Clark was roused from a very contented drowsiness by the distinct sound of his wife’s stomach growling. She lifted her head from his chest and gave him a sheepish smile. “Hmm,” he teased, “It sounds like living on love alone is only for poets. Ace reporters apparently need actual nutrition.” He kissed her on the forehead and eased himself out from under her. Retrieving his boxers from the tangle of sheets at the foot of the bed, he slipped into them and began collecting the rest of his clothes.
“Party pooper,” Lois pouted. She reached for him but he ducked out of the way.
“Uh, uh, uh. You need your sustenance. Supper’s waiting in the kitchen. I’ll have everything hot and the wine poured by the time you’re dressed.”
“All right, be that way,” she conceded. “But only because I need fuel for later.”
Fifteen minutes later, Clark laid his fork down and looked at his wife. “You’re thinking about something,” he said. “I can hear the wheels turning from here.”
Lois looked up from her plate where she’d been absent-mindedly prodding the same piece of chicken paprika for the last three minutes. “Is he real?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“Who?”
“Little David. Did you know him? Did he know you?” Ah, that made sense. Lois had been reading his latest novel earlier that evening and, now that he was no longer distracting her with his romantic attentions her mind had obviously gone back to that world.
Clark leaned back in his seat and let his mind go back to a time and place that he’d rather forget. Of course he’d spent months living with those memories as he wrote the book, and the writing itself was a kind of therapy for him, but Lois’s mention of his fictional character brought back the faces of all the very real children on which Clark’s imaginary boy had been based.
“He’s real…or real enough. His name isn’t David. It’s Abaho. And Jean-Claude. And scores of other boys. Some girls, too, and it’s worse for them.”
“And you?” She reached across the table to give his right hand an encouraging squeeze. “What was your name there?”
“Luc.” He gave it the French pronunciation. “I met them in the rehab center in Kinshasa. I was passing through and I helped the caretakers to drill a well. I didn’t know the kids when they were in the jungle.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t rescue them.” Shame burned his cheeks and choked off his breath, but he looked up at her in spite of it. He needed her…comfort? Absolution? “I didn’t know what I could do without giving myself away. I was afraid.”
She kept hold of his hand as if to keep him from pulling away, to keep him open and listening to her words. “Clark, it’s not your fault,” she said in a kind but firm voice. “You didn’t kidnap those children. You didn’t force-feed them drugs until they were addicted. You didn’t turn them into weapons against their own families.”
“No,” he agreed. He pulled his hand from hers only to run it through his own hair in a gesture of frustration. “But I should have gotten them out. I should get the rest of them out even now.”
“No, Clark. You can’t be everywhere at once, and you can’t single-handedly stop every injustice on earth or rescue every abused child.”
“I know, but I feel like I should be able to.” This time his hand rubbed the back of his neck.
“I know you do.” She reached for him again, and he met her halfway with his left hand even as his right curled into a fist. “But what would Pastor Ruben say to that?” she continued, her thumb stroking the back of his hand. “You must have talked with him about this sort of thing.”
Clark shrugged. “A little. He says I have to remember that, as strong as I am, I’m still only one man. I’m not God.”
“No, you’re not. And you can’t do everything. What you can do is enough.”
Clark opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again without speaking. He could feel the tension leave his shoulders and he uncurled his right hand and brought it up to envelope her hand in both of his. “How do you do that?” he asked, a tone of wonder in his voice.
“Do what?” She smiled.
“Bring everything back into perspective so quickly? I mean, I have talked about that kind of thing with Ruben before, and most of the time I remember it, but sometimes I just get buried under this huge pile of guilt and nothing Ruben’s ever said seems to make sense. But you tell me the exact same thing and I believe you.”
Retrieving her hand and picking up her fork again, Lois looked back at him with a cocky grin. “That’s because deep down you know that I’m always right.”
“Ah, yes. That explains a lot,” he grinned back.
Clark thought that the conversation would move on to other subjects, but Lois wasn’t quite finished yet. As he resumed eating, she took a sip of wine and opened with, “Speaking of what one man can do…”
“Yes?” he said, a bit warily.
“The Planet has an international news section.”
“And…” he prodded, wondering where she could be going with this line of thinking.
“And an expose about child soldiers would fit in very nicely. You could talk about how widespread the problem is, what’s being done about it, what the recruitment laws are and how they’re not being enforced—the same kind of things that you’ve already got in your keynote speech for Friday, but in more detail and to a wider audience.”
