She'd let go of the boy's neck. She'd risked recapture by waiting the long seconds while his breathing had become re-established.
Then she had run. Run away from Linda. Run away from the terror of death. Run away from the cruelty of those who had threatened to take her life.
But mostly, she had been running away from herself.
She'd escaped them.
She'd begun to believe that she'd escaped herself.
But she hadn't.
And now, she wasn't sure she ever would.
Part 15
Neville Moyne glowered at the frigid face of the woman sheriff. "What?" he gasped.
"Mr Menzies' instructions are that the case be treated on its merits."
"I want bail."
She shook her head. "You are to be held here overnight," she informed him. "Someone from your agency will come and get you tomorrow."
Moyne snorted with disgust. "You've got it wrong, you incompetent woman," he hissed. "When someone from the agency comes tomorrow, it will be to deal with *your* clumsy interference in my assignment."
"I don't think there is any point in questioning him tonight," she said to her two male deputies.
Moyne clenched his fist, wanting to crash it into her dog-ugly holier-than-thou face. "She's got it wrong," he said, turning to the deputies in the hope that one of them would be man enough to overthrow the bungling female who had probably slept her way to the sheriff's badge.
Neither of them made any move to respond.
"Help me here," Moyne pleaded. "What she's doing is going to bring humiliation to your entire office."
They stood - as lifeless as statues.
"You *can't* just throw me into a cell," Moyne exploded.
"Yes, I can," the stupid cow said. "They are my instructions from your superior."
"You are lying," he screamed. "Menzies would *not* say that."
"He did."
Moyne put his hand to his throbbing jaw, remembering again how that bitch, Lane, had attacked him while he'd been lying helpless. "I *demand* to be released," he growled. "I haven't done -"
"Mr Menzies mentioned two murders."
Moyne's mouth dropped, and he tasted blood as it dribbled again from his swollen lip. She would pay. She would suffer as the filthy alien had suffered. He would kill her. He would. He wasn't going to be caged like an animal. He would kill her. He -
His rage erupted, and he lurched towards the sheriff.
Two shots fired.
Neville Moyne dropped.
A few seconds later, he died in a creeping pool of his own blood on the floor of the sheriff's office in Smallville, Kansas.
||_||
The uncontrollable trembling advanced like dark storm clouds. She'd known it was coming and could do nothing but await its arrival and endure its fury.
It began with little quivers and quickly escalated to body-rattling tremors that seemed to start somewhere deep in her chest and radiate out through her muscles.
Lois closed her eyes, hugged her knees tightly against her body, and tried to concentrate on breathing steadily.
Instantly, her mind filled with the bleakness of the cave. Its coldness burrowed through the heat of shuddering muscles to seep into her bones. Its hardness pressed against her body.
The cave.
The cave where she had crawled when the shaking had beset her last time. It had been such a ghastly and inhospitable place, but in hindsight, the need to hide had possibly saved her life. She had heard the distant muffled sounds of their search, but no one had come.
Breathe, she told herself. In. Out.
The shaking would stop.
It would.
In. Out.
She had destroyed everything.
But she couldn't think about that now.
Breathe.
Her brittle shell of pretence had been shattered.
In. Out.
The unforgettable stench of blood seemed to have coated her nostrils.
In. Out.
Nothing else.
Don't think.
Just breathe.
In ... And out.
||_||
"Lois?" Clark leant closer to the bathroom door. "Lois? Are you all right?"
Silence was his only answer.
"Lois?"
She had been in there for twenty minutes. Initially, Clark had left her alone, stripping the bed and hauling the bloodied sheets into the washing machine to soak. He'd stopped at the bathroom door once and asked if she wanted her pyjamas washed, but Lois hadn't replied. He'd gathered a handful of assorted bandages from the first aid box his mom had kept in the little cabinet at the bottom of the stairs and taken the tube of Neosporin from his metal box.
Back at the bathroom door, Clark closed his eyes and concentrated his hearing.
He heard the whispered zephyr of her breaths and a choppy noise that he couldn't identify.
