about Rogers and the government project."
"Oh. Sure. It was World War II, and the government was trying to develop something to help win the war. They had this secret program, kind of like the Manhattan Project, except that this one wasn't supposed to make a bomb. They were trying to make a better soldier. So, they picked this guy, Steve Rogers, as a test subject. He was no one special. Just a private in the army. Scrawny, but with a good heart. Someone willing to volunteer, and who would be loyal, but also someone they thought was expendable, in case something went wrong. They took him to this lab and injected him with an experimental formula called 'Super Soldier Serum.' Just after that, though, one of the scientists started trashing the lab. Turns out he was a Nazi spy. The place blowed up, and Steve was the only survivor.
"Without the lab and the scientists, there was no way to make any more of the serum. The only people who knew the formula were dead and all their notes had burned up with the lab. But Steve had gotten his dose, and it'd worked. He was stronger, faster, more agile... 'the peak of human potential.'
"Now, they'd been planning on making a whole army of super soldiers, but obviously, without the formula, they couldn't do that. So they decided to take Steve and make him into Captain America, a leader and a living symbol, a focus for the troops. Because of the serum, he was able do things that no one else could.
"So they trained him and give him this costume and a bullet-proof shield... Well, actually, the shield was supposed to have been the hatch of a tank, but due to one of those strage accidents that keep popping up in the comics, the metal was turned into something called 'Vibranium.' Completely invulnerable. Able to absorb the kinetic energy from any impact and distribute it away. Something like that. Cap used to jump out of airplanes and land on it, and it would absorb the impact. It was pretty cool.
"So, anyway, they took the hatch and make it into a shield and give it to Steve and had him train with it. Then they sent him to go fight the war as Captain America. He led the troops and went on these missions and..."
I let the babble flow over me again as I though over what he'd said. The part about the tank and the shield was just weird and confusing, but the description of the project... Could Jimmy actually be right? Could S. Rogers be a reference to the comic book superhero, an in joke they'd never expected anyone to get?
The pieces fit, all too well. Gang members were being offered a chance to be made "better." Many were disappearing, but the ones who came back were stronger, faster, and generally better fighters. Someone was taking pains to make sure that if they died, their bodies were never found.
If Intergang was trying to develop better soldiers, then the gangs would make ideal test subjects. From Intergang's point of view, they were completely expendable, but at the same time, they were locked in war with each other, these days more than ever. It would make them look for an edge, something to make them better than the rest. Some of them would be more than willing to take a risk if it meant a chance of getting what Intergang was promising.
Intergang would take those volunteers and experiment on them. They'd have to let at least some of them back out, or they'd run out of volunteers. If the gangs saw that it worked, though, more members would be willing to try.
The bodies were disappearing. What did that mean? Obviously, they were keeping track of their experiments. Probably watching to see how well things worked. They wouldn't want anyone else to see what they'd done, because that would raise suspicions. They'd probably also want to run more experiments, to improve the process. So that fit, too.
The reference to "balance" suddenly clicked. For things to work, Intergang would need to carefully maintain the balance of power between the gangs. If one got too strong, it could take over the Slum. Then its members wouldn't have as much of a reason to risk volunteering.
What else was there? The guns. How did those fit in? Was Intergang supplying them? If so, how? More importantly, why? Supplying the guns would escalate the gang wars, increasing the number of wounded. That, in turn, would send more people to the hospital, giving Intergang's scientists more potential subjects. Was that it, I wondered, or could there be something else going on?
Other questions... Just what could I do about the hospital and the lab? I could call Sawyer and tell her what I suspected, but I had no solid proof. That aside, what about Clark? Was there any chance this was connected to him? Could he be in the lab? I needed to know more. Tomorrow, I could make some calls, but for tonight, there was only one other thing I could do. I needed to get those pictures developed.
"Decades later, they found him and thawed him out. Because of the serum, he survived intact and because he'd been frozen, he hadn't aged. So then..."