“*I* could? That’s a great idea, Lois, but you’re the reporter in this family. I just write novels.”
“Nonsense. You’re a good enough reporter that Perry White offered you a job…”
“That I haven’t accepted yet,” Clark pointed out.
“… and I’m a hard news, city section reporter. You know a lot more about Africa than I do, and you’re much better at the emotional stuff.”
Clark gave her a look that he hoped was noncommittal. He’d been avoiding thinking about Perry White’s job offer or, for that matter, about what he would do next career-wise. The way he’d been living for the past four years was not going to work now that he was married. He just wasn’t sure what would come next. Could he really do what Lois was suggesting? Could he learn to write real news? Did he want to? He liked writing fiction and he thought his books made an impact in the world. Was there a way to do both? Seeing that Lois was waiting for a response, he ventured, “I’ll think about it. After the honeymoon, and after we bring down Luthor.”
“Ugh!” Lois grunted in disgust. “I don’t even want to think about him. We’ve been combing through everything we can find for weeks and we’re still not any closer to hard evidence than when we started. The man’s like Teflon.”
“I know. But if anyone can catch him in the act, it’s Lois Lane, Ace Reporter. He’s bound to make a mistake sooner or later, and when he does you’ll be there to nail him.”
Lois seemed to buck up at the vote of confidence. “You’re right; I will,” she agreed with a determined air. Then her mouth turned up at the corners and she added with a mischievous twinkle, “*after* the honeymoon.”
*****
Friday evening found Clark in the back seat of a Lincoln town car, which was nothing unusual for him, but this time he felt strangely naked, which was odd given that he was dressed to the nines in the same black tuxedo he’d worn to many events before this. He’d done this kind of thing countless times before, but tonight was different, and it felt wrong. He knew exactly what the problem was.
For one thing, he dreaded being Lex Luthor’s guest. He tried to console himself with the possibility of using his super powers to get a good look at Luthor’s private files, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get out of the spotlight long enough to be able to focus on them, even with x-ray vision.
Mostly, though, he’d never—not even once—arrived at a black-tie affair alone. There should be a woman at his side, and not just any woman. He missed his wife and he questioned the wisdom of leaving her at home. He hadn’t wanted to announce their marriage at Lex’s affair, and he was still glad that they wouldn’t be doing that, but he didn’t know how he would make it through the evening without her. One more day, he told himself. Tomorrow night at the Book Awards you can let the world know what a lucky dog Clark Kent is. For tonight, muddle through and let them wonder.
As the car pulled up to the front entrance of the LexTower, he adjusted his white gloves. They were a little over the top, even for evening wear, and he planned to take them off once he was inside, but he didn’t intend to let the hordes of society photographers catch sight of his wedding ring just yet. The rumors would start soon enough; there was no need to help them along. Besides, it was December, so he figured he could get away with wearing gloves, at least while he was still outdoors.
The driver opened his door and Clark stepped out. The photographers leaned in, each of them trying to be the first to spot the lady emerging from the limo. Clark counted silently to himself, wondering how long it would take them to realize that he was alone at this party. The driver closed the door behind him and there was a momentary silence as the crowd gathered its collective wits. Then, in two seconds by Clark’s count, the questions began raining down. He smiled and waved and ignored all of the questions until he was nearly at the LexTower’s front door. Just before he stepped through, he heard one question that he couldn’t resist answering.
“Hey, Clark! Where’s that gorgeous redhead from the White Orchid ball?” Clark turned and looked for the questioner. Brad Curtis from People caught his eye and Clark gave him a smile. Using his thumb to point over his shoulder into the LexTower, he quipped, “I believe she’s already inside…with her husband.”
Lana was, indeed, in the ballroom-turned-dining-room with Pete. The pair caught Clark’s eye as he emerged from the elevator. Lana started toward him, but before she could get to him a tall mocha-skinned beauty approached him with a confident smile and an outstretched hand.
“Mr. Kent, it’s so good to meet you at last. I’m Mrs. Cox, Mr. Luthor’s personal assistant. Please, let me take your coat and show you where you’ll be sitting once dinner is served.” She gestured to a young man who came forward to take Clark’s coat. Before removing his outer wear, Clark pulled his gloves off and tucked them into the deep pockets of his long wool coat. The young man took the proffered coat with a nod and headed off toward some inner recess of the apartment. Clark fought the urge to plunge his left hand into his jacket pocket. He felt certain that the ring on his fourth finger must be shining like a beacon for all to see, but if Mrs. Cox noticed it at all, she gave no sign.