Had she fallen asleep? She had sustained a blow to her head. Could she be unconscious?
"Lois?" Anxiety spiked his question. What should he do? He *couldn't* go in there. But ... "Lois? Lois, honey, could you please just let me know you're all right?"
He listened again, trying to hear above his thumping heart.
He heard a splash of water. "I'm OK."
Clark's head dropped backwards against the wall as relief coursed through him. "The water is probably getting cold," he said, trying to sound calm and reassuring. "I'll get you something to wear."
"Just ... just give m...me a few m...minutes."
"OK. I'm here if you need me."
She didn't reply, but the most distressing of Clark's fears had been dispelled. He went into his childhood bedroom and cautiously opened the closet where Lois had stored her meagre supply of clothes. He found a pair of old sweatpants that he'd never seen her wear. He reached for the small pile of tee shirts but hesitated, remembering the injuries to her chest.
A button-up shirt would be better. A quick perusal of her wardrobe revealed that she had nothing suitable.
Clark crossed the landing into his parents' bedroom. He eyed his mother's clothes, figuring Martha and Lois were about the same size. His fingers rested on a blouse he could clearly remember his mom wearing just days before Trask had so brutally hacked through their lives. It smelled musty.
He had washed all of his own clothes today, but he hadn't gotten to his mom's. He turned to a cotton shirt that he must have worn when he was about fifteen. There was no way it would fit him now, and Clark wasn't sure why he had bothered to wash it.
However, it was clean, sweetly smelling of sunshine, about the right size, dark in colour, and thick enough that it wasn't see-through. And the buttons down the front would ... well, he wasn't exactly sure how Lois was going to deal with her injuries, but at the very least, they needed antiseptic ointment on them.
Clark couldn't even think about the three long gashes without fierce rage rising within him. He had trained himself long ago to be the master of his anger. Someone with his strength had no choice but to remain in control.
But the thought of Moyne ... hurting Lois ... touching her ...
Clark's fist clenched. He unrolled it slowly and stretched out his fingers.
Lois didn't need his anger. She needed his support and understanding.
He heard the bathroom door swing open and hurried onto the landing. Lois was there, wrapped in a towel that was secured under her arms.
Her face was pale and her expression gaunt. Clark tried to form a smile.
She didn't seem to notice as she walked past him and into the bedroom.
Clark paused, unable to decide what he should do now. Should he go in? Should he wait here? "Lois?"
"Uhmm?"
"Can I come in?"
Her low grunt wasn't definitive, but Clark figured that if she had meant 'no', she would have ensured that there could be no misunderstanding. He pressed his fingers against the door and cautiously entered. She didn't look at him. Her face was vacant, and her eyes were fixed on a spot on the far wall. Clark took a step closer. His eyes dropped to the scratches that disappeared into the towel.
Not knowing what else to do, he pulled the Neosporin from his pocket and held it towards Lois.
Slowly, her eyes moved. She looked at him with a vaguely questioning expression, and then her focus slid down his arm to his hand. He waited.
"I need some clothes," Lois said vacantly.
"Your sweatpants are here," Clark said quickly. "And this shirt should fit all right." He laid the shirt on the mattress and put the Neosporin next to it. "Call me when you're done," he said. He went out of the bedroom but didn't shut the door all the way. Once there, he began to pace the limited length of the landing. The sound of his footsteps made it more difficult for him to listen to Lois. And, he hoped, it sent a very clear message that he wasn't peeking.
She had been threatened with rape. He was male.
The two just couldn't go together comfortably.
But when offered choices by Rachel, Lois had chosen to stay here with him.
"Cl -"
He was through the door before she had finished uttering his name. She was dressed now - in her sweatpants and his shirt - her beauty adorned with a never-before-seen fragility that triggered every protective instinct he possessed.
Clark approached her slowly and stood a foot from her. He tried the smile again, hoping it looked passably genuine. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
"OK."
Her voice sounded stagnant - as if all the life and zest had drained away. Had she used the Neosporin? If he asked, would it sound like he had an unhealthy preoccupation with her chest?