Jimmy was still talking about his comic books! He'd actually been babbling away the whole time. I didn't think even I could babble that much. Didn't he realize I hadn't been listening? Or was he just that wrapped up in his own story? Well, whatever the case, I still needed to get those pictures taken care of.
"... and that's when they made him the leader of the Avengers. He was a natural at it, of course. Able to direct --"
"That's great Jimmy, but if you don't mind my interruption, I could use a favor..."
"-- each team member in a way that... What? Oh, a favor? Uh, yeah... What do you need?"
"In my purse over there is a camera. I used it to take pictures of some files in the clinic. Can you to develop them for me? Preferably without letting anyone else seeing them."
"Sure, no problem. I'll be careful."
"Thanks, Jimmy. Oh, there's something else..."
"Yeah? Anything I can do to help, Lois, you got it."
"Thank you. I'm glad I can count on you."
"You bet," he said, smiling. "So what do you need?"
"I want to go back hospital, see what else I can find, but I'm going to need to be better prepared next time. See what you can dig up for me? Blueprints for the building and the ones next to it, any anything else you can find. Also, I'm going to need some way to get past security. The door I saw had a camera on it and some kind of electronic lock. If there are any other doors, they'll probably be just as well guarded. The place has probably got a backup generator, even if I was willing to cut the power to a hospital, so I'm going to need something that can get me through. The camera I can probably take care of with the old Polaroid trick, or even just a can of spray paint, but I'll need some way to get around that lock."
"Electronic lock? I don't know. I'll see what I can do..."
"Anything you can come up with would be great."
"Well, maybe... Actually, you know what? I don't have the stuff to deal with a lock like that, but I know just the guy to ask -- Jack!"
"Great idea, Jimmy!" I'd completely forgotten about Jack. He'd worked at the Planet for several months a couple years back, but hadn't rejoined the staff after the place had been rebuilt. He'd claimed that it hadn't felt right. Originally, he'd been implicated in the bombing which had destroyed the building, and, although he'd been cleared, he'd felt that people still treated him as if he'd been guilty. So Clark had used a contact to get him a job offer at a home security company. There, he was able to put his talents to good use, helping to identify vulnerabilities in the systems as they were being designed. I'd lost touch with him, but I knew that he and Jimmy were still friends. Jimmy was right; if anyone could help me get past the hospital's security, it would be Jack.
"I'll call him tomorrow," Jimmy said, a note of excitement in his voice. "See what he can come up with."
I dropped him off at his place not long after that, then headed home myself.
******
Clark's POV
When I woke up again, I was alone. From the TV, I could tell that it was late at night. I was still tired, weak, and sore, but I was feeling better than I had, none the less. Slowly, I was gathering my strength. Still, I didn't really have very much that I could do. I wasn't strong enough to break free, and the TV wasn't telling me anything I needed to know.
I decided to see if I could figure out where I was being held. I replayed everything in my mind. What did I know? Mindy Church was one of my jailers, but she hadn't been the one to originally capture me. The man had done that, and he'd said something about my capture getting him into Mindy's "little club." So, he hadn't been associated with Intergang before.
When I had woken up that first time, Mindy had been skeptical that I was really Superman. By her reaction, she I could be fairly sure that that encounter had been the first time she'd seen me since my capture. So, I probably wasn't on Intergang property.
The last time I'd woken up, I had gained enough strength to hear footsteps from fairly far away, but I hadn't been able to hear anything else. For that matter, I'd never heard any footsteps other than those belonging to my captors. So, I was probably in a fairly secluded place. Maybe someplace soundproofed, too.
That same time, Mindy had asked the man if there was any water available. That confirmed that I wasn't on Intergang property, and it also said a fair amount about just how isolated this place was. When the water had come, it had been bottled. That was probably important, too.