Instead, she showed him to the head table, where the place cards showed that he was seated between Luthor’s date—a young woman whose name Clark didn’t recognize—and one Anita Eskin, whom Mrs. Cox explained was the director of the child development fund which tonight’s dinner would be benefitting. Luthor was seated on the other side of his date—Clark was glad for that buffer, at least. On Anita’s other side was a John Eskin whom Clark assumed was her husband. No one was actually at the table yet, as the guests were all mingling in another room across the hall. A slightly raised dais with a lectern stood behind the head table. After explaining the order of the evening—Mr. Luthor would introduce Ms. Eskin and Clark as soon as the soup was served, then Clark would give his speech—Mrs. Cox led him into the other room and introduced him to Luthor and the Eskins.
***
It was a good thing that Clark could make small talk on autopilot, because his attention wasn’t really on the circle of partygoers who surrounded him, asking polite questions about his latest book and congratulating him on his award nomination. Normally he could tune out the background hum of voices at these kinds of parties just like everyone else did. But tonight he kept overhearing snippets of conversation, all of which centered on Clark Kent’s lack of a female companion and his apparent acquisition of a new piece of jewelry. Surely it must be nearly time for dinner to be served. Not that the rumors would stop circulating over the meal, but at least he would have a little respite while he delivered his speech. On the pretense of refilling his drink, he excused himself from his admirers and ambled slowly in the direction of the bar.
He was halfway there when he felt someone approach him from behind. A sultry alto voice purred in his right ear, “Does your wife know you’re here?”
Clark turned quickly to face the speaker and barely stopped himself from greeting her by her first name. He took a step back and put on his best ‘I acknowledge you but do not return your blatant flirting’ smile. He managed to keep his voice smooth as he answered her. “Of course she does, but she had other plans tonight, Ms…?”
“Grant. Catherine Grant, Daily Planet.”
Clark took the proffered hand and shook it. “It’s good to meet you. I believe we have an appointment tomorrow.”
“So we do. And now I think I know what your assistant meant by ‘an announcement of a delicate nature.’ Although I have to say, it will be a little anticlimactic after your appearance here tonight. I’m surprised you didn’t announce your marriage before this. It’s hardly a secret now.”
“I’m afraid that’s true, Ms. Grant,”
“Cat,” she corrected.
“Cat,” he agreed. “Let’s just say that I didn’t plan my wedding around this dinner, but I would hate to steal Mr. Luthor’s thunder tonight. This evening is about the children and the development fund. I know there are rumors circulating, but I’m not going to answer any questions tonight. Rumors aside, you’ll still have the exclusive story tomorrow.”
“Fair enough, but you know I have to print the same rumors as everyone else.”
“I realize that. But look at it this way, Cat. The rumors in the morning papers will certainly pique your readers’ curiosity, and you will be the only reporter who can promise the whole story in the evening edition.”
“I’m looking forward to hearing it, Mr. Kent.”
“Clark,” he corrected with his most charming smile.
“Clark it is.” Something in her smile made Clark wonder how much she already guessed. He could only hope that she had as much discretion as the Planet’s reputation would suggest. And he was glad that his arrangement to give her the exclusive tomorrow meant that said discretion was also in her own best interest. Better the whole story straight from the horse’s mouth in the evening edition than wild guesses in the morning.
***
Lois was at a bit of a loss. Pete and Lana had stopped by earlier to take Clark to the Jade Inn suite where they were staying. Separate town cars would take the Rosses and Clark to Luthor’s fundraiser from there. Lois had felt a little out of place in her blue jeans and sweatshirt, given that the other three were dressed in eveningwear. Nevertheless, she’d given them all her best smile as she sent her husband on his way with a kiss and an unnecessary straightening of his bow tie. God, what that man did for a tuxedo!
