Clark emptied the bowl of water and knocked on the cell door. He heard her approaching footsteps, and the door opened.
He held the bowl towards her, knowing that he was never going to be able to express his appreciation of what she had done for him tonight. If he tried, it might sound as if he was only referring to her washing his hair.
But it was so much more than that.
Lois took the bowl.
She didn't seem to know what to say either.
"Goodnight, Lois," he said.
"Goodnight, Clark."
He turned and walked away from her.
Freeing her to return to her world.
A world where he would never be welcome.
Part 12
Lois shut the cell door and locked it. She put the bowl on the drainer and went up to her office.
Clark was unrolling the sleeping bag. He looked different with smooth, straight hair.
It was very dark - almost black.
She could still feel its thick silkiness.
Lois picked up Trask's logbook and found the March 1988 entry - the surgery. She quickly turned the page and read the entries from the following days.
Among the expected vitriol, she found a passing comment that the alien had recovered enough to 'require' a discipline session four days later.
However, there was no further reference to the surgery.
Lois closed the book as biting nausea engulfed her.
Reading Trask's record of abuse had been harrowing enough when Clark had been an unknown stranger.
It was so much worse now that she knew him as a person.
A good-hearted and gentle person whose only crime was being different.
Lois knew that some of Trask's 'records' were lies. All she could hope for was that the abuse hadn't been as bad as described in the log. From what she knew of Trask and Moyne, and from what she'd observed when she'd first arrived, that didn't seem likely.
She forced away her too-vivid imaginings and took the logbook to the staffroom to put it in the closet for Shadbolt to read tomorrow. Back in her office, she checked that the camera was set to record the next morning. Ten minutes later, Longford arrived, and Lois locked her office and went down the stairs.
"Ms Lane," Longford said as she entered.
"Longford," she greeted. "How is everything?"
"Good," he replied. "Is there a bagel in the fridge for the alien's breakfast?"
"Yup," Lois said. "And, Longford, I need to attend to some personal business this week. Would it be possible for us to swap shifts on Thursday?"
"I can't on Thursday," he said. "My mother has an appointment."
"Wednesday? Friday?"
"Wednesday is fine."
Lois smiled. "Thanks, Longford. You take over from Shadbolt at two o'clock, and I'll get here as soon as I can."
"What time will that be?"
"I'm not sure," Lois said. "Probably in the evening some time."
"OK," he said.
"Thanks. See you tomorrow."
Lois was pleasantly tired when she arrived at her apartment. Tired enough that she was hopeful she would fall asleep quickly, but not so tired that her body ached.
She pulled off her socks and shoes and examined her injured ankle. It was a little bit puffy, but from the time Clark had nestled it in his large, capable hands, the sum total of her discomfort had been a few minor pangs.
As she prepared for bed, Lois planned the following day.
She intended to be at the travel agents when it opened. She needed to book a seat on the first airplane to Wichita on Wednesday morning and a return flight during the afternoon. She estimated that she would have three hours in Smallville. It was a lot of travelling for such a short time, but she couldn't leave Clark for longer than a day.
After booking her flights, she intended to visit her dad and then go to his home to collect a few things for an idea that had been fermenting for a couple of days.
By then, she hoped it would nearly be time to go to the compound.
Lois slipped between the sheets, and the simple act of closing her eyes crumbled all the dams and allowed thoughts of Clark to flood her mind. Was he asleep? Was he thinking about the day they had shared?
He would be.
He had so little else to occupy his thoughts.
The aborted game of squash, her sprained ankle, sharing their meals, washing his hair...
Lois gave a little sigh as she recalled the feeling of gliding sudsy fingers through his thick, dark hair.
She would never forget the feel of him. Touching him. The joy of restoring another small fragment of what Trask had stolen.
She knew she had to be patient.
She knew she had to give him time.
She knew that if she moved too quickly, it would difficult for Clark to adapt to life outside. The damage from seven years of imprisonment and abuse couldn't be wiped away in a few days.
She didn't know how she was going to get him out.
She didn't even know enough to begin to plan.
Would it be possible to successfully appeal to the higher-ups? Or was she going to have to break him out?
She had been a fugitive for a month after the death of her partner. She had hidden, and stolen, and bartered, and lurked, and haggled, and lied, and skulked until - finally - she had gained her freedom.