On the other side of the seclusion issue was the fact that my captors came to visit every day. I probably wasn't too far from the city if they could do that. Perhaps even somewhere in the city itself. There was also the TV. LNN was a cable channel. There might be a satellite dish, but Mindy had specifically said "down here" when asking about the water. It might just mean that I was south of the city, but it seemed more likely that I was underground. The recirculated air lent credence to that conclusion.
The construction might also give me a clue, I realized. The walls were made of concrete. I'd known that from the start; the echos produced by the material were fairly distinctive.
What sort of place was I in? Someplace underground, isolated from any obvious sounds. Someplace where no one went. Someplace in or near the city. Someplace with concrete walls. Someplace stocked with bottled water. A bomb shelter seemed the most obvious conclusion, but the long corridors suggested this place was much bigger than you'd expect a bomb shelter to be.
I puzzled it over, but got no further. I tried again to see through the blindfold. Nothing. I'd been able to hear footsteps from fairly far away, but I still couldn't x-ray through the blindfold. I couldn't be sure, but that probably meant that it had a layer of lead. That didn't necessarily say anything about where I was, though; my captors might simply have decided to be extra cautious.
I still didn't know where I was, but I'd gotten a good start. I resolved to stay alert for any other possible clues. Maybe, if I could pin down a location, I'd be able to do something with that information. It seemed like my best hope.
******
Feb 4, 1996
Lois's POV
When I came into work in the morning, the first thing I did was to check my email. Sure enough, my admirer had sent me another note.
TO: LLane@dailyplanet.com
FROM: SecretSanta@goal.com
DATE: 02/04/96 07:14:23 AM
RE: RE: Congratulations!
My Dear Lois,
I'm glad my information about the ship was so helpful to you. I'm sorry that my other tip was not as useful, but I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you'd already known. Your resourcefulness never ceases to impress. Just one of your many fine qualities.
I must admit, however, that I am a little worried. I heard that certain people suspect that there was an intrusion last night at the facility in question. They haven't confirmed anything yet, and to my knowledge, the perpetrator has not been identified. Whether or not it was you, I advise caution. You must take care of yourself, particularly with your famous friend unavailable.
As for myself, I do appreciate your interest. I'm sorry that I can't be more forthcoming just yet. My situation at the moment requires that I, too, maintain a certain level of caution. I trust you, of course, but there are still risks involved. I'm sure you understand. When circumstances improve, as I am confident they will, I'll be happy to share more with you. Until then, it would be better if you would direct your curiosity to other matters.
Actually, I have something which may well serve the purpose. There is still the medical facility, of course, but you may prefer to let that situation cool down a trifle. I believe that some new weapons are about to hit the streets, if they haven't begun to do so already. Their source is connected with the organization in charge of the clinic. I regret that I can't tell you more, but I've heard people call him "The Dealer." I don't think I have to tell you to be careful if you go looking for him. The weapons he sells are extremely dangerous, and the man himself no less so.
Best of luck. Stay safe.
Love,
Your Secret Admirer
So, he wasn't willing to talk about himself, huh? Not surprising, really. Oh well, it had been worth a shot. I had other ways of finding out about Mr. Bob Maxwell. He didn't know that, of course and it was probably better that things stayed that way. I looked around for Jimmy, but he wasn't in sight. A staffer told me that she thought he was working in the darkroom. Undoubtedly developing the pictures from last night. I reminded myself ask him about Maxwell later.
In the meantime, I had other things that needed to be done. I reached for the phone and called the 68th precinct.
"MPD. Can I help you?"
"This is Lois Lane. Can I speak to Officer Sawyer, please?"
"Sawyer? She's not in. They finally got her to take some time off and get some rest. She'll be back in tonight, I'm sure."
"Oh, thanks." The news was a relief, but frustrating at the same time. I was glad that Sawyer was taking care of herself, but I'd wanted to talk to her about the clinic.
"Sure. Anything else I can do for you, Lane?"
