PART SIXTEEN
/Find whoever’s in charge of the emergency services and ask them what they need you to do/
Huh?
He nearly fell out of the sky in surprise. Someone had just talked to him. In his head.
/I’m the other Clark. I’m using telepathy to communicate with you. Can you hear me?/
Telepathy? Was that possible?
/Can you hear me?/
“Yes!” he blurted, heedless of the fact that he was now yelling at seagulls. “Yes, I can hear you. Where are you?”
/Sitting in a café with Lois. But never mind that – just find the guy in charge of the rescue operation/
Sitting in a café...?
He gave up and went with the flow. “Okay.” Heck, what was one more weirdness to add to all the other weird stuff going on in his life?
He darted his gaze around the rescue vessels and picked the largest. Zooming down towards it, he yelled, “What do I say?”
/Tell them you’re here to help and you can do pretty much anything they need. I don’t recommend lifting the ships out of the water, though, because if they’re damaged, they probably won’t be able to support their own weight. Better to lift the crew to safety and then see what you can do to salvage the vessels./
“Okay. How come you know what’s happening here?”
/Because you were practically yelling every detail at me/
“Oh.” Boy, this life just got stranger and stranger!
He landed on the deck and strode up to a man in a windcheater and some kind of official-looking cap who appeared to be bellowing down a walkie-talkie at someone. “Excuse me,” he said.
The guy dropped the hand holding his walkie-talkie loosely to his side and stared open-mouthed at Clark. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m here to help. Are you in charge of the rescue operation?”
“No, he is.” The guy pointed to an older man standing at the edge of the deck gazing through a pair of binoculars at the stricken vessels.
Clark hurried over. “I’m here to help – you probably saw me douse the fire. Are you in charge?”
Binocular Man didn’t move a muscle. “Yeah, I saw you,” he drawled. “What are you, son? Some kind of circus performer?”
“I’m...I’m here-“
“-to help. Yeah, you said. Look, son, I’m trying to run a rescue operation here. I don’t need a flying trapeze artist right this minute.”
“You need all the help you can get,” observed Clark. “There are twenty three men and women on those two vessels, four of them injured – one with a broken leg, I think. I could lift them all to safety, if you’ll tell me where I should take them.”
“We’ve got a reception area set up on Pier 23,” he muttered. “Hell! Damned line broke again. The sea’s just too friggin’ rough.”
“Which ship is going to go down first?”
“Hell if I know.” The man swore under his breath. “The May Queen. Her bow is already down.”
“Find me a doctor,” called Clark as he took off again, “to help with the injured. Meanwhile I’ll get everyone else off the Queen.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
******************
A wry smile curled Lois’s lip as she watched Clark dump his eleventh spoonful of sugar into his coffee. He really had no clue what he was doing, which made him all the more fun to watch. In his head, he wasn’t sitting opposite his wife in a café in downtown Metropolis, he was flying over two sinking vessels just outside the harbour.
She was happy he’d finally made proper contact with the other Clark. He’d been trying to reconnect ever since that first contact at Star Labs, realising that if he could, he’d be able to confirm for certain that his almost-twin was okay. The lack of success – and thus, the lack of knowledge - had been frustrating him.
Her, too, if she was honest. Not just because she’d had to deal with her husband’s frustration, but because she also wanted to know what was happening to the man she’d come to know quite well since that first awkward meeting in her bedroom.
Today, however, had exceeded both their hopes. Not only had he made contact, but he was actually helping the other Clark at his first big rescue. He was in his element, and she knew the fledgling Superman would really appreciate the help of a more experienced counterpart - his self-confidence was still a little rocky and rescuing two ships on a heaving sea was a lot to ask of an uncertain rookie.
Clark’s hand drifted over to the sugar bowl again, teaspoon ready to shovel up another load. She chuckled and reached across pull the bowl away. The spoon clattered against the table and a startled Clark blinked across the table at her.
“What did you do that for?”
“So we don’t get thrown out for sugar theft.” She grinned. “That’s spoon number twelve. How’s it going?”
Crestfallen, he looked down at his coffee cup, dipped the spoon in and tried to stir. “Oops.” He grimaced and shoved the cup away. “He’s doing okay. A little shaky to start with, but now that I’ve got him working with the emergency services instead of trying to do everything on his own, he’s fine.”
“Do you think he’ll need you again?”
“Hard to say. This’ll build his confidence a lot, and that’s what was lacking before.” He shrugged. “I’ll let him take the initiative – if he needs me, I’ll be there for him.”
