She'd replaced the ruined toothbrush.
And for that, he wanted to thank her.
But how?
Then, he had an idea.
He went to the newspaper and ripped out eight letters from the various headlines.
He went back to the door and arranged the scraps of paper across the bottom of the box - 'THANK YOU'.
He closed the lid and carefully placed it in the bowl, just a few inches from the door.
He moved to the opposite corner of the prison and lay on the concrete.
He wriggled a little, trying to get more comfortable. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come.
For the first time since he'd walked into his mother's kitchen and collapsed with excruciating pain, he felt the timid approach of an almost-forgotten emotion.
Hope.
Part 7
The next time Lois looked up, the prisoner was lying on his side, facing away, presumably asleep.
She took the binoculars and examined his back. It was healing remarkably well. A smear of Neosporin marked a faint arc across his spine - presumably tracking the limit of his reach. Stepping closer to the window, Lois looked down. The tin box was in the bowl next to the door.
She went down the stairs. Longford was writing something - perhaps a letter. He looked up. "I wondered if you were still here," he commented. "I didn't hear you leave."
"Yeah," she said. "Still here."
His expression showed he didn't understand why she would choose to spend her evening here, but he didn't ask further questions.
"I want you to go into the cell," Lois said.
"OK."
"Just inside the door is the bowl. All you have to do is reach in there and get it."
Longford stood and went to the closet.
"Would you consider doing it without the rod?" Lois asked.
"Not a chance." Armed with the Achilles rod, he waited for her to unlock the cell door.
Lois pushed in the key. "I'll get it," she said. "You stay there with the rod."
She saw his quick, reflexive movement towards her, but his hand dropped before making contact. "Ms Lane," he said uneasily. "I really don't think you should do that."
Lois was not going to allow his anxiety to pollute her own perceptions. "He's asleep on the far side of the cell," she said.
She didn't wait for Longford to continue arguing; she pushed the door half open, crouched low, and reached around the corner. Glancing up, she saw the recumbent figure of the prisoner, motionless on the floor. She grasped the bowl with the box in it, pulled them through the door, scrambled to her feet, slammed the door, and quickly locked it.
Lois looked up at Longford, hoping he couldn't hear the pounding of her heart. He turned away and replaced the rod without comment.
"Thanks," Lois said. She took a steadying breath. "See you tomorrow."
"Good night."
She carried the box to her office and put it on the shelf.
As an afterthought, she unclasped the lid and opened it.
Everything she'd expected was in there. But ... there were little scraps of the newspaper littered throughout the items. She picked up one, checked both sides, and realised it had been intentionally ripped out around a letter 'K'.
Lois gathered the rest of the fragments and placed them on her desk with the letters face up. For a few moments, she rearranged them and then, there it was.
Staring right back at her.
THANK YOU
Nausea coursed a bilious path through her stomach.
He *wasn't* an animal - certainly not in one sense.
He could read.
He could write.
He was educated.
He understood the etiquette of expressing gratitude.
He was strong in body. Stronger than he had any right to be considering the way he had been forced to live.
And he was strong in mind. Strong enough that not even the worst of Trask's and Moyne's abuse had managed to turn him into a monster.
But was it all an act? Lois was sure that he had realised there was someone different on the other side of the window. Was he working her? Working to gain her trust? Did he sense weakness in her? Did the things she'd supplied - the food, and the toothpaste, and the soap - depict her as easy quarry?
Lois collapsed into her seat as the nausea continued to eke its way through her stomach.
Was he the victim? Or was he playing the role of a victim with frightening credibility?
How was she going to determine the truth?
Moyne and Shadbolt had been utterly prejudiced by Trask.
Longford admitted he wasn't sure.
Scardino knew almost nothing and cared even less.
The prisoner knew ... but could she trust him?
He didn't owe her anything.
Certainly not his honesty.
Or his trust.
Would he trust her?
Could she trust him?
If this was a ploy to work her over psychologically, he was good. Darned good. The fact that he used his first communication to express his thanks - rather than trying to proclaim his innocence or make a request - stamped him with ...
Something.
Decency.
A level of decency that was hard to disregard.
But ... if this were psychological chess, he was no novice.
Lois picked up another one of Trask's books. This one detailed the alien's planet of origin. Somehow - by extrapolating his knowledge of the spaceship - Trask had managed to write a thesis on an entire society - its values, traditions, culture. Shaking her head in disbelief, she flicked through the pages, stopping only long enough to read a few words to ascertain that the subject hadn't changed.
