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"Clark, breakfast!"
Clark sleepily stuck his head out from under the pillow. The clock on his nightstand read 8:00 AM, and for a moment he panicked about being late for school. Then it dawned on him his parents must have agreed to let him sleep in, just a little, after the adventures of the night before.
He rolled over and pulled the covers over his head. After some lengthy questioning at the campus police headquarters, the Metropolis P.D. had seemed convinced the shot had just been a prank—somebody trying to scare two kids out of their wits. Of course, Clark hadn't been able to tell them that the bullet had indeed been meant for them. He wasn't about to explain how and why the bullet had missed.
He also wasn't sure the cops had bought Chloe's cover story about their visiting Metropolis University's microbiology department for a school assignment, especially when they failed to reach Angela McKay at her lab.
The worst events of the evening, however, had come when the officer on duty had insisted on calling their parents. Chloe's dad had become nearly hysterical. Clark's dad had threatened to drive all the way into Metropolis to retrieve them himself, no doubt so he'd be able to give both of them an earful on the long drive home.
In the end, however, their repeated insistence that they were both ok had paid off, and after signing a brief statement the two investigators had been able to drive home on their own.
The Kents had been waiting at Chloe's house when they arrived. Martha Kent had hugged and kissed both of them, all the while promising that they were both in a lot of trouble. Clark could tell by the expression on Jonathan's face that his parents would make good on those promises. Gabe Sullivan had nearly been in tears.
"Why do you do things like this, Chloe?" He'd demanded of his only daughter. "Why?"
Chloe had scuffed her shoes on the tile floor, unable to look her father in the eye. Clark had never seen her so miserable.
"We'll talk in the morning, son," his own dad had promised gruffly, but otherwise he hadn't said a word as they drove back to the Kent farm.
In the bright light of morning, however, Clark wasn't really worried about what his parents would do. He'd take whatever punishment they decided to dish out. No, what really worried him was who might have taken a shot at them, and why. There was no doubt in his mind it was related to Roshenko's death. Chloe's probing must have stirred concern in the someone's mind, enough that that person wanted to scare, or possibly even kill, them.
At the moment, however, he was too sleepy to make much of events. He let his eyes drift closed again, and when he next opened them the clock read 8:30.
"Clark, time to get up—I mean it this time." His mother's voice carried though the door, followed by her knock. Martha stuck her head in and smiled. She had never been able to stay angry with her son for long.
"You've missed homeroom, but if you get dressed fast enough you can catch a ride into town with your dad in time for second period."
"O.k., Mom."
Clark threw on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, and found his dad downstairs finishing a cup of coffee.
"Morning," was all Jonathan Kent said, but his silence spoke volumes. Clark was clearly still in big trouble.
He hastily found his backpack. His jacket from the night before hung on the back of a kitchen chair, but when he picked it up to put it on he saw the hole in the shoulder. Experimentally Clark stuck his finger through it. "Wow."
"That's what bullets do, Clark," his father said, pushing his chair back and coming to stand next to Clark. "You and Chloe could have gotten killed last night."
"But we didn't, Dad," he protested.
"You could have been." Martha was shaking her head.
"But we weren't. Look, I know you guys are upset…"
Jonathan ran a hand over his face. "Clark, do you have any idea what it's like to get a call in the middle of the night from the police? That's the kind of call every parent has nightmares about."
"I know, and I'm sorry, really." Clark looked helplessly from his father to his mother and back again. "The police insisted we call before they'd let us leave. But I was there, so nobody got hurt."
Martha sighed heavily. "Clark, you two nearly gave poor Gabe Sullivan a nervous breakdown. Does Chloe ever think about what this kind of thing does to him?"
"Chloe doesn't get into trouble on purpose, Mom. She's just being, well, Chloe, I guess."
"You can't be there all the time, Clark," Martha reasoned. "And you can't keep charging into danger hoping that your powers will protect both of you. Next time they might not."
"Clark, Gabe Sullivan and I agreed last night—this investigation ends now. You're not dealing with a few strange events or an out-of-control kid—this is a killer." Jonathan set his mug down with a thump.
Clark knew better than to talk to his dad when Jonathan was in this kind of mood—better to let him cool off. The two didn't speak during the drive into town. Jonathan was clearly brooding, and Clark, now that he was awake, was still trying to figure things out.