He was so nonchalant – pretending that this was nothing special - but she knew better. She smiled and reached over to catch his hand in hers. “This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess it does. It’s good to be able to pass on some of the things I’ve learned.”
“Especially when he’s almost your twin.”
He nodded. “Yes. I-“
His face went blank for a few moments and then a wide smile split his face. “He says I need to buy you a large tub of the stickiest, richest, most gooey chocolate ice cream I can find.”
She laughed. “Everyone’s safe, then?”
“Yes. And you’re to make me seafood linguine.” He winced. “I guess you never cooked him anything when he was here.”
“Hey!” She swiped his hand. “I can cook.”
“Of course you can, honey,” he replied. “It’s just that eating the results is a little...challenging. How about we eat out instead?”
“To celebrate his debut? Good idea!”
“Okay. He says thank you, too, by the way. He’d have never done it without us, he said.”
She shrugged. “Nice to know that some good came out of Schulz’s machine, I guess.”
“I’ve always said there’s good in everyone.” Clark grinned. “You just have to know where to look.”
Lois rolled her eyes and tugged him to his feet. “That innocent farm-boy act is wearing very thin these days. You need to find a different tactic to charm me with.”
“I can think of several.” He winked. “Unfortunately, none of them are legal in a public place.”
She laughed. “Now I definitely know you’re not an innocent farm-boy any longer.”
***********
After carrying all the crew to safety, including, with a doctor’s help and advice, the two injured men, Clark had sought out the head of the rescue effort again. He’d intended to offer his help in towing the two stricken ships to safety, but before he could open his mouth, the man had grabbed his hand and shaken it vigorously.
“That’s a fine job you did there, son,” he’d enthused. “I don’t know what or who you are, but we sure as hell could do with someone like you around more often.”
“Well, I intend to be, sir,” Clark had replied. “I’m here to help in any way I can.”
“Good, good,” said the man, shaking Clark’s hand even more energetically. ”But how do we contact you? What’s your name?”
Clark’s brain had skittered to a standstill.
His name. He needed to give his name.
Oh, God.
His name. Two small words and his life would never be the same again.
“Son? You okay? Haven’t overdone things, have you? You were working pretty-“
“Kent. My name is Clark Kent.” And then, because there was no stopping him now that he’d begun to unravel... “I work for the Daily Planet.”
Wrong script, surely. Wasn’t he supposed to say his name was Superman?
Because this was his big ‘coming out’ day, that was why. This was the day Clark Kent announced to the world what and who he really was. Superman was just his working name.
“Well, son, I used to read the Star, but from tomorrow, I’m definitely buying the Planet.” The man was still shaking his hand. “Are there more of you there? Is there some kind of special division-”
“No, I’m just a regular reporter. I...” But this wasn’t the time or the place, no matter how irresistible the temptation was to spill everything in one big cathartic confession. There were ships to be towed, oil slicks to be dispersed. “Well, you can read all about me tomorrow in the Planet, I guess. Just...call me Superman, okay? I’m Clark Kent when I’m at the Planet, but out here...I like to keep the two jobs separate.”
And saying ‘Superman’ hadn’t even felt silly. It had felt...right.
“Son, I’ll call you anything you like.”
“Superman will do fine. Now, about the oil slick...”
And so the rest of the rescue operation had proceeded, Clark helping to disperse the oil slick and then tug the ships to dry dock for repair.
Now, he was sitting on the motel bed, a glass of champagne in one hand and a page from Lois’s draft article in the other. She’d phoned in a brief report from the docks, but this was the main piece which would tell his full story.
In the absence of a computer, she’d scribbled it on motel note paper and he was currently discovering just how indecipherable her handwriting was.
“It says here I’m an orange,” he remarked to Lois, who was sitting beside him flicking through news channels on the TV.
She leant against him and peered at the word his thumb was indicating. “Orphan.” She flicked to another channel.
He read a bit further. “And I...paid up on a loan?”
She sighed and snatched the page from him. “Grew up on a farm.” She thrust it back at him. “I don’t see what the problem is – it’s all perfectly clear to me.”
“Lois, you wrote it. Of course it’s clear to you. I, on the other hand, am finding that even x-ray vision is not enough to make sense of your handwriting.” He glanced up at the TV in case she’d found anything interesting, but it was just some report about a road traffic accident. Back to the article. “I don’t think that’s how you spell serendipity.”
“It’s how I spell it,” she retorted, thumbing the remote again.
“I think Perry probably spells it the same way as I do...“
That road accident. The blue sedan by the side of the road.
