Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic My Wife The Boss - part 25

Hi,

I'm sorry that I'm not posting any faster, but I hope I am posting pretty much to the schedule of once a week. I'm still keeping my fingers crossed that I'll finish this story by the end of the year.

This part is a little longer, and I hope you all enjoy. As always, I'd love to hear what you think of it.

Yours Jenni

*****

Previously on My Wife The Boss:

At least, he'd chosen a suitable card ... nothing with Father Christmas in his garish red suit, or silly sentimental animals which were supposed to pull at the heart strings. No, it was a religious card: a card celebrating the birth of our Savior ... as was correct.

Could it be that Thomas had finally found his salvation? She could die content if that were the case. Ina closed her eyes as her mouth twisted in an unaccustomed smile. Tomorrow, when Liz came in, she might instruct her to answer Thomas' message. Was there a return address on the package? She hadn't asked.

With an unusual warmth in the room and inside her heart, Ina drifted off to sleep.

*****

continued ...

Outside, on the edge of the silver-coated lawn, Thomas hid in the shadow of a gnarled oak tree. His attention was drawn to the stark branches above him, bowed down with a fresh covering of snow. He remembered he'd tried to climb this tree as a child, but had fallen and broken his arm.

His mother had been very sympathetic, though his aunt had told him not to burble like a baby; that he'd only gotten his just desserts for disobeying her instructions. There were only a few sections of the grounds where he'd been permitted to go and this tree was out of bounds. It had been planted, as had all the other trees that lined the wall, by one of their predecessors, the one who'd built the house, and was therefore more important than himself to Aunt Ina. In her estimation, he ranked way below her dead relatives and precious possessions.

Now was payback time.

Thomas stared across the lawn at the granite facade of the house, at the grand portico of the doorway, flanked on both sides by tall, curtained windows. He could still imagine the gloomy rooms behind those drapes -- the place of all his childhood nightmares.

Finally, his gaze focused on the large bow-window on the second floor, the old witch's lair. The house might now be an old people's home, but he'd bet his life that Ina wouldn't give up her treasured domain for any reason. No, she was there, lying in luxury, while he, the last Bowen-Timmons was living rough.

But he'd ditched the stuck-up cow's hyphenated name the minute he'd escaped her clutches. He'd wanted to use his father's name, but he'd never known it. It didn't appear on his birth certificate. When he was a kid, he'd broken into Ina's study and found the certificate, and in the space where the father's name should be, it read 'father unknown.' That had hurt. He'd asked his mother about his dad but she'd been too scared to disobey her sister and tell him the name ... then she'd died.

The witch had thwarted him at every stage of his life.

Not for much longer, though!

His gut tightened in frustration as he frowned. The package must have arrived by now. This was the second night he'd infiltrated the grounds to witness the results of his revenge, and yet ... nothing. The house stood quiet and undamaged.

After all these years his aunt was still messing up his plans. Even if the old crone couldn't open her mail, one of the nursing staff would have assisted her.

Maybe it was a mistake to put the explosives in with the chocolates, but he'd always known about his aunt's addiction to candies, a habit she'd indulged in secret, and he'd banked on her not being able to resist the sweets.

The box of chocolates had cost him more than he could afford, and his supply of explosives and detonating equipment was dwindling alarmingly. Since he'd felt it safer to leave his job, he had no means of replenishing his supplies, and he still had one more target to destroy before he was finished ... one more before he could go to join Mary.

It never occurred to Thomas that his wife might not approve of the road he'd taken.

He was tired of waiting. It was typical of his evil aunt to ruin his plans, but as it was well past midnight, the old bat was probably fast asleep and not going to be eating anything till morning. Besides, he was running out of time as well as money. He had a gut feeling Kent was closing in on him, and he should just go ahead and prepare for his finale.

It was ironic how things turned out. Though he hadn't planned it, the one man in Metropolis who seemed to have uncovered his vengeful trail was going to be involved, albeit indirectly, in the final showdown.

Thomas started to make his way stealthily toward his hidden exit. There was a certain amount of security around the gates of the old house, but he knew every inch of this estate. He'd disobeyed his aunt on many occasions as a child and had used these gardens as a haven from her tyranny.

He was disappointed that he wouldn't be around to see Ina get hers ... but he was fairly confident that she would eventually succumb to the lure of chocolate, and then ...