They couldn't stand here staring at each other all night. Lois needed to rest. And he couldn't evade her need for medical attention any longer.
"Lois," Clark said as gently as he could. "You have some quite deep scratches on your chest. Did you put ointment on them?"
She shook her head.
"Do you want to do it?"
Her head turned slowly to look at the tube. Clark picked it up and offered it to her. As she reached for it, her body began to sway. He encircled her waist with his hands, steadying her.
"Are you all right?" he asked, peering into her face.
She stared at him and then jolted slightly as if suddenly seeing him. "Clark?"
The dizziness worried him. The detachment worried him. The possibility of more-serious injuries worried him.
He hadn't detected any fear when she'd said his name. Someone had to decide what to do.
Clark pushed the Neosporin into his pocket and crouched low to sweep her into his arms. She didn't resist, so he took her into his parents' room and laid her gently on the bed.
He sat next to her and smiled. "OK," he said, trying to sound as if his heart wasn't thumping fit to burst out of his chest. "It's your turn."
"My turn?"
"Remember when you had to look after my shoulder? Now it's your turn."
"Wh... what happened?"
That was the question he wanted to ask her. "You have some scratches on your chest," he said lightly. "I think they will heal better if a bandage protects them from the shirt."
"OK."
"I am going to undo the top button of the shirt," Clark said. "Then, I'm going to peel it back so I can see the scratches."
"OK."
"I'll put some ointment on them and bandage them."
She nodded.
"I'll just be one moment while I wash my hands." Without waiting for a reply, he hurried into the bathroom. A few seconds later, he was back. He sat on the bed and took a deep breath, trying to steady hands that wanted to tremble. He undid the top button - managing to free it on his second, fumbling attempt.
He tentatively pushed open the material - revealing the lower ends of the three scratches - and sighed with relief. The middle scratch was the longest and extended into her cleavage, but reached no lower than the area many women exposed when wearing an evening gown.
His relief was for her - that Moyne hadn't injured her more intimately.
And there was relief for himself - that he could tend her wounds without invading her privacy too much.
Clark took another deep breath, debating whether he should look into her face and try to reassure her. He decided not to - this needed to be done. If he saw anything negative in her eyes, he wasn't sure he would be able to continue.
The scratches looked clean - he assumed that had happened in the bath. He unscrewed the lid of the tube and put a dab of the ointment on the pad of his forefinger. Very gently, he started at the top of the middle scratch - just down from her throat.
He worked along all three scratches, not rushing, being thorough, yet not dwelling on the task. When it was done, he tore open a large gauze patch and laid it over all three scratches. He taped it in place and refastened the top button of his shirt.
He looked into her face, dreading her reaction. Would he see anger, or fear, or revulsion?
Lois's eyes were closed.
Clark stood and went to the other side of the double bed. He pulled back the covers and then returned to Lois, lifting her and carrying her to the welcoming sheets.
"You sleep," he whispered as he pulled the covers to her shoulder. "I'll look after you."
She swallowed and made a small movement that settled her head further into the pillow.
Clark waited, looking down on her face and wondering exactly what had happened during the time she had been alone with Moyne.
He didn't think an actual rape had been committed. He was sure that Rachel had come to that conclusion, too; otherwise, she would have insisted that Lois go to the hospital.
But Moyne's sickened mind knew no limits when it came to depravity.
"I *will* look after you," Clark vowed. "Whatever happens, he won't hurt you again."
||_||
Clark pulled the single mattress from his bed and positioned it on the landing outside the door to his parents' room. He covered it with a clean sheet and added a pillow and the Winnie the Pooh sleeping bag he had taken from where it had been stored - briefly - in the closet.
He slipped silently into the bedroom to do a final check on Lois; she seemed to be sleeping peacefully. He allowed himself a few moments to stare at her face. Her beauty had always had the power to steal his breath away. She was still a little pale - but the slightly alabaster hue of her skin contrasted strikingly with her dark hair, giving her an almost ethereal quality.