Ok, let's look at his logically, he told himself. Who do we have as suspects? As far as he could tell, there were only two—Dr. Steven Hamilton and Angela McKay. Of the two Dr. Hamilton seemed much more likely, but the guy was still sitting in jail. For Angela, he couldn't come up with a motive at all—she really did seem to mourn Dr. Roshenko's death. He thought back to Chloe's puzzle analogy of the night before. Clearly they were still missing some pretty big pieces.
"Clark?"
He looked up, surprised to see they were already in front of the school. His father handed him a folded piece of paper.
"Now take that into the office so they don't think you were cutting class. I don't approve of your missing school, but your mom wanted you to catch up on some of the sleep you missed last night."
Clark nodded. "Thanks, Dad."
Jonathan smiled just a little. "Don't thank me until you've seen the new chore list your mother and I are going to work out."
Clark groaned, but nodded. "Right, Dad. See you later."
During the midday break he found Chloe in the Torch's office, typing away frantically before the bell rang. She jumped up when she saw him.
"Clark! Pete said you weren't in first period—I was afraid your parents had decided to lock you in the barn or something."
"Almost," Clark grinned. "It sounds like I'll be pulling extra-heavy chore duty around the farm for the next couple of weeks."
Chloe shook her head. "That's better than what I got."
"Your dad freaked, huh?"
"That's putting it mildly. I'm grounded for a month. No car, no laptop. I'm only allowed out to go to school and work on the Torch. And at first he was talking about not letting me do that."
"Ouch."
"Yeah." Chloe shuffled some of the issue proofs on her desk. "I guess I never really thought about how what I do might affect him. I mean, he's always been really easygoing about everything, and now I'm afraid he'll worry every time I step out the door." She glanced up at him from under her lashes. "And I'm sorry I kinda wigged out on you last night, Clark."
"We did get shot at, Chloe; that would wig most people out," Clark answered mildly.
"Do you think the cops were right, and it was just someone trying to scare us?"
"I don't know, Chloe. That would be a pretty big coincidence."
"Yeah," she sighed. "I hate to say this, but if it wasn't a coincidence there's only one person I can think of that would have had the motive and the opportunity."
Clark leaned against a desk and folded his arms. "You mean Angela McKay?"
"What do we really know about her, Clark? You saw how touchy she got when I asked about Roshenko's letters."
"So, what, she just happens to keep a gun in her desk and decided to take us out?" He asked skeptically.
"She might if we're on to something she doesn't want us to know about."
"I thought about that this morning, Chloe, and I just don't see it. She seems to have genuinely liked the guy, and she's been really helpful so far."
"Or maybe she just wants us to think she's being helpful." The bell rang; Chloe grabbed her bag but paused in the doorway. "Face it, Clark—you just never want the girl to be the bad guy. You're too damn chivalrous for your own good."
While Chloe and Pete spent the afternoon haggling with their faculty advisor over content, Clark worked on the Torch's layout. Chloe's interview with the new principal should take front and center on the first page, obviously, but he couldn't quite decide which of their other stories should share the space. It didn't really seem fair to choose—thank God Chloe was the editor, and not him. Sometimes he didn't think he had the cutthroat attitude needed to be a good journalist. Of course, this was just a high school paper, unless you asked Chloe. Then she would go on at some length about the Torch's position as an award-winning publication devoted to exposing the seedy underbelly of Smallville. Funny--until Chloe had arrived Clark hadn't been aware Smallville even had an underbelly.
While he mused the fax machine beeped and spewed out paper. Clark checked them, and was surprised to see that they consisted of several pages of legalese. After a moment it dawned on him that it was a copy of Roshenko's will. Angela had come through for them again. At first he left it in the "In" basket, thinking he really should wait until Chloe came back before he read it, but finally curiosity got the better of him.
It would take someone with a law degree to decipher most of it, but he finally found the part that, just like in the movies, started, "I, Evgeny Roshenko, being of sound mind…"
It was pathetically short. As Angela had said, it seemed pretty straightforward—all the doctor's savings and possessions were left to the University, to be used as they saw fit. There was nothing about any relatives, or friends, receiving anything. Clark pursed his lips. So much for money being a motive in his death.
In fact, as Clark studied the financial statement attached to the will, it began to dawn on him that something was wrong.
According to his will, Dr. Evgeny Roshenko had died with just under $20,000 to his name, not counting the value of his house. That seemed like very little for a seventy-something man to have accumulated in a lifetime.
