Hi,
It seems so long since I've posted, I've almost forgotten how.
I hope you enjoyed the last part and are still reading. Having kept you waiting so long, you've probably given up, but I promise just two more parts and then 'the end', and I will post them tomorrow.
Yours Jenni
Previously on Lois and Clark ...
"Great! Give it your best shot, honey, and you'll knock them out."
"Thanks, Clark. Same to you with the investigations. Call me if anything breaks! Love ya!"
"Love you too. Bye, Lois."
After Clark's goodbye, Lois snapped her phone shut and made her way to the door, skirting around Nixon and his little group of followers. Whatever did they see in the guy? He might be fairly attractive for his age, though his hair wasn't as thick as Clark's, but his attitude to women was purely Neanderthal!
Lois just wanted to get the show over and return to her normal work. She sensed the Timmons' story was about to break and wanted, as always, to be where the action was.
*****
Part 30 ...
Chapter Fifteen
The Face-Off
Thomas followed his target into the deli across the street from the TV studio, hanging back just a little, not wanting to cause suspicion by overcrowding the man. The little cafe cum take-away was remarkably busy due to its close proximity to the Stern building where the popular talk show was filmed every afternoon for airing later in the night.
Trying to appear casual, Thomas perused the menu that hung on the wall behind the counter, while paying close attention to the elderly man he was about to rob ... or, at least, part the man from his tickets to see the TV show.
The guy was a few places in front of him in line. Thomas found himself smirking at how much you could learn from a mark just by studying them. Mind you, not many people were as obvservant as himself. He was able to deduce, just by watching, that this man was totally under the thumb of his partner, making him appear timid and self-effacing. The wife was a sharp-toungued shrew who reminded him of Aunt Ina, and he almost felt sorry for this schmuck -- not, however, enough to let his one chance to get inside the studio slip by. He needed to be at the heart of the proceedings. No way was he going to become a suicide bomber without taking out Lois Lane and a fair amount of Metropolis' well-heeled population.
Minutes passed while he waited in anxious anticipation. Thomas took time to scan the booths along the back wall, to see if anyone was watching the goings on in the front of the store. A number of teenagers filled the booth directly behind him, oblivious to his scrutiny, their attention completely focused on one of these new-fangled blueberrys ... or was that cranberrys? Whatever, it was the very latest evolution of the blackberry. Clearly one of these kids had rich parents who indulged his every whim.
But it was what appeared on the screen of the hand-held computer which caused Thomas' mouth to drop open: a drawing of a man the police were looking to interview ... a picture of himself.
He listened as the teens discussed the man on the small, though remarkably clear screen, calling him names: creepy ... scary ... evil. What did they know about the kind of man he was; what he had been driven to?
He had to admit the sketch was a good likeness. Kent had gotten a good look at him in Centennial Park, and somehow he'd managed to put the pieces of the puzzle together to figure out the identity of the bomber. As Thomas continued to listen in, he realized with fright that they even knew his name. It was a good job his run was almost over.
It was also a stroke of luck that he'd heard about the drawing when he'd been living on the streets. He'd been waiting in line outside The Rest And Be Thankful shelter when he'd overheard some homeless guys discussing the possibility of picking up the reward for information on some man a reporter was trying to contact. At that point, Thomas had surreptiously left, merging into the shadows of the rundown buidlings.
He'd spent the next night living in a dirty, dingy machine room of an old warehouse, but the privacy had given him an opportunity to review his plans. He needed another identity and, seeing his image splashed all over the the Internet, Thomas was grateful for the warning.
Risking everything, Thomas had chosen a few bars down by Hobbs River, places where dockers and construction men liked to hang out after work. With due care, he'd robbed only the most inebriated customers and, though he hadn't acquired a fortune, he'd gotten enough.
Mary would have been impressed by his temerity. These were big and brawny guys, and if they'd found him out, they could have knocked him into next week. But he doubted that any of his victims had realized they'd been robbed, not until they'd sobered up the next day. Maybe not even then, depending on the size of their hangover.
Hey, even Aunt Ina might have approved. She'd say it served them right for indulging in the evils of drink! But whether they deserved it or not, their loss had been his gain.
