“George Thompson went out to the Bureau’s warehouse about one this afternoon and he hasn’t been seen since,” Foster told Freeman later that afternoon.
Freeman didn’t bother to ask if there was a chance that their security people had simply missed him leaving. Freeman knew better.
“Well, we knew Trask knew we were keeping an eye on him,” Freeman said. “He’d make sure he had a back way out that wasn’t in any city records. Maybe an underground tunnel to the basement of another building, access to the sewers, something like that.”
“We thought we had all that covered,” Foster told him. “We checked out the adjoining buildings right after Trask’s bunch moved into the warehouse and we’ve been inspecting them periodically. Nothing.”
“But he managed to get Thompson past us anyway.”
“Or maybe Thompson hasn’t left the building,” Foster suggested.
“I’m told he had a pretty hefty list of appointments scheduled for today,” Freeman said. “Not people you’d want to annoy.”
Foster didn’t respond.
“Anything else?” Freeman prompted.
“Only that the two Daily Planet reporters Trask seemed most interested in met with Thompson just before he left for the warehouse and one of them followed him there.”
“Just one?”
“The woman, Lane. She and Kent split up and went in opposite directions right outside the building. We’re not sure where he went. But neither of them looked exactly happy when they left Thompson’s office.”
Freeman chuckled. “They probably went there expecting answers and Thompson wasn’t giving them anything except more questions.” He sat back in his office chair and peered up at the younger man. “Maybe we should keep a friendly eye on those two reporters, too. After all, if Trask was interested in them, maybe we should be too.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Foster assured him.
Freeman watched as Foster closed the office door behind him. George Thompson was missing. Freeman had no doubt that Trask or one of his people had arranged for an ‘accident’ to befall the government bureaucrat. Was this the final piece of evidence they needed to prove that Trask was as dangerously out of control as they believed?
Freeman doubted it.
Without a body, it was going to be hard to prove that Trask had anything to do with Thompson’s disappearance. He could claim that he never got the order to disband his unit. Even with a body it might be difficult to prove anything. Trask and his people knew any number of ways to kill a man and make it look like anything but a murder.
-o-o-o-
Freeman had dinner at his usual hang out, not far from his apartment. Big house salad, medium rare steak, a little cordial conversation with the waitress who thought he was little more than a harmless middle-aged bachelor.
Going home to his empty flat didn’t seem especially appealing. Between thoughts of the asteroid and Trask, Freeman didn’t really want to be alone with what was in his head. Getting drunk wasn’t an option – temporary forgetfulness and a sick headache in the morning. And he was getting too old for hangovers. He didn’t want to socialize with anyone from work – once upon a time it wouldn’t have bothered him to call up one of the girls in research and ask her out for dessert and coffee, or to call Foster out to pub crawl with him. But Foster had a wife and family now and Freeman’s mood wasn’t going to be conducive to chatting up a pretty young thing.
He was walking toward the park beneath the Metropolis Bridge when he spotted emergency vehicles down by the water’s edge. It looked like there had been a fatality. A jumper from the bridge, maybe. Or maybe something else entirely. He stood and watched as a gurney with a body-bag was placed in the medical examiner’s van.
Freeman made mental note to get in touch with the M.E.’s office in the morning and find out who the poor sod was that the MPD had fished out of the drink. Freeman wasn’t a superstitious man, and his flashes of psychic inspiration were few and far between, but right now he had the eerie feeling that the dead man’s identity – and he was certain it was a man – was going to be a serious issue for SHADO in days and weeks to come.
Sleep did not come easily and when Freeman did finally fall asleep, his dreams were disturbing.
Freeman and Straker were crouched by a farmhouse porch – from the landscape Freeman guessed they were in the Midwestern U.S. Straker was younger and armed with a high-powered rifle.
Jason Trask had set fire to a wooden shed with a padlocked door. Freeman knew there were people inside and he knew Trask knew and didn’t care that he was committing cold-blooded murder. Freeman started to move forward but Straker stopped him. Freeman felt a flash of anger at the other man. Didn’t he care that innocents were about to die?
Then the back of Trask’s van burst open and a young man in jeans and a flannel shirt jumped out of it, running toward the burning shed. The young man inhaled the flames. Superman in civilian clothes? Freeman spared a glance in Straker’s direction. The blond man didn’t seem surprised.
The young man broke the padlock on the door, ran inside then came out a few moments later. Trask was standing there, hands behind his back in an ‘at ease’ attitude – or was he holding something out of sight? From his angle, Freeman couldn’t tell.
Trask’s expression was a sneer.
“Don't take another step,” the young man warned.
“Fighting words, Mister Kent. Or should I call you, 'Superman?'” Trask countered. “A secret identity. Very clever.”
The young man’s grim expression didn’t change. “You're going to prison. For murder, kidnapping, for abuse of power.”
Trask simply smiled. It was the coldest smile Freeman had ever seen.
“But I'll tell everyone your secret,” Trask said. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
“I don't care. This ends now, Trask.”
“Agreed. But the question is, for whom?”
Freeman stifled a gasp as Kent closed the distance between himself and Trask faster than the eye could see. Then Kent gasped in pain and shock. His knees buckled and Freeman could tell it was an effort for the young man to keep standing. Trask kicked his feet out from under him, sending Kent sprawling. Still, Straker didn’t move.
“You think you're better than we humans, don't you?” Trask was ranting. “Flying around, oh-so-perfect and superior. But those days are over, aren't they?”
“You're... wrong,” Kent managed to say.
“No. You're wrong. It's over, and I have won,” Trask stated. He waved the green crystalline rock he’d been hiding behind his back and waved it in Kent’s face. “This little piece of home is going to be the death of you, Superman.”
Freeman heard sirens in the distance.
Trask must have heard them as well. He set the green rock beside Kent. “Unfortunately, I won't be able to stay for the services,” he announced, turning to head for the waiting van.
Despite his pain, Kent reached for the rock. Freeman could see it burn his hands like acid as he picked it up. Freeman started forward once again. From what he’d seen, the rock shouldn’t affect him. If he could get the rock away from Kent…
Again Straker stopped him, but this time instead of a rifle, the blond man had a small device in his hand. It was silver and had several buttons on the face. Straker pressed one button and…
Freeman woke with a start and it took him a moment to realize he was safely in his bed in his apartment in Metropolis. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a vivid dream. His heart was pounding and he imagined he could still smell the harsh smoke from the scorched shed.
Freeman laid back, willing his heart to slow down to a more normal rate.
Jackson had told him more than once that dreams were a key to the unconscious mind, that they reflected what the mind was working on ‘underneath’. Freeman tried to analyze what this dream might mean – he knew from Straker that Superman was a Kansan named Clark Kent and he knew that Trask wanted Superman dead. Was his mind simply writing a script for the confrontation between Trask and Kent? Or was there something more that his unconscious mind had picked up about the situation?
He was almost afraid to ask.
-------------------------------------------
The "The Green, Green Glow of Home" was written by Bruce Zabel.