I thought about it. I didn't have anything solid. There wasn't really anything they could do about it yet. "No, that's okay. Nothing that can't wait a bit longer."
"Okay, then. Bye."
I was about to hang up when I was struck by a sudden thought. "Oh, wait a second."
"Yeah?"
"I don't know how reliable it is, but I got a tip today that some new weapons may be hitting the streets soon. A few of them might be out there already."
"New guns? Aw, great. Just what we needed."
"Yeah, I know..."
"This source of yours tell you where they're coming from?"
I almost said "Intergang," but thought better of it. I didn't really know the cop on the other end, and there was always the chance someone else was listening in. I did want to warn the MPD, just in case, but I didn't want to take unnecessary chances. "Some guy who calls himself 'The Dealer.' You heard of him?"
"I've heard a few rumors, but nothing more than that."
"Oh well. At least the name's right."
"Yeah, I guess. Thanks for the info."
"Sure. Be careful out there."
"We'll do what we can."
"Right. Good luck."
"Thanks."
"Bye."
"Bye."
I hung up, then considered my next step. I decided to see what Vinnie could tell me. It wasn't much, as it turned out. Vinnie had heard of the Dealer, but said he was part of "the competition." Apparently, there was some kind of cold war going on between Intergang and Vinnie's "associates." Neither group went after the other directly, for fear that it would result in large messy clashes, which would only serve to attract more public attention than either wanted. They did keep tabs on each other, but the Dealer had managed to maintain a delicate balance between secrecy and power. Put simply, watching him was more trouble than it was worth.
So, that hadn't been much help. Maybe Bobby would know more.
"Hello?"
"Bobby, it's Lois."
"Hi, Lois. What do you need?"
"Do you know anything about a guy called 'The Dealer'?"
"Him? Yeah, I've heard of him. Not someone you really want to mess with."
"Well, I heard he may be selling high powered weaponry to the gangs. I'm sure he's dangerous, but anyone who puts guns in the hands of teenagers so they can shoot each other needs to be stopped. So, what can you tell me?"
"He is known for guns. He's also got connections. Rumors say those connections are with Intergang, but I can't be sure of them. Supposedly, he likes to play poker. At least, I heard the name has as much to do with poker as it does with selling guns. Beyond that, not much. He works out of some place in the northeast corner of the Slum, the part closest to the harbor. They say that he doesn't let anyone but his buyers know where to find him, and he picks his buyers carefully. That's all I've got."
"Carefully? He's selling to gang members."
"Yeah, that's new. I'll tell you, though, if they're buying from him, it's because he chose them."
"Hmm. Well, thanks, Bobby."
"You're welcome," he said heavily. "I just hope I'm doing the right thing telling you." He sighed. "If I hadn't, you'd have found out some other way, most likely. Just... be careful, will you?"
"I will. Thanks."
"Yeah. Bye, Lois."
"Bye."
I was mulling over the conversation when Jimmy came by.
"Here are the pictures, Lois. I claimed the darkroom first thing, so no one else got in to see them."
"Thanks, Jimmy."
"Sure thing. Oh, and I talked to Jack. He can get us something that should open that lock you mentioned, but he's not sure what else he can do. There are bound to be guards, and he can't do much about them, especially not if you can't take out the lights. No way to tell what other security they have, either."
"Right. Well, it's a start. Maybe the blueprints will help, if we can get them."
"I'll see what I can do. I should be able to get the ones for the main clinic and the buildings near it, but there's no guarantee that things haven't changed. And whatever is on the other side of that door, I don't think they'd have filed blueprints for it anywhere that I could find."
"Whatever you can get, Jimmy. Oh, and whatever you can find about Bob Maxwell, too."
"I'll get right on it."
"Thanks."
He nodded and dashed off.
I looked through the pictures. They looked pretty clear. Jimmy had done an impressive job. He'd even blown them up so that they could be more easily read. Now I just needed someone to read them. I picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
"Dr. Klein? This is Lois Lane. I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you."