Thomas was pretty sure his change of appearance should fool the public long enough to get him inside the building across the way. At present, he was wearing dress pants, a sweater over a shirt and black tie, topped with a tailored, though old-fashioned overcoat, all bought in various thrift shops ... except the tie. The tie was special 'cause he'd worn it at Mary's funeral.
Last night he'd spent most of the remains of his ill-gotten gains on a room at the old Apollo Hotel. Hotel, hah! Doss-house would be a better description. The place should have been condemned long ago, but at least it had a shower so he could clean up and shave, though he'd decided to leave the beginnings of a mustache. With his change of clothes, his facial hair and a pair of glasses he'd taken off a drunk in one of the bars -- it was amazing how a pair of glasses could alter your face -- he felt he looked different enough from the Thomas Timmons that the MPD and Clark Kent were searching for.
A movement in front of him drew his attention back to the work in hand. His mark was giving his order to the shop assistant and he tensed, readying himself for the sting. He moved toward the door to put himself in the way of the man's exit from the deli and waited, still pretending indifference to what was happening with the people around him. It was imperative that he get this right.
Thomas drew in a quick breath as the guy paid for his order, gestured to the assistant behind the counter and headed to the mens' washroom.
Telling himself to remain calm at the change of plan, after all, this would give him some privacy for his actions, Thomas walked quickly through the washroom door.
The room was tiny with just one closed in stall and one wash bowl, which was good, particularly since it was empty, meaning the mark was inside the stall. Thomas composed himself to wait again.
There was the sound of the toilet flushing, then of a lock being drawn back. Thomas was poised, and as the man came through the narrow door, he made a fast move to enter the stall, bumping the elderly guy's shoulder in the process. In the cramped space, the two men grappled, both trying to keep their balance.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," Thomas said apologetically, while making sure his foot lodged behind the other man's ankle, sending his victim toppling backward.
Yet Thomas had no intention of letting the man fall. He held on tightly, the two bodies touching in the confined space. Stealithly he removed the show tickets and wallet from the man's pocket, while pretending to save him from a nasty fall.
"Are you OK?" Thomas asked the stranger, brushing him down. "I was in a hurry ... bladder problems, you know?" he stammered, pretending embarrassment. "But I almost knocked you over ... I'm sorry. There's no excuse ..." Thomas bobbed from foot to foot, giving a good impression of someone who was in desperate need of relieving himself.
Clearly falling for Thomas' act, the man replied, if a little breathlessly. "No, no. I'm fine. No harm done." He smiled and gestured toward the stall. "You should ... you know ..."
Looking grateful, Thomas muttered a quick thank you before locking himself inside, deciding to avail himself of the facilities as he waited to see if his victim would leave the washroom. He heard the tap turn on as the guy washed his hands, then the outer door opened and closed, but Thomas stayed where he was for a some minutes, just to be sure.
He checked the electronic tickets and wasn't suprised to discover they admitted two people; the guy was with his battleaxe wife, after all. That wouldn't be a problem; Thomas could come up with an acceptable excuse. However, he had heard that some studios wanted proof of identity, which was why he'd taken the wallet.
With hands that were now threatening to tremble, he was so close to his goal, he rifled through the leather billfold. This guy didn't believe in plastic; there were two bankcards and one credit card. Those wouldn't be any good, though. He had to return the wallet before the guy realized it was missing, and those were the first things he'd check for ... along with his cash.
Thomas felt his heart sink. He couldn't take the driver's licence because that included a photograph. His fingers continued to work through the wallet, until they discovered a rather crumpled card stuck way at the back. He drew it out, heaving a sigh. It was a library card; granted it looked like it hadn't been used for some time, but, at least, it didn't bear a picture. Would that be acceptable? He sure hoped so.
Security had been relaxed for a number of years, but since he'd gone on his bombing spree public buildings might have tightened up their safety measures. Yet he'd mainly used mail bombs, and there was still a lot of controversy about the one at Metro General Hopsital.
Whispering a prayer to Mary that Stern Network had no reason to suspect they were in danger from a suicide bomber, Thomas exited the washroom and the cafe at a run. He looked up and down the sidewalk. There on the corner he saw his mark, waiting patiently for the sign to change to walk.