She put the book on her desk and looked out of the window.
The prisoner still appeared to be asleep.
She heard Moyne arrive at ten o'clock.
The prisoner slept on.
She heard Longford leave at eleven o'clock.
Lois looked at the pile of so-far-unread books that contained Trask's theories. The log he had kept since the prisoner's capture had proven to be grossly unreliable. She stood from her chair and quickly packed all of his books - including the log and the loose sheets - into the boxes.
It was possible that they included useful information, but in getting it, she risked Trask's prejudices poisoning her judgment. He wrote powerfully and with staggering fervour. If she studied his books, it would be difficult to avoid subconsciously attributing some authority to his claims.
Whether she got this right or wrong, she would do it on her own convictions - not on the back of second-hand hokum from the pen of a hate-filled bigot.
She pushed the boxes into the corner - next to the boxes of Trask's personal possessions - and went down the stairs.
Moyne was making himself coffee. "Would you like a drink?" he asked.
"I know you have another key to the cell."
He turned from the coffee machine with a smug smile. "But, Ms Lane, you took my key."
"It wouldn't have been hard to have a copy made."
He spread his arms wide, and his smile turned rank. "Wanna search me?"
Lois turned abruptly to the closet. She hauled out the four rods and marched them out of the staffroom and up the stairs to her office. She loaded them into the corner, checked that the camera was working, locked the closet, and picked up her bag.
After a final glance to the still-sleeping figure in the cell, she exited and locked the door.
Moyne was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, all traces of self-satisfaction wiped from his face. "You can't leave me here with the alien and no access to the rods," he bleated.
"The cell door is locked," Lois said. "So long as it remains locked, you're perfectly safe."
He glowered at her. "You'll pay for this."
Lois brushed past him. "Good night, Moyne."
She got into her car but hesitated before starting the engine. Her strained association with Moyne had just blistered into open hostility. He was not the sort of man to back down gracefully. The only possible outcome was for one of them to leave the operation.
And it wasn't going to be her.
||_||
~~ Thursday ~~
Lois arrived at the compound before six o'clock the next morning. She closed the external door with enough force that Moyne had to hear and then went up to her office without detouring into the staffroom.
The prisoner was jogging around the extremities of his cell. He was moving easily - in fact, with surprising athleticism for a man of his age. As he ran away from her, Lois checked his back and saw that only a few small patches of slight redness remained to bear testament to Moyne's attack.
She watched as he circled. He'd picked up speed - his stride was long and powerful. There was something mesmerising about how he moved. He had a natural grace; he looked fit, looked like he was born to run. He looked primed.
Primed for what?
Lois turned away and opened his tin box. She tore a single piece of paper from a notepad and took a black crayon from her bag. After a lot of consideration, she had decided that she was going to give him the chance to communicate - but not too much. She didn't want a long correspondence. Nor did she want to imply that she would reply.
She didn't want anything that would suggest an affiliation of any sort.
But she did wonder what - if anything - he would write. Would he assert his humanity? Would he accuse Moyne of smearing the toothpaste? Would he request particular foods? Would he decry the injustice of the treatment he had received? Would he ask to speak to her? Would he try to flatter her with compliments about how she'd run the operation so far?
This time, she did add the deodorant to the tin box. She told herself that it was experimental. Would he know what to do with it?
But in her heart, she knew that it wasn't experimental. Either he was human, or he had lived with humans. Deodorant was not going to be outside of his experience.
She took out the two blueberry bagels she had bought on her way to Bessolo Boulevard this morning. She hadn't given him breakfast before. When Trask was alive, the prisoner had been given one - disgusting - meal a day. Yesterday, she had included lunch.
He wouldn't be expecting anything so soon in the day.
A tiny snippet of optimism broke free from the dark cloud that permanently cloaked her disposition. She snuffed it out quickly and turned her attention to reviewing the tape of the night.
Moyne hadn't entered the cell. Nothing of note had happened.
Lois allowed herself a moment of satisfaction.
She waited in her office until she heard Moyne leave and then went down to the staffroom, taking the tin box, the bagel, and the day's edition of the Daily Planet with her.
"Good morning," she said to Shadbolt.
"'Morning."
She filled the bowl with hot water. Without waiting for her to direct him, Shadbolt went to the closet. She heard his squeak of surprise.
