This story is for Kermtzu. It was written for the 2008 L&C Holiday Ficathon.
It’s a “Lois and Clark” crossover with “Pushing Daisies”. If you haven’t seen the latter show, it’s about a man who makes pies and has a strange ability.
Many thanks to rkn for an excellent beta on short notice and looming deadline. Rkn, you’re appreciated.
Disclaimers: 1) This story is rather dark and does have some WHAMS. Persevere.
2) Not my characters. No money involved. It’s fanfic and it’s for fun.
*****************************************
Strangely enough, it was Jimmy who gave Lois and me the tip that led to it all. I would never have thought that Jimmy was observant enough to catch something like that. After all, he’s a photographer, supposed to be able to “see” things, and yet he’s never seen that I’m Superman - despite taking numerous pictures of me in both my identities.
Of course, maybe that was because I willed so hard not to be found out, not to have anyone make the connection between Clark Kent and Superman. I sometimes wonder if my fervent wishing to keep my identities separate actually makes it so. How else can you explain that no one sees Superman behind a pair of glasses?
Be that as it may, it started on Halloween. Some of the Planet support staff and gofers had dressed in costumes. Lois and I hadn’t. We never knew when we would be called out to investigate a story. And surprisingly enough, meeting someone in a gorilla suit does not make them trust you as a reporter. I wore my usual work suit – not the Suit, just a basic coat and tie. Lois was radiant, as ever, in some sort of skirt and jacket combination. There were probably some sort of dressmaking or couture or tailoring terms for the style she wore. All I could say was that she made me run my finger along my neck to loosen my collar and help me breathe. Of course, she does that practically every day by just existing.
It had been a slow news day, and Lois looked as bored as I felt. She’d called some of her sources, but all our stories were stalled, going nowhere, on the back burner - nothing. There was news out there – we just hadn’t heard it yet. So when Jimmy came to me with what he thought was a tip, I was ready to listen.
“CK?” he asked.
“Yeah, Jimmy?”
“Can I talk to you?”
I leaned back in my desk chair and looked at him. I hoped it wasn’t relationship advice – it would be ironic if he realized how little I knew. But he seemed to have a “not-romance” kind of diffident air to him, so I took the plunge.
“Sure. What’s it about?”
“Can we go into the conference room?”
I raised my eyebrows. This was unusual for Jimmy. He was as open as the day is long. He had no secrets to hide. We were the ones who dragged him into the conference room when Lois and I had a sensitive investigation that required confidential research.
“Should I call Lois?”
“Call me for what?” Lois asked. Not a surprise. I’d had a mental bet – twenty seconds or less. She made it in “less”. Her tone was polite but I knew her curiosity lurked underneath.
“I heard something really weird, and I think….I want to talk to you about it,” Jimmy said. At least Lois wasn’t flustering him too much anymore. Either she’d mellowed or Jimmy had hardened. Or maybe both.
“Come on, Clark,” Lois said, taking the lead. She always did. I spent a minute admiring the way she flounced into the conference room, as I always did.
“OK,” I said obediently, following Jimmy and Lois. Lois closed the door.
“Speak,” she told Jimmy.
Jimmy was used to Lois treating him like a dog. Without protest, he launched into his story. “You know I ride with a motorcycle group,” he started.
“Yeah….the Lab Rats, or something like that, isn’t it?” I asked
“You remembered!” Jimmy seemed absurdly happy. “Yeah, there’s a whole bunch of us….not just young guys, there’s various ages….there’s this older guy there, I’ve heard people call him “Doc”, he’s got this amazing chopper….”
Lois cleared her throat.
“Yeah,” Jimmy said hurriedly. “Well, one of the guys in the group, Jordan Major, was killed by a hit-and-run last night.”
“I’m sorry,” Lois and I chimed in together. I regretted any loss of life – I’d seen so much sorrow and destruction that every death, in some way, even if I didn’t witness it, diminished me in some way.
I think Lois’ regrets were a little more perfunctory.
“His parents were notified. They’re on an Antarctic cruise. They know I’m good friends with Jordan, so they worked it out with the police to have me identify the body.”
“Not a fun task,” Lois said quietly. She had ID’ed her own share of corpses over the years.
Jimmy shrugged. “It’s one last favor I can do for my friend and his family.”
A moment of silence.
“Uh, you were saying, something weird?” Lois probed. A moment of silence was about all she could take.
“Oh, yeah!” Jimmy said, startled into remembering the beginning of this whole thing. “So there I was at the coroner’s office, and I identified Jordan. I got some photos.”
“Is that legal?” Lois asked.
“I don’t know,” Jimmy admitted. “I figured his parents might want them.” His face wrinkled. “He was all stiff and everything….I had to leave the room for a minute….”
From his expression I guessed it was because Jimmy got sick.
“And when I came back, I was just about ready to go into the room and finish up. But I stopped as I opened the door, because there were three people standing around….the body.”
“Cops?” Lois asked sharply.
“No. They were civilians. And that’s not what was weird,” Jimmy said. “Here’s what was really weird. The people were talking to Jordan. And he answered them back.”
Lois and I looked at each other skeptically. We silently voted, and I was unanimously elected. “Jimmy….” I began.
“I know you guys think I’m crazy, or I didn’t know what I was hearing,” Jimmy said defensively, “but I swear it’s true. I knew Jordan pretty well. He was a good friend. And I know his voice. I swear to God, he was talking. It was him.”
“OK, if it was him, what’d he say?” Lois asked. That was Lois. Get the facts. Get the story. It was one of the things I loved about her – her drive, her passion. Of course, too often she jumped off the deep end without checking the water level, but that was what Superman was for.
“I can’t remember the exact words,” Jimmy furrowed his brow, “but it was something like, ’I was shot. Then they arranged a hit-and-run.’ Then one of the guys standing around said, ‘Who did it?’”
“What did Jordan say?” Lois said, only half sarcastically. Jimmy’s sincerity had lured her in. Me, too.
“Nothing,” Jimmy said dejectedly. “I came up to the table then, and Jordan was dead. Definitely dead.”
“Dead as a doornail,” I muttered, remembering my Dickens.
“Yep,” Jimmy agreed. “That’s why I can’t understand why I heard him talking. I mean, he was i]cold[/i]. He looked….well, really dead, if you know what I mean.”
Lois and I both nodded. We knew.