"Excuse me," Thomas shouted, lifting his hand to wave the wallet in the air. The man didn't turn around, and Thomas speeded up to reach the pedestrian crossing before the lights changed. He shouted again. "Sir! Sir, you dropped your wallet!"
When he was just a couple of steps away, the stranger turned. Thomas held out the wallet, saying quickly. "I think you dropped your wallet. I found it on the washroom floor."
For a second or two, the man looked confused, studying Thomas' face before his gaze dropped to the article in Thomas' hand. It only took a moment for enlightenment to dawn. "Oh, yes," the man said. "You're the man I bumped into ..."
"Does the wallet belong to you, sir?" Thomas asked politely with a faint trace of friendliness. He didn't want to get into a conversation with this guy, but he didn't want to alert him to the fact that anything could be wrong either. "Because if it doesn't, I can hand it over to the sales assistants. I guess it could have been dropped before."
"No, no," the man replied, reaching out to retrieve his lost property. "It's mine. I recognize the wallet ..."
Thomas maintained his act, there was time for a little misdirection. "Are you sure? I mean, I wouldn't like to be giving it back to the wrong person ..." he added, with just the correct amount of doubt. He started to look around at the passersby. "Perhaps I should give this to a policeman and let the cops sort it out."
"Oh, no! There is no need," the man said hurriedly, glancing over the road at the line of people in front of the studio. He obviously wasn't too keen to let his wife know he'd misplaced his wallet. "I can prove it. My name is Albert Wilson ... you can check the name on my driver's licence. It's inside."
"I'm not sure I want to intrude on someone else's private property." Thomas prevaricated for a second or two, while watching the man's pale skin flush. He'd judged his patsy well. This guy was so browbeaten, he didn't want to cause a fuss. Thomas let the moment stretch out. From the corner of his eye, he could see Mrs Wilson searching for her husband, and he knew that Mr Wilson was aware of that fact too. Not wanting to give the woman a chance to interfere, he continued quickly. "I don't suppose it would matter too much, especially since the wallet is probably yours."
Thomas looked inside, studying the said licence. Time was getting on and the studio would be letting people inside soon. "Mr Albert Wilson," he read aloud. "Yup. It's yours!" He handed the wallet over. "Mr Wilson, if I were you, I'd be more careful with your possessions in future." He smiled. "Not everyone you bump into is as honest as me ..."
The lights change and people began crossing the road. "Thank you," the grateful man stammered, watching the other pedestrians cross the road, clearly wishing to follow them. "Do you want some reward?"
"Reward? No! Definitely not. It's a sad day when we can't help a fellow human being out. Mr Wilson, you'll miss the lights," Thomas said, pointing to the crossing.
"Yes ... of course!" With one final thank you, Mr Wilson hurried across the street.
Thomas watched him rejoin his wife, who it seemed was about to give him the third degree, but Mr Wilson stayed silent, which was exactly the outcome Thomas had counted on. Feeling more relaxed, he went back into the deli. He'd crossed one hurdle; with just one more to go, he might as well have a final coffee.
*****
Clark scrolled through the interactive section on the cyber version of The Daily Planet, scanning the information speedily. Already there had been hits on the thread about Thomas Timmons' location, but very few seemed genuine sightings. In fact, most appeared to be from crackpots claiming Timmons was a neighbour, a workmate ... or even a relative, but from his research, Clark knew these were bogus or out-of-date assertions.
Shaking his head, he quashed his frustration, telling himself he shouldn't expect concrete results so early, but he still couldn't rid himself of the feeling that time was running out.
He had the illogical desire to be outside searching, covering the streets, just as he had once patrolled high above the city when seeking out various felons. Yet, if his memory served him correctly, he hadn't had much success then either. Even Superman had found searching for one person among the millions in Metropolis was impossible without a clue to their position.
Perhaps listing Timmon's future targets would be the way to go ... but Clark still hadn't been able to complete a full background check. The guy had more or less dropped off the radar for a year or so after his wife's death, and both his place of work and his address since that time had proved to be deadends. Clark looked up from his computer screen to the large window on the newsroom's far wall and heaved a sigh. Timmons was out there, plotting more acts of revenge, and it was up to himself, without the benefits of superpowers, to stop him.