"The rods!" he exclaimed. "They're gone."
"I took them," Lois said casually. She moved the bowl from the sink to the table and began to make two cups of coffee from the machine.
Shadbolt closed the closet door and leant against it, his arms folded across his chest. "I am *not* going in there without a rod," he stated firmly.
"OK."
"You shouldn't either."
For a moment, Lois considered tossing back a light comment about not realising that he cared for her safety, but he looked so antagonistic she said nothing. When the coffees were made, she put them on the table and went to her office to get one rod. Back in the staffroom, she offered it to Shadbolt. He took it, but said nothing.
"Here's how we're doing this," Lois said in a tone that didn't leave room for argument. "I'm going to open the door. You're going to stand behind me with the rod and pass me the stuff. I'll put it inside the cell, and when it's done, we shut the door."
Shadbolt wasn't happy - she could see it in his expression.
Lois unlocked the door. "Ready?"
He nodded grimly.
She swung the door away and took half a step forward. As she'd expected, the prisoner was crouched into the far corner, facing away from her.
She took the full bowl from Shadbolt and placed it on the floor of the cell. She added the tin box, then the bagel, and the Daily Planet.
Shadbolt stopped handing her things.
"And the coffee," Lois said, indicating the cup.
"You're giving him coffee?" Shadbolt asked incredulously. "*Hot* coffee?"
"Just give it to me."
He did, and Lois placed the steaming cup next to the tin box.
She glanced up - the prisoner hadn't moved, but there was no tension across his back or shoulders to indicate that he was suffering.
"Come on," Shadbolt said desperately from behind her.
Lois moved out of the cell and closed the door. After she'd locked it, she looked at Shadbolt. "Easily done," she said, trying to sound as if she had had no doubts.
He shook his head. "You have no idea what you are doing," he said with cold foreboding.
"He hasn't done one thing to suggest he is a threat."
"Would you like to see the photos of Deller and Bortolotto?" Shadbolt demanded bitterly.
"That won't be necessary." Lois put out her hand, and he gave her the rod.
"It would give you a reality check that might just save your life."
"Thanks for your help."
Carrying the rod, Lois climbed the stairs and went into her office.
The prisoner had approached the door and was staring - dumbstruck - at the group of things on the floor. He dropped to his knees and picked up the cup of coffee. His hands surrounded the cup; he lifted it and inhaled deeply. His eyes closed, and his pleasure was palpable.
Lois felt something react inside her.
That a simple cup of coffee could bring such a depth of reaction ...
She sat at her desk so he wasn't directly in her line of sight.
In the United States of America, criminals who had committed the most heinous of acts were still granted basic human rights.
The right to dignity.
The right to food.
The right to a speedy trial.
He killed two people, her cautious side reminded.
Did he? her gut challenged.
Did he?
Lois drank her coffee and ate her bagel as, below her, the prisoner did the same. After he had finished, he placed his empty cup near the door with the paper bag that had contained the bagel.
He picked up the tin box and opened it.
Immediately, his head jolted up towards the window. He took out the paper and crayon, closed the lid of the box, and used it for support as he quickly wrote a few words.
Whatever he wanted to say was clearly of great importance to him.
Lois wondered what it could be.
After seven years of enforced silence, what would *she* say first?
She acknowledged grimly that there was every chance that some of her first words would probably not be considered the language of a lady.
What would *he* say?
Below her, the prisoner was washing himself with a speed and purpose that he didn't usually display.
Why?
He was, after all, an individual who had nothing if not eons of time and very little to do.
When he had finished - including applying the deodorant - he packed everything into the box, carefully added the paper and crayon, closed the lid, and positioned it in the bowl next to the door.
He picked up the Daily Planet and went to the corner furthest from the door. He sat down - facing into the corner - and unfolded the paper.
He wanted her to collect the box!
He'd taken himself out of the way so she could collect the box without feeling threatened by him and without him being too close to the rod.
Had he felt *any* pain earlier when they'd kept the rod behind the door?
Even if he had, he was clearly willing to suffer again to convey his message.
Was the distance he so carefully put between them for her? Or him?
Was he aware of how much fear he had engendered?
Suddenly, Lois had to know what he'd written. She picked up a rod and went down to the staffroom. Shadbolt eyed her with surprise. "You're going in again?" he said.
"Just for a second," she replied. She gave him the rod and unlocked the door.
