The Death and Life of Superman, page 35
Nose to nose with the caped man, and helpless in his grip, the man in the ski mask gasped for breath. “Who . . . who are you?”
“I’m Superman.”
“You can’t be Superman. He’s dead!”
“No—you are.” The Superman turned and hurled the attacker clear through a masonry wall.
“Oh, God.” Patricia slid along the side of a dryer. “Oh, my God!” She was desperately trying to get to her feet and run, but her legs didn’t want to obey.
The Superman turned toward Patricia, holding out his hands to her. “Do not be afraid. You are safe now.” All traces of anger disappeared from his voice as he knelt down to help the bruised and battered woman to her feet. “He can no longer harm you. I have seen to that.”
There was little expression on his face, and she could not see his eyes through the visor, but there was a sincerity to his voice. Somehow, Patricia knew she had nothing to fear from this man.
At that moment, farther downtown, Sandra and Daniel Henry and their son Jake left their hotel and started walking up Collyer Boulevard, tour map in hand. Sandy and Dan had been promising Jake this trip to Metropolis for several months, and after Superman’s death, they had considered vacationing somewhere else. But young Jake had been adamant, and finally his folks had caved in.
“Over here, Dad, it’s right on this next block! See?” Jake pointed up the street to the Daily Planet Building. “The story in that magazine said that it was just over there that he died.” The boy was about to run on ahead when his mother reached out and took him gently by the arm.
“Just hold your horses, Jake Henry.” Sandra glanced around cautiously. It was still supposed to be relatively safe in the downtown area, but neither she nor her husband knew their way around Metropolis all that well, and there were all those stories about the rising crime rate. She was glad that Dan had put away his tour map; she was sure that they looked enough like tourists as it was.
“Mom! We don’t want to miss it.”
“We won’t miss anything, Jake.” Dan slipped his hand over his son’s. “It’s not as if that spot’s going to go away.”
Arm in arm, the Henrys walked up to the main entrance of the Planet Building. There, set flush into the stone of the sidewalk, was a big square of brass marking the spot where Superman had died, making the supreme sacrifice to stop Doomsday.
Jake grew as quiet as his parents had ever seen the boy. They all gathered around the plaque with their heads bowed and just stared at it for the longest time. The noise of the streets seemed to fade away. It’s a little like being in church, thought Sandra. And this is the altar.
It was Jake who first noticed signs of the approach. There was a sudden, flickering movement reflected in the burnished brass, and the boy looked up to see a powerful caped figure drop out of the night sky.
The Henrys scrambled back out of the way as he landed solidly beside the plaque. The caped figure bent down and pried the brass square loose from its moorings with his bare hands. He then straightened up, keeping his back to the Henrys, holding the plaque in his right hand. He appeared to be staring at it.
The Henrys watched in frozen silence, but they were not completely surprised to see the outlines of the plaque begin to soften and run.
“Heat vision—he has heat vision!” Jake’s words came tumbling out in a hushed whisper.
Sandra fumbled around in her jacket pocket, trying to get out her camera, while her husband took a tentative step forward. “Why . . . why did you melt that plaque?”
The caped man glanced back over his right shoulder. “It’s out-of-date.”
“You—are you—?” Dan wasn’t sure what the right question to ask was, but the stranger already had an answer.
“Yes. I’m back.” And then, with a single bound, he was gone again, disappearing behind the tall buildings of Metropolis.
When Lois Lane came downstairs in the Kent farmhouse the next morning, she found that Martha was already up, had breakfast ready, and was packing a lunch.
“Martha, now what are you doing?”
“Making sandwiches, dear. You like turkey on whole wheat, don’t you?”
“Yes, that’s fine—but why? We can get something on the road, if you don’t care that much for the hospital cafeteria.”
“No need, Lois . . . no need. We have plenty of food here, and it’ll just go to waste if we don’t use it. I’m also fixing a little something to take along to Jonathan today. He’s been grousing about the hospital food, and Doc Lanning said it would be all right. Oh, there are fresh-baked muffins and marmalade on the side table.”