The flickering of a news report coming over the digital wire caught his attention. An avalanche in the Swiss Alps had buried a small village, including a large group of American tourists partying at a chalet. The rescue effort was being hampered by the darkness and bad weather, and it was feared the death toll could be substantial.
A vise closed around Clark's windpipe and for a few seconds he found it difficult to breathe. If only he could help ... but there was no use pining for what couldn't be. He was lucky to be alive.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the channel to Matt.
<Matt, are you there? There's a ...>
<Relax, Dad,> Matt's upbeat reply came back over father and son's personal communication line. <If you mean the avalanche, I'm on it. I overheard the breaking news on the staffroom TV, and I'm on my way already.>
<What about your exams?> Clark asked, though relief echoed in his voice.
<All done, Dad. I finished before lunch and we have a free study afternoon before tomorrow's test. Don't worry. I don't break Mom's embargo unless it's absoloutely necessary.> Matt chuckled, before becoming serious again. < I might have in this case, though. The rescuers seem to be having difficutly getting to the disaster site.>
<That's what I'm hearing too.> Clark tried to shrug off the tiniest surge of envy. He did count his blessings, he really did, yet Jor-El and Superman could do so much more together. It wasn't to be, not now ... and maybe not ever. He closed his eyes, smothering a sigh. <Matt, I'll let you go. Do your best, son, though I know you will.>
<Yeah, sure ...>
A note of uncertainty had crept into Matt's tone, probably undetected by anyone other than his father ... or perhaps his mother, though she hadn't yet mastered the telepathic link to her son.
< Son, don't worry. You've tackled every disaster you've come up against, and I can't see how this one will be any different.>
<I've never helped out at an avalanche before ... and this one sounds huge.> The link went silent for a second or two. <Dad, can I check in with you when I arrive? Just in case ...>
<Sure, Matt. I'm here whenever you need me.> Clark tried to make his voice sound warm and comforting. <There will be rescue workers on the spot who can advise you, though. You'd best talk to them before you get down to work. They'll keep you on the right track.>
<I guess. But I like having you as back up ...>
<Backup that's half a world away!> Clark snorted.
<Dad, don't! I can talk to you, and you know me.>
Clark was immediately contrite. Matt wasn't to blame for the loss of his powers: the man who was responsible for that was long dead. Besides, playing the blame game didn't do anyone any good ... neither did wallowing ... and he'd upset his son.
<Dad? Are you still there?> Matt asked before Clark could answer.
<Always, Matt ... and I'm sorry for being crabby ...>
<You weren't ...>
<Yes, I was. Just because I'm an adult, doesn't make me always right.> Clark cut in with a disparaging laugh. <I let envy get the better of me for a minute there. That's wrong. I just wish I could be there with you.>
<Dad, you are. That's what's so great about our link. You are always there when I need you.> Matt mentally sighed as he changed his focus back to the work inhand. <The other people you spoke about ... the rescuers ... they're strangers.> There was a slightly longer pause. <I'm not so good with strangers ... and I don't speak foreign languages the way you do.>
Clark was reminded that his son was only a teenager ... a very special teenager, but one who had taken on a huge role. Like every other adolescent he occasionally needed a hug, albeit a mental one. A sense of shame for his green-eyed thoughts swept through Clark mixed with an overwhelming love for his son.
<Matt, you are an amazing person,> Clark said with pride. <Go on, son. Give it your best shot. Whatever you do, that will be enough.> He borrowed one of Lois' favorite sayings from the past. <If you do need any help, just call me. I will be here for you whenever and however you want ... always.>
<Thanks, Dad.> Matt replied quietly, before cutting to the chase. <I'd better get a move on, or there won't be any work left for me to do.>
<Right, son. Take care.>
Clark shut down the connection, but he'd heard the smile come through Matt's last words and felt relieved. Jor-El would be fine.
His eyes switched back to his screen and the reply forum where posts were still coming in. Quickly, he browsed through them, but there was still nothing that appeared useful. Some posters were genuinely trying to help, but those others ... What kind of people got their kicks from claiming a connection to a man who would kill so indiscriminately?