"How can you be sure he's not lying in wait for you?"
"I'm sure."
Shadbolt wasn't sure at all. Lois could feel his apprehension. She opened the door, crouched low, and reached into the cell. She seized the bowl and pulled it towards her body.
Then, she paused.
Looked up.
His head had turned.
Their eyes met.
Lois felt a tug on her shoulder as Shadbolt dragged her backwards. As soon as she was out of the doorway, he pulled the door shut and drove home the lock.
"What on earth were you doing?" he demanded angrily. "Are you *trying* to get yourself killed?"
She removed the key from the lock and looked into his red, agitated face. "Thanks."
"Thanks for what?" he exploded. "What was he doing?"
"Nothing. He just looked at me."
"Looked at you how?"
"No way. Just looked."
"Did he look angry? Threatening?"
She put the bowl on the drainer. "Neither. He didn't look like he was in any pain."
Shadbolt thrust the rod at her. "This is going to end with a funeral," he predicted.
Lois took the rod and went up the stairs, still carrying the tin box.
In her office, she looked through the window.
The prisoner had turned around - he was now backed into the corner. His knees were arched and the newspaper lay across them as he read.
Suddenly, he looked up. Looked directly at the window. Stared at her, his face unreadable.
Lois quickly opened the lid.
The paper was lying on the top of all the other things.
'Are my parents OK? Jonathan and Martha Kent from Smallville, Kansas.'
Lois stared at the note as her breath rasped through her airways.
Eleven words, and they changed everything.
He had a name.
Mr Kent.
Mr Someone Kent.
He had parents. People who were worried about him. People he worried about.
His parents must be old by now. In their seventies, probably older.
Were they aliens? Or humans?
He had a hometown.
Smallville, Kansas.
Wherever that was.
He hadn't mentioned a wife or children. That probably meant he wasn't married.
Had he been living with his parents at the time of his capture?
If so, why?
Were they infirm? Did they need him? Or did he need them?
Had they been captured, too?
Where were they now?
Lois sank into her seat, her eyes glued to the black crayoned words.
He hadn't used his chance to communicate to say anything about himself.
He'd enquired about his parents.
How awful not to know.
She could only imagine the terrible possibilities that must have plagued him during the last seven years.
Lois picked up her bag and locked her office.
She stopped briefly at the staffroom. "I'm going out," she told Shadbolt. She was gone before he had a chance to reply.
||_||
"You *what*?"
"I want to know where his parents are now."
"Ms Lane, it's been seven -"
"I know it's been seven years," she snapped. "And I figure he knows it's been seven years. And every day of those seven years, as well as having to deal with his own problems, he's probably been worried sick about what they were doing to his parents."
Daniel took a breath and tried to claw back some equanimity. "I had no knowledge of anyone else involved in this," he said.
Ms Lane stood abruptly. She'd only been sitting for a minute. "You need to get some knowledge," she said. "Jonathan and Martha Kent from Smallville, Kansas."
"We can't just turn up and start asking questions," Daniel said. "This mission has the highest possible secrecy rating."
"At the very least you can find out if they were captured at the same time as their son."
Son. Daniel swallowed roughly. Son. That word brought a distressing connotation of humanity to a situation that he'd been trying to view only as a matter of national - even international - security. That made it personal. And pressing. "I'll do what I can," he said.
"Will you?"
Daniel paused, debating with himself whether he should speak or not. "There are complications."
"Such as?"
He'd known she was going to ask that. "Mr Moyne has friends in high places."
"What does that have to do with finding out what happened to the prisoner's parents?"
"After you left yesterday, I received a call."
"Go on."
"Your handling of this assignment is being questioned."
She stared at him, shutting down any visible reaction to his statement. "In what way?"
"It's been suggested that you are getting too personally involved."
"You told me that all I had to do was ensure that he stayed in the cell. I've done that."
"Ms Lane ... Lois ... you told me that you wish to remain in Metropolis."
"I do."
"Then my advice is to tread carefully."
"What are you going to do about the prisoner's parents?"
"I'll do whatever I can - but it must be done discreetly."
She nodded. Whether she understood the full implications of what he was saying, Daniel didn't know.
"Jason Trask's funeral is on Monday at 2pm," he said.
"Why wait so long?"
"We had to explore every avenue in trying to find family or friends."
"And?"
"None. No one. Do you know if any of the assistants wish to attend?"
"I haven't asked them."