“And, um, there was a lot of, um, damage, from the hit-and-run. I mean, I don’t see how anyone could have lived after that.” Jimmy got a stubborn expression. “But I know what I heard. And that was Jordan Major, talking, after he was dead.”
Lois and I exchanged another glance. He’s crazy and Yeah, but this is Jimmy and we owe him passed, almost telepathically, between us.
I took the lead. Lois and I both knew that I was better at the “touchy-feely stuff”. “Jimmy, who were the other people in the room?” No sense in focusing on the obvious impossibility of his story.
“Oh!” Jimmy looked a lot happier for some reason. “I had a camera with me – “
That was no surprise. Jimmy went everywhere with a camera. Sometimes two or three.
“ – and I got some candid photos of them. I don’t think they knew they were being photographed.”
“Good job,” Lois said, approval in her voice. She respected sneaky initiative like that. “Got those photos for us?”
Jimmy smiled. “Why did I know you were going to say that?” He pulled several enlargements from the folder he carried. “See, there were two men and a woman…”
*************************************
Several hours later, Lois and I meet for lunch at the Delmar, a small diner about six blocks from the Daily Planet. We eat there often – the food is good, the portions generous (not that Lois ever eats much), and the coffee cups bottomless. In honor of the holiday, the staff has put up orange and black streamers, and a carved pumpkin sits next to the cash register. The waitresses all wore Santa hats.
“Wrong season,” Lois grumbles as she slips into the booth opposite me.
“Probably all they had in stock, and they can use them again in two months,” I point out.
“Gee, what would it cost to get some Halloween hats?” Lois says, mimicking my tone and mocking me.
I decide to let that one lay where it fell. I pull out one of Jimmy’s photos that show all three visitors to the coroner’s shop.
“The man is Ned Smith,” I say, pointing to the tall, thin man standing closest to the body on the coroner’s table. “He owns and runs a…well, you could call it a restaurant, but all they serve there is pie.”
Lois raises her eyebrows. “Just pie?”
“Well, coffee and tea and soda, and pie. Pie by the slice, by the whole pie, in little tartlets, and in little mini-pies.” I grin. “You’ll get a kick out of this, Lois.”
“What?”
“The restaurant is called the Pie Hole. As in, ‘Shut your…’”
Lois gives a sour smile.
“Did you find out anything else about….this….this Pie-Maker?”
A Superman rescue had delayed me and I’d lost about an hour. Was I ready to tell Lois that? Definitely not today. Not right now, not here. “That’s all.”
“Not much for two hours work,” Lois grumbles. “I’ll bet you had some of that Pie Hole pie?”
“Lois!” I don’t have to work too hard to chide her. “I wouldn’t go without you. Pie without Lois?” My tone indicates that would be like Christmas without Santa.
That coaxes a reluctant smile from her.
“What about you?” I ask.
She moves her coffee cup over and points to the second man in the photo. He’s tall as well, but shorter than the first man. He’s also much burlier – in fact, downright portly. While Ned, the first man, is dressed conservatively in white shirt and tie, this gentleman apparently has a fondness for brightly colored patterned vests.
“Emerson Cod,” Lois says briskly. “Private investigator.”
“I could see he’s got reasons to come to the morgue,” I say, considering it, “but why a Pie-Maker? Why would a restaurant owner accompany a private eye to the morgue? Why look at a biker who died of a hit-and-run? What’s the connection?
“Good questions, Clark,” Lois says. My heart gives a little thump. She doesn’t compliment me all that often. She figures it only makes me soft. I can’t tell her that I have a steel exterior, and under it is a soft candy center, just for her. I’m a sucker for any little scraps of praise she throws me, and she knows it.
Lois goes on. “I can’t answer them. What I can tell you is what Bobby Bigmouth said about Emerson Cod.”
She stops talking, takes a sip of coffee, knowing she’s tantalizing me, and enjoying it. I try to be strong but give it up after five seconds.
“What?” I finally say, losing the battle.
“Just a regular P.I. for years,” Lois says, “and then in the last six months it’s like he’s tapped into some sort of crystal ball. He’s solved every case he’s taken. And gotten the rewards.” Another sip of coffee. “It seems that right now, Mr. Cod is only taking cases that have rewards attached to them.”
“And does Jimmy’s friend Jordan’s case have a reward attached?”
Lois smiles. “Yes. Jordan’s parents, who by the way, are quite wealthy, have offered a fifty-thousand dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of those responsible for the hit-and-run.”
“Always assuming that it was a hit-and-run,” I muse. For some reason, Jimmy’s story is tickling those “just-not-right” nerve endings deep in my reportorial subconscious. Lois must feel that too, because she’s gone into full investigative mode.
“Who’s the woman?” I ask, pointing to the third figure in the photo – the woman covered up in large hat, large hat ribbons (that effectively act almost as a veil), gloves, and large sunglasses. From her figure and posture, she’s young.
“Bobby didn’t know,” Lois says. “Heck, it could be almost anyone under all that.”
“That’s true,” I mutter. I take a last sip of my coffee. “Next step, partner?”
“Morgue,” she says decisively, slipping from the booth. “Come on, I’ll drive.” She strides out.
I sigh and throw some bills on the table before following her. Stuck with the check again.
********************************************
We’re at the morgue, and Jimmy is great.
“Doctor?” he calls. “Doctor Richardson?”
The surly coroner comes out from behind his desk.
“I was hoping – you know Jordan Major – well, his parents asked me to take some pictures of him. You know, for remembrance.” Jimmy barely takes a breath. “You haven’t done the autopsy yet, have you?”
“No,” said the coroner. “Don’t have any help here. I’m sixty-two and I have a bad back and do they give me a full-time assistant? No!” He devolves into more grumbles. At Jimmy’s further pleading, he allows as how Jimmy can take some pictures but the most he’ll do will be to pull out the drawer. Jimmy will have to do all the heavy lifting and corpse moving, if any.
“And your friends?” Dr. Richardson says suspiciously.
“Erm….Clark and Lois….my friends are here to help me.” Jimmy is such a bad liar. The coroner looks at us even more suspiciously.
“Lois Lane, Daily Planet,” she says briskly.
“Now why would the Daily Planet be interested in a routine hit-and-run on some teenager?” he asks. There’s mixed suspicion and curiosity in his voice.
“Doctor,” Lois says, dodging his question, “you graduated first in your class from Met U medical school, and you’ve been a medical examiner for over thirty years. You teach, you’ve published, you’ve written a textbook – why is someone of your stature in this office?” She gestures around the office – a small one, not at all commensurate with the credentials of such a man as Dr. Richardson.