Perhaps he was obsessing; Lois and Martha often used to accuse him of that ... perhaps he needed a short break. Time to clear his mind and start afresh later.
He'd promised to help his son, so perhaps he should check out what was happening on the ground in Switzerland. He quickly changed screens to search for information on the weather and terrain in the region which might help him understand the problems the rescuers were facing and assist Matt, if he needed advice.
*****
The studio doors had opened and people had begun filing through. Close to the front of the line, Thomas carefully, and with some trepidation, studied the protocol for allowing the audience inside. The staff seemed to be checking out purses and asking some of the men to empty out their pockets, but other than that there wasn't much security.
OK, even if he was picked out, there wasn't anything in his pockets that would interest the studio personnel ... just a packet of tissues, an old wallet, some loose change and a door key. Not his door key, but they weren't to know that, and it had seemed a plausible thing to have.
He was thankful they weren't actually frisking people down, because he couldn't be totally sure that the bodybelt he'd stiched the explosives and the trigger into would go undected under his clothes. Sure, he was wearing a heavy coat and a sweater over his shirt and tie, and he'd managed to sew some padding over the pouches of explosives which might have fooled all but the most stringent of searches, but for the sake of his nerves he was very glad security wasn't going that far.
Patting his waist and nervously touching his black funeral tie for luck, he moved forward in line. Sweat gathered under the thick belt as he was called to step up to the counter. He couldn't fail now! With what he hoped was a friendly grin to the young man, he produced his ticket, his knees threatening to give way as it was checked over.
"Mr Wilson, welcome to the Stern Studios." The assistant looked up at him, asking him a question. "Do you happen to have any ID?"
The ticket clerk wasn't sticking to the script. He hadn't even mentioned the ticket was for two and Thomas was alone. The excuse had been on the tip of his tongue. Thomas swallowed hard. "Huh?"
"ID, sir?" the assistant repeated.
"Oh, I'm not sure," Thomas replied, steadying his nerves as he fished the wallet from his pocket. "I don't drive anymore ... but I might have something." He rummaged through the few contents of the wallet. "Would a library card do? It's a bit old, but still in use ..."
The assistant took the proferred card and gave it a quick scan before returning it. "That's fine, Mr Wilson. If you'd just step over to my colleague and show him the contents of your pockets." The clerk gestured to the two guards standing behind a table at the foot of the stairs and closed his preamble with a very bland. "Enjoy the show."
"I always do," Thomas answered, staying in role.
Seconds later, having passed the security check, he was climbing those stairs along with some other members of the audience. It had been easier than he'd believed. Nothing was going to stop him ... though he still had some small adjustments to make, like fishing the wires from under the belt, but he had time. He hadn't been practising his slight-of-hand just for stealing, and if he had any difficulty, he'd just ask to go to the washroom
*****
At the snack station above The Daily Planet newsroom, Clark poured himself a cup of black coffee. Normally, he'd have real cream, with at least two sugars, but this afternoon he felt he needed the extra kick from a strong cup of java. He hadn't eaten lunch, though he had grabbed one of Lois' chocolate bars from her desk drawer. Without the full range of superpowers, Clark had found that he needed to eat to keep his mind alert, which wasn't too much of a hardship when compared with some of the other problems he'd encountered since his memory returned. Besides, being normal wasn't really a problem, as he continually assured his family; he actually enjoyed eating. Today he'd been too preoccupied to stop for lunch.
He lowered his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb, trying to rid himself of the vague headache, probably due to the amount of time he'd spent in front of his monitor, that hovered behind his eyes. But he couldn't give up now.
At least he was satisfied with the current facts he'd been able to collect on the disaster in Switzerland, plus he'd prompted his computer to flag any pertinent updates. If Matt called him, he'd be ready to support, advise or comfort the young superhero.
Meanwhile, he had to continue researching Timmon's background. Somewhere there had to be a clue that could lead Clark to the bomber's next target.
He was almost back at his desk when he heard his telephone ringing and he quickened up his step, sloshing some of the hot liquid on his hand, yet hardly noticing. Setting the mug down, he lifted the phone.
"Clark Kent, Daily Planet!"
"Hi, Dad!" Came the young voice over the line. "You'll never guess where I am!"