Still, silent, sleeping - she looked vulnerable enough that she could be deflated by the slightest touch. It was an illusion. That oh-so-feminine body was packed with strength, and character, and resourcefulness.
She had faced Moyne - and beaten him.
Clark shook his head in wonder.
Lois was the most amazing person he had ever met - and she had promised to stay with him. She had said that she wanted to be with him.
It was unbelievable.
Yet inside him, the sheer unrelenting force of her conviction had planted seeds of belief. Seeds that were beginning to sprout.
"Goodnight," he whispered. "Goodnight, my love."
He turned off the light and returned to the mattress on the floor at the entrance to her room. He didn't think it was likely that Rachel would release Moyne, but Clark wasn't taking any chances. If anyone was going to get to Lois tonight, they were going to have to get past him.
||_||
The darkness closed in.
It gripped her throat, squeezing mercilessly.
It pressed into her lungs, wringing the air from them.
She fought against it and broke free, hauling in a breath. Her lungs filled, gorging on the oxygen.
Until ...
The dam burst, and a terrorised scream ruptured the air.
||_||
Clark leapt up and was out of the sleeping bag before the final traces of the scream had died away. He dropped onto the vacant side of the double bed and placed his hand on Lois's thrashing body.
"Lois," he soothed. "Lois, it's all right. You're safe now."
The intensity of her struggle waned, and her eyes blinked open. They fixed on him. "Clark?" she gulped.
He brushed the hair from her forehead with a tender touch. "You're safe," he said. "No one else is here. No one can hurt you."
"Where were you?"
He nodded towards the door. "Just out there; not far away."
She gripped his hand with both of hers. "Will you stay?"
"Here?"
Lois closed her eyes. "Yes," she said with a little sigh. "Stay with me."
"Are you sure?"
She didn't reply, and within a minute, her breathing had returned to a steady rhythm. Clark concentrated his hearing and was able to detect the slowing pace of her heart.
He used his other hand to position the spare pillow under his head and lay beside her as wondrous realisation settled around his heart.
Lois had been scared.
She'd screamed.
He had gone to her - without even pausing to question.
Clark looked to where his hand was still enclosed in hers.
She trusted him.
He had been what she needed.
A *man* had threatened her. An *alien* had brought her comfort.
He had been enough.
Clark knew that he wouldn't sleep again tonight.
Lois might need him again. And if she did, he would be here for her.
||_||
~~ Wednesday ~~
Clark rose as the first rays of daylight crept past the curtains and glimmered into the darkened room.
He hadn't recovered fully, but he was able to shower, shave, and dress in less than five minutes. As he hauled the single mattress back onto the bed, he pondered how he was going to provide breakfast for Lois. She had said not to go into the kitchen, so it was probable that the poison was there.
He knew there was still some in the vicinity. His body should have recovered completely by now. The exposure had been short - only a few minutes - but he was still hampered by a dragging weariness that made his limbs feel unnaturally heavy. He was sure he wouldn't be able to fly - probably not even the short distance to Smallville.
And he wasn't willing to leave Lois for the half an hour it would take to drive there.
He decided that there was no choice but to go into the kitchen for a short time. He knew he would be affected if the poison were there. He also knew that every time he lost strength, it diminished his ability to protect Lois.
But she needed food.
After a final peek to check that she was still asleep, Clark went down the stairs. He set a straight path through the living room towards the kitchen and began resolutely. However, before he had reached halfway, the claws of pain had begun to tighten across his chest.
He forced himself to take another step. And another. The claws gripped tighter, and the strength drained from his legs.
Clark turned and retraced his steps. He struggled to climb the two stairs needed to gain more cover from the wall. He slumped against it, hauling in big breaths as he tried to drive away the pain.
He couldn't go into the kitchen.
Lois needed him - and that meant he had to stay away from the poison.
||_||
Lois awoke - breathing hard, muscles clenched.
Her eyes shot open and registered the light.
It was enough to bring a cloak of calm over her panic.
Where was she?
Not her apartment.