“You’ve done your homework,” he says. He stares at both of us with a curiously calculating look. He seems to make up his mind because he says, “I’m tired.”
“What?” Lois asks.
“Do you know how many homicides there were in Metropolis last year?” the coroner asks.
“Over seven hundred and fifty,” I speak up. As Superman, I’d prevented many more. At the doctor’s querying glance, I introduce myself. “Clark Kent, Daily Planet.”
“Yes,” he says, “over seven hundred and fifty. Over two a day. And that’s not counting the suspicious deaths and the deaths-of-unknown-causes.” He sighs. “I just got tired of one more teenage gunshot wound, one more beating. So I came here. Not much happening in this neighborhood. I deal with what comes in, they get the benefit of my expertise, and I can rest.”
“Not much happens here?” Lois probes.
“This isn’t Suicide Slum!” the doctor protests. “I’m not doing three post-mortems a day. No, here we get the occasional drunk driver, and that’s about it.” He retreats behind his desk and assumes a more formal persona. “Now, why is the Daily Planet interested in this boy? And why you? Don’t think I don’t know who you are.”
Lois and I give each other another look. “We got a tip that Jordan Major had been shot and the hit-and-run was a cover-up,” I admit.
Some flare of professional curiosity wakens, and his eyes narrow. “Well, then, I guess we’ll pick it up at the X-ray stage, then, won’t we?”
“Um, yes,” I agree. I want to do my own X-raying, but I can’t say that.
Before we could say any more, Dr. Richardson makes shooing motions. “Inspector Henderson speaks well of you two. Go on in.”
I almost laugh at the expression on Lois’ face. Henderson, speaking well of us? Although we have a profound respect for each other, overt compliments break the code. Maybe Henderson feels that comments made to a third party don’t count.
“Jimmy, get to work,” Lois orders. He gratefully sidles his way through a door that leads to the autopsy floor. I know because I can see the tables and tools. The coroner follows him and gestures at us to continue on in.
Lois engages Dr. Richardson in some small talk – primarily related as to how well he knows Henderson and what, exactly, did Henderson say about us - while Jimmy pulls out the slide and uncovers the body. Jimmy starts to set up some lights and I casually step next to Jordan’s body.
Of all the accidents I’ve seen (and there have been a lot), the one that caused the injuries I see must have been right up there in severity. Squished and then dragged would be a good description of the damage. Surprisingly, Jordan’s face is almost untouched – it’s the back of his head that was ground off against the pavement.
I casually look over my glasses, engaging the deep vision, and slowly sweep it over the young man’s body. As ever, I marvel at the infinitely detailed complexity that lies under the skin, the sheer perfection of muscle, nerve, vein, and bone all winding together in a pattern known only to God. As I move down to the remnants of Jordan’s chest, I know that the tip is good. There is a bullet in Jordan’s heart. I stare at it, trying to decide on caliber and type. He’d been shot in the back, and the bullet was deformed, probably by its impact with the vertebral column. Tiny pieces of lead had spalled off at the impact and remained within his tissues. The entrance wound had been destroyed by the dragging of the body. I squinted again, trying, despite the bullet’s deformation, to memorize the unique rifling marks that would tie this bullet to a particular gun – if we could find the gun.
Jimmy’s flash distracts me, and I quickly scan the rest of Jordan’s body, or what’s left of it. No other abnormalities to be seen, if you discount the pieces that are missing. Jimmy takes a few more shots of the face from different angles, then starts packing up.
“I think the parents will like these better than the official autopsy photos,” the coroner mutters. He obviously still has a heart despite thirty years of Metropolis post-mortems and big-city court cases.
“Yeah, good job, Jimmy,” I chime in.
“Doctor, would you care to give a quote?” Lois asks.
“No, I would not,” he snaps. Then he grins. “How could I? You were never here.” Jimmy looks blank for a moment, but Lois grins back. She and I both know that our presence with the body after the official “admission” to the ME’s office could be seized on by a defense attorney (if it comes to a trial) as a possibility of tainting the evidence – we could plant something on the body or to remove something.
It makes the doctor’s decision to trust us even more flattering. It’s a tribute to how much the medical examiners of Metropolis trust and respect Henderson. I won’t kid myself – it’s his recommendation that got us in. I’ll have to remember to thank him – in some oblique or sarcastic way, of course – the next time we see him.
I hear a distant cry for help and tense. Then I relax as I realize that local authorities have the crisis well in hand. I come back to myself and find Lois staring at me. The coroner is showing Jimmy back to the office, and Lois whispers, “You don’t have to run off and walk your neighbor’s dog or return a video or pick up a prescription or something right now, do you?”
She must know that look. I manage a twisted smile and say, “No, Lois. I’m all yours.” If only she knew how true that was.
“Glad to hear it,” she says, only semi-sarcastically. Dare I hope she is coming to feel something for me?
We go back into the office, make appreciative noises at the coroner, and walk outdoors. It’s a beautiful day and I get the usual charge of energy from the sun. Lois chivies us into her Jeep and takes Jimmy just far enough to where he can pick up a taxi.
“You get those photos printed,” she says. “And I want to know everything about Jordan. Who he was, who his friends were, who his enemies were, what he lived on, what he ate for breakfast!” She stops to take a breath. “Clark and I will be in this afternoon and I expect it by then.”
“Lois!” Jimmy protests.
She just smiles as the cab pulls away. Then she turns to me and says briskly, “Clark, you feel like having some pie?”
I smile too. Great minds think alike. “Lois, I would love some pie.”
*************************************
Lois and I both whistle at the sight of the Pie Hole. It’s on a “V”-shaped corner in not-quite-downtown Metropolis. What really gets our admiration is the exterior decor. Somehow the builder has managed to put up an awning in the shape of a fluted pie crust. It looks very realistic.
We walk into the restaurant, and the smell of baking pies immediately makes my stomach growl. We sit down at one of the booths, and casually look around. The Pie Hole is mostly empty, with only one other booth filled, and a blonde waitress puttering around the big central counter. In deference to the holiday, carved jack-o-lanterns and Halloween decorations are scattered around the room, and a large sign tells us that Today’s Special Is Pumpkin Pie.
“Clark,” Lois says quietly.
I don’t need her alert. I can see the three persons in Jimmy’s photos sitting at the only other occupied booth. But this time, the woman isn’t wearing any hat or sunglasses. She’s an attractive brunette with a thick mane of hair that’s tied back, probably because she’s dressed as a waitress and therefore is serving food.