Clark wasn't a banker, but that didn't sound right. Fortunately, there was one person he could go to who knew a great deal more about money than he did.
p
Lex's week had started badly, with Angela McKay's inexplicable behavior in front of the Metropolis Daily Planet, and it was just going downhill from there.
He'd met with the board of LuthorCorp in an attempt to soothe their jitters about Lex taking temporary charge of the business. It had taken a lot of conciliatory words and promises to smooth things over; that had wasted an entire afternoon. His father, no doubt tipped off by Dominic, had called to berate him via speakerphone about the quarterly reports not being on his bedside table. And to top things off, Gabe Sullivan, his plant manager, had been late to an early meeting that morning with the new shareholders in LexCorp. Lex wasn't sure anyone else had noticed, and the man had apologized profusely, but, still, Lex was annoyed. He needed Gabe more than he cared to admit—not only did Sullivan actually understand the inner workings of Plant Number 3, but the locals trusted him. And the town's trust, Lex had learned from bitter experience, was extremely hard to gain. In nearly twenty years of doing business in Smallville Lionel Luthor had never gained it. Lex refused to end up the same way.
In spite of all this, he was genuinely pleased to see Clark Kent when the younger man was shown in to his study.
"Hey, Clark."
"Hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"No, your visit is just the excuse I need to take a break. Come into the living room and we'll shoot some pool."
"I suck at pool, Lex, you know that." Nonetheless Clark followed him across the hall. "Actually, I need some financial advice."
Lex selected a cue and carefully chalked the end of it. "Financial advice? Why, are you considering taking Kent's Organic Produce global? Going to corner the market on artichokes?"
"Not exactly." Clark had shoved his hands deep in his pockets. Lex took his first shot and then eyed his friend casually.
"What's up, Clark?"
Clark rocked back and forth on his heels, ever so slightly, the way he did when he was nervous. "Ok. If I told you there's this guy who makes over sixty grand a year for, like, decades, but when he dies only has about twenty grand to his name, what would you say?"
Lex shot the eight ball into the side pocket, considering. "There's a couple of things I could say. First, are you sure about his income?"
Clark nodded. "Pretty sure."
"Well, then I'd suggest this person, whoever he is, had a serious spending problem."
"You didn't see how this guy lived, Lex." Clark shook his head. "He sure wasn't spending it on himself."
"There's lots of other ways to blow money, Clark. He could have had a gambling problem, or really bad luck on the stock market. Or expensive taste in women."
Clark blushed a little. "I don't think so. This guy got his jollies starting down a microscope all day and saving the labels off soup cans."
Lex carefully set down his pool cue. "Clark, this wouldn't have anything to do with you and Chloe looking into that mess in Metropolis, would it?"
"Uh, yeah."
One thing Lex really liked about Clark—the kid couldn't lie.
He shook his head. "I'd heard you two were still digging into that."
Clark's eyes widened a bit. "How did you know that?"
Lex smiled. "I know Angela McKay, Roshenko's former lab assistant. Just casually, of course. When she heard I live in Smallville she mentioned that she had met you and Chloe. I take it you made quite an impression on her."
"Yeah, I'll bet we did." Briefly Clark sketched out what had been happening, from his midnight meeting with Angela in Roshenko's kitchen to the papers Chloe had found under the dead man's house. Lex sat down on the leather sofa and listened silently until Clark told him about the gunshot the night before.
"Well, I guess that explains why Gabe was late for work this morning."
"Yeah, Chloe says he really chewed her out." Clark sat down opposite him.
"I can't say I blame him. The two of you could have been…"
"Killed, I know," Clark interrupted. "Believe me, you're not saying anything I haven't been hearing for the last twenty four hours."
Against his better judgment, Lex was fascinated. Clark and Chloe's blind blundering had uncovered more than all of his subtle manipulations. There was a lesson in that somewhere. "So who do you think it was?"
"Chloe thinks it was Angela who took the shot at us, to scare us off the case."
Lex folded his hands. "Unlikely."
"That's what I said. But she did seem upset about the letters; way too insistent that there was nothing in them."
"But from what you're telling me she doesn't stand to gain anything from the doctor's death; in fact, it's put her job in jeopardy." Lex now felt a little better that Angela hadn't been returning his messages—she'd clearly been otherwise occupied. He would have to make a few well-placed calls and see if he could help. Anonymously, of course.