"Sure, what is it?"
"I have some medical records of people whom I think were being illegally experimented on. Would you be able to take a look at them for me?"
"Medical records? Those are supposed to be confidential..."
"A hospital isn't supposed to use its patients as guinea pigs, either."
"That's a good point. Well, as long as you have the records, I can take a look at them, I guess."
"Thanks, I'll send them right over."
"Sure, you do that. Uhm, excuse me. I just remembered that I've got a rather delicate mixture brewing in the lab. It's really interesting, actually. It turns out that if you immerse a chunk of pure osmium in liquid helium and add --"
I interrupted hastily. "I'm sure it's fascinating, but didn't you just say you needed to go take care of it?"
"Oh, right. Thanks. Bye."
I heard the sound of a phone being put down, but no dial tone came. He must not have hung up quite right. I shook my head and hung up my end. He'd find out in time. I hoped. I put the pictures in an envelope, scribbled a quick note, and called a courier service. Someone would come to pick it up within twenty minutes, I was told. I tried to think of what else I could do. I realized that I could do some digging of my own into the mysterious Mr. Maxwell. I pulled out the phone book.
"Global Parcel Express, Human Resources division. This is Diane. How can I help you?"
"Hi, this is Ellen Samuelson. I'm the manager of Luigi's Pizza and Subs. I'm considering hiring a Bob Maxwell as one of my delivery drivers. He listed GPX as a reference, but didn't leave any more detail. I was wondering what you could tell me."
"Bob Maxwell? Let me check the system. Oh, yes. Worked as one of our drivers for just about ten years. Evaluations list him as 'steady' and 'reliable.'"
"I see. Do you know why he's no longer employed there?"
"Says here he quit, for 'personal reasons.'"
"Is there anything else you can tell me?"
"No, that's pretty much all I've got here."
"Well, do you know who wrote those evaluations? Is there any chance I could speak with him?"
"You're being awfully thorough, aren't you?"
"We had some problems with our last driver. We're trying to be more careful this time."
"I guess. Let's see... his manager was Ed Portman. Ed's in the 51st street office. That's 555-8031."
"Thanks."
"Glad to be of service. Have a good day."
"You too."
I pressed the button to hang up the call, then dialed the number she'd given me.
"Global Parcel Express."
"Hi, I'm looking for an Ed Portman."
"Oh. One sec."
I heard hold music, but thankfully it wasn't more than a minute or so before it went away.
"Hello?"
"Is this Ed Portman?"
"Yes. Who's calling?"
"This is Ellen Samuelson. I'm the manager of Luigi's Pizza and Subs. I'm considering hiring Bob Maxwell as one of my delivery drivers. He listed you as a reference. I was wondering what you could tell me."
"Oh, Bob? Huh. I thought he was done being a delivery driver."
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, he quit. Said he felt like he was driving all around town, but not really going anywhere. Something like that. Said he had plans. Was going to make something more of himself. Midlife crisis, I figured. Must not have gotten too far, if he's looking to hire on with you. Guess he just didn't want to come back here, after saying all that."
"I suppose. He didn't really say what he was planning to do."
"Yeah, that's Bob alright. Never was much of a talker. I think that little speech when he quit was the most he ever said to me in one day."
"Oh? Was he not very social?"
"No, not really. Nice enough guy, but he pretty much kept to himself. I think that's why he was so happy as a driver. Spent most of the day in his truck, never really had to talk to anyone. Not that he was rude or anything, mind you. Customers never had a problem with him. No one ever had a problem with him, come to that. He never bothered anyone. I guess that about sums it up, really. He never bothered anyone."
"I see. Do you know what he did outside of work?"
"He never really said. He had a few buddies he hung around with, guys he was comfortable with, you know? Met a couple of them now and again. Good guys, but I don't think they really knew him, either. He was just someone they hung around with sometimes."