I carefully extend my hearing. I must to be coming in on the end of the conversation, because the burly black man seems to be winding up.
“So it’s settled, then,” he says. “You and Dead Girl – “
What?
“ – stay here and take care of business while I investigate Jordan Major some more.”
“Too bad he didn’t tell us more,” the brunette says.
What? This conversation is surreal.
The tall man, who is Ned Smith, the Pie-Maker, leans forward – he’s about to say something. I listen harder.
“You two want some coffee?”
I almost clap my hands over my ears as the painfully loud voice directly next to me drills into my eardrums. It’s the other waitress, who’s come to attend us. She introduces herself as Olive. Her voice isn’t really loud – that is, unless you have superhuman listening abilities and are extending your hearing to its most sensitive level. Then it’s excruciating. Whatever the Pie-Maker was going to say, I missed.
“Yes, coffee, please,” says Lois, who’s giving me a curious look. She knows something is off.
“Tell you later,” I whisper after the waitress leaves. The three in the other booth get up. The balding man – Emerson Cod, his name is – walks out the door. The Pie-Maker and the brunette waitress head back to the central counter. The brunette stays at the counter and says a few words to Ned, and the man walks through the swinging doors into the kitchen area. Curious, I x-ray through the doors, watching him.
A dog waits in the kitchen, lifting its head at the sight of the Pie-Maker. The man says, “Hi, Digby,” but doesn’t pet it. I get a little antsy at the sight of the Golden Retriever and start scanning the remainder of the restaurant. To my surprise, everything is scrupulously clean. I chuckle then, when I remember how many restaurants in France allowed patrons to bring in their dogs, and everything was fine there.
I keep on scanning and go through even more walls – past the kitchen now, into the restrooms. Fortunately no one is in either the Ladies’ or the Gents’. Both washrooms are clean too, which I take as a good sign. I move my vision over to the storeroom and almost flinch in surprise.
The walk-in cold room has racks of fruit – apples, cherries, kiwifruit, peaches, various berries. No surprise for a pie-making operation that, as far as I can see from the menu, has a pie made of every conceivable kind of fruit. The actual surprise is that much of the fruit is rotten. Some of it is only past its prime, and some is actually rotten – peels slipping off, bruising extending to liquefaction. On the other hand, I see shelves of fresh cabbage and Brussels sprouts - these vegetables are in excellent, fresh condition. But I don't see cabbage-and-Brussels sprout-pie on the menu. Thank God. I never liked Brussels sprouts despite my parents' best efforts.
Why would a business spend money on ingredients and then let them go bad? I know the grim statistics for Metropolis restaurants – eighty percent of new restaurants go out of business in the first year. And wasting money on fruit that will have to be thrown away – that’s a rookie error, or sheer incompetence on the part of the buyer or the vendors. But I see from the menu that the Pie Hole has been in business for three years now. It doesn’t make sense.
I wish I could tell Lois about all this. But how would I explain how I know it? I think again about taking the plunge, telling her - just saying, “Lois, I’m Superman.” And once again, I creep away from the edge, too afraid of what her response might be. I’m pretty sure that “volcanic” might describe it.
So, as usual, I take the coward’s way out. I finish the scan – it’s only taken me a few seconds – and turn my attention back to the menu that the blonde waitress delivered with our coffee.
Lois is making little moaning noises at the thought of the pies available. “Umm…coconut cream….praline pecan…."
Those don’t hold much appeal to me. I’m a straight fruit-pie kind of guy. Comes from growing up on a farm, in Kansas. We had apple trees. We didn’t have coconut trees.
Olive, the blonde waitress, says something to the brunette and heads off to the kitchen. I glance over my glasses again and see her attaching a leash to Digby’s collar and taking him outside through a side door. The brunette waitress comes up to our table.
“Hi, I’m Kitty,” she says brightly. Something in her voice and body language tells me that’s a lie. I read people almost instinctively now – very helpful when you’re an investigative reporter. Something about ‘Kitty’ is off. She gives us a cheerful smile as she says, “Have you decided?”
Lois looks at me. “You go first,” she says.
“Apple pie,” I say firmly. Always go with the basics.
“Ice cream?” the waitress asks.
“No. I like my pie to stand on its own,” I say. And I do.
“Caramel crust?” she asks. Wow, this is quite a pie place. Options galore.
“Plain crust,” I say. “No a la mode, no toppings. Plain apple pie.”
Lois gives me a semi-disgusted look. “Clark, you have no sense of adventure.”
I only smile and nod. What would she say if she knew that I’m tired of adventure, that the definition of adventure is “someone else having a hell of a hard time a hundred miles away”? Too often, that someone is me, dealing with a typhoon-tossed ship or a high-rise fire. I’d actually prefer a little less adventure in my life.
Lois flips the menu closed. “Pecan-chocolate chip,” she says.
“Chocolate sauce on top?” the brunette asks cheerily. When she smiles like that, she looks familiar just for a second. I rack my brain trying to remember. I don’t think I’ve met her personally. Where have I seen that face before?
“Of course,” Lois agrees. After the waitress goes off, she mutters, “I’ll just put two extra hours in the gym this week.”
I diplomatically say nothing. Lois complains about how I never have to work out. She doesn’t know that the flying burns a lot of energy, plus it’s great for the abs. Holding that proper position for optimum aerodynamics has really helped me develop my six-pack. I’ve thought about taking up yoga for increased flexibility – even a Superman can try to improve himself.
“Lois,” I say quietly.
“Yes?” She recognizes that I’m serious now.
“Does that waitress look familiar?”
She stares at ‘Kitty’, and gets a considering look on her face. “I don’t think I’ve met her….” Lois begins, “…but, you know, Clark, she does look familiar.” After a minute, she says frustratedly, “I just can’t place her. I know I’ve seen her somewhere, though.”
Just then the waitress comes back with the pie, and perforce, we fall silent. ‘Kitty’ serves Lois first, and the rich smell of chocolate wafts over the entire restaurant. It drowns out the plain goodness of the apple pie smell, which she holds in front of me. I seize the opportunity.
“Umm….please, Kitty, hold it right there just for a minute.” I lean forward, close my eyes ostentatiously, and stick my nose near the pie, taking big obvious sniffs, doing my best imitation of a connoisseur. From ‘Kitty’s’ reaction, this isn’t the first time she’s been asked to hold a plate of pie just for someone to smell it.