Boom!

The noise shattered the night and, turning back so quickly that he almost stumbled, Thomas looked up at the house, expecting to see a large hole where the bedroom window should be, but the front of the building remained intact. Instead, a plume of dark smoke billowed from the far side of the house.

Damn!

He ground his teeth together, while his nails dug so deeply into the bark of the tree he'd used to steady himself that he yelped in pain. The old hag had escaped his trap.

But he had to leave. There was no time to indulge in self-recrimination. The MPD and the emergency services would be arriving soon and he had to escape. He still had work to do.

*****

While Thomas had been skulking in the bushes at Hyperion Vistas, Clark and Matt had been searching Bakerline's cafes, hoping to find someone who could give them further information on the man in the sketch. It was close to midnight as they vacated another dive without success, and they'd already visited a number of other establishments. Was this going to be another night when they struck out?

“Matt, this is getting us nowhere,” Clark said, sighing and pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his hands. The cloying smell of dirty cooking oil and congealed grease pervaded his clothes, hair and skin, and he would have liked to go home and shower, but he had to keep looking. Matt, on the other hand, should be in bed. “Son, your semester finals start tomorrow, you should go home. Your mother will kill me if you're red-eyed and tired in the morning.”

Matt grinned. “Is the smell getting to you, Dad?”

“I'd almost forgotten what it was like to have an extra-sensitive sense of smell.” Clark's nose wrinkled in disgust as he returned the grin and winked. “Right at the moment, I'm beginning to wish my powers weren't coming back.”

“These places are gross! It makes you wonder how they managed to pass the hygiene regulations, but, Dad, it's just around midnight, and you know I don't need as much sleep as most people. Lets check these next few blocks, at least.” Matt finished quickly as he tried to stifle a yawn.

“I can work alone, Matt,” Clark stated with an edge of frustration, although his gentle expression belied his tone. “Go home and sleep.”

“No way, Dad! I can't just go to sleep!” Matt stared at his father for a few seconds, before hunching his shoulders and walking off down the street. Clark quickly caught up as Matt continued to vent. “I was at Metro General, remember, and I've seen what this monster can do.” The young man glanced over at his father, but the edge had left his voice. “We have to stop him, Dad, and that has nothing to do with doubting you can do this job alone.”

“You think you'll sleep better at night once this guy is behind bars? 'Cause I have to warn you it doesn't always work that way ... but it does help.” Clark suspected his son wouldn't accept a hug, so he patted Matt's shoulder instead. “If you're still having bad dreams, you can talk to me or your mother.”

Matt touched his father's hand briefly. “I know. I won't pretend I haven't had any dreams, but I will sleep easier when this bomber is behind bars ... and, Dad, just having you around makes everything easier. You have no idea how much ...” The young hero ducked his head as his voice faded. It appeared he'd inherited his father's ability for getting tongue-tied.

“But I do. I feel the same way,” Clark interrupted, forcing the words past the lump which had formed in his throat. “To be here, watching you wearing the suit ... being able to help in anyway I can, means everything to me.”

Matt's head snapped up. “And it still doesn't upset you?”

Clark opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again and thought hard. His son deserved honesty. “A little, I guess ... more since the powers have started to return. Part of me does wish I could be up there with you ...” He gazed up at the night sky with a hint of longing, before looking back at Matt, his smile both encouraging and bittersweet. “But there was a time I never expected to have this much, so mostly I'm content to pass the mantle over to you ... and offer support and advice.”

In the fitful light of the worn out street lamps, a glance of compassion and complete empathy passed between father and son. They would work together to make a difference, and in this particular instance that meant catching a bomber who was threatening the city they'd made their home.

“And now it's my turn to help you,” Matt said with a grin. “Come on, Dad, lets go find the next greasy dive. We have to get lucky sometime,” he added with the optimism of youth.

*****

Two blocks further on, it seemed Matt's positive attitude was about to pay off.

Across the street they spotted a little cafe with a busted neon sign above the door and a front window which was partially boarded-up. But what drew their attention was the particular smell of dirty cooking oil which permeated the air, though they were still some yards away. The odor wafting from the doorway was very similar to that on the tape and, as they crossed the road, a plaintive meowing reached them.

“Dad, did you hear that?” Matt asked, walking faster, excitement beginning to bubble in his veins. “The sounds and the smell both match the tape.”