"Hmm. Do you think there's any chance he was... involved with something?"
"Bob? Are you kidding me? What makes you ask that?"
"We had some trouble with our last driver..."
"Oh. If you say so. Anyway, I can't see Bob doing anything that wasn't completely above board. He just never seemed the type. Never seemed the type for much, actually. Bob was just sort of... there."
"Well, thanks."
"Sure. And hey, you want my advice? Hire him. He's a good driver, knows what he's doing. Smiles at the customers, otherwise leaves them alone. You could do a lot worse, trust me."
"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks."
We said our goodbyes, and I hung up. I sat back, thinking about what I'd learned. The image Ed had presented didn't seem to fit at all with the man who'd been sending me information about Intergang. Ed had spoken about a nice, if boring guy. Someone you would never expect to be involved in criminal activities. Someone who'd been content with the same job for nearly a decade.
Sure, the shy quiet types did have a tendency to be doing more than you'd really expect. They also tended to be a lot less shy when they had a computer between them and everyone else. Even so, it seemed odd that he'd quit his job out of the blue, somehow get involved with Intergang, and then start sending me tips on their activities. Just what had happened to change everything so suddenly? It didn't seem to make much sense.
I was still thinking it over when the phone rang.
"Lois Lane."
"Lois? It's Bill Henderson."
"Oh, hi Bill."
"I got some information that I thought you might want to know."
"Oh?"
"It's about Lex Luthor. We still haven't been able to find out where he was killed -- just haven't had any good leads there -- but something interesting did turn up at the lab. You know how every gun makes a distinctive pattern on the back of the bullets it fires? Well, one of the techs was looking at the bullets from another case that recently got moved up in priority, and he thought the pattern looked familiar. He checked around, and they matched the ones from Luthor's body."
"So the same gun was used to kill Lex and someone else?"
"Right. The other guy's name was... let me see... Otis Flannegan."
"Otis Flannegan? That's the guy who had the Kryptonite!"
"Kryptonite?"
"Yeah, that's why the case was reopened. He found a piece of Kryptonite. He was going to auction it off, but before he could, someone shot him and took it."
"Wow. You'd think he'd have been more careful if he'd just told everyone that he had the stuff."
"That was the really odd thing. He was being careful, until he suddenly decided to take a walk through the back alleys of Suicide Slum."
He blew out a whistling breath. "That name has never sounded more appropriate."
"Tell me about it. Anyway, no one seems to know who did it or how they knew Otis was going to be there. The whole thing stinks, even more so because the murder wasn't that long before Superman's disappearance."
"Oh boy. Yeah, I can see why the case was bumped up. I wonder what the link is with Luthor."
"Me too. Both of them were shot with the same gun, in the chest, at close range, but Lex was tied down and Otis apparently walked right up to his killer. Who would want to kill both of them? Who would know where to find them? Lex made a lot of enemies, but if it was revenge, why didn't the killer do anything else to him?" I sighed. "There are just too many missing pieces."
"Well, now we have one more."
"Yeah. Thanks, Bill."
"No problem. Talk to you later."
"Bye."
So now I had even more to think over. One more answer, half a dozen more questions. I tried to sort through it all, but hadn't gotten any further when the courier came for the pictures. I sent him on his way, then got back to thinking. I still hadn't gotten anywhere when Jimmy came back.
"I got the blueprints for the buildings in the area. Don't know what's changed since they were filed, but at least it's something. Here's the hospital building. It looks like there are side doors here and here."
I looked where he was pointing and tried to put the image together with my memories of the inside of the building. One door opened into the clinic itself. Probably a staff entrance. The other went to the back of the building. It looked like it might go to the Rogers wing. There was no way to be sure, though; I didn't even know how big the Rogers wing was, or even if it was above ground. Security was probably just as tight on the back door, too, but at least I wouldn't have to go through the clinic again. It was something to consider. "Jimmy, what's outside this door here?"