"If all three wish to be there, I will try to find a suitable substitute to guard the prisoner."
"If they all wish to attend the funeral, I will guard the prisoner."
"There's no need for you to do that," Daniel said quickly. "I can -"
"There are no issues with safety," Ms Lane said. "When exposed to the Achilles rods, the prisoner becomes weak and in great pain. He is no danger in the presence of the rods."
"Ms Lane," he said, hoping she would recognise the warning in his tone.
"I will inform the assistants of the time of the funeral," she said. "You should expect all of them to be there."
Daniel nodded. He didn't want Ms Lane to be alone with the alien, but he realised there was little to be gained from arguing with her.
"Call me as soon as you know something about the Kents," she said. She turned and strode out of his office.
Daniel sighed as the door slammed. She shouldn't be worrying about aliens, or Moyne, or prisoners, or the need for rods.
She should be lazing on a beach somewhere.
Trying to forget.
||_||
The pen poised, Lois waited for inspiration.
What could she say?
He would be waiting for an answer. She'd arrived back in her office twenty minutes ago and while she'd been trying to work out what to write in a note - and continually realising that she was staring at him - he had been reading the newspaper - and continually glancing up towards the window.
'Have made inquiries re parents. Will inform.'
That was short. Formal. It didn't invite extraneous dialogue. But it was enough to let him know that she had received his note and was attempting to act on it.
Should she add a caution that he shouldn't allow his hopes to be raised?
No. Hope was probably in short supply in the cell.
She opened a paper bag containing a ham and tomato sandwich and slipped the note inside. She gathered up a pear, a bottle of water, and one of the rods, and then she went to the staffroom.
When he saw her, Shadbolt stood and held out his hand for the rod.
She unlocked the door, opened it, put the bag, the pear, and the bottle on the concrete. Then she closed the door. It was done in less than five seconds.
Shadbolt placed the rod against the wall and looked at her uncomfortably. "I'm sorry if I hurt your shoulder before," he said. "It wasn't my intention to be rough."
Lois shrugged. "You didn't hurt my shoulder," she said. "And I appreciate what you were trying to do."
He moved to the coffee machine. "Would you like one?"
"Sure. Thanks."
He poured her coffee.
"Was Moyne there when the prisoner was captured?" Lois asked.
"Yes. He and Trask did it."
"Did either of them ever say anything about it?"
"Both were really guarded about giving away any specifics."
"What impression did you get?"
Shadbolt put the coffee in front of her and sat down. "My assumption was that they tracked him down over a long time - probably in the woods or some other equally remote place. I figured they'd set a trap for him - like you would an animal."
"Did Moyne or Trask ever confirm that specifically?"
"No. I asked Moyne once. He asked how I thought they'd caught him, and when I said something about trapping him, he just smiled and wouldn't admit to anything."
"Did they mention any other people?"
"You mean others helping with the capture?"
"No," Lois said. "Others who were with the prisoner."
"Other aliens?"
"Or humans."
"No," Shadbolt said. "They didn't mention anyone else."
"Did they ever refer to the prisoner by name?"
"No. Trask usually referred to him as 'the brute' or 'the animal'."
"Did he have the beard when you first saw him?"
"No."
"Clean-shaven?"
"Stubble."
"Short hair?"
"Yeah, short and neat."
Lois picked up her coffee. "Thanks," she said.
"Ms Lane?"
"Yeah?"
"I've seen this happen before. Bortolotto asked questions similar to the ones you're asking ... Questions that raise the possibility that he is human ... Questions only one step away from believing he's an innocent human who did nothing to deserve getting caught up in this. He's *not* human. And he's *not* harmless."
"I'm just trying to find out who he is," Lois said. "I haven't come to any conclusions yet."
"Trask already found out who he is," Shadbolt said. "He's an alien whose intentions are to conquer the earth and destroy the human race."
Lois nodded tightly and picked up the rod.
She sprinted up the stairs and went to the window. The prisoner was sitting next to the wall, eating his lunch.
There was no sign of the note. Had he read it? How had he responded? Had he tried to gesture something of meaning towards the window?
He wouldn't know that she hadn't seen.
Inexplicably, she felt like she'd missed something important.
But she wasn't sure what.
||_||
That evening, Lois came down to the staffroom at half past nine, planning to retrieve the bowl and tin box - which she'd placed in the cell with the prisoner's evening meal - before Moyne arrived.