Clark matched his son's pace, but he was a little less eager. “It could be, but I'm not an expert on cat calls ... are you?”

“I guess not ... but, you gotta admit, this is the best fit we've come up with yet.” Matt took the lead and approached the entrance, only to halt in front of the door, his head cocked to one side, listening. “There are two cats!”

A glance back at his father told him that he too had recognized the differing tones.

“I think so,” Clark agreed, gesturing with his head to a narrow opening at the end of the building. “The noise seems to be coming from down that alleyway toward the back of this building. But we shouldn't get carried away here. The cats meowing and the smells could be just a coincidence.”

Matt winked and grinned boyishly, looking very dissimilar to the solemn superhero who patrolled the skies above Metropolis. “I've got a good feeling about this one, Dad. Come on, we won't know for sure until we check it out.”

Reaching the door, Matt pushed it wide and vanished inside, leaving Clark to follow behind, his head shaking a little from side to side. Had he ever been so ... buoyant?

But his answer came without thinking; he'd always been an optimist. Even when he had nothing, when his life had been a barren and lonely place, he'd dreamed of a better one. Somewhere deep within himself, he'd known that it was just out of his reach, waiting for him to return, and it had been that knowledge which had kept him going.

“Dad, are you coming?” Matt shouted back to his father, breaking into Clark's profound thoughts.

With a quick prayer that his children's trust would never be tested in quite the way that his had, he strode inside ... and gagged.

If the smell had seemed bad on the street, in here it was overpowering. Clark took a quick look around the dingy interior. The non-smoking bylaws were clearly being ignored, causing a thick haze to hang suspended over the room. Yet, as his eyesight adjusted, he was surprised to see quite a few people seated at the tables, some were regarding them with a mixture of suspicion and barely veiled hostility. This was a poor neighborhood in which merely existing was a trial, and he and Matt must have looked oddly out of place, though they'd dressed in their oldest clothes.

His confidence faded as he realized there was little chance of any of these strangers giving out information. These people closed ranks against outsiders, and here there was no Father Ninian to bridge the gap. After a moment of threatening silence, the customers ducked their heads and returned to the business of consuming their meals, the sporadic buzz of lowered conversations beginning once more.

Clark was sure Matt and he were the topic of those conversations, but watching the clientele, he couldn't help but wonder how they could stomach the disgusting food, but his son clearly had inherited his cast-iron stomach, because Matt was ordering them both a burger and fries with a coke to wash the food down. Clark decided he'd need a gallon of liquid to wash this unpalatable meal down, and hoped that his invulnerability had kicked in enough to save him from contracting salmonella.

To date, this had to be the worst eating place they'd visited in their search, but he couldn't fault Matt's strategy; pretending to be customers was the best way to get the information they were looking for.

If the customers refused to talk to them, they might have more success with the guy behind the bar, and with that in mind, Clark sat on a stool in front of the counter. Matt joined him and both waited in silence until they were served.

Minutes later two dirty plates, containing something which barely resembled food, were slapped down in front of them, while the waiter stood at the other side of the counter with a sullen expression on his face, daring them to complain.

Clark wasn't about to give him the satisfaction. Picking up a fork, he speared one of the limp fries and stuck it in his mouth, swallowing with just the merest grimace. “Thanks,” he forced the words out. “My son and I have been on a late job and we were getting hungry. We weren't sure we'd find anywhere to eat around here. You open all night?” he added, casually, while continuing to eat. By his side, Matt appeared to be collaborating his statement by wolfing down the unpalatable burger.

“Yeah!” The waiter answered.

Glancing around again, Clark continued chatting. “You seem to do pretty good business for so late at night.”

There was another pause before the pimply youth behind the bar replied. “Yeah!”

Obviously the waiter come cook was a man of few words, but Clark persisted. “I thought an old buddy of mine worked here.” He chewed some of the ground meat ... though he actually doubted this burger had come from any palatable part of a cow, before continuing in his friendliest of voices. “His name was Thomas. Maybe you know him?”

“Nope!” Johnny-one-note spoke again.

Clark took a deep breath to calm his frustration, trying to project a relaxed curiosity. “Perhaps he works here too.”