"Princess Tory!" Clark sat down, his spirits brightening at this unexpected call from his daughter. "Shouldn't you be in school?" he added a little more seriously, assuming his parental hat.
"Most days. But today is special -- Mom's on TV!" Vicky enthused, rushing on excitedly. "Grandma Martha got tickets for us ... but it's OK. She asked permission from the principal, and Mrs Perez said it wasn't just an entertainment show, it was educational ... and I deserved a break after what happened before. Don't be a spoilsport, Dad. Semester's almost
finished ..."
"I guess that's true," Clark replied, mulling over the fact that his younger daughter was the one child most likely to follow in her parents' footsteps, and goodness knows what form the media would take when Vicky was grown. "Is Grandma there, Tory?"
"He wants to talk to you, Gran." Clark heard Vicky say, seconds before his mother's voice took over.
"Clark? You're not angry at Vicky's afternoon off school ... are you?" Martha sounded somewhat unsure. "I didn't think it was wrong, and even Mrs Perez was encouraging ..."
"No, Mom!" Clark cut in quickly. "I'm just surprised you didn't say anything ..."
"I didn't say anything because it was a last minute idea. We were talking the other day about Lois' TV debute, and Vicky mentioned that she'd love to see her mother being filmed live. It just came to me that it would be a nice treat for the girls, but I didn't know if I was too late to get tickets," Martha explained, her words tumbling one over the other. "To tell the truth, I cheated and asked Jimmy if he knew anyone at Stern Studios ... But I didn't want to say anything to anyone else in case he couldn't swing it for us, because the girls would be disappointed. I only got the tickets yesterday. And we wanted to surprise Lois, too."
"Mom! Mom, slow down. I'm not upset." Clark's free hand patted the air metaphorically, as he reassured his mother. "I wanted to be there for Lois, but things are heating up with our investigation into the bomber. We're not there yet, but getting close. I really couldn't get away, so she'll appreciate your support."
"That's what we thought."
Clark could feel his mother's smile, but he couldn't help but wonder who was included in the 'we'. "Is Sara with you?"
"I'm afraid not," Martha sighed. "She had some tests this afternoon at school. But she's such a sweetheart, she didn't want Vicky to miss out. Jimmy got us three tickets, so Jonathan took Sara's place." There were sounds of movement in the background. "We're about to go inside, Clark. It's exciting. I'm looking forward to seeing Lois giving the opposition a piece of her mind!"
"Yeah, she'll knock them dead!" Clark agreed with a grin. "Mom, could you put Vicky on again for a few minutes?"
"Sure, honey. Our little reporter is people watching. She doesn't miss a thing," Martha said, laughing, but, clearly, proud of her grandaughter's inquisitive mind.
"Yes. She's her mother all over again."
"Vicky, your dad wants to speak to you." Martha's muffled call came down the line. "Bye, Clark. Good luck with the investigation."
"Thanks, Mom. I'll need it ..."
"Hi, Dad. What's up?" Vicky's question interrupted Clark's words.
"Nothing much," Clark said, his mood lightening at his daughter's quicksilver disposition. "Grandma Martha went to a lot of trouble to get these tickes, so be good."
"I'm always good," Vicky protested.
"Oh yeah! This is Vicky Kent I'm talking to?"
Vicky giggled, when, suddenly, a raucous cry emanated from the phone, making Clark wince. "What was that?" he asked, shaking his head, while holding the receiver a little way from his ear.
"You heard that?" Vicky sounded amazed. "It's just an old couple up front who've lost their tickets. They're fighting."
Clark could just make out a woman's shrill tirade and a quieter, grovelling male voice answering.
"Oh, she's such a witch!" Vicky expressed her opinion to her father.
"Victoria, we don't call adults names," Clark scolded, yet, judging from the disembodied voice, he was inclined to agree with his daughter.
"Well, Dad, she is. She's telling her poor husband that he's always forgetting or losing stuff." Vicky gave a running commentary. "Now that's just silly. If she knew that, why did she give him the tickets in the first place?"
"I have no idea, Tory," he answered, impressed by Vicky's logic. "I don't know anything about them, but married couples often do strange things."