In her former life, she would have handled an idle Friday night by going in to the office and finding something—anything—to do in an often successful attempt to convince herself that her work was more important than her non-existent social life. That option held little appeal on this particular night, mostly because she’d spent the last few days getting her desk cleared so that she and Clark could leave for their honeymoon. It seemed silly to start a new project at this late hour. Her back-up plan from her single days—a stack of Ivory Tower tapes and a carton of chocolate ice cream—didn’t appeal either. She’d finished “Little David” and wasn’t really in the mood to start on another novel. She could go over to her apartment and pack another box or two, but she just didn’t have the motivation. Face it, girl, she finally admitted, your husband is out for one evening and you’re in a funk. So much for Miss Independent!
In the end, she consoled herself with delivery pizza and a TV showing of Carry Grant and Katherine Hepburn in ‘Holiday.’ The movie stars were turning somersaults in the heroine’s childhood nursery when the phone rang. For a moment, Lois wondered who in the world would be calling Caleb Knight’s home telephone, but then she remembered that she’d had her own phone line forwarded to the new house. She quickly swallowed her last sip of cream soda and answered.
“Hello?”
“Lois, it’s Perry.” The southern drawl was gone, replaced with the clipped cadence of Perry’s ‘all business’ voice.
“Perry? I thought you were going to Lex Luthor’s fundraiser.” Lois could hear several voices talking excitedly in the background, but she couldn’t make any of them out. “Where are you? What’s going on?”
“I’m still in Luthor’s penthouse, but all hell’s broke loose here. Luthor, Kent, and the Literacy Fund director have all been kidnapped. Luthor was just starting the introductions when one of the waiters pulled a gun and herded them into Luthor’s office. Apparently there’s some kind of security system that locks down the office. But this time, instead of keeping Luthor safe, it’s keeping him and the other hostages prisoner. Cat’s here with me, of course, but this is no society column puff piece any more. I know you’re supposed to be leaving on Sunday, but I thought you’d want to be here, honeymoon or no.”
Lois was on her feet and slipping her shoes on by the time Perry finished talking. She gave Perry a quick, “I’m on my way,” before she hung the phone up, grabbed her purse and coat, and headed out the door.
***
Lex Luthor was not pleased. When he’d hired this man he’d been very clear in his instructions. The thug—Sky, he called himself in a pathetic allusion to Guys and Dolls—was supposed to bound onto the dais just as Lex introduced Clark Kent and usher both of them at gunpoint into Lex’s private office. There he was to ‘force’ Lex to activate the security program that would cause reinforced steel shielding to cover the doors and windows, thus imprisoning Lex, Kent, and Sky and keeping the other guests—and the police—out. That would make Superman the only possible rescuer when Lex, and presumably Kent as well, began yelling for the hero. Superman would easily break through the steel barriers and, if that green rock resting on Lex’s desk did its job, the hero would be incapacitated. A few well-timed gunshots—one to dispatch the flying do-gooder, one to make Kent look like Sky’s victim, and one to kill Sky in ‘self-defense’—and Lex would walk out of there the lucky survivor of a tragic crime. Of course, Lex would hide the Kryptonite in his secret safe before he let the police in to search the crime scene.
It was a good plan. But now Sky had taken it into his moronic, hormone-driven head to complicate matters by adding a third hostage to the mix. The leggy brunette who ran the child development fund had been too much of a temptation for the gunman to pass up. So now, instead of one fellow hostage to dispose of, Lex had two potential witnesses besides the thug. He took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm. It was only one woman. She could be shot just as easily as Kent. It was a pity to destroy such a beauty, of course, but business was business.
Lex let himself be ushered into his own office, Kent and the woman, Anita Eskin, at his side. Sky closed the door behind them and locked it just in time to stop Nigel—who was making a show of trying to get in—and Kent’s security man—who was no doubt sincere in his efforts—from following them. Kent’s man was shouting and pounding on the door. The woman’s husband was close behind him.
“Quick!” Sky brandished his weapon a little too close to Lex’s nose. “I know you got some sort of armor for this room. Close it now before that hero kicks the door in.”
With a show of reluctance, Lex moved to his desk and reached under it. He found the right button and pushed it. He also found the hidden shelf that held his own weapon. As the steel doors closed with a loud clang, Lex straightened up and fired two shots into Sky’s chest. The thug was dead before he hit the floor.