"That one? Let me see..." He pulled out a diagram of the block. "It should open into this alleyway here, behind this warehouse."
I thought about it. A back entrance like that would make sense if they needed to get sensitive materials such as expensive lab equipment into and out of the building. So, it probably did go to the Rogers wing, eventually. "Who owns the warehouse?"
"Uhm, let me see... It's owned by FoodUcopia. They stopped using it, though, because they had too many problems with security. It's been on the market for a while. I guess they didn't find anyone willing to buy. Not surprising, really. It's not like the area's any safer now. So, I guess it's pretty much vacant."
I nodded. Intergang couldn't have asked for better neighbors. They didn't have to buy the place outright, but, at the same time, they didn't have to worry about anyone seeing or hearing anything that they shouldn't. Ironically, that could work in my favor, too. I could use it for cover. I wasn't sure if I still did want to go back there, but at least I had a good start if I did decide to go through with it. The warehouse might make a good place to set up surveillance, too, but I didn't know if I could afford the time for that.
"Thanks, Jimmy. This could be really helpful."
"Sure, Lois. Oh, and I did some more digging on Bob Maxwell. Didn't find too much more than I already gave you, though. I tried to find out where he's working, but all I could find was that he's being employed by CostMart. No information about where, and I still can't get any more idea of what he's doing for them than that title. 'Special Inventory Manager.' That could mean anything..."
I'd had a thought about that, but there was no way to be sure. He'd been hired the day after Clark had been kidnapped, but that didn't necessarily mean that "Special Inventory" referred to Superman.
"Sorry I couldn't get anything more for you..."
"That's okay, Jimmy. You got plenty. It's amazing that you even got a name and address, let alone the employment history and everything else."
"Thanks. I do what I can. Speaking of which, I should get back to work. The Chief wants me to finish updating the Planet's website today."
"Good luck, Jimmy."
He nodded, already running off.
I went over to Perry's office to update him on what I'd found and what I suspected. He was interested, but had nothing to offer that I hadn't thought of myself. Still, it was good to keep him informed. After that, I went back to my desk and updated my notes. I wanted a clear record of everything, and sometimes it helped to get it all on paper. I was jotting down a few random speculations when the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Lois? This is Bernard Klein. I got the files you sent. They do look suspicious. There's a lot more information here than the doctors should really need for these cases. Some of it I'm not sure why they'd need at all. Do you have any idea what they were trying to do?"
"I'm not sure, but I think they were experimenting on these people, trying to turn them into some kind of physically enhanced soldier."
"Oh my. Well, that might explain some of these tests... physical measurements, chemical compatibilities... hmm..."
"Can you tell anything from that? See what they were doing?"
"I don't know. I can figure out some of the types of chemicals they're probably using. Let's see... some kind of specialized steroid... something that interacts with adrenaline... uhm... modified endorphins... hmm... a fair number of immune system tests here, not sure what those are for... let's see... that looks like a neurological work-up... I can only guess what that's about... Sorry, Lois. I'd need more information to tell you anything else."
"That's okay. But you're sure that those tests would have been unnecessary under normal circumstances?"
"Oh, yes. There's no reason to have done most of these tests if they were only trying to treat the wounds noted here. A few of them I could see on a precautionary basis, but even that would be a stretch. This is a charity clinic, you said?"
"Yes, at least that's their story."
"If that's the case, then I certainly can't see why they'd use the money and resources to do all these tests. Some of them are pretty expensive. I don't even know how they did some of them. It doesn't look like they were sent to an outside lab, but I can't see how a charity clinic would have the facilities to do these antibody titres, let alone this whole adrenal panel. I don't see how they can justify getting the electrophoresis gels you'd need for these genetic screenings, either. They're not that bad, but they shouldn't have enough of a need for them to be willing to stand the expense."
"Thanks, Doctor Klein. That helps a lot."