And that was in a foreign country where her language skills were no more than adequate.
She could do it again if that was what was required.
It would be best for Clark if those in authority freed him so that he could live like any other regular guy.
But in even alluding to that, she risked a backlash. They could determine that she didn't fully appreciate the dangers inherent in an alien invader. They could attempt to remove her from the operation and stop her contact with Clark. One misplaced question from her could alert them to the possibility of an attempted escape.
There was so much that she didn't know, but she did know that the alternative - that Clark spend the remainder of his life in that room - was unthinkable.
And - once he was out - if he chose to be with her ...
It was a long time later when sleep finally calmed the bustle of her mind.
||_||
~~ Tuesday ~~
The peal of her phone awakened Lois the next morning.
She clambered out of bed as trepidation coursed through the fog of her sleepy mind. Had something happened to Clark? Or was it the nursing home?
"Lois Lane," she said into the phone.
"Ms Lane. It's Shadbolt." Her dad was OK. But was Clark?
"Shadbolt." Lois checked the time - it was a few minutes past six. What had happened? Was Clark all right? "What's up?" she asked, requiring every ounce of her expertise in duplicity to sound unconcerned.
"Is it possible for you to come to the compound?" he said. "Longford is here, and we would both like to speak with you."
He sounded resolute, but not overwrought. "Are you both OK?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Is everything OK in the room?" she asked as a slither of fear crisscrossed her gut.
"Yes," Shadbolt replied. "Are you able to come now? Or should I tell Longford to come back at two o'clock?"
"I'll come now," Lois said.
"Thanks," Shadbolt said. "See you soon."
||_||
As Lois sped to Bessolo Boulevard, her anxiety escalated with each passing mile. What had happened? She knew Shadbolt couldn't give her more details over the phone, but her lack of knowledge felt like an attack of prickly heat spreading through her insides.
She parked the Jeep. At the external door, she took a steadying breath.
Assume nothing.
Give nothing away.
She opened the creaky door and walked casually into the staffroom.
Both men were sitting at the table.
"What's wrong?" Lois asked briskly.
Shadbolt stood from the chair and leant back against the sink. He folded his arms across his chest.
Longford was staring at his tightly clenched hands.
Lois controlled the compulsion to look at the door to the cell. Was Clark OK?
"We have concerns," Shadbolt said.
"Specifically?" Lois said.
"During the night, Longford heard a low pounding noise coming from the cell."
"Pounding?" Lois said, her eyebrows lifting. "He was probably running."
"When we pushed the bagel into the cell, we saw a tennis racquet in there."
Lois's eyelids wanted to slide shut in dismay. She'd forgotten all about the racquets. "That explains the pounding," she said evenly.
"A racquet could be used as a weapon," Shadbolt said.
"Did he threaten you when you put his breakfast in there?"
Longford's head jolted up, and she saw the fear pitted on his face. "No," he admitted. "But you've stopped all exposure to the rods - he's probably close to full strength - and now you've armed him."
Had something else happened? Was she missing something? Lois glanced to Shadbolt, but there was nothing in his expression to bring clarification.
Lois slid into the seat across from Longford and looked at him directly. "You told me that you'd never seen anything from the prisoner to suggest he is dangerous," she said in a tone that she hoped would encourage him to speak openly. "I don't understand what has changed."
"Until now, he *couldn't* attack," Longford said. "He was weak, and underfed, and always recovering from the latest beating."
"And now?"
"And now, an attack *is* possible," he said. "And when I heard the thudding, that's what I thought was happening."
It sounded as if he'd heard an unexpected noise, and his imagination - fuelled by Trask's lies - had done the rest.
His fears were unfounded, but the last thing Lois needed was Longford taking his concerns to Scardino. She leant back in her chair and laced her fingers on the table. "What is your greatest concern, Longford?" she enquired. "Your short-term safety? Or the long-term safety of humankind?"
"Both," he said.
"But?"
"Mostly, I'm concerned about opening the door. And it's not just about me. I don't want either of you getting hurt because you took risks for me."
"What do you suggest?" Lois asked.
Longford faltered under her steady gaze. "I ... I think that regular exposure to the rods sends a message," he said. "A message of strength."