The pie smells great. But I’m not interested in that as much as I am in ‘Kitty’s’ arm and its odor. What’s really fascinating is ‘Kitty’s’ smell. It’s different.
I should explain that. I have a sensitive nose, and I pick up readily on everyone’s personal odor. Actually, since every animal on Earth descends from common ancestors, there’s an underlying basic odor that means, to me, “Earthling”. After that, it’s almost taxonomical. Mammals have a different characteristic odor than reptiles, which are similar to but different from the bird odors. And among the mammals, each order, genus and species has its own collective smell, and then each individual member of the species has his or her own personal odor. I’ve sometimes wondered if I could speciate rodents, or bats, or something, just by their odors.
So, in the newsroom, I pick up on Perry, on Ralph – he really needs to shower more frequently - and on Jimmy, on everyone; especially on Lois. I know her delicate scent by heart even when she tries to disguise it with perfume. But all of them have an underlying component that says, “human”, “primate”, “mammal”, “vertebrate”, “Earthling”.
I don’t have that. In fact, I’m missing the underlying “Earthling” odor – obviously. Humans don’t have sensitive-enough noses to detect that, but dogs do. I think that’s why they’re standoffish around me at first. They recognize me as nonhuman. I’m an alien and I have an alien scent. I’ve smelled my own clothing (especially after Kryptonite exposure, when I’ve really sweated) and I can tell. I’m different. Not better or worse, just different.
And ‘Kitty’ is different, too. She’s got a subtle odor (almost drowned out by the glorious apple pie scent) that I’ve never detected on any human before. But the strange thing is, her smell is still human, still Earthling. There’s just a different edge to it. Not the way I’m different, but different in her own Earth way.
I finish my sniffing act and let ‘Kitty’ set down the piece of pie. She sets down the check with it and walks away. Lois and I don’t speak for a few minutes, giving the pies their proper respect. And they deserve it. This apple pie comes the closest I’ve ever had to matching my mother’s. While the normal pie is earthbound, hers are celestial. This pie is low Earth orbit – not quite in the heavenly realms, but almost there.
“Ooh,” Lois says, chewing a small bit of her pie. She rolls it around her mouth, and I gaze in fascination as her tongue darts out to clean a small crumb off her lip.
“We’re agreed that she’s the third person in Jimmy’s photos, right?” Lois says.
“I wouldn’t swear to it in a court of law, but you’re right, Lois,” I agree. Everything fits. Her height, her figure, the shape of her arms, her association with the Pie-Maker and with Emerson Cod. Who else could it be?
“And I don’t think her name is Kitty, either,” Lois says, surprising me. But then, why should it? Lois is as good as I am about detecting lies – better, in fact, given that she doesn’t have super-senses.
I smile at Lois. “I’ve got a plan,” I say. “Do you still have those plastic baggies in your purse?”
Lois frowns at me. I think she’s afraid that I’m going to start teasing her again about the sheer volume of stuff she crams into her purse. Last time it spilled I quizzed her on why, actually, she needed to have a tourniquet, extra batteries, a stain stick, a retractable Phillips-head screwdriver, three tubes of lip gloss, a DNA collection kit, a squirrel call (why that, Lois? – I’ll never understand), a directory of Metropolis used-book stores, and a combination Mini-Maglite and pocketknife in her purse. She looked at me like I was crazy. “I use all this stuff,” she informed me haughtily at the time.
“Yes, I have the baggies,” she says quietly.
“OK, be ready, then,” I tell her. I gesture to the waitress and she comes over.
“This is great pie, but I need a glass of water to go with it,” I tell ‘Kitty’.
“Right away,” she promises. And in a minute she does bring a sparkling clean glass of water. I take it carefully by the top, where she hasn’t touched it, and drain it in one swallow. I look carefully at Lois, and we both look at the counter. When the waitress turns away for a moment, Lois grabs the glass (again, by the top) and stashes it in a plastic baggie. Then she packs paper napkins (available in large quantities from the tabletop dispenser) around it, and puts the whole thing in a second plastic baggie.
We go back to work on our pies. I finish mine. Lois has about two-thirds of hers left on the plate, and she’s flagging. I wordlessly ask permission and she nods. I take a bite. It’s as good in its own way as the apple pie was, but incredibly rich. I can see why Lois could only eat a small amount. I take two more bites. Now only a third of the piece is left.
“Ready to go?” I ask Lois. She looks longingly at the remaining pie.
“If we have Kitty wrap it up, she’ll wonder where the drinking glass went,” I warn Lois. She grimaces, and casts one last longing look at the slice of pecan-chocolate chip pie.
Surprising me, Lois grabs the check without any prompting, and throws some bills on the table, leaving a generous tip. We stand up and say, “The pie was great!” to ‘Kitty’, ignoring her cheerful “Come again!” as we hurriedly exit. We’re escaping, stealing a water glass with fingerprints on it.
***********************************************
Later that day, after some definitely illegal computer tricks by Jimmy, we have our answer.
“’Kitty’ is actually Charlotte Charles,” Lois says.
“Charlotte Charles,” Jimmy muses. “The name sounds familiar.”
It comes to me. “It should,” I say. “She was in the news a whole lot last year.”
“Why?” Jimmy asks. Lois stays silent, a growing look of comprehension on her face. It’s coming back to her, too.
“Because she was murdered,” I say.
“She didn’t look very dead to me,” Jimmy says.
“Me neither,” Lois says. “But….didn’t she…wasn’t she…..”
We all start researching. After about fifteen minutes, the story is clear. One Charlotte Charles, commonly known to friends as “Chuck”, had gone off on a Pacific cruise. She had been smothered by the Plastic Bag Killer. Her body had been shipped home and she had been buried in her hometown of Coeur d’Coeur. She had led a quiet life at home, and her Lonely Tourist cruise was the first and last adventure of her short life. Her fingerprints were only on file because they had been taken at her autopsy.
The whole thing had been a nine-days wonder, with the Planet and other news organizations making much of this young, pretty woman being brutally attacked and murdered where she thought she was most safe.
“This makes no sense,” Jimmy says plaintively.
“How did they substitute the fingerprints in the database?” Lois asks rhetorically. “I mean, that girl isn’t dead. So it couldn’t have been her at the autopsy.”
“She does look like the photos of Charlotte Charles in the Planet,” I say, confused myself.