Another motel?
Where was Clark?
It was very quiet.
Then, with a sweeping wave of horror, she remembered.
Moyne.
Her stomach heaved.
Moyne.
He'd intruded into the place she had thought would be a haven for her and Clark. He'd intruded and tainted it with his cruelty. By now, he had probably told the sheriff about the alien. He would ruin everything for Clark.
And she, Lois ...
She had wanted to kill him.
Had been determined to kill him, heedless of anything.
Had been crazy with such potent hatred that killing him had seemed right and reasonable.
She had sunk to his level - sunk to a level where there was perverse delight in hurting, in killing, in taking life.
Only one thing had saved her.
Clark.
Clark, who had suffered infinitely more from Moyne than she had.
Clark - who even after every agony, every humiliation, every degradation - had still had the ... the innate goodness to speak out against that which he knew was wrong.
They hadn't corrupted him.
For seven long years, they had tried - but they hadn't corrupted him.
And when the test had come, he had stood firm.
She had given in, but he had stood firm.
She was no better than Moyne. Or Trask. Or Ivica.
She had the capacity to kill. To kill when it wasn't strictly necessary.
She'd known it after almost killing the young guard. She hadn't told anyone about it - not the counsellor, not Clark, certainly not Scardino, no one. When she'd had the sudden flashes of the boy's lifeless face, she had tried to tell herself that it was a solitary incident.
And it had been.
She had seen cruelty. She had witnessed death. But she had acted in violent and uncontrolled retaliation only once. That didn't make her a killer. That made her a person under stress who had snapped.
But now ... now it had happened twice.
The fear that it would happen again constricted her heart. And next time, there might not be a loud noise or a steadying word from Clark. Next time, there might be nothing to save her. Nothing to keep her from taking that final step that turned deranged desire into murder.
Footsteps sounded outside her door, and she hunkered lower in the bed.
The footsteps paused, and Lois hoped he would go away.
He didn't.
He rounded the bed and crouched next to her.
"Lois?" he said.
Unable to resist his voice, her eyes flickered open, and Clark's face came into view.
Clark's face - with those kind brown eyes. He was so good, he could even overlook that she had almost killed.
*He* could overlook it - but she couldn't.
She was evil.
On the inside.
A killer.
"How are you feeling?" Clark asked, his question simmering with quiet concern.
"OK." Her voice was hard. It scythed through the softness of his words like a blade through a flower petal.
"Do you still have a headache?"
"A bit."
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
She was. And, she realised, something smelled good.
"I brought you breakfast," Clark said. "Can you sit up?"
Breakfast? "Did you go into the kitchen?" Lois asked in alarm, scrutinising him for signs of exposure to the poison.
"No," he said, his smile still hovering. "I could only get halfway across the living room." He stood and offered her his hand.
Lois took it and sat up. Clark bundled a couple of spare pillows behind her, and she shimmied into them. She looked to the other side of the bed and saw a flat piece of wooden board containing a small plastic plate laden with two fried eggs.
Clark hurried around the bottom of the bed and picked up the makeshift tray. He brought it to her and lowered it onto her lap.
"The eggs were freshly laid this morning," he said. "I'm sorry about the plate and cutlery."
Lois picked up the diminutively sized knife and fork, and looked at Clark.
"I remembered they were in my tree house," he explained, his smile hovering. "When I was real little, Mom used to let me eat lunch in there sometimes. When I got too big for the plate - it has a little teddy bear painted on it - I put them in a chest in the tree house."
Lois looked again at the meal he had prepared for her. The picture of a small furry paw peeked out from the slightly browned edge of one of the eggs.
Tears gathered, pushing into her eyes.
If only ...
If only she could be the person Clark thought she was. Strong. Kind. In control. Compassionate. Whole. If only she had all the qualities she had been faking since she had walked into his cell and begun playing the role of the Good Samaritan.
"How did you cook the eggs?" she asked - because that pushed aside the tears and self-disgust.
Clark grinned - and nearly put a fatal crack in her determination to remain aloof. She swiftly carved through her egg.