"Assuming someone is listening," Lois muttered dryly. She grappled for a subtle way to realign Longford's perspective. "OK," she said in calm voice. "I've given him food. I've given him water for washing. I've given him a tennis racquet and a jigsaw puzzle to help pass the time. I've stopped the regular torture sessions. Let's be reasonable here. I've done nothing that isn't done in our highest security prisons."
"Those prisoners aren't aliens," Longford said.
That was probably the driving factor here - fear of someone who was different. Fear - not of what he'd done - but what he *could* do. Nothing she said was going to change that. Lois nodded thoughtfully. "Can you give me some time to work out something?"
Longford looked to Shadbolt, and Lois saw a small nod pass between them.
"OK," Shadbolt said. "A day. Two at the most."
She sensed warning in his agreement.
"What about his meals?" Longford asked.
"You don't have to open the door if you have concerns about your safety."
"So, he doesn't get fed?" Shadbolt said.
"I'm sure he'll be all right," Lois said dismissively. "He survived for a long time with only one meal a day."
A heavy silence fell. Longford shuffled uneasily to his feet. "I'm sorry to have caused such a bother," he said.
"If you're worried about something, it's important that you speak up," Shadbolt said.
Longford looked relieved. "I ... ah ... have an appointment. Is it OK if I leave?"
Lois nodded, and Longford returned his empty coffee cup to the sink and left the room.
When the external door had closed, Lois stood from the chair and faced Shadbolt squarely. "OK," she said. "What gives?"
"What do you mean?"
"I told you that when Moyne pushed me into the cell, the alien did nothing to me. You're a smart guy - you must have questions about some of the things you've been told."
"What's your point?" His expression hinted at bemusement, but Lois wasn't buying it.
"You told me that your biggest concern was that you would have to haul my body out of that cell," she said. "I was thrown in there, and I walked out, unharmed except for what Moyne did to me."
Shadbolt's expression didn't waver.
"So why the one-eighty?" Lois demanded. "Why are you suddenly so twitchy again?"
He glanced down. When he looked up again, the phony confusion was gone. "Longford was in a tizzy when I arrived," he said as if that explained everything.
"Just because of a few noises?"
"Longford's concerns needed to be taken seriously." Shadbolt went to the closet and took out Trask's logbook. "While we were waiting for you, I read some of this," he said.
Lois fought down her frustration. He'd been swayed by Trask. *Again*. "And?"
"It makes for compelling reading."
"Compelling?" Lois repeated, struggling to keep her tone from exploding with indignation. "It's supposed to be an official document, not the script of a horror movie."
"Trask believed it."
"Trask was a lunatic."
Shadbolt's left eyebrow edged upwards, and most of his sternness melted away. "I think you could be right about that."
Lois wasn't sure if that were jest or an admission, so she waited for him to continue.
"But nothing changes that you need to find a way to placate Longford," Shadbolt said. "You do *not* need him going to Scardino."
OK, that sounded more hopeful. "Any ideas?"
"I have one idea," Shadbolt said. "But I don't think you'll like it."
He was going to demand that Clark be exposed to the rods. Lois smoothed her face to a mask. "Go on."
"A pet door would enable us to get food into the cell without having to open the door."
Lois pushed back her hair and secured it behind her ear. "I have been thinking along the same lines," she said. "But I'd thought of a chute."
"How would you handle the installation?"
"I'd have to use the rods."
Shadbolt nodded. "That's the bit I expected you to resist."
Lois's mind was frantically rummaging through ideas. "My first responsibility is the safety of the humans working here," she said, deliberately reining in her tone. "If the installation of a pet door means Longford can do his job, it's worth considering. Scardino isn't going to be happy if Longford quits."
"Simply using the rods isn't enough," Shadbolt said. "You would need to keep the prisoner out of sight."
"Yeah."
"How would you do that?"
"I thought I'd watch him from my office, and when he goes behind the wall, I'll go in with a rod. He'll collapse there, so I wouldn't have to move him. Someone working on the door wouldn't be able to see into that part of the cell."
"You'd have to stand there with a rod while he's working on the door," Shadbolt said. "How would you explain that?"
Lois let a tiny smile unfurl. "I've thought about that," she said. "I'll go in and pretend to be another worker - probably a painter would be easiest. I'll paint the wall, keep the rod close, and watch the prisoner."
"Are you absolutely sure that the rods incapacitate the alien?"
"Yes," Lois stated firmly.
"Sure enough that you're willing to risk your life? And the life of a civilian?"