Unfortunately, what he was saying about Angela's lack of motive applied equally well to Dr. Hamilton. But he couldn't tell Clark that without revealing how much he knew about Hamilton's work. Definitely a sticky situation. He was actually relieved Clark had brought the discrepancies in Roshenko's finances to his attention. It was another avenue Clark and Chloe could explore, one leading away from Cadmus Labs.
"I think this business of the late doctor's will is pretty suggestive, Clark. At the very least it seems the man was more than what he seemed."
"That's what everything seems to be suggesting." Clark ran his hands through his already messy hair in frustration. "But we can't dig any deeper than we already have, not into his bank records and not into his past. It's like the guy didn't exist before he came here, and while he was here he barely left a mark."
"You may not be able to dig any deeper into his past, Clark, but his bank records may be another story. LuthorCorp is a major shareholder in most of the Metropolis banks. Let me see what I can find out."
"You can do that?" Clark asked hopefully.
"Of course. Although I still think it was probably bad investments that wiped the guy out. Happens all the time."
Clark shrugged. "Maybe. But I really think we've been going in the wrong direction with Hamilton. Maybe you'll find something that tells us where to look next. And Lex?"
"Yes?"
Clark smiled apologetically. "Do me a favor and don't tell Chloe I asked for your help? She's in enough hot water with her dad as it is, and…"
"And if I dangle another carrot in front of her I'll just make it worse. Understood."
"Thanks, Lex. I owe you one."
Lex smiled. "That's a first—usually it's the other way around."
p
True to their word, Jonathan and Martha Kent presented Clark with a new list of chores when he got home that evening. In addition to his regular chores around the farm, they had added repainting the upstairs bathroom; cleaning out the basement; helping his dad repair the barn roof, and washing the dinner dishes every night for a month.
"I have a hard enough time getting dates as it is—you guys want me to have dish pan hands, too?" he complained.
Martha only smiled. "You should have thought of that before you broke curfew and ran off to Metropolis."
"We were going to add making dinner, but then we remembered what happened last time," Jonathan added.
"How was I supposed to know potatoes blow up in the microwave? It was an honest mistake."
Clark felt a little uncomfortable not telling Chloe about the will, but she was preoccupied with getting the Torch out. She was also being so careful not to get into any more trouble until her dad cooled off that it actually was easier to keep the secret than he'd thought it would be. He was careful not to bring up the subject, although they both tacitly agreed that when things were calmer they'd pick up where they had left off. Privately, though, Clark spent most of his evenings in the barn, re-reading Roshenko's articles and trying to fit all the pieces together in a way that made sense.
He wondered if maybe he was too close to see what was really happening. Chloe always said getting personally involved in a story was the kiss of death; any journalistic integrity would go right out the window. But by now Clark knew the late doctor's work, where he'd lived, the same people he'd known. In a strange way he felt almost like he knew the dead man. Clark had gotten into this in the first place only because Chloe had asked him to. He'd stayed in it because Angela had seemed to need his help. Now, though, he felt a responsibility to the man himself. Whatever lies Roshenko may have kept couldn't have been bad enough to deserve death, and whoever had killed him needed to be brought to justice. And, even though Clark hated to admit it, if Hamilton was innocent he deserved to go free.
Over the next few days Clark left messages on Angela's phone at the lab, but she didn't call back. He wondered if maybe the University had already shut things down. That seemed strange, too—why not just keep the place running until Roshenko's replacement was hired? Why go to so much trouble?
Sitting alone in his loft Clark couldn't help but wonder if some day his own secrets would create this same kind of havoc in someone else's life. For as long as he could remember his parents had stressed the importance of keeping his abilities a secret for his own protection. He could remember being afraid someone might try to take him away from his mom and dad if they knew how he'd arrived in Smallville. He'd had nightmares about it for a long time. Now he was older he worried more about how his secret might hurt those around him. Both Phelan and Nixon had proved to him how dangerous that little bit of knowledge could be in the wrong hands. If his parents got hurt, or Lana, or Lex, or any of his friends, he would never be able to forgive himself. There were times he wanted to forget the whole thing, just tell the world and get it over with, but his concern for his friends' safety always stopped him.
Had Evgeny Roshenko felt the same way? Was that why he'd saved the love letters and the documents? Because even though he couldn't tell anyone else about it, he wasn't ready to let go of his past?
"Clark?"
He sat up on the couch. Lex was standing at the top of the stairs.
"Oh, hey, Lex."
"So how goes the detecting?" The older man nodded at the piles of papers on the battered trunk Clark used as a table.
