Hi,
Sorry I'm a little later than I'd hoped, but it is still Wednesday.
Yours Jenni
Previously in My Wife The Boss:
He leaned up and pressed a kiss where her pulse now beat languidly in the graceful column of her neck. Lois tilted a little away from him to grant him better access, smiling into the darkness. Clark could feel her body melt under his touch.
“I think I might be able to accommodate you.” Her words came softly from above his head, where his hair stirred in the warm channel of her breath. “And I'd love a little of that myself.”
Clark rose on his elbow to stare intently into her face. He never tired of watching her, she was so beautiful, so full of vitality and courage. And she was his to cherish.
“Anything you ask, Lois.”
His lips descended on hers and for a time there was no need for words.
*****
continued ...
Chapter Six,
Healing Retribution
While Lois and Clark made peace with each other, Thomas Timmons was plotting vengeance. He'd been fairly pleased with the latest stage of his plans, yet it hadn't gone quite as far as he'd hoped. By now, someone should have died at his hands, but thanks to the heroics of some Daily Planet reporter, all the bank employees were alive. It didn't give him much solace to know that the head teller was badly injured in the hospital.
Now, if it had been the reporter, Thomas would have been more satisfied. Not that he had anything in particular against that Kent guy, but the beacon of truth and justice that The Planet professed to be hadn't been interested in helping him get justice for his wife.
Like every other institution, they'd ignored his letters and emails, begging them to highlight Mary's lack of competent medical treatment. When he'd shown up at their offices in person, they'd eventually had him thrown out, and had the police move him on when he'd single-handedly picketed the pavement outside, waving a placard saying 'Decent Health Care for the Needy'.
OK, he vaguely remembered the newspaper had been mourning its own loss. A reporter, missing, presumed dead, with Superman in North Korea. In fact, if he wasn't mistaken, it was the same reporter who'd interfered at the bank today.
Clark Kent, one member of the Hottest Team in Town, the pair he'd thought might actually take up his fight for Mary's rights. Hadn't they helped the little guy in the past? Why did the one person who might have publicized his campaign to save Mary go and get himself lost at the very moment when Thomas needed him?
So maybe he did have an axe to grind with Kent. After all, the reporter hadn't really been dead. He'd come back to his wife and family ... but Mary was gone forever. Rubbing the tears of frustration that clouded his eyes, he fervently hoped Kent was suffering for his actions now.
Never once did it occur to Thomas that his thinking was irrational. The only person he'd loved in the whole world, who'd loved him back and made life bearable, was robbed of her life by a society which turned its back on those less fortunate. Well, he'd make this society pay.
Thomas opened Mary's well-worn sewing box and gazed dreamily at the contents. The box reminded him of happier days, when Mary had spent her time making and altering clothes for a living. She'd been good at it too; the best seamstress in the district. He'd been so proud of her.
Like a ritual, he picked out one of her dressing pins, staring at her framed picture by his side. It was only right that Mary should help him choose.
Blindly, Thomas thrust the pin into the rumpled paper and peered at his next target. The wrinkles and the dim lighting in the room made it difficult to read his own handwriting, but when he eventually made out the name, a shiver of something akin to regret ran down his spine. He'd been hoping for someplace else. His narrow shoulders hunched over the table. Yet why should he feel bad? He'd already attacked a school. Besides, this institution's terrible misdiagnosis had condemned Mary to death, and their ensuing lack of care and attention had been the final nail in her coffin!
Straightening his spine and hardening his broken heart, he dismissed any qualms he might feel about bombing a hospital.
*****
Clark balanced his chair on its back legs and reviewed his story notes. He was feeling pretty good. It had only been a few days since he and Chris had met their sources on the sports corruption story and their leads were already starting to pan out. They'd even managed to put a name to the mystery man offering bribes to the players, and with a bit of luck and some digging, they were close to revealing who was behind the whole scam. The story was almost a wrap and Clark was confident he and Chris would have a Front-page headline.
If Clark could have the same success finding the illusive bomber, he'd consider himself a happy man.
As if on cue, Sergeant Peterson exited the elevator, his hands buried deep in his winter coat pockets and walked toward Clark's desk. “Hey, Kent, I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop these back to you.” Peterson fished out a plastic bag containing a pair of mangled glasses. “Not that they'll be much good to you in that state, but forensics are finished with them.”