"I don't think there's a risk," Lois said. "Not with the rods." She expected him to remind her that the presence of the rods hadn't saved Deller and Bortolotto.
He didn't. "Do you want me here? When the pet door goes in?"
No, she didn't. "I'll make the calls," Lois said. "It can't be tomorrow - Longford and I are swapping shifts."
"So you'll try to get someone to come today?"
"Guess so."
"Get them to come this morning."
"I'll try," Lois lied.
Shadbolt rubbed his hand across his newly-shaven chin. "There's something that doesn't add up."
If he'd been reading Trask's logbook, there was probably a lot that didn't add up. "What?"
"Why didn't he escape when the door was open?"
"I don't -"
But then she did.
The surgery.
The little lump just above Clark's collarbone.
His careful avoidance of the doorway.
She couldn't process the ramifications now.
With a hand that shook just a little, Lois reached for the logbook. Shadbolt gave it to her. She found the March 1988 entry and quickly turned the page to look at the preceding days.
February 29, 1988
The cage was fortified today. During the installation, Moyne guarded the unconscious alien in my office. Later, we dragged him back into the cage.
Tomorrow , I will ensure that he never leaves again.
Lois offered the open book to Shadbolt.
He took it, read it, and looked up.
"The surgery was the next day," Lois said.
Shadbolt turned the page and read again. "Do you know what the surgery entailed?" he asked.
In her mind, she had to keep Clark distanced from this conversation. She had to pretend that they were discussing an unidentified stranger. "I think so."
"What?"
"I think Trask put something around the doorway to act as a trigger. The next day, he and Moyne implanted something into the alien which, if activated, will kill him."
"A piece of the Achilles?"
"Probably. But if that is what Trask used, it means he knew the Achilles is deadly to the prisoner." Lois leant forward and pointed to the entry. "Trask says he strengthened his position over the enemy. He already had him locked in a cage. He already had the rods. This had to be something more."
Shadbolt's eyes leapt from the book to Lois. "Did the alien tell you this?"
"No," Lois said. "Trask left binoculars in his office. I noticed there is a lump just below the alien's shoulder. *One* shoulder only. It explains why he didn't escape even though the door was open." She paused to give emphasis to her next statement. "I think Trask was the sort of person who covered every possible eventuality. As he says, he ensured that the alien can *never* leave the cell."
Shadbolt slammed the book shut as his face contorted with carved misgiving.
Lois waited.
"If the rods really do totally incapacitate the prisoner ..."
Lois continued to wait.
"What do you think happened to Deller and Bortolotto?" Shadbolt asked bleakly.
"I don't have any evidence for what I believe."
"Do you think the alien did it?"
"No," Lois said. "I don't."
Shadbolt pulled his hand through his hair and muttered an expletive. "Why kill them?" he demanded.
"Perhaps they were causing problems. Perhaps they were threatening to draw attention to what was going on here. Perhaps it was felt that they needed to be silenced."
Shadbolt shook his head vehemently. "That wasn't being *silenced*," he said. "That was depravation." He swallowed, and his throat jagged roughly. "Do you think there is an alien invasion coming?"
"I don't know," Lois said. "But if Trask was right, and the alien believed that armies were coming, don't you think that by now he'd be totally demoralised? Don't you think he'd have realised that he's on his own?"
Shadbolt slammed the logbook onto the table. "I knew Trask was driven," he said, as if speaking to himself. "I knew he was obsessive. I knew Moyne enjoyed the discipline session a little too much. But I was sickened by the state of the bodies ... I didn't want to believe that a fellow human being had done it."
"You've been an agent for a long time," Lois said gently. "You must have seen some awful things."
"I have," Shadbolt agreed. "But there was something intrinsically evil about those murders. Something inhuman."
Lois figured she'd said enough. It was best to now leave Shadbolt to draw his own conclusions. She took a step towards the door. "I have to go," she said. "See you later. I'll call you if I can get someone to do the pet door this morning."
"Are you going to check with Scardino first? Get him to OK the finances?"
"No," Lois said. "This is my operation. I make the decisions."
Shadbolt nodded distractedly. "OK. Bye."
Lois went through the external door. Once outside, she released a huge breath.
What was that with Shadbolt? Was it possible that he was finally questioning some of the things he had accepted as truth?
Or was it an act in the hope that she would disclose information about her contact with the prisoner?