Lois is excited. Faking a murder, or at least body substitution, promises to be a heck of a story. It’ll take some good, hard investigative work to unravel all the lies and evasions. It’s right up Lois’ alley. Of course, we’ll work together. With any luck, there’s a chance this might lead to a Kerth Award. It has that smell to it, speaking of smells.
“We’ve got a lot of work to do,” she says, echoing my thoughts.
“I still don’t understand,” Jimmy says plaintively.
“I don’t either – yet,” Lois says. “We’re going to figure this out.” She makes that last a positive statement, the same way she says the sun will rise in the east tomorrow. As ever, her intensity and determination entrance me. “There’s probably insurance money involved in it somewhere. Unless the Pie-Maker can raise the dead – “ her voice drips incredulity, “ - that girl is involved in some sort of scam.”
**********************************
Jimmy goes off to get information from his motorcycle buddies, and Lois and I continue our research.
“Anything on the Pie-Maker?” Lois asks me.
“Well, I found a Facebook page of photos of him and his dog,” I say.
Lois comes over to look. “Why is he always dressed in that blazer?” she asks.
“Well, according to this classmate’s page, Ned was sent to the Longborough School for Boys at age ten. The school took a photo every year, and I guess Ned would have to wear the school uniform.” I point to some other photos on the web page. “See? The classmate is wearing the same blazer in his yearly photos too.”
“Makes sense,” Lois agrees, “but the classmate doesn’t have a dog. Why the dog?”
“Why not?” I ask. “Apparently – from what I’ve found – his mother had died and he was sent to live at the boarding school. The dog was probably his only friend.”
Lois thinks about that for a minute. “That explains why the dog is in every picture, I guess.”
“Yep. It’s kind of interesting, actually – the dog looks the same in every picture. You can see Ned growing up in every photo, but the dog – no change.”
Lois narrows her eyes. “Is that unusual?” At my questioning look she defends herself. “Clark, you’re the one who grew up on a farm! Not me! My parents didn’t want any dogs or any pets!” She looks away. I’m not sure if she officially wants me to hear her next comment or not. “Heck, they couldn’t handle raising kids.” The restrained sadness in her voice is heartrending.
I decide to say nothing, but reach over and touch her arm gently, just to show that I heard her and I care. Then, carefully answering the question that was asked out loud, I say, “Maybe. Ned was only at the Longborough School for eight years. If the dog was young when he came there, say one or two, then it would only be nine or ten by the time Ned left. Most Golden Retrievers do live to about that age.”
“But?” Lois asks, knowing me well enough to know there’s something I’m not saying.
“It’s just unusual that the dog isn’t graying, that’s all,” I say. It’s one of those nagging little details. Mom and Dad and I had plenty of farm dogs, and they all got gray around the muzzle as they got older. But, of course, those were working dogs, and not dogs living as a pampered pooch at an exclusive boarding school. Maybe living there was the equivalent of a spa for Ned’s dog. I wonder how Ned had gotten to keep his dog there anyway. Maybe losing his mother had led the authorities to allow it.
I get a little catch in my breath when I think of Ned losing his mother. I’d lost my first mother – my biological mother. Finding that out, although it was sad news, was liberating as well. I’d never known where I’d come from, and I’d wondered for years if I was a genetic experiment, or some sort of cyborg. When the globe from my spaceship told me that I was from Krypton and the planet was destroyed, my race dead, it was painful. But at least then I knew. As I’d told Lois once, “It’s the not knowing that kills you.”
“How are you coming on Charlotte Charles?” I ask Lois.
“Not a lot to find,” she says, sitting on the corner of my desk. My eyes stray down to her legs – she’s wearing a short skirt today. She’s trying to kill me and it’s working. I determinedly haul my gaze up to her face. She has a half-smile on her face that tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. It’s part of the game we play. But nothing is ever said. There’s plausible deniability, in everything we say and do. That’s the whole point of flirting, isn’t it?
Some days that’s fun, and other days it’s torture. I’m not sure what today is. It keeps on changing.
“Her mother died in childbirth – “
Hmm….we have a plethora of mothers dying young here, I think. Charlotte’s mother in childbirth, my biological mother on Krypton when I was a few months old, and Ned’s mother when he was ten. I wonder if it’s significant. Of course I can’t tell Lois about my Kryptonian mother. So the apparent series of three is down to just a coincidental two. Not worth talking about.
“ – and her father died when she was nine.” Lois gets down from my desk and I follow her over back to hers. Something about the date on the screen nags at me.
“Uh….” I mumble. Then it comes to me and I tell it to Lois. “Ned’s mother and Charlotte’s father died on the same day.”
Lois raises her eyebrows. “I wonder if that’s important.” She thinks about it for a minute, then puts it aside, just like me. It might call for further research. We’ll keep it in mind. Lois goes on. “Charlotte moved in with her Aunts Lily and Vivian, who were made her legal guardians.”
“Go on,” I say. I know Lois as well as she knows me. And just like her, I know when my partner has something else to say.
Lois giggles. “Did you know that Charlotte’s aunts were once synchronized swimmers who toured the country? Their act was called the Darling Mermaid Darlings.” Her monitor displays a carnival-type poster with cartoonish renderings of some mermaid-y looking women.
“Synchronized swimming?” I laugh. “I can’t believe that’s an Olympic sport.”
Lois gets mad. “Clark, you don’t know anything about it!” she huffs. “It’s a lot harder than you think.”
“Yeah?” I say challengingly.
“Yeah. For one, you’re not allowed to touch the bottom of the pool,” Lois says challengingly. “And second, you have to hold your breath for up to three minutes at a time.”
That would be hard for a human. No problem for me, of course. “But…I have a hard time with the costumes…” I decide to not push Lois on this one. She’s right – I know absolutely nothing about synchronized swimming except from what I’ve seen on TV. “The swimsuits….” I trail off.
“It’s all part of the look,” Lois says. “And I should ask Superman….”
“What?” Now she’s got me worried. Why would she ask Superman anything about synchronized swimming? If I know Lois, it's probably something scary.
“Well, you know, those swimmers have to gel their hair so it stays in its style all the time they’re swimming. I’ve always wondered if Superman uses hair gel – even though he flies, he never has a hair out of place.”
Danger, Danger! If Lois starts thinking on this topic…..
“You got me,” I say, forcing myself to remain casual. “But, Lois, back to topic here….” That’s the best way to distract her. Get back to the story.