He snatched the remote from Lois and thumbed the ‘back’ button. A children’s cartoon filled the screen. Where was the road traffic accident? That car, that blue car... “Which channel were you just on?” He tried another button. A movie. He thumbed again. Commercials. “Which one?”
A blue car. It couldn’t be... There were thousands like it. Millions, probably.
Where was the damned channel? He thumbed again. More commercials.
“Twenty six, I think,” she said. “What’s-“
He hit the buttons and turned the sound right up.
“...and luckily, no other vehicles were involved. Sadly, the sole occupant of the car, a young woman in her mid-twenties, was killed instantly. Police are calling for witnesses to contact...”
No.
His enhanced vision had read and imprinted each letter of the licence plate on his skull, even though they’d been blurred out...
No.
Reality flipped and tuned him out of the world. For a split-second, he was in no-man’s land, neither of the world nor outside it. He was blind, deaf, and dumb. Frozen.
Then the silence shattered and he slammed back, ready to check the number again, but the image was gone and the weather girl was talking about rainy squalls.
He’d misread it.
His eyes were playing tricks on him. He was tired.
Lois moved against him. “Was that...was it your...?”
So she’d also mistaken it for... “It can’t be. She...she said she was driving to Philadelphia.”
“That accident was just north of Philly,” she murmured. “Don’t you think...?”
He shook his head woodenly. “It’s a coincidence. I misread the plate.”
“Clark...” Her hand slid into his and held it tight. “I really think...I think it’s Lana.”
No.
Lana dead?
No.
The licence plate flashed across his vision again. Their licence plate. Every single letter, every single number in the same place as on the blue Chevy he and Lana had bought together two years ago this summer.
She couldn’t be dead. He’d seen her just...how many days ago? Two? Three? He’d lost track.
Lois was speaking again but he couldn’t make out the words. The images on the TV were a blur surrounded by a blackness creeping in from the edges of his vision.
Something hard rattled against his teeth. A glass. Lois’s muffled voice again. His hand being lifted to clasp the cool glass.
Automatically, he tipped it up and took a sip, clumsily allowing some of the water to trickle down the side of his mouth. He wiped it away, the purposeful action seeming to clear his vision and unblock his hearing.
“Take some more,” she encouraged.
“No, I’m okay.” He swung his legs off the bed and placed the glass on the bedside cabinet. “I’d better go.” He stood up and looked around for something to pack clothes into. There was a carrier-bag left over from Lois’s shopping trip – he grabbed it off the chest of drawers and walked into the bathroom to fetch the few toiletries they’d bought for the short stay. Toothbrush, toothpaste, antiperspirant.
He came back into the room. What else? There wasn’t anything else except the clothes he was wearing. He wouldn’t need the Superman suit. Was there really nothing else? He was going on an important trip; he should be well-prepared. A coat – he’d need a coat in-
“Clark, what are you doing?”
Doing? He was getting ready, couldn’t she see that? “I have to go,” he explained. “I...Identify the body, that sort of thing.”
She shoved herself off the bed and came to stand before him. “Right this second?” She reached out and clasped his arm. “Sit down for a few minutes. Give yourself time to adjust.”
Adjust? He laughed, but it came out wrong and sounded more like a hoarse sob. “I’m adjusted. I’ve adjusted just fine, thank you. My wife is dead. She was probably murdered by Trask. Either that, or... Heck, we were going to divorce anyway, so what’s a little detail like her murder going to matter? He’s done me a big favour, if you ask...if you ask-“
His throat closed up. Embarrassed, he pushed past her with his carrier bag and grabbed the first thing that came to hand – a motel pen – and stuffed it into the bag. You could never have enough pens. All those forms he’d have to complete at the mortuary...
Her warm body pressed up tightly against his back and her arms slid slowly around his chest. “You don’t think that at all,” she murmured. “You wish she was still alive. You’re hoping you’ll get down there and discover this is all a big mistake.”
“No, really, I think Trask-“
“Shhh. Don’t do this to yourself. It’s not healthy.”
No, he wasn’t healthy. He was sick to his stomach. Lana was dead and it was all his fault.
Her arms tightened like a vice around him. “And don’t blame yourself,” she said fiercely. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for this.”
“How can I not? If I hadn’t-“
“Number one, you don’t know if Trask did this. Maybe it was just an accident. Number two, did you ask Lana to spy on you? No. Number three, did you get her involved with Trask? No. Number four, she damned nearly killed you.”
“Oh, so that makes it all right, does it?” he retorted. “She almost killed me so it’s okay that she’s dead.”
“Clark... You know that’s not what I’m saying.”