“Thanks, Jed,” Clark said, taking the bag and studying the contents with a grimace. “Yeah, definitely defunct. Did they find anything?”
“On them? Nothing.” The detective hitched his hip on the corner of Clark's desk. “Though they did mention that the remaining lens seemed to be made of plain glass. Kinda odd, don't you think?”
Clark swallowed and his chair came back to Earth with a thud. “Odd? Not really.” He waved his hands in front of his face, hoping he didn't look nervous. “It's just that I'm poor-sighted in only one eye.”
“No kidding! It's not a crime.” Jed shrugged, seemingly satisfied. “Have you ever thought about getting contacts?”
“I did once. A long time ago, but I was allergic.” Clark cleared his throat. “Did forensics find anything else?” he asked, changing the subject.
“That's too bad, but you should give them another try. My wife swears by the latest daily disposables.”
“Maybe ... Yeah, I should check them out. One of these days when I have more time,” Clark prevaricated, dropping the bag on his desk, then, his eyes dark with remorse, he glanced back up at the lanky policeman. That day in the bank, he hadn't been fast enough. “I heard the teller lost his sight and one of his hands. We have to find this guy before he strikes again.”
“You think I don't know that!” Peterson replied defensively. “The explosive was the same as the one at the school, only bigger. Other than that ... nothing. This guy knows what he's doing.”
“Have forensics found any clues?” Clark repeated his question.
Peterson stood up. For a second, he returned Clark's stare, then his eyes shifted to look around the newsroom. “The department has all the manpower on the case we can spare. We're cross-checking links with the bank, the school and the bus company, and even the delivery services, like you suggested, but it's like looking for a needle in a hay stack. How about you?”
“Nothing either, though I haven't been able to work on it as much as I'd like,” Clark admitted. “I've had other assignments. But, believe me, I'll keep doing what I can, and I'll pass on any information I find.”
“Be sure you do, Kent. My boss isn't too happy that I'm sharing with you.” Jed turned to go, but quickly took another package from his pocket and leaned over Clark's desk. “He's not too keen on me giving you this recording either.” he said quietly. “He told me to give you a copy, but since you're letting Jor-El listen to it, I thought it would be better if he heard the original. I'd be grateful if you didn't contaminate the evidence anymore than the news station already did, or my job will be on the line.”
“Jed, I'm sorry. You're sticking your neck out here, and I'm complaining.” Clark grimaced in self-derision. “You must be under a ton of pressure to nail this guy, so I really do appreciate this,” he added, more sympathetically, as he studied the small brown package. “Believe me, I'll treat this like gold, and I'll get it back to you ASAP.”
“You have no idea how much pressure. But I hear you've never ruined a crime scene before, and I doubt you'll start now.” Jed looked a little mollified and with a something that resembled a grin, he strode away. “See ya!”
Clark felt like he'd been buffeted by a strong wind. Was Peterson just being conversational about the glasses, or had he suspected something? Hopefully, the detective had accepted his explanation. After all, it was plausible, wasn't it?
This was the way he had always lived; making excuses, telling white lies. He knew it was necessary, but, once again, he found himself thinking that life in Jilin had been simpler.
*****
“Lois, you got a minute?” Clark asked, opening the door and sticking his head around the edge.
For a second or two, it seemed Lois hadn't heard him, then she pushed her glasses up to the top of her head and regarded Clark with just a smidgen of impatience.
“Come in.” She beckoned to him with the tiniest, welcoming smile. “I can only spare a moment, though. I'm not free for lunch,” she added, giving the Elvis clock on the wall a threatening glance, as if daring time to move on too quickly. “Do you know I have more trouble trying to get the online layout to fit than I do with the 'real' paper?”
A sympathetic grin flashed across Clark's face. “I guess that makes sense.” The door behind him closed with a forceful click and he quickly seated himself in the chair opposite her desk. “I wouldn't interrupt, but this is important,” he explained, lifting his little package in the air.
“Your glasses?”
“Well, those too, but they're not important, though Jed did remark that the lens was plain glass.”
“He did?” Lois' gaze narrowed with interest, and Clark could almost see her thought process mirrored in her eyes.
“Yeah, but he accepted my explanation that I have one good eye,” Clark said dismissively. “Lois, forget about my glasses ... this is the recording from the bomber.”
That got Lois' full attention. She leaned forward, her arms resting on her desk and stared at the item in question. “Good! Jed remembered we'd asked for a copy. Remind me to send a donation to The Policemen's Benevolent fund this Christmas.”