“I knew there had to be . . . the aroma woke me up.” Lois claimed two of Martha’s bran and raisin delights and poured herself an oversized mug of coffee. “Martha, I don’t know where you get your energy.” She gave the woman a peck on the cheek.
The phone rang and Lois picked it up. “Good morning, Kent residence.”
“Lois?” There was confusion in the voice at the other end.
“Hi, Lana—is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure. Have you been watching the news?”
“No, I just got up. Why?”
“Maybe you’d better turn it on.”
Lois hung up the phone, dashed into the parlor, and switched on CNN. The Daybreak anchor was accompanied on-screen by a vivid graphic, a question mark superimposed on Superman’s pentagonal emblem.
“Repeating our top story . . . authorities in Metropolis this morning are scrambling to investigate numerous evening and overnight sightings of a mysterious costumed figure who witnesses claim was Superman. Here with our first report is CNN’s Lucinda Watanabe . . .”
Lois heard a gasp behind her and turned to see Martha standing in the parlor door. The older woman’s eyes were wide and her mouth had opened into a big “O.” She looks like the way I feel, thought Lois. “Let’s not go getting all upset, Martha. It’s probably just some sick practical joke or something. When I left Metropolis, the supermarket tabloids already had Superman living on the same South Sea island with Elvis and Marilyn Monroe.”
Lois turned back to the set to see a bruised, shell-shocked Patricia Washburn standing in the midst of a rubble-strewn laundry room, describing her ordeal.
“This used to be a safe building. I don’t know how he got in, but this man—he was wearing a ski mask—he grabbed me and started hitting me with his gun. I wouldn’t have had a chance if Superman hadn’t shown up.”
The reporter interrupted her. “Then you’re convinced that it was Superman?”
“Who else could it have been? He was over six feet tall, red cape, big ‘S’ on his chest . . .” Patricia pointed toward the opening where the laundry room door had been. “He broke right through there and kept that sleaze from killing me! I’m not sorry that my attacker’s dead, either. He sure won’t threaten anyone ever again.”
Together, Lois and Martha sat down on the edge of the old parlor sofa. “Lois, that couldn’t have been Clark. He wouldn’t have killed that man.”
“Of course not, Martha, he wouldn’t have needed to.”
The picture switched to another reporter standing in front of the Daily Planet Building. “At virtually the same moment that Patricia Washburn was being rescued from her attacker, the Henry family had a close encounter of a different kind here, some sixty blocks away. A man they claim was Superman landed in front of this landmark building and destroyed a brass plaque marking the spot where Superman supposedly died. I say supposedly because someone reduced the plaque to a molten puddle. It has been taken away for study by city officials. But we do have a copy of a photograph taken by Mrs. Henry . . .”
Lois looked on slack-jawed as a close-up of the photo came on-screen. It was dark, grainy, and somewhat out of focus, but it did look like Superman. The figure’s face was mainly in shadow, but that familiar lock of hair fell down across his forehead.
There were other reported sightings. A confessed carjacker was in critical condition with burns and fractures that he claimed had been inflicted by Superman. A cat burglar had been left tied to a seventh-story flagpole. And a little girl named Cindy produced a crude drawing of the man who she claimed had rescued her kitten from a tree. In the drawing, her Superman had beard stubble and wore a cap instead of a cape. “He smelled kinda funny, like daddy when he’s been drinking beer.” Cindy wrinkled her nose but never lost her smile. “He said to call him ‘Sooperman,’ so I did.”
Eventually, the news turned to other stories, and Lois switched off the set. “Martha, I don’t know what to say. You heard the one reporter; a couple of those sightings happened at the same time. Clark was never able to be in two places at once. Some of those things had to be hoaxes.”
“But not all of them, Lois. Someone broke through that wall. And the photo . . .” Martha shook her head. “I wish we could have seen more of his face. It did put me in mind of Clark.”