Clark rubbed the back of his neck. "Not so good. It's still at a dead end. Chloe says we'll try again, but by then Hamilton's trial might have started and I really don't know what use we could be to anyone."
"Don't give up, Clark—you and Chloe seem to have gotten farther than the Metropolis police did. And I have some news for you."
Clark looked up hopefully. "No way."
"Way. Although I'm not sure it will help. Might make things worse, actually."
"At this point I'm willing to take that chance."
"Turns out the late doctor banked with Metropolis First. So I made some phone calls and called in a few favors." Lex sat down on the couch. "You were right, Clark—something is strange. Up until about ten years ago his finances were stable: savings, 401K, nice house on the west side. Then he started withdrawing money: first a few hundred at a time, every couple of months, and then in larger amounts with increasing frequency. About five years ago he sold his house, but that money never made its way into his bank account."
Resting his chin in his hand, Clark frowned. "Do they have any record of where it all went?"
Lex shook his head. "No. The sums were always withdrawn as cash. No paperwork, no records. The last withdrawal was about a month before he died. Nearly $10,000. Cash."
Clark whistled. "Wow. I can't even image what that much cash would look like. So assuming he didn't have a major drug problem or anything like that…"
"It looks to me like he was paying someone off," Lex finished for him.
"Yeah, but who? If we don't have the records we can't trace any of the money."
"You would have to compare it against the bank accounts of people he came into contact with. But even then, there are ways to hide large amounts of money so even a good accountant can't find it."
Clark had a feeling Lex knew this firsthand: Lionel Luthor, after all, hadn't become a billionaire by playing by the rules.
"His work wasn't particularly controversial. No human testing, no black market suppliers. And as you found out, his personal life was virtually non existent," Lex continued. "So as far as we know, the only reason to blackmail him would be connected to those papers you and Chloe found."
"The love letters weren't even addressed to him, and Angela had no idea who the women was who wrote them," Clark offered. "So it must be the other stuff, the forged documents. What kind of trouble do you think someone would get into for that?"
"Depends, Clark. If he lied to immigration and got caught he might have been prosecuted, but it's been, what, fifty years? I'm pretty sure the statute of limitations has expired on that kind of crime."
"And to all appearances the guy led a quiet life, with a respected reputation. They couldn't have just booted him out of the country, even if they'd wanted to." Clark shook his head again. "Man, if we only knew what his papers actually said."
Lex's eyebrows went up. "Angela's not helping you with that?"
"I haven't been able to get a hold of her." He frowned. "I hate to say it, Lex, but I think she might be avoiding me. I think she knows or suspects something she doesn't want to share. At first she seemed almost obsessed with finding the killer, but now she seems more worried about protecting Roshenko's reputation."
"If his credentials were faked and he's exposed, it could hurt her as well."
"Yeah, I guess. I tried again to find some of his Soviet records, but I couldn't. None of that stuff is on line."
Lex laughed. "You haven't been there, Clark. Believe me, not only is nothing on line but most of their records are rotting away in basements at the Kremlin. That is, if they even have any."
"Anyway, I appreciate your help, Lex. Although," Clark eyed his friend, "you are kinda going above and beyond."
"Anything to help a friend, Clark," Lex said smoothly. "Besides, I'm concerned for Angela as well. If she's in trouble we should try and help, shouldn't we?"
p
That night Clark couldn't sleep. He kept thinking about what Lex said about trying to help if they could. Lying there in the dark, he was torn about what to do. On the one hand getting involved would land him in more hot water with his folks. What would they have him do then—build a new barn? Add a wing onto the house? And there was Chloe, too—she'd be angry enough when she found out Clark and Lex had left her out of their findings. If he continued on without her she'd kill him.
On the other hand, he felt certain that Angela held the missing piece to the puzzle. Maybe she was keeping it from him deliberately, or maybe she didn't know she had it. But she was the one person who had worked more closely with Roshenko, who knew more about him, than anyone else. And she had the letters. Clark was still kicking himself that he hadn't insisted she give them to him when he'd had the chance. What if she'd destroyed them, or worse—what if she'd gone back to the house and destroyed the forgeries? Then there would be no evidence, and no case. Hamilton would probably get convicted, and Clark would have to live with knowing he could maybe have stopped that, too.
He wrestled with all of this for the rest of the week, while they put the Torch to bed and he dutifully worked off the extra chores at home. Chloe kept asking him if he was feeling all right, and once he nearly collided with Lana Lang in front of his locker because he'd been so preoccupied he hadn't seen her.