"The man says he had the tickets earlier and he didn't forget them or lose them," Vicky continued relating the strangers' argument. "He says he thinks they were stolen ... some weird guy stole them in the toilet ... but she says that's stupid, because a thief wouldn't be interested in tickets for a show ... he'd have stolen his wallet, and he's still got that!"
Clark stifled a laugh at his precocious daughter's voice-over, but much as though he enjoyed talking to her, he had work to do. "Tory, I'm sure that's all very colorful, but I have to go."
"Sure, Dad. Me too. Grandpa Jon is at the ticket counter. But just in case you're interested ... the old couple have just been thrown out, and, would you believe, she's still shouting at him, and the husband is telling her the thief gave him his wallet back!" Vicky said with reproach. "Doesn't seem like much of a thief, if you ask me."
"Sure doesn't," Clark answered, distractedly, already entering yet another search for Thomas Timmons into his broswer. He wished Jim were here; Jim was still so much more savvy about computers than he was. "Tory, I really have work to do. Bye for now, sweetheart. Enjoy the show and I look forward to hearing all about your visit later."
"I have to turn off my cell anyway. Bye, Dad."
Vicky was gone, but her enthusiasm stayed with Clark as he settled down to resume his search. For some time, he was so engrossed in trawling through copious amounts of data, mostly irrelevent, that he didn't notice Olsen's arrival until Jim was standing next to his desk.
"Hi, CK. How's it going?"
Startled, Clark looked up at Jim with an expression which was half grin, half grimace. "Hi, Jim. You're just the person I'm looking for." He leaned back in his chair, tipping it up on its back legs and waving at his monitor. "I'm trying to do a deep background check for the 'alleged' bomber, but I'm getting snowed under with unrelated info. Who knew there would be so many Thomas Timmons in the state of New Troy!"
"You need some help, buddy?" Jim asked, pulling up a chair.
"I'm glad you asked. I think I need your magic fingers to work a miracle, otherwise this guy is going to blow up another target before I get to first base," Clark said, his shoulders once again adopting a dejected slump.
James' eyebrows rose enquiringly. "Mind if I take a look at what you've got?"
Clark pushed his keyboard toward his friend. "Be my guest."
For some minutes, Jim flashed through different screens, stopping every now and then to read. "Looks like you've managed to find out quite a lot ..."
"Yeah." Clark nodded. "But nothing that tells me where to find him, or gives any clues as to where he'll strike next."
"Don't worry so much, CK. He bombed the nursing home last night, and, according to his MO, his hits are usually further apart. We have time to find him."
Clark allowed his chair to fall to the ground with a thump. "That's just it, Jim. I don't think we have time. Call it a hunch, or anything else you want, but I believe this guy is getting desperate. He must know we're closing in on him."
"Hey, you won't get any arguments for me on hunches. Yours and Lois' were the most reliable in the business," Jim said, continuing to study the computer data.
"Maybe my instincts aren't as good as they once were." Clark's head dropped, so he didn't see Jim edge closer to the screen.
"That's crazy, CK. You-know-who might be a little rusty, but Clark Kent is back up to speed." Jim's voice was encouraging, though it was clear he was preoccupied as he stared at the sketch of Timmons. "I think I've seen this guy before ..."
Clark's head snapped up. "You have?"
"Yeah ..."
"Where?" Clark demanded, agitation edging his voice. "When?"
Jim shook his head. "Not recently, I think." He stretched out a hand to hold Clark off. "Wait a minute, CK. I'm trying to think."
Giving Jim some space, Clark waited, though his long fingers tapped an impatient tattoo on the desk.
"It was here ... at The Planet," James mumbled, his brow furrowed, still studying the face of Timmons.
"He worked here?"
"No. It was outside ... on the sidewalk." At last, Jim glanced sideways at Clark, pointing at the screen. "CK, I'm almost sure that this is the guy who picketed The Planet ... or should I say Lois."
Alarm rose within Clark, threatening to cut of his breath. Yet what could this man have to do with his wife?
"Lois?"
"Yeah. He was trying to get Lois to write a story about his sick wife," Jim explained slowly, as if searching his brain. "It was just after you disappeared. Lois wasn't back at work, but this guy called and showed up day after day. He practically stalked Lois."