With a certain amount of arrogance, the waiter looked to both sides of the counter space before checking out the kitchen. “Don't see nobody else here.” He chewed on his nails and deliberately spat the contents he'd work free in the general direction of the two Kents. “Do ya?”

Clark made a mental note not to eat anymore of the food, while beside him, he could feel Matt tense. He quickly placed a restraining hand on his son's arm. It was just a guess, but an informed one, that many of the customers at their backs would love to start a fight.

“I thought that maybe you alternated nights,” Clark suggested reasonably as he rooted in his pocket until he found the sketch and his wallet.

“Well, ya thought wrong.” The pimply youth wiped his hands on a tea towel, which had seen better days, before resuming the conversation in a bullying tone. “Look around. Ya think this dive could employ two night workers ... and I'm the wrong person to ask. I only started work this week due to the other guy doin' a runner. Ya want more information, come back and talk to the boss. Now, ya said ya all were hungry, so eat up and go.” He gestured expansively around him. “See, we don't take kindly to people comin' in here and stickin' their noses in where it isn't wanted. I'll just take this and keep the change.” With that, he snatched the twenty dollar bill that Clark had pulled out and walked toward the dirty kitchen in the back.

Squeezing Matt's arm to warn him to stay put, Clark stood and made for the tables which were occupied, yet immediately Clark moved, the waiter halted, frowning menacingly at Clark.

“Ya hard of hearin' or something? I told ya to leave,” the young man snarled. “Your kind aren't wanted around here,” he continued, deciding the two strangers needed further persuasion.

Despite the guy's acne and his lack of size, he had a mean and streetwise air about him, but Clark had come for information, and he wasn't about to leave without it. He didn't want to fight, yet he was pretty certain that Matt and he could hold their own if trouble started. There would be no chance of using superpowers, since his son was in his civilian role, and his own powers were intermittent, to say the least. Nevertheless, he'd spent the last few years of his life working on the land in China, often doing backbreaking work, and though he had lost some of his own muscle tone, he was healthier now and doubted he was a pushover.

Yet Clark had always hated physical violence, so he locked stares with the waiter, refusing to flinch. Somewhere at the back of his consciousness he heard his son gasp, but he ignored it as he spoke.

“We didn't come in here to make trouble,” Clark said, his voice polite but edged with steel. “I asked you a question and you couldn't or wouldn't give me an answer. I'll assume the former, but some of your customers might be regulars and might be able to answer my questions. I'd like to give them a chance to earn a few dollars.”

For a few seconds there was a standoff, before the guy behind the counter dropped his gaze to the floor. The dollar word had caught the interest of a couple of people in the cafe, and one or two took a quick look as Clark continued to distribute copies of his sketch.

Recognizing defeat, the sullen youngster backed off, feeling he'd been lucky to avoid a confrontation with the stranger. On first glance, he'd thought there was nothing intimidating about the older dude who'd invaded his space, but he'd caught a glimpse of raw power in the man's eyes and hadn't felt up to the challenge.

Anyway, it was a free country, and it wasn't his problem if the stranger wanted to waste his money on the bums who frequented this place. Mumbling under his breath, the waiter retired to the end of the counter to read his comic. Now, if he'd been Iron Man, he could have given these two newcomers a fight they'd never forget!

Meanwhile, Clark waited in silence to see if anyone was prepared to talk, which seemed very unlikely as every moment passed. Most people hardly gave the drawing a second glance, and those who did, quickly returned to minding their own business.

He took another twenty dollar bill from his wallet and held the two notes aloft. “I have forty dollars for anyone who can give me any details on this man,” he said, projecting his voice into every corner of the room.

In fact, there would probably be a bigger reward for any information leading to an arrest, but Clark wasn't about to reveal that fact. There was every possibility that the prospect of a windfall would send these deprived citizen's imagination into overdrive, and Clark didn't need any false leads.

Yet it appeared forty dollars wasn't enough incentive, or maybe no one had anything to tell him ... or they just weren't willing to talk. He felt, Matt's hand on his shoulder, and his son's voice echoed kindly in his head.