To her surprise, Moyne was already in the staffroom, and there was no sign of Longford.
"Where's Longford?"
"He wasn't feeling well, so he called me in early."
Lois wasn't sure she believed him, but it wasn't worth making an issue of it. However, the box would have to stay in the cell for the night. She wasn't going to open the cell door - not with Moyne there.
"Has he attempted to communicate with you yet?" Moyne asked.
Lois turned from where she was washing her cups in the sink. "What do you mean?"
Moyne nodded towards the cell. "Has he attempted to communicate with you yet?"
Lois felt her stomach knot. Could Moyne possibly know about the notes? "How could he communicate?"
"Notes. Hand signals towards the window."
"Why do you ask?"
"Because it's the first sign."
"The first sign of what?"
"The first sign that his killer instincts are coming out of hibernation and that he's chosen his next victim."
The cup clattered loudly in the sink, and Lois grabbed at it. She heard Moyne snigger. "There's not much he can communicate about," she said, trying to sound casual.
"He usually begins with something close to home," Moyne said. "Family. Friends. Anything to make him seem human."
Lois turned quickly and snatched at a tea towel to dry her hands. "What exactly are you trying to say?" she demanded.
"I've been here a long time, Ms Lane," Moyne said in a tone that stopped just short of being patronising. "You've been here less than a week. I'm trying to assist you because I figure it is unlikely that you would recognise the warning signs."
"Warning signs?"
"Deller and Bortolotto. Both tragedies began with what seemed like innocent attempts to communicate. Both ended with mutilated bodies in the morgue."
"Did you witness the attacks?"
"Yes," Moyne said. "I saw it all. They didn't stand a chance."
"And the prisoner did it?"
He laughed - hard, and cold, and slimy. "Who else could have done it?"
Lois dried the cups and replaced them on the shelf above the coffee machine. "Thanks for the warning," she said.
"It's the least I can do," Moyne said. "Just make sure you watch your back."
Lois - almost at the door - spun around to face him. "Is that a threat?"
His insolent grin widened, as if at some secret thought. "Just simple advice," he said. He sighed. "Although people rarely listen."
"I'm leaving now," Lois said. "Don't go into the cell."
"He hasn't had a discipline session for three days," Moyne said. "Anyone who goes in there now is unlikely to come out alive. Another couple of days, and you'll have an uncontrollable monster on your hands."
"Trask wrote in the log that he had *resumed* discipline sessions," Lois said. "That suggests to me that he stopped them for a while."
"He did," Moyne agreed. "But then he realised the foolishness of showing mercy to a crazed animal." He considered her with his black eyes. "The question is whether you will realise it before it's too late."
Lois was done with his hints and insinuation. "Good night, Moyne."
She left the staffroom, stalked by his sniggering laughter.
||_||
~~ Friday ~~
The blackness closed in on her.
Pierced with screams.
They were her screams, Lois realised as wakefulness slowly pushed through the terrifying images.
She turned on the lamp and listened as her tortured breaths echoed loudly around her silent bedroom.
The blackness had separated her from her friend. Her partner. The one person she trusted above all others. The person who had shared all of her secrets. They had worked together. Laughed together. They had trusted each other totally. Trusted each other with their lives. Literally. They had gone into dangerous situations together. Come out of dangerous situations together. Made a pact to stick together. No matter what.
Except for this time.
The last time.
They had gone in together.
And only one of them had come out.
Lois had *left* her partner.
They had promised to *never* leave.
But Lois had.
Death had come slowly.
But she couldn't think about that.
It was too raw. Too agonising.
She looked at the clock. It was ten to four.
Sleep would not be possible again.
Lois tried to push away the horror of that night, but she couldn't merely empty her mind. She had to fill it with something to keep the memories from flooding back.
Mr Kent.
Mr Kent of Smallville, Kansas.
Son of Martha and Jonathan.
A dark shadow of foreboding crept from the darkness and settled on her.
Moyne.
He was planning something.
He was planning it now.
She knew.
Her gut was sure.
Last time, her gut had known.
And Lois had ignored it.
Her friend had died.
Lois had failed her. Badly.
Because she had ignored the warning of her gut.
But this time ...
Lois sprang from the bed, checked her weapon, strapped her gun holster to her ankle, pulled on jeans and a sweater, and grabbed her bag. Five minutes later, she was speeding through the dark streets of Metropolis towards Bessolo Boulevard.