“Martha—”
“I know, I know. But Jonathan did say he’d brought Clark back. What if it wasn’t just an hallucination—what if he did meet Clark in the beyond? Clark was capable of so many amazing things, but—oh, I don’t know! This is all so bewildering to me.”
To me, too, Martha. “Well, look at the time. We’d better get going if we’re going to get to the hospital for early visiting hours. We don’t want to keep Jonathan waiting.”
“No, of course not, Lois. I—I wonder what he’ll make of all this?”
The next day, Lois flew back to Metropolis, her ears still ringing from Jonathan Kent’s thoughts on the subject. The old farmer had already seen the TV reports and become so agitated that Dr. Lanning had prescribed a new blood pressure medication and threatened him with a longer hospital stay. Jonathan had calmed himself as best he could. After all, he couldn’t very well tell the doctor why he was so upset without spilling the beans about his son’s double life. And he wasn’t about to do that. “We need to keep that secret for Clark, especially if he’s come back.” In his heart of hearts, Jonathan remained convinced that he’d met his son on “the other side.” “But these fool stories on the news—! None of ’em sound right to me. You’ve got to check ’em out for us, Lois. The fool doctors here won’t let me travel yet!”
From Smallville, Lois had tried to contact Captain Sawyer or Inspector Turpin to see if there’d been any further disturbances at Superman’s tomb, but the Special Crimes Unit seemed preoccupied with other business; no one had returned her calls. She had finally put through a person-to-person call to Police Inspector William Henderson. Bill Henderson had been one of Clark’s oldest friends on the force, and he’d taken her call immediately.
Over the phone, Lois had made a case for checking the crypt. She’d argued passionately as well as persistently, and Henderson had promised to do what he could. They planned to meet upon her return.
Back in the city, Lois went directly to Centennial Park, where she found Henderson waiting for her by the east wall. Flashlights in hand, they proceeded down the underground access corridor.
“I still think this is a waste of time, Ms. Lane. The department’s been plugged into the tomb’s security grid ever since the last incident. We haven’t detected so much as a cockroach down here.”
“Maybe so, Inspector. But I’ve never heard of a security system that was a hundred percent foolproof, have you?”
“No, I haven’t. That’s why I got authorization from the mayor’s office to check it out.” Henderson grew pensive as they entered the crypt’s antechamber and stood before the vault door. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
Lois took a deep breath and let it out. “Not completely, but we have to know. We have to be sure.”
Henderson inserted two special keys into a newly installed locking mechanism, electronically opening the bolts that sealed the vault door shut. Then he grabbed hold of the handle and slowly eased the big door open. Both he and Lois let out a gasp as they entered the crypt. The coffin sat empty, its lid open.
The inspector made a quick check of the crypt. Its ceiling, walls, and floor all appeared to be intact. There were absolutely no signs of entry.
Lois stared at the empty coffin. Maybe Jonathan was right. Maybe Clark is back!
“Well, this is a fine kettle of fish!” Henderson scratched his head. “Now what do we do?”
“Well, one thing’s for certain, Inspector; we can’t keep this a secret. Not this time!”
The video monitors in Lex Luthor’s executive offices showed a close-up of an empty coffin, as a somber WLEX reporter delivered the bombshell. “Superman’s coffin is empty! But the questions remain . . . has he somehow miraculously returned from the dead? Or are these sightings the handiwork of a super-opportunist? Several radical groups have already claimed responsibility for robbing Superman’s tomb and reviving him, while Superman-worshiping cultists warn that Judgment Day is at hand. Only one thing is certain—Superman’s body is missing!”
“Missing!” Luthor pounded his desk. “And we don’t know how or why—do we, Happersen?!”
Happersen tugged nervously at his collar. “Well, sir, my people—”
“Your people! ‘Don’t worry, Mr. Luthor, the new hidden cameras will record anything that happens at the tomb!’ Bah! All we have are several hours of blank tape!”
“I assure you, Mister L, it’s just a matter of time before—!”
“How long, Happersen? How long?! After we recovered his body from the Cadmus Project, you assured me that security was improved! And now this!” Luthor slouched back in his chair, stroking his beard. “I swear, Superman’s as much trouble to me dead as he was alive!”