***
Clark didn’t understand what was happening. He’d let himself be ushered into Luthor’s office with the thought that he’d have time to come up with a plan once he got there. A man who kidnapped celebrities must have a list of demands, and there would be time between his making his demands and whatever reply he’d get from the police. Of course, Clark would reveal himself if necessary to protect the other hostages, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
But, as it happened, he had no time at all. The moment he walked into Luthor’s office he was assaulted by a wave of pain and nausea. He managed to hide it—he hoped—by collapsing into a leather armchair. Hopefully he’d look terrified rather than sick. Before he had time to wonder what had happened to him, the room was full of loud noises that hurt his head—the metallic clanging of steel on steel and the percussive noise of gunshots. He forced himself to look up and take in the scene. The kidnapper lay bleeding and unconscious on the floor, his gun still held in his lifeless hand, and Luthor stood over the man holding a gun of his own.
“That was quick thinking,” a female voice said. It sounded strange—like he was hearing it through water, although he knew he was on dry land. What was happening to him? “Are you all right?” The woman’s voice again. Clark tried to respond, to say that he was fine. He opened his mouth, but the woman wasn’t looking at him. She’d been talking to Luthor. Clark closed his eyes again in a vain attempt to block out some of the pain.
“Quite well, thank you,” Luthor’s oily voice said. He sounded terribly cool, not like a person who’d just killed a man—even if it had been in self-defense.
“Mr. Luthor, it’s going to be okay. You did what you had to do, but it’s over now. Let’s put the gun down and open the doors.” It was the woman’s voice again. How could she be so calm and in control? Clark felt like hell. His head was pounding, his stomach was cramping, and every muscle in his body ached. He must be sick, but how? He hadn’t been sick since his fourth birthday.
“Stay where you are.” Luthor’s voice again. It was a warning.
“It’s okay, Mr. Luthor. You’re in shock. Let me help you.”
“You misunderstand your situation.” Luthor again. “You are still a hostage, Ms. Eskin. I never was. This moron works for me, or he did before his untimely demise. I regret that he pulled you into my plot, my dear, I really do. He was supposed to limit his captives to Mr. Kent and myself. But, what’s done is done.”
“Why? Why would you possibly want to kidnap Clark Kent? You have as much money as he does, and you’re putting your reputation—not to mention your freedom—at risk.” Clark heard the woman’s voice, but he was having a hard time focusing on her meaning. He forced his eyes open and tried to concentrate. Luthor was still behind the desk, and his gun was pointed at the woman. He looked at Clark now and then, but he kept the gun on the woman.
“It’s not so much my gain, Ms. Eskin, as Superman’s loss.” At this, Luthor used his free hand to pick up a rock—green and strangely luminescent—that had been lying on the corner of his desk. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he mused. “Beautiful, and entirely harmless…to us. But, according to my sources, deadly to Superman. He’ll be here any minute, I suppose. In fact, let’s make it easy for him.” Clark struggled to focus, to see what Luthor would do next. Not that Clark would be able to stop him, no matter what he did.
Luthor reached under the desk again, and the steel plating over one window retracted. “There,” Luthor said. “Now we’ll know which way to expect him.” Something in Clark’s cloudy mind gave a little leap of hope. The window being open was good. He just couldn’t remember why. Superman wouldn’t come through it, of course. Superman wasn’t here.
“Now,” Luthor went on, “when the flying Boy Scout comes zooming to the rescue, he’ll get a nasty surprise.” Then, as if to hurry the hero on his way, Luthor yelled at the top of his lungs, “Help! Superman!”
***
Superman didn’t come, of course. Luthor was getting impatient. And Clark was getting worse. He wasn’t very close to the rock—it was on Luthor’s desk and Clark was in a far corner of the room. But if he couldn’t get away from it soon, he was sure he would collapse and Luthor would figure him out. He couldn’t let that happen. Not only would Clark be dead, but Luthor—and soon the whole world—would know that Lois had been married to Superman. His enemies might go after her in revenge, and Clark could not let that happen. He couldn’t hold up much longer. How could he explain Clark Kent passing out without giving away the effect of that rock?
Clark became aware of the voices again. Luthor and Ms. Eskin had been talking—arguing—for a few minutes now. Forcing his foggy brain to concentrate, he looked for a cover for his weakness—and found it. Summoning the last of his strength, he waited for just the right moment, and he leaped. Well, he tried to leap. It was more of a stagger. In any case, it worked. There was a gunshot, a struggle, and that was it. It was over.