"Dad and I had a little place where we could light a fire during the winter," Clark said. "I made a fire and found an old pan." He smiled again. "I washed the pan well," he added.
Lois concentrated on eating her eggs. They were exactly how she liked them - pulled from the heat in the last few seconds before turning completely solid.
Her mind switched into planning mode.
What were they going to do now? Drive away from Smallville? Wait until Clark had fully recovered physically? Then what?
Once Moyne had told his story, it was feasible that the nation's entire police force would be looking for the alien absconder.
When would it be possible to fly to another country?
"We need to leave here," Lois said.
"We can't," Clark said. "I told Rachel we would stay."
"Moyne will have told them -"
"Don't worry," Clark said softly. "We'll work out something."
How? How were they going to evade the uproar that would follow Moyne's revelations?
"We'll be OK," Clark said.
"You don't know that," she challenged harshly.
"I know that we're not going to let anything take away what we have," he said.
Lois looked down at her plate. It was easier than looking at Clark - easier than seeing his candid resolve to reassure her.
She had failed him. She had brought him back to Smallville where Moyne had awaited them. She was sure it would prove to be a fateful misjudgement.
Lois hurriedly finished the eggs and placed the small-sized cutlery on the now-revealed little teddy bear. She pulled her eyes away before she could even think about a little boy with sweet brown eyes having a picnic in his tree house.
"I need a shower," Lois said.
"You should take off the bandage first," Clark said. "I'm not sure if it's waterproof."
"What bandage?" But even as she asked, her hand lifted to her chest, and her fingertips ran across the bandage.
"How does it feel?" Clark asked. "Is it still sore?"
"How bad is it?"
"You have three scratches. They're quite deep, but I think they will heal well if they don't get infected."
She remembered Clark dressing her wounds. He was an incredible man. She had been threatened with rape. She had been groped by Moyne.
Yet when Clark had pushed back the shirt and revealed a vee of cleavage, she hadn't once shrunk from his touch.
She'd known that she would be safe with him.
Totally safe.
He was so good. He didn't seek revenge. He didn't take advantage of situations. He stayed true to his personal code of integrity - even in the most testing of situations.
"I'll take it off in the bathroom," Lois said.
Clark stood, and she scrambled from the bed before he could offer to help her. He hovered next to her, hands raised in case she needed him.
"I'm fine," she said.
"Call me if you need anything."
"I have everything I need."
If Clark heard the coldness in her voice, he didn't react. He picked up the wooden board, balancing the plate as he headed for the door. As he reached it, a loud knock sounded from below.
Lois felt her heart plummet as fear scorched through her body. "Who is that?" she squeaked.
Clark placed the board on the end of the bed and put his hand on her shoulder. "Don't be afraid," he said.
She glanced to the bedroom door, half-expecting a stampede of armed police.
"I'll deal with it," Clark said in that same calm voice. "You go back to bed."
"But what if it's Moyne? What if he has more of the poison? What if it's the police? What if they're here to capture you again?"
His hand squeezed her shoulder. "It will be OK," he assured her. "Rachel isn't going to believe everything Moyne says without asking me first."
"How can you *know* that?"
Clark didn't answer, and the hesitation was enough for her to realise that she was hardly dressed for company. Not knowing what else to do, she slipped back into the warmth of the sheets, earning another smile from Clark.
"I'll be back soon," he said. "Don't worry about anything."
||_||
Clark walked slowly down the stairs. Despite his attempts to reassure Lois, he knew it was likely that whatever was about to unfold was the consequence of Moyne's presence in Smallville.
Halfway down the stairs, he lowered his glasses and tried to look through the door, but it refused to peel back.
It was probably Rachel, he surmised. Rachel and her entire team of deputies - come to capture the vicious and destructive alien, as described by Moyne.
Alarm should have been hurtling through him. But inside, he felt a strange calmness. He and Lois were meant to be together. Somehow, they would find a way.
Taking a deep breath, Clark opened the door.
Daniel Scardino stared back.