Clark's grin grew wider. “Not just a copy. The real thing. But that's just between you and me.” He stared pointedly into Lois' eyes. “Jed could get himself in big trouble if his bosses discovered he was handing out vital evidence to the media.”
“Why? The bomber sent it to the media not the police department!” Lois huffed, before shrugging apologetically. “But you don't have to remind me. I can protect my sources.”
“Yeah,” Clark nodded, his eyes glazing over slightly. “I remember that almost got you killed a couple of times.
“Don't go there!” Lois shot back, always ready to defend her work ethic, but still, her lips twitched with amusement. She had missed their sparring; no one else could match her quite like Clark. “The only reason you didn't get almost killed was because you were invulnerable.”
“Yeah. Only sometimes ... and not anymore.”
Suddenly, there was another one of those pertinent silences in the room, then Lois spoke softly, meeting his eyes. “I love you, Clark Kent.”
Then, quickly, she brought the conversation back to the here and now. “So, what have we got here?”
“I didn't want to listen to the tape out in the newsroom, and I spoke to Matt.” Clark tapped his temple, informing Lois he hadn't used the phone. “Told him to look over here during his lunch hour. He'll be here soon.”
“We have to wait for Matt?” Lois asked, her brows drawing together in dismay. She'd never really cultivated patience in her working life.
Clark opened the little package and stared inside. Immediately his senses were assailed by a faint, but fairly distinct, smell. He breathed deeply.
Seconds ticked by. Yes, there was definitely something there.
Lois stood, unable to contain herself. “Clark! What?”
Interrupted from his deliberations, Clark looked up at his irritated wife. “Sorry, honey. It's just this smell.”
He held the open bag toward her and Lois came round the desk, sticking her nose gingerly over Clark's offering, expecting to be overwhelmed.
“What smell?” she demanded.
Clark's eyebrows rose. “You can't smell that?”
“Obviously not. I'm not the one with super powers!” She folded her arms over her chest, but she did lower her voice.
“I didn't think I was either,” Clark said, sliding back into wallowing mode.
“Clark, would you stop doing this. We know that's not true ... not completely. Now tell me. What smell?”
Once more Clark inhaled. He wanted to get it right. “Grease! Or cooking oil ... old cooking oil. It's not pleasant.”
Wrinkling her nose, Lois was actually thankful for not having super smell. “So, someone at the TV Network was eating a burger when he opened the mail, or even the forensic team?” Lois mused. “Though you'd think they'd know better.”
“There's a report in here too.” Clark removed the sheet of paper and scanned it quickly. “It lists what the technical staff have been able to hear from the tape, which is pretty much what Jed told us, but nothing about what they smelled.”
“Maybe they didn't smell anything.”
Clark crossed to the phone. “We can always check with Jed.”
“Don't, Clark.” Her hand reached out for his arm. “Maybe we should wait till Matt comes.”
A hurt look appeared in Clark's eyes and his bearing slumped a little as he moved away from her hold. “You don't trust me?”
Lois bit at her bottom lip, realizing she'd undermined his confidence again. “That's not it at all. I just think we should listen to the tape and get all our ducks in a row before we approach Peterson.”
“Makes sense, I guess,” Clark conceded, raising his hand in a conciliatory manner.
“Can I take a look at the report ... please?” Lois decided that she should be just as magnanimous.
Clark relinquished the paper and waited as Lois read, trying to regain his composure. He really didn't mean to bristle at Lois' every slight disparagement. For heaven's sake, they'd had this out repeatedly and they'd agreed to be more careful when it came to each other's sensitivities. He hated walking on egg shells with his wife and he knew that Lois felt the same. Besides, neither of them was very good at it.
“You know, this is a pretty comprehensive list. A male adult voice, disguised by a muffler, but no discernible accent, except perhaps East Coast America. Well, that narrows it down somewhat,” she said with a deal of sarcasm. “Look, they've even included a computer trace of the voice. Though correct me if I'm wrong, they have to catch this criminal before they can match that.”
“Exactly!”
Clark leaned his head a little to one side and his eyebrows rose, waiting for her to continue. It was a look which melted her heart, and not one which was really appropriate in the office. With an effort she returned her focus to her reading.
“A distant sound of intermittent traffic.” She raised her head. “So the guy lives in the suburbs?”
“Or maybe he recorded it at night, when there aren't so many cars on the streets,” Clark suggested.