Luthor sat straight up at the sound of a series of loud thumps and muffled shouts from the outer hall. The office door flew open, and a uniformed security guard came tumbling backward into the executive suite.
The youthful CEO slammed a fist down on his desk. “Bloody hell, now what?! I gave specific orders not to be disturbed!”
“S-sorry, Mr. L.” The guard scrambled to his feet and tried to hold the door closed, but he was obviously fighting a losing battle. A sharp cry of pain came through the half-opened door. “We tried to tell her that, but the lady insists on seeing you!”
“Out of my way!” Supergirl came charging into the room, knocking the guard aside and leaving a half dozen others trailing in her wake. She had a rolled-up newspaper in her hand, and her face was flushed with anger. “Lex, we have to talk!”
Luthor wearily rose to his feet as the guards picked themselves up off the floor. “Love, I was in conference with Dr. Happersen. Can’t this wait?”
“Wait?! Lex, haven’t you seen the news?!”
“Of course I have. As a matter of fact, I was just about to send for you.” He turned toward the guards. “You men resume your posts! We’ll forget about this . . . little misunderstanding.” This time.
“Oh—sorry, guys.” Supergirl suddenly looked acutely embarrassed by what she’d done. “I know you were just doing your jobs. No hard feelings?”
“No, miss.” Not on our part anyway. I don’t know about the boss.
Once the guards were out the door, the Girl of Steel whirled back around to face Luthor. “I’ve just come from the tomb. I went over every inch of it and there are absolutely no signs of a break-in. Superman really must be alive this time!” She paused, hurt and frustration plainly showing on her face. “Lex, you must have known earlier. Why didn’t you tell me? When I saw this—!”
She threw down a copy of the latest edition of the Daily Planet. The front page was dominated by a huge photograph of the open coffin and twin headlines: BACK FROM THE DEAD? SUPERMAN’S BODY MISSING!
Luthor came out from behind his desk, his face a mask of concern. “I didn’t want to upset you needlessly, love.” He reached out and took her hands in his. “All the reports I’ve seen so far have varied wildly, as have the descriptions of this supposed Superman. Or perhaps I should say Supermen. If all the accounts were true, there’d have to be more than one!”
“You’re saying that it could all be some sick hoax?”
“Perhaps, love. We still don’t know.”
Supergirl pulled away from him. “Well, I’m going to find out—one way or another!” She strode from the room, and within moments, Luthor saw her flash past the far glass wall of his office.
“Lord, she’s headstrong!” For a moment he stood at the glass, just watching her fly off over the city. To have all that power at your beck and call. Luthor smiled. But then, in a way, I do. “Happersen, put everyone we can spare on the investigation. Call in all of our sources. I want to know for certain whether Superman is dead or alive. And I want to see proof . . . or heads will roll!”
In his Cadmus Project office, Paul Westfield flicked off the television and furiously punched up a number on his scramble phone. “Packard?! How goes the work in Lab Thirteen? Have you started feeding our subject information yet? Good, very good. But can you accelerate the process? We need to pick up the pace. Yes, Carl, I understand the need for caution, but some other parties are already out there trying to pass themselves off as the new Superman. How long until the maturation process is complete? Two weeks? Well, if that’s the best you can do. All right, keep me informed if there are any changes. Right. Good-bye.”
Unseen behind the ventilation duct, Big Words silently scribbled down notes, very glad that he had decided to look in periodically on Westfield’s office. The boy did not like the sound of this at all. He had to get back and tell the others about it immediately. The Newsboy Legion, he was certain, would want to take a look at Lab Thirteen.
The sun was just beginning to set in Metropolis when Lois Lane heard the plane approach. She looked up in horror as a small twin-engine aircraft passed by overhead, not more than two stories above the ground.
The driver of a cab at curbside hung halfway out his window, his jaw wide with amazement as he watched the plane go by. “Holy Christ! Who’s flyin’ that thing?”