Had Scardino asked Shadbolt to watch her and report back to him?
Had someone higher than Scardino - Moyne's *friend* - talked with Shadbolt?
Why had he suggested the pet door? It fit perfectly with Lois's partly developed plans for concealing the gradual changes that she intended to bring to Clark's life, but what was Shadbolt's motivation?
Was he genuinely worried about Longford?
Was he concerned that if they lost another agent, the operation would be closed down, and he would no longer be able to do whatever was so important every afternoon?
Lois's mind was churning as she walked to her Jeep.
She had to be careful. She couldn't trust anyone. She had to work alone.
She smiled suddenly as she started the motor.
No, she wasn't alone.
She had Clark.
||_||
Lois was waiting outside the door of the travel agents when they opened. Half an hour later, she had booked an early morning flight to Wichita and a late-afternoon return for the next day.
Back in her apartment, she searched through the phone directory, and called a company that supplied and fitted pet doors. They had what she needed - a one-way pet door for a small dog - at a price she thought was reasonable ... and could come next week.
Lois thanked them and called the next number in the directory.
Three calls later, she found someone who was willing to come late that afternoon. She gave the address, thanked him profusely, and hung up.
She hurried to her Jeep and drove to the nursing home. In her dad's room, he was dressed and sitting in his wheelchair. She talked, and he listened - but all the time, Lois was wondering how it would affect him if she suddenly had to leave. Not just leave the nursing home but also leave Metropolis. Perhaps be out of contact. Again.
She could try to give him some sort of explanation. But not today. The future was too hazy. She didn't know enough yet.
Lois told him about the game of squash, not getting too conscience-stricken when she knew it sounded as if the game had gone longer than a few hits.
"Then I twisted my ankle pretty badly, Dad," she said. "But that nice man looked after it."
Her dad lifted his arm and swung it for a few inches before letting it drop onto his tray.
"Ah, Dad," Lois said with regret. "I forgot about the paper airplane. I'm sorry. I'll ask him to make one for you."
Her dad's hand rose from the tray and moved to the centre of his chest.
Was he in pain?
Lois scrutinised his inert face as alarm swarmed through her mind. "What is it, Dad?"
He slowly curled his fingers to a clenched fist and patted his sweatshirt.
"I don't understand," Lois said regretfully. "I'm sorry."
His forefinger straightened, and he pointed at her.
"You love me?" Lois asked uncertainly. She knew he did, but she wasn't sure that that was what he was trying to say.
He returned his hand to the tray.
This must be so frustrating for him.
She would have to guess.
"If you're saying that you love me, Dad, I know that," Lois said with a smile. "I've always known how much you love me."
His eyes blinked twice.
Did that mean 'no'?
It couldn't mean that he didn't love her. She would never believe that. It must mean that she had interpreted wrongly.
Lois hugged him. "I'm sorry, Dad," she said. "I'll think about it and try to work it out. OK?"
He blinked once.
She covered a few more subjects - the awesomeness of Uncle Mike's food and how nice apple conditioner smelled - encouraged by the fact that her dad appeared to be listening.
Then Lois rose from her seat next to his wheelchair. She put the doggy stress ball in his hand and kissed his cheek. "I can't come tomorrow, Dad," she said. "But I'll be back to see you on Thursday."
By Thursday, she might know something about Clark's parents. She might know something about what had happened to them. The future might be just a little clearer.
After leaving her dad, Lois drove to his home and let herself in. His cleaner had kept it from becoming dusty, but nothing could expel the feeling of abandoned emptiness.
She went into his garage and passed his late-model Buick. It probably hadn't been driven in months. Decisions were going to have to be made about what happened to his house ... his car ... his finances ... his share of the medical practice where he had worked.
At the back of the garage, Lois rustled through her dad's tools. She collected a hammer and a bag of small nails. She searched through his stockpile and found a flat piece of wood about the size of a broadsheet newspaper and a couple of lengths of half-inch-square moulded lumber. She added a small saw and carted it all to her Jeep.
It was midday.
She wanted to go to Clark.
But she couldn't appear too eager. She didn't want it getting back to Scardino that she couldn't keep away from the compound.
She drove to a strip of stores and meandered along the sidewalk in the soft fall sunlight. She walked into most of the stores - even those that held very little interest. Every article she looked at evoked thoughts of Clark. Would he like this? Did he miss that? Had he used those?