"Sure. Let me know if you find anything else."
"I will. Bye."
"Bye."
I turned back to my notes. I added in the newest information while it was fresh in my mind, and sat back to consider the possibilities. It was definitely suspicious, but I doubted it would be enough. I wondered, though, if I should continue the investigation myself. Clark was still my priority, and I had nothing to show that the clinic had any connection to him. Just a vague suspicion that Bob, who had pointed me there, might know where Clark was being held. Not knowing Bob's motives, however, there was no way to tell if he would point me towards or away from Clark. Of course, I didn't have any better leads to follow...
The phone jolted me out of my musings.
"Lois Lane."
"This is Maggie Sawyer. One of the boys told me you'd called." She still sounded tired, but it sounded like she'd rested relatively well. At least she didn't sound completely exhausted.
"Oh, yes. I wasn't expecting you to be in yet."
"Bad enough that I slept as long as I did."
"You needed it."
"Yeah, I guess."
"You can't do everything. Not even Superman can. If you want to take care of everyone else, you have to take care of yourself first." A little voice in the back of my head piped up to say "look who's talking..." but I ignored it.
"I know. So I did. Now I'm back. What were you calling about?"
I chuckled for a moment, then turned serious. "I wanted to let you know about a suspicious hospital. The 'First Church of Metropolis Medical Clinic.' You know the place?"
"Charity clinic, on the other side of the slum."
"Yeah, that's it. I went to check it out last night. I think they're the source of those 'special' gang members you've been running across. I think Intergang is using the clinic as a front for a lab. They're trying to develop some kind of process to make super soldiers, and they're using the gangs as guinea pigs. Unfortunately, the closest thing I have to proof is a copy of a pair of medical files. They show that the clinic's doctors did a lot of testing -- much more than they had any reason to do, and definitely more than they should have been able to afford. Other than that, I overheard one of the doctors offering a patient the chance to be made 'better.' He agreed and was taken to a secret door in the back of a supply closet. A door with a very expensive electronic lock."
She blew out a breath. "Wow. ... Okay, that would explain a lot. Without proof, though, I don't think there's much we can do. Not officially. Officially, we shouldn't even look at those records. I could go down there, show my badge, and ask a few questions, but I think that would do more harm than good at this point."
"Yeah, better not to let them know that the police are interested. Besides, if it's as big as it seems, they might send someone after you."
"I can take care of myself. Still, it doesn't seem worth the risk this time. I'll see what I can do that is worth the risk. Thanks for letting me know. Oh, and thanks for the tip about the guns, too. That came just in time. Don't tell anyone else, but one of the guys out on patrol came across a gang member with a very unique weapon. A multiple grenade launcher or something like that. Kid fired off tear gas, some kind of acid, and several explosive rounds before he ended up bringing a building down on top of himself. Don't think we'll be able to recover the body or the weapon, but thankfully no one else was hurt."
"That's... not good."
"No, and I'm not looking forward to seeing what turns up next."
"Well, I've got a lead or two on the source. Goes by 'The Dealer.' I'm going to see what else I can find on him."
"Good luck. We'll be looking, too."
"Good luck to you too, then."
"Thanks. Got anything else?"
"No, I don't... Oh, wait! Did you hear about Flannegan?"
"The ballistics match with the Luthor case? Yeah. Got the note about that when I came in."
"Just wanted to make sure."
"Thanks. Don't know what it means, but it's certainly interesting."
"That pretty much sums up my reaction."
"Well, I should be going. Thanks for the info. I'll let you know if anything else turns up."
"Thanks. I'll be in touch."
I hung up and looked back over my notes. A few more answers, a lot more questions. Foremost among them, what should I do next? The few leads I had were pulling me in too many directions, and I wasn't sure what I could do about any of them. The hospital, the guns, the gangs, the mysterious link between Flannegan and Luthor... Above all that, Clark was still missing. I needed to do something, but what?