*****
By the time Lois’s cab arrived, police cars surrounded LexTower. The driver couldn’t get closer than half a block from the front entrance. Lois handed him the twenty-dollar bill that was already clutched in her hand and got out without waiting for a reply. She made her way along the sidewalk, fighting against the flow of a steady stream of well-dressed Metropolitans who were being ushered out of the building by uniformed officers. The arrival of an ambulance only added to the chaos, but Lois turned it to her advantage by following in the wake of the gurney being pushed through the LexTower’s front doors by two EMTs. Two men in blue ushered the EMTs into a waiting elevator. One of them reached out an arm to stop Lois, but she waved her press pass under his nose and ducked into the elevator before the doors closed.
She turned to the nearest EMT and, still brandishing her press pass, said, “Lois Lane, Daily Planet. Who’s hurt?”
“One dead, one gunshot to the upper torso. Now get behind me, because when those doors open I’ve got to move and you’d better not be in the way when I do.”
“Got it.” With a quick glance at the floor indicator, Lois worked her way around the gurney and the EMTs. They were almost at the penthouse level. As promised, the EMTs pushed through the doors the moment they opened. Lois attempted to follow behind them, but she was stopped by yet another blue-clad arm. This particular arm was attached to one Theresa Callahan, an MPD veteran whom Lois had met on several occasions.
“Sorry, Lois. You’ll have to wait behind the yellow tape just like all the other reporters.”
Lois opened her mouth to argue, but Terry fixed her with a glare that matched her own and she decided that discretion was the better part of valor, at least for the time being. Besides, she already had an inside source—Clark would tell her everything that had happened in that office as soon as they got home.
She scanned the room quickly in search of familiar faces. There was no sign of Superman or Clark. He must still be talking with the police in Luthor’s office. She spotted Cat and Perry at the front of the crowd of people, right up against the yellow tape, and hurried over to them. “What’s the scoop?” she asked as she approached.
Perry brought her up to date quickly. “One gunman, three hostages—Luthor, Kent, and the development fund director, Anita Eskin. They’ve been holed up in Luthor’s private office. Luthor’s and Kent’s security men tried to break in, but the door was blocked with steel plating until just a few minutes ago. We couldn’t hear or see anything, obviously, but then the plating retracted and the door opened from the inside—couldn’t see who opened it—and the police rushed in. Nobody’s come out yet. You came up with the EMTs, so you know as much as I do after that.” As he spoke, Perry nodded in the direction of a dark paneled door, which stood open several feet away from the police barrier. Lois could see a confusion of police and medical personnel milling about, but she couldn’t see any of the civilians, either hostages or anyone who might be the kidnapper. As she watched, Bill Henderson elbowed his way in and she could hear his gruff commands over above the general cacophony of voices as he attempted to bring some order out of the chaos.
Perry added, “Oh, yeah, the two security men—St. John and Ross, I believe—pushed their way in with the cops. Mr. Eskin, too. The police got names and contact information from the civilian guests and sent them home. So the mob you see here,” he indicated the two dozen or so people who crowded the yellow police tape and craned for a view of the office door, “are all reporters. Some from the party like us and some just arrived like you.”
Lois pitched her voice for Perry and Cat’s ears only. “I got some info on the ride up with the EMTs,” she reported. “They said there’s one dead and one gunshot wound to the torso.” She hoped that Clark hadn’t been shot at. It wouldn’t do to have multiple people witness bullets bouncing off his chest, especially since one of those people was Lex Luthor.
Just then a buzz swept through the crowd of reporters as one of the EMTs emerged with a gurney. The body was covered from head to toe with a white sheet—obviously this was the one who hadn’t made it. Several voices erupted at once, all asking the same question: “Who died?”
The police had kept a corridor clear from Luthor’s office to the elevator, and the young man in the white uniform didn’t slow down. He did throw the answer over his shoulder, though. “It’s the kidnapper. Two gunshots to the chest at close range. That’s all I got.”
As the elevator doors opened, the man with the corpse in tow was forced to back up and make room for another two EMTs with an empty gurney. The techs exchanged information in the curt, business-like manner of people who see death on a regular basis.
“Where’s the vic?” asked the older of the new arrivals.
The man pushing the body used his chin to point in the direction of Luthor’s office. “White male, late twenties, single GSW to the upper chest. Rodney’s got him stable for now, but his security guy doesn’t want him transported.”
A frown crossed the newcomer’s brow. “His who?”
“His bodyguard or some such.” By this time the room full of reporters was holding its collective breath, so every one of them heard the young man tell his colleague, “Clark Kent’s been shot.”