“Oh, yeah,” Lois says. “So Charlotte Charles grew up with her maiden aunts in Coeur d’Coeur and basically had an unremarkable life until she was murdered on her Pacific cruise.” Her eyes narrow. “Or until she wasn’t murdered and worked out whatever her scam is.”
“Do you have any information about the insurance?” I ask.
Lois frowns. “Yes.”
“Why the frown?” I tease her.
“Because it doesn’t fit,” Lois says. “There were only a few thousand dollars of life insurance on Charlotte Charles. Enough for a modest funeral and the expenses of transporting her body back from the Pacific.”
“I thought the cruise ship would have covered that.”
“Well, they didn’t.” Lois looks pensive. “Maybe it’s the cruise line that’s running the scam.”
I hope not. Then it’ll be a more difficult investigation. Oh well – I never know where investigating will lead us. We’ve found some crazy things just by looking where others didn’t. You just have to do the work.
“We need to get the autopsy records,” I say. We’ll probably have to go back and bother Dr. Richardson again. We always try to go to primary sources if possible. The computer is great for basic research, no question, but I never forget that 90% of the stuff on the Internet is crap.
“Yeah, that’s next,” Lois agrees.
We’re interrupted by Jimmy coming back in. His biker attire causes some raised eyebrows in the newsroom but not many. By now, most everyone knows about Jimmy’s hobbies, thanks to his habit of incessantly chatting about them with everyone he meets.
“I got information!” he says as he greets us. “Jordan was in a couple other motorcycle groups too. And one of those groups, well, you might really call it a gang.”
**********************************
It’s getting close to twilight. Little kids are probably trick-or-treating right now. Of course, Lois and I are in Suicide Slum, where no one trick-or-treats, and there are no little kids here. There are just people of lesser calendar age. You grow up fast in Suicide Slum.
Jimmy had given us a name, that led to another name and place, which led to another. Somewhere in the trail of names and places, Lois and I dropped Lois’ Jeep back at her apartment and changed our clothes to look, well, let’s say, a little less professional. It’s unseasonably warm for Halloween and there’s no need for coats or jackets. That’s good for me and my voyeuristic impulses, because now Lois looks, let’s just say, downright trashy.
I love it.
But right now I’m getting a little nervous. The last source gave us this address we’re headed to, and my danger radar is pinging. I scan the area but these old crumbling buildings are only being kept from collapse by their multiple coats of lead-based paint.
Lois moves slightly ahead of me and I lose my train of thought. God, she’s beautiful. Even when she dresses trashy. Especially when she dresses trashy. I give up my futile scanning of the abandoned-looking warehouse we’re moving to, and just drink in the sight of her figure. She walks with a particular bounce that’s the essence of Lois. The way her hips sway, the peculiar gait she’s forced to adopt due to the presence of her six-inch heels….
I move up beside her and take her arm. She doesn’t pull it away, a sign that she’s a little more nervous than she’s letting on. Lois isn’t very touchy-feely. It’s only in the last few months that I’ve dared to brush her arm, to put my hand in the small of her back. Should I feel hopeful that lately, she’s done much more allowing than pulling away?
I extend my hearing. There’s the usual susurrus of background noise from a great city like Metropolis. I carefully filter it out. But the big distraction is right next to me – Lois, her careful breathing, her leather skirt swishing slightly against her thighs with each step, her slightly-faster-than-normal heartbeat. I tune into her heartbeat with the ease of long familiarity, feeling comforted by its steady count. For a moment, I relax my alertness and just luxuriate in Lois.
Of course that’s the minute that the gunshots come. What seems like a fusillade cracks out of the darkness ahead. A few bullets ricochet off my chest before I belatedly slip into quick-time. The world takes on a reddish tinge from the light waves dopplering down, but I’m used to that. I’m deep enough into quick-time that the bullets appear to be moving only a few millimeters per second – plenty of time for me to change into the Suit and grab them from midair. I take a quick look back at Lois – she’s frozen in mid-step, a surprised expression just beginning to form on her face.
I groan inwardly. This isn’t how I wanted to tell the secret to Lois. I’ve made mental scenarios too numerous to count, various ways of breaking the news to her, starting with the unadorned “Lois, I’m Superman,” and working up to elaborate pre-revelation dinners with chocolate desserts.
But there’s no way I can hide what’s just happened here. Lois will see me disappear (from her point of view) and Superman appear. It’s obvious. I’m already dreading her reaction. Anger will probably be the least of it. I know she’ll feel hurt. The whole lack of trust question will come up. I’ve spent a long time earning her trust, and she’s going to interpret this revelation as a big fat vote of “No confidence” in her own trust. It’ll be devastating. What if she never wants anything to do with me again?
I sigh, and go about the business of finding out who ambushed us and why. There are six thugs in the warehouse, all very well armed. I wrest their guns from them, flattening the weapons into steel strips which I use as impromptu restraints. I’ll have to remember to snap the steel when the police come – I’ve been politely “spoken to” before, about how time-consuming it is to hacksaw bent guns off of bad guys’ wrists.
I’m still in quick-time and I carefully flick a finger against each thug’s head. It’s taken me some time to get good at knocking people out, since my usual mission is to prevent harm, not cause it. But these men might have seen Clark Kent and Lois Lane (or at least two figures, a man and a woman) enter the warehouse, and now Superman is here. I’d rather not have them witness the conversation I’m going to have to have with Lois. Even if I remove her from the premises right away, I’m sure Lois will have something to say to me first. It’s just better if these guys are unconscious for that part.
I come up about half-way out of quick-time, just to make sure that the men are taken care of. I see them all collapse into unconsciousness, and I suppress a tinge of guilt.
I scan the area, and almost curse out loud at the lead paint which obscures my vision. I’m especially touchy right now because I’m dreading the Lois talk. Usually I don’t get this mad about regular crime-fighting. Restraining myself from saying more bad words, I start the tedious room-by-room investigation.
It pays off immediately when I see several small cameras. I fry each one with a blast of heat vision, but I’m worried. Where were those cameras sending their feed? I slow down the world again, move faster. Those cameras caught Clark Kent spinning into the Superman costume. Now it’s imperative that I find out more.
The warehouse has been subdivided into a warren of tiny rooms. The whole building is ramshackle and dilapidated, which makes the presence of thugs and webcams even more perplexing. I go room-to-room, finding nothing but rat’s nests and urban detritus in most. I fry more cameras as I go, hitting them before (hopefully) I enter their field of vision.