Did he have a favourite colour?
What made him smile?
Did he buy only what he needed? Or did he occasionally splurge on extravagances?
Lois regularly checked her watch - and grew increasingly frustrated at time's torpid pace.
Finally, it was one-thirty, and she decided she had waited long enough.
She went into a cafe and bought two shaved ham and havarti cheese herbed rolls. She added two tubs of strawberry yoghurt topped with granola and a bottle of fresh orange juice.
Then, with mounting excitement, she drove to the compound. So much had happened since she'd left him yesterday. How much of it could she discuss with him?
All of it, she realised.
All of it.
She could trust him.
There was no need for secrets between them.
She didn't want secrets.
Except for one thing.
She wouldn't tell him outright that she intended to get him out of the cell.
If he asked, she wouldn't lie. But if he didn't ask, she wouldn't tell him.
If she told him, he would worry. He would worry about how they were going to overcome whatever Trask and Moyne had implanted in his shoulder. He would worry about her. He would worry about his parents.
She would tell him about the pet door.
And Shadbolt's seeming change of heart. Clark might have some insights on Shadbolt. Was he overly cruel? Or had he just done what Trask had ordered?
She would tell Clark about her trip to Kansas tomorrow. How would he feel about that? Excited? Apprehensive? Hopeful?
As Lois parked her Jeep, she realised how wonderful it felt to have someone she could confide in again. To have someone to work with. To not feel so alone.
She let herself into the compound and went into the staffroom. Shadbolt looked up from where he was reading Trask's logbook. "No luck with the pet door?"
"No," Lois said. "Is everything OK here?"
"Yup. I didn't open the door. Did you bring him lunch?"
She nodded. "I'll get the rod."
Lois ran up to her office. She deposited her bag on the floor and turned towards the window.
Clark was there, leaning against the back wall, his hands deep in the pockets of his shorts, his hair falling straight and neat past his shoulders.
He was waiting.
Waiting for her.
"Hold on, Clark," she whispered. "I'll be there soon."
Once she was downstairs again, Lois held the rod while Shadbolt deposited the ham and cheese roll into the cell.
"Thanks," she said as he pulled the door shut.
"What's going to happen with his evening meal?" Shadbolt asked.
"The pet door will be in by then," Lois said.
"They're coming this afternoon?" he asked with surprise.
"Yeah."
"What time?"
"They're going to try for four o'clock."
Shadbolt looked conflicted. "I *can't* stay," he said. "I have to be gone by three."
Lois had relied on that. "That's OK," she said casually as she put the rod in the closet. "There won't be a problem. I have the rods here."
Shadbolt seemed more resistant to the idea than he'd been earlier. "Perhaps you should call Longford and get him to come in."
Lois shook her head. "Longford is already nervous," she said. "We don't need the installer picking up any vibes about this place."
Shadbolt nodded. "Are you sure you'll be OK?"
"I'm positive," Lois said.
"I wasn't expecting that you would do it alone."
"When he said he could come this afternoon, I accepted," Lois said. "It can't happen tomorrow, and Thursday is too long to wait."
"Do you know how long it will take to install?"
"Half an hour."
His worries seemed to disperse a little. "Be careful."
"I will," Lois said, wishing she could open the external door and push Shadbolt through it.
He picked up the logbook and offered it to her. "Thanks for letting me read it," he said.
Lois took it from him. "I'll put it back," she said. "It's not something that should be left lying around - not with civilians coming in. See you Thursday."
"Bye."
Lois walked up the stairs to her office, reflecting that it might be a good thing that she wouldn't see Shadbolt for a couple of days. If he were reporting back to someone, distance was a good thing.
She tossed the book into one of Trask's boxes and looked into the cell. Clark was combing his hair. Lois smiled at his efforts. He ran the comb down the back of his head to the limit of his reach. Then he removed the comb and started again at the top.
Clearly, when he had had a choice, his hair had been kept short.
Once the pet door was installed, a haircut might be possible.
And a shave.
His lunch lay near the door, untouched.
As she watched Clark return the comb to his tin box, Lois listened intently. Waited.
Finally, she heard the creak of the external door, and she looked at the clock. It was 1:51. She would wait until 1:55.
Four minutes. Four long minutes.
And then she could go to Clark.