“You could be right. Villains have a habit of operating at night.” She pointed her free hand toward him, then her eyes went back to the papers. “A cat meowing. Oh, they even have a computer print out of that too ... and, listen to this. It seems there are two cats. Our bomber hates people but loves his pets.”
“It's possible.” Clark folded his arms and stared at no where in particular, thinking. “That villain in one of the Bond movies was a psychotic, yet he loved that white Persian.”
Lois rolled her eyes. Clark had a habit of comparing their investigations to ancient films. Totally inconsequential, but she loved it.
“You remember those movies?”
Clark shrugged, though more lightheartedly, since it seemed their easy rapport had returned. “Can I help what surfaces in my head?”
She smiled, remembering all the other more personal things which had surfaced from his past. “I'm not complaining,” she answered with a sexy smile, her body undulating toward him instinctively.
“Lo-is,” Clark purred, but with a large measure of regret. “Now is not the time. The list!” He pointed at the paper, forgotten in her hand.
“Right. The list.” She composed herself.
“That's all. It seems in real life 'CSI' isn't quite so efficient as on TV. And it certainly doesn't mention anything about a smell.”
“What smell?” The door opened and their son sauntered through. “I got your message, Dad, and came as quickly as I could. You know, I was in the middle of a physics test ...”
“Sorry, Matt, but this is kind of urgent. We got the tape we spoke to you about from Sergeant Peterson,” Clark explained, shaking the little cassette carefully onto his open palm.
“The one of the bomber?” Matt forgot about his science test.
“Yeah.” Clark studied the cassette. “Lois, have you still got that little tape recorder? This guy is clearly not into state of the art audio recording.”
“Sure. Somewhere, I think.” Lois went back to her side of the desk and started rummaging through the drawers. “It should still be here.”
“You kept that old thing?” Matt asked, amazed. “It's a museum piece!”
“Yes. Why not?” Lois replied, though her cheeks flushed a little. “It has sentimental value. You have no idea how many thousands of scoops that museum piece earned your father and me.”
Matt caught the look that passed between his parents, and sighed loudly. “Look, it's my lunch break. I hope you two aren't going to wander down memory lane again. Not that I don't like hearing some of those stories, but I'm on the clock here.”
“No, no!”
“Of course not!”
His parents answered in unison.
“We're not that boring, are we?” Clark added, obviously vexed. “It's just some of these memories are new to me.”
“No, Dad,” Matt jumped in. These days he was very careful of his father's state of mind, but in his opinion, his dad was growing stronger, both mentally and physically. Sometimes he wished his mom was more aware of that. “It's good hearing about the old days from your point of view. It's usually different from Mom's, though.”
Lois rose from behind her desk, her gaze eagle-eyed. “Are you suggesting my memories are slanted in my favor?”
Matt guffawed. “Hell no. You think I'd be that dumb? I might be invulnerable these days, but you still scare me silly, Mom.”
Looking a little mollified, Lois returned to her search, missing the empathetic glance that passed between father and son. “Just as long as you both remember who is top banana in this family. Oh, and watch your language, Matt.” She leveled another fleeting stare at her son, before disappearing behind the desk again. Seconds passed, then Lois called triumphantly. “Got it! And, I'm not wholly sentimental, Matt. I just don't throw out anything which might happen to become relevant in future investigations.”
“Yes, Mom.” Matt strained to hide a grin, then became totally serious as he prepared to listen to a madman. “So this crazy knows how to build bombs, but uses a really old tape recorder. Isn't that a contradiction?”
“Not really,” Clark answered. “You're probably too young to remember, but back in the 1990s and early this century terrorists were blowing themselves up in trouble spots all over the globe. Not that our guy is a suicide bomber. He's working from an agenda.”
Again, Lois' eyes narrowed speculatively. “You think so, Clark? You don't think he's choosing random targets?”
Slowly, Clark shook his head. “Definitely not. But don't ask me to prove it, because I can't, so far.”
“Yet there doesn't seem to be any obvious link between his victims,” Matt said, becoming totally embroiled in the argument.
“Just because it isn't obvious to us, doesn't mean a link doesn't exist.” Clark was calm now ... confident. He had no idea why he was so sure. He just was.
“OK. I can live with that,” Lois said with more conviction. She'd once had total trust in his judgment, and her faith was returning. “So lets see if we can find some proof.”