Then, toward the back of the warehouse, I hit the jackpot. It’s a meth lab. I crack the door and I can tell, not only by the chemistry setup, but by the fumes. I take a deep breath and blow, forcing the toxic fumes back into the lab and breaking a reinforced window at the other end of the building. I walk through quickly and find a man, frozen (to my point of view) like other humans when I’m this deep in quick-time. His features are obscured by a breathing apparatus.
I casually take some of the lab fittings and mold them into restraints. I carry the man to where I’ve dumped the other thugs and flick him into unconsciousness too. Then I head back to the meth lab, turn off all the heat sources, and use my freezing breath on it. I hear glass cracking from the sudden temperature change, and since I’m deep in quick-time, I can actually see the cracks developing and the flasks shattering. It’s kind of fascinating, really, to see that.
Once I’m sure the meth lab is secured, I check the rooms off to either side. Jackpot again. There’s a generic cubicle with a computer and associated paraphernalia. With any luck at all, the cameras are feeding here, and with even greater luck, they’re not feeding anywhere else. I turn off the computer and grab the hard drive. The criminals will argue that this violates their Fourth Amendment rights against illegal search and seizure, but I’m not a policeman. I’m a private citizen who has seen a crime committed, and the rules are different.
I take a minute to send mental thanks to Lois (I can’t stop thinking about her) for making sure that I am a citizen. Superman, I mean. Clark Kent of course has a birth certificate (thanks to my parents’ machinations), and is assumed to have been born within the territorial borders of United States, thereby automatically becoming a citizen.
When Superman first made his debut, it was Lois and Perry who sparked a campaign by the Daily Planet to give honorary citizenship to him. I’ll always be grateful to them for turning the tide of public opinion from apprehension and fear to cautious acceptance, that later turned into pride and almost a sense of ownership. I may be an alien, but I’m our alien, darn it – that’s the feeling in Metropolis these days. There’s a kind of pride in it. Perry and Lois harnessed that and got the President to ask Congress to pass an act granting me citizenship.
Then, of course, other nations got into the act, and Superman graciously acknowledged that he was here to help all the countries of Earth. For a while, there was almost a bidding war for Superman’s services with citizenship and passports granted galore, before it became obvious that Superman was based in Metropolis.
I shake my head, knowing that I’m distracting myself to put off the moment when I have to go back to Lois and explain things. I’ve unconsciously come up out of super-speed, too, and I’m moving not much faster than Clark Kent would – i.e., regular human speed. I sigh again and spin the hard drive to safety with my civilian clothing – I’ll pull it out later. I hope that I can find and delete any evidence of my transformation from one identity to another. If I can do that, then I can have Jimmy make a copy of the data and then I’ll turn the hard drive over to the police.
I make one last run through all the rooms, conscientiously speeding up to do so. All is well. I can’t put it off any longer. It’s probably been sixty seconds since I left Lois and let my secret out. As I head back to her, I slip back into normal time, cravenly wanting to delay the Lois-volcano eruption for a few more seconds. I consider my actions – I have to call the police. Should I get Lois out of here before they come, or should I take my medicine and let her stay, assuming that she’ll be able to act well enough that she won’t betray me? I know she won’t tell my secret deliberately – I’ve come to know her that well. But the knowledge is new and disconcerting – she might stumble. God knows I’ve made enough slips of the tongue on my own. It’s only been luck, and the fact that Clark Kent is a supremely boring and nerdy guy, that’s gotten me over those rough patches.
I decide to let her stay. Taking her away because I’m afraid of what she might slip would be an even worse violation of her trust. Maybe I’ll delay calling the police, though, until she gets the initial explosion out of her system.
Feeling obscurely comforted at having made a decision, even such a one as this, I speed up again slightly and come to the entrance room where Lois and I were ambushed. I think about calling her but decide not to – if I’m quiet, maybe she will be, too.
Then I see her and all my plans fly out of my head. Lois lies still, crumpled, on the floor.
I fly to her so fast that the air ionizes around me. Oh God Oh God Oh God what to do? I turn her over. Her eyes are wide and unseeing. She’s not breathing.
I take a deep breath. Later I will thank those thorough Red Cross instructors who taught Clark Kent the rudiments of lifesaving, who knew that their pupils would be panicked when the time came to save a life. “A, B, C,” they had patiently intoned. “Airway, Breathing, Circulation.”
I quickly open Lois’ mouth and do an oral sweep. No foreign body, nothing blocking her airway. Tilting her head back, I press her lips to mine and breathe into her mouth. Her chest rises. I go to her chest to start CPR. It’s then that I see the blood.
I inhale sharply and scan with my deep vision. A bullet has penetrated her aorta. She’s bled out into her chest, her delicate lungs crushed by the hammering spray of high-pressure blood leaving the heart. As I stare in horror, her laboring heart makes a few last despairing fibrillating beats, and trails off into eternal stillness.
I grow frantic. I breathe for her, then perform chest compressions. I can hardly keep myself from doing it at super-speed. Frothy blood bubbles from her nose and mouth. I move frantically, trying to keep blood circulating, keep the brain oxygenated. I feel a delicate rib break under my hands. I stop – I’m only hurting her more.
I cry out and scoop her into my arms. As I rise and punch my way through the ceiling, I hear an intruder re-tracing my and Lois’ footsteps, entering the warehouse. It’s Emerson Cod, the private investigator whose presence at Jordan Major’s autopsy started this whole thing. I ignore him and fly straight up.
Lois gives out a forlorn sigh as I press her close to me. It’s her last breath. I’m going to take her to the hospital but I stop in midair. The unblinking stars above me bear witness to what I know in my heart already – it’s futile. Lois is dead.
I scream a great howl of loss. Why, oh why, didn’t I check to see what became of the bullets that ricocheted off me? No, I caught all the other bullets and assumed everything was fine. Why didn’t I go back to Lois sooner? No, I had to delay, acting the coward, not wanting to face Lois and admit my secret. Why did I assume, that in my presence, she was safe? It’s the bitterest irony of all, that my presence, who and what I am, is what killed her.
I hang in the sky, clutching her to my chest, as tears stream down my face. I pay no attention to altitude or position. I only feel the warmth slowly disappear from her slight body. I hear great choking sobs coming from someone and realize it’s me.
I slowly descend. I fly to my apartment. I set her on the bed and arrange her carefully. I close her unseeing eyes. I ignore the great splash of blood on the front of my Suit. I sit in the chair and hold her hand. I remain there, unseeing, for a long time.