"You saw him?"
"I did. Once or twice." Jim's memory of the time was flooding back and his voice grew firmer. "I remember one time Lois came into the office. He was outside, as usual, with his placard. The minute she stepped out of the cab, he rushed at her, but I doubt she noticed him. Perry and I made sure of that. Perry even threatened him with an injunction if he didn't leave Lois alone." Jim shook his head. "After that, I never saw him again, so I have no idea what happened to him and neither did Perry. We all had other more important things on our mind at the time, CK."
A dull flush colored Clark's face. "I'm sorry for putting you through all that."
"Hey, stop apologizing. It wasn't your fault." Jim sympathized, patting Clark's shoulder lightly.
Silence descended as both men relived their very different experiences from four years ago, but, within moments, the present problem intruded into Clark's thoughts again.
"Mary Timmons died of cancer in Metro General Hospital, soon after the time you're talking about," he continued, quietly. "Timmons holds the staff responsible for her death ... mistakenly, it would appear ..."
"And you believe he bombed the hospital out of revenge?"
"Metro General, and every other place or person he thinks has done him wrong." Clark lips tightened in a thin line as he turned the pages of his notepad, letting the younger reporter read his notes.
Jame's gaze flew across Clark's scribbles. "You've managed to link Timmons to all the bombings?"
Clark shrugged. "Almost. The school he went to and hated; the nursing home which was originally the home he grew up in with his aunt ... and hated both. He also worked for Speedy Deliverys, the company involved in the first bombing."
"Don't tell me, he got fired from there?"
"You got it in one." Clark nodded with a slight quirk of his eyebrows. "And I'll bet if you hack into the bank's computer system, we'll find he had issues with them too."
Jim nodded in unison. "I wouldn't take that bet ... but does that mean The Planet and Lois could be on his revenge list?"
"Please, not Lois ... not again."
"Excuse me, Mr Kent. I have a letter for you." Another voice interrupted the two reporters' conversation.
Clark swung around to see one of The Planet's security men standing behind him. His gaze dropped to the white envelope being held out to him. "Who's it from?" he asked, turning it over in his hands, giving it a quick x-ray ... or attempting to.
"A young boy handed it in. He didn't know the guy who gave it to him. Just knew he was told to deliver it at 3.00pm on the dot, and he got a couple of dollars for his trouble."
"Is the boy still downstairs?" Clark twisted to face the guard.
"No, sir," the guy replied. "I asked him to wait ... but by the time I'd got around the desk, he'd run away," he explained apologetically, beginning to back away. "Wait! Don't open it," he cried out, too late, as Clark tore into the envelope. "It could be a bomb."
"Not a bomb," Clark said flatly, displaying the contents of the envelope to Jim and the security man. The card with black edging, a spray of lilies and gilt lettering, which said 'With Deepest Sympathy' sent shivers along his nerves.
The guard cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Mr Kent. I didn't know you'd lost anyone ..."
"I haven't ..."
"Is it signed?" Jim asked.
Checking inside, Clark shook his head, reading the spidery writing aloud. "Sorry for your loss. That's all. No signature," he finished bleakly.
"That's sick, CK!" Jim said, taking the card carefully from his friend's trembling fingers, as if it were toxic. "Who would send you a sympathy card?"
"Timmons?" Clark suggested, almost inaudibly, afraid to process what his gut was telling him. "He is after Lois ..."
Reality slammed into Clark as he recalled his conversation with Vicky from outside the TV studio. 'Some weird guy stole them in the toilet.'
Vicky had overheard the woman say the wallet was still there, but the tickets were gone. What if the thief had only wanted the tickets ... wanted to get in to see the show?
"Lois!" Clark choked out, standing abruptly.
"You think Lois is in danger?" Jim asked, his face paling.
Clark's chair fell over but he didn't stop to pick it up. He was already moving, his earlier sense of horror threatened to paralyse him, but he thrust it aside. Lois needed him, Tory needed him ... and his parents. Matt was in Switzerland. He was the only one who could save them.
"Jim," he called over his shoulder. "Call Peterson and the bomb squad. Tell them to get over to Stern Studios ... Now, right now!"
*****
tbc ...