Yes, he knew. He could hear the distress in her voice, too. She was only trying to help him, but the bitter words just seemed to be tripping out, lashing out mindlessly in any direction. Mostly at Lois.
God, what was he doing? What had he done?
He peeled her arms away from his torso and crossed to the motel phone on top of the dresser. A few minutes later he’d contacted the Philadelphia police, identified himself as the owner of the vehicle and the husband of the driver. They gave him instructions on where to report to when he reached the city.
So simple. So easy. Your wife’s dead, sir? No problem – just fill in this form.
“I’m coming with you,” said Lois from behind him once he’d replaced the receiver. “Don’t even try to argue.”
He’d expected to go alone. His wife, therefore his responsibility.
But he couldn’t go alone. He needed her. Couldn’t do this without her. He nodded, his throat tight again. “Okay. Thank you.”
He felt her hand on his shoulder. “You don’t need to thank me.”
But he did. He needed to thank her for understanding. For knowing that he wasn’t lashing out at her, but at himself, at Trask, and all the other lesser Trasks of this world whose bigotry had helped kill his wife. Even, God help him, Lana herself.
An image of the carefree, young Lana he’d known as a child flashed before him. She wore a fresh, happy smile, freckles and a bouncy ponytail, and she was giggling with him over something.
When had it all gone wrong?
“God, Lois,” he said, his voice cracking. “She didn’t deserve to die.”
He turned and let her draw him into her arms, surrendering himself to her as he’d done so many times in the past. Here, he could drop the pretence. Here, he didn’t have to keep a tight rein on his emotions. Here, he could let go of the anger and pain and trust her to catch him when it threatened to overwhelm him.
***************
“Lana’s dead.”
Lois froze, her slice of toast half-way to her mouth. “Oh, my God...how?”
She eyed Clark as he rose slowly from the breakfast table and walked over to the coffee machine. “A car accident, apparently. He didn’t tell me everything, but I understand her car went out of control at a sharp corner and smashed into a tree. She was killed outright.”
“When?”
“A few days ago.” He poured coffee into his mug and came back to the table. “I guess this explains why I haven’t been able to contact him lately.”
“Yeah. How is he?”
“Pretty upset. Lois is with him – thankfully – but I get the sense he’s keeping some stuff to himself.” He sighed. “I guess he’s in a tricky position with her.”
She shook her head. “She’ll understand that he has to grieve for his wife, no matter how much of a bitch she was and how much he loves Lois.”
“Yeah, but I don’t suppose he knows that. He’s not exactly thinking very clearly. Anyway, what seems to be upsetting him the most is that he suspects foul play – Trask, of course – but the police are calling it suicide. He can’t get them to investigate because he doesn’t want to tell them about Trask.”
She nodded. Even if he managed to persuade them of Trask’s existence, he’d then have to tell them that Lana had been working for Trask, and that was probably a story he didn’t want plastered all over the world’s media. “Superman Spied On By His Wife,” wasn’t a headline he’d welcome at any time, but especially not when Lana had just died.
“But suicide? That’s a surprise - which do you think it is?”
“Hard to say. She was certainly unstable. Whether she’d go so far as to kill herself, I really couldn’t say. On the other hand, Trask is definitely capable of murdering her. With Clark becoming Superman and clearly wanting to separate from his wife to be with Lois, Lana’s usefulness to Trask was practically zero. She was a loose cannon who knew too much about his organisation.”
“So whether or not he actually killed her, I bet he’s not crying in his beer over her death.”
“No.” Clark sighed heavily. “This is really hard for Clark. The Planet and the rest of the media ran his Superman story the day she died, and then a couple of days later, Lana’s suicide was the big news. You can just imagine all the speculation that’s going on.”
“They’re saying he drove her to suicide?” She watched him nod slowly. “I bet there’s even some saying he killed her.” She snorted in disgust. “Don’t you just love our media? If there’s a story to be misreported, they’ll find it.”
“I wish I could help him.” He began pushing his mug restlessly around on the table. “The funeral’s tomorrow and I think he’s dreading it. Her parents will be there and he doesn’t think they know anything about Lana’s involvement with Trask. Not to mention that the world’s media will also be there.”
“You could go with him,” she suggested. “You can tell Perry you’re attending a friend’s funeral and find somewhere quiet to sit and talk with him telepathically.“
“Yeah, I wondered about that. I’d kind of like to be there, in spirit if not in person.” He ducked his head. “Pay my last respects, even if she was...well, what she was.”
“Okay, we’ll do it.” She sighed. “At least he’ll have Lois there with him.”
He grimaced. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
“Oh?”
“He doesn’t want her to go.”
******************