<It's no use, Dad. People like them don't open up to people like us.>

With his shoulders sagging, Clark walked toward the exit. <I know, Matt. I just thought we might have gotten a break at last.>

Back on the street, Matt let out a long breath. <Wow, Dad. For a minute, you looked like Superman in there, even without the suit. That spotty guy never stood a chance ... >

<It didn't change anything though. Did it? I wasn't Superman. I was just some guy throwing his weight around.>

Clark started down the street, feeling more discouraged than he had in a very long time. They'd practically exhausted their search of Bakerline, yet they were as much in the dark as ever. The wind had risen with an icy bite, whirling dust and garbage against his body, but he barely noticed.

<Dad, I could go back as Jor-El.> Matt suggested uncertainly. He was just a teenager, but he appreciated how important breaking this case was to his father. <They might talk to a superhero in a suit.>

His father paused, but he didn't look back, and Matt could sense the chagrin which was tearing him apart.

“You think?” Clark asked, returning to normal speech, his voice sounding tired, mirroring his emotions. “You could be right. People used to open up to Superman when they wouldn't to anyone else.” There was a stagnant silence before Clark finally continued, ignoring the echoes of envy that crept, unwanted, into his mind. “It might be a bit of a coincidence though, Jor-El showing up so quickly ... but what the heck, that information is important.” His breath hissed out audibly as he watched an old newspaper get caught in the updraft and fly off into the sky. How he wished he could do the same. Finally he said, repeating the words that were beginning to sound like a refrain. “Go on, Matt. What are you waiting for? You really don't need me ...”

“That's not true, Dad ...”

But Matt's protest was cut off by the sound of shuffling feet approaching quickly, and someone panting heavily. “Hey, guys.” A figure emerged from the gloom, though it was difficult to tell whether it was a man or woman, it was so wrapped up against the cold. “You meant what you said back inside? 'Bout money for info on the guy in this picture?” The person lifted a gloved hand and thrust the crumpled drawing at the two men.

Once more, father and son exchanged glances, but it was Clark who answered.

“Yes, we did, Ma'am,” he said, finally recognizing he was addressing a woman, and a woman who had been sitting at the very back of the cafe. “If you can give us any information, or even a name, we'd be grateful.”

“How about fifty dollars worth of grateful?” the woman asked, her voice hoarse and muffled by the scarf she'd twisted around her neck.

Matt was about to rush in, but Clark raised his hand to quiet his son. “That would depend on the information.” As he peered at the huddled figure he could see the woman was middle-aged and shivering. “Why don't we go back inside where it's warmer ...”

“No way! People who talk to the authorities in this neighborhood don't last too long ...” The woman threw a nervous glance over her shoulder. “Can we start walking?” She suited her actions to her words as she led the way down an alley.

“We aren't the police, Ms ...” Clark inquired, keeping pace with the woman as Matt kept watch on the street.

“You don't need my name, and I know you're not MPD. I don't talk to cops ... no way.” She halted once she was sure they were out of sight. “Lets just keep this short and sweet. The guy you drew is called Thomas Timmons ... and he worked nights here until a week ago ... maybe a bit more. If you want more, talk to the owner or his daughter. They works days.”

Clark tried to keep the excitement from his voice. “Can you be more specific about when he left?”

“Nah. I was spendin' a few days out of town for the good of my health, due to our boys in blue ... if you catch my drift. He was gone when I got back.” The woman set her hands on her hips and squared up to Clark. “Now you give me my money and I can get out of here.”

Though she only came up to his chest, she was ready to spit fire, reminding him of his wife ... if she were in disguise, of course. He felt like laughing. He felt like lifting this strange female up and swinging her around, though he doubted she'd appreciate such a gesture. Instead, he got out his wallet again. “Fifty dollars, you said?”

The woman nodded and even smiled as Clark counted out sixty of his dollars. He felt she deserved every cent, and was happy to hand them over.

“And you never spoke to me ... you never even saw me,” she said, as she grabbed the money and stuffed it inside her coat. “Remember!” She jabbed Clark in the chest with a grimy finger, which poked through a hole in her glove, before running back to the head of the alley. She sent Matt a disdainful look as she passed him at speed, then disappeared into the shadows.

At a much slower pace, Clark joined his son. He was smiling in relief, his bad thoughts of a few moments earlier buried away for another time, when he could pull them out and explore them ... perhaps Lois could help him get them into perspective.

For now, his persistence as a reporter had paid off. Now, he had a full name ... and a chance to find out who the bomber was, where he was, and why he was taking such deathly revenge on this city ... and stop him.

*****

To Be Continued ...