She passed the recorder to Clark and watched as he used his handkerchief to load the tape, his movements deft. The three Kents closed in on the machine and listened carefully. Once, twice ... and a third time at Matt's request. Then he read the police report, comparing in his mind what he had heard.
“I get everything they've noted, but those cats aren't together ... and there's a rustling noise. Maybe like the guy was looking for something. Play it again, Dad.”
Clark complied and again there was silence in the office, except for the disembodied sounds emanating from the recorder.
“Yeah, definitely a rustling,” Matt mused. “Like amongst old paper ...”
“Or old trash.” Clark's senses were sharpening. “Feral cats that are rummaging amongst trash ...”
“I think you could be right, Dad,” Matt complied, looking at his father with respect. He might hear things just as well, but his father could put the sounds into context.
“Scuffling,” Clark continued. “Smaller feet ...”
“Rats!” Lois shuddered to the very tips of her toes. “Oh why does it have to be rats? I hate rats.”
Matt grinned at his mother. The whole family knew that rats were Lois' Achilles Heel.
“And, Dad, I agree. There's a nasty smell coming off that tape. I'd guess something greasy.”
Now Lois was looking at her husband with approbation. She'd never doubted him for a second ... well, perhaps, a nanosecond.
“So, what are we talking about. Distant traffic, cooking oil, grease ... trash, cats ... and rats.” She ticked each item off on her fingers.
“A restaurant,” Clark considered. “Probably a dirty one, not in the best part of town. One that's open late at night, because of the lack of traffic noise.”
“Oh, boy,” Matt said, though not with total disapproval. Clearly, he liked the idea of joining his dad's investigation. “I get the feeling we're going flying tonight.”
“Yes. But it won't be easy. There are probably thousands of these places all over Metropolis.” Clark set his jaw. “We don't have any definitive sound which could narrow our search down.”
“Yeah, I know. No bad guy with a pacemaker. No foghorns across the bay. How inconsiderate can a villain be?” Lois sat herself down behind her desk with a wistful grin. “But, for now, I still have this Web site to update, and don't you two have work to do?”
“You're right,” Clark said, turning to leave. “I better call Jed and let him know what we found.”
“Clark!” Lois' tone stopped him dead.
“Lois, I told him I'd cooperate,” Clark groaned, that old, disapproving look spreading across his face, which he always got when Lois suggested something even the slightest bit unethical.
“And I'm not objecting. It's just ... can't it wait a bit? It's only been an hour since Peterson dropped the tape off. Doesn't it seem a bit suspicious that you could have gotten hold of Jor-El quite so quickly?”
“Probably.” Clark stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at the ceiling.
“Right! I'm out of here.” Matt glanced from his father to his mother, suspecting another disagreement might be brewing. “My class starts in a half-hour and I want to grab some lunch ... and you know how you hate me to inhale my food! See you later. And, Dad, we'll go flying tonight.”
With that Matt scuttled out, leaving his parents to thrash out their differing points of view.
“Clark, don't you think you should wait until after tonight before contacting Jed? Who knows. Maybe you'll get lucky and have something more concrete to tell him.”
“Lois, if I told him this afternoon, he could put his men on checking out cafes.”
Lois sat back in her chair and viewed Clark skeptically. “Do you seriously think the MPD is going to act on such a flimsy piece of evidence? I'm sorry, honey.” Her voice and her gaze both softened. “But I doubt that's going to happen. Even if Jed approved, he's only a sergeant, and his boss is certainly not going to back him. He didn't even agree to you having the original tape, so how would Jed explain a smell?”
Clark looked totally dejected, yet he couldn't disagree with Lois' argument. “As usual, you're right. I'm just anxious about catching this bomber. I could be wrong, and, believe me, I hope I am, but I have a very bad feeling.”
Lois watched him leave her office, her heart heavy. She'd been in his position a number of occasions before, when her instincts were screaming that something horrible was about to happen, but the proof remained out of reach. In the past, they'd relied on each other's strengths, and when all else failed, there was always Superman as backup. Now the hero was just a shadow of his former self, or so Clark believed, and she didn't know how to convince him that he was just as capable as ever.
If only he could solve this case. It would do wonders for The Planet's circulation figures, but more importantly, it would give Clark back his belief in himself. There was a chance that tonight he and Matt might find some sort of clue ... but that was a stretch, and, unfortunately, Clark was well aware of that fact.
*****
To be continued ...