"Clark, are you ok?" Lana had looked up at him with her big green eyes. "You look a little strange, and I haven't seen you around the Talon lately."
"I'm kinda grounded," he explained, opening his locker and retrieving the book for his next class. "But I'm fine."
"Don't you have English next period?" She frowned.
"Yeah, why?"
She nodded at the books he was holding, and looking down he saw his Chemistry book. Hastily he stuffed it back in and got the right one. "I guess I am kind of distracted."
"Want to talk about it?"
Clark shook his bangs out of his eyes. "It's kind of…personal."
Lana look crestfallen. "Oh. That's ok then."
"No, uh, I mean…I've kind of gotten myself into a situation, and I'm not sure how to get myself out of it," he said honestly.
"You're not in trouble, are you?" She smiled. "I thought Clark Kent never got into trouble."
"Well, I did get grounded. But it's more of an…ethical dilemma, I guess." He leaned against the row of lockers. "See, my head is telling me to do one thing—to not make things any worse by getting more involved than I already am. But my heart's kind of saying that I've come this far, and I can't just drop it now even if she wants me to."
"'Her'? Chloe?"
"No, just a friend. I think she might be in trouble and I want to help her. But she seems to want me to back off."
Lana shook her head. "Well, Clark, it's kind of hard to give advice without knowing all the particulars, but if it were me, I'd listen to my heart."
"You would?"
She smiled her beautiful smile at him. "Definitely."
Clark smiled back. Lana had a way of cutting right to the heart of things, even when she didn't know the whole truth. Especially when she didn't know the whole truth. He hated to admit it, but was Lana who made up his mind for him.
On Saturday, he found his dad out in the barn working on the tractor.
"Dad, I finished cleaning the basement."
"Did you show your mother?"
"Yeah, she seemed pretty happy with it. I labeled the boxes and everything. We should have a garage sale next summer—we have way too much stuff."
"I'll keep that in mind," Jonathan chuckled. "That only leaves the barn roof, and I'll have to go into town for shingles and roofing nails. We'll do that next weekend."
"Ok." Clark scuffed his feet in the dirt. "Uh, Dad? If you don't need it do you think I could borrow your truck?"
"I guess so." Jonathan looked up from the engine. "Why?"
"Uh, I need to go and see someone. I'll be back tonight."
"Clark." His father gave him a steady look. "Does this involve your driving back into Metropolis?"
Try as he might, Clark had never been able to lie to his dad. "Um, yeah."
Jonathan swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. "Clark, I thought I told you and Chloe to drop…"
"Chloe's not going, Dad. In fact, I haven't even told her about it. You and Mom were right: I can't just always assume I can protect her."
Clearly nonplussed, Jonathan frowned. "But you still feel you need to go back."
"I just need to talk to someone, that's all, Dad. It's a loose end and I feel like if I don't deal with it now something bad will happen."
Jonathan didn't speak for a long moment. "You've been thinking about his for a while, haven't you, son?" He said more gently.
"Yeah, I have. And I really feel it's something I have to do. So I'd like to borrow the truck. Please," he added hopefully.
His father squeezed his eyes shut, and Clark braced himself.
"All right."
"Really?"
Jonathan threw down a greasy rag and picked up a clean one. "But here's the deal—you go there, you do what you need to, and you come right back. No adventures, no gunshots, no special powers."
"Right."
"I mean it, Clark."
Clark grinned. "I know you do, Dad. And thanks."
Jonathan grunted. "Lord only knows what I'll tell your mother when she notices you're gone. But I'll think of something."
The skies over Metropolis were clouding over by the time he got there, but the rain held off. It was a gloomy, cold day, and the shining buildings downtown didn't look nearly as enticing as they usually did. He found the Biology building unlocked, but before he could cross the lobby to the stairs a voice startled him.
"We're closed on the weekends, young man."
Clark looked up to find the dean advancing on him.
"Hello, Dr. Carroll, do you remember me? Clark Kent?"
The man pursed his thin lips together. "Oh yes, the journalist." He said "journalist" in the same tone one would use to say "terrorist." "Where's your young friend?"
"She couldn't make it. I just need to have a quick word with Ms. McKay—do you know if she's around?"
"She isn't in the habit of meeting with students on the weekend."
"I know, but this is really important," Clark hedged.
"Well, I imagine she's downstairs packing up the last of her things. The lab will be officially closed as of Monday. But please make it short—I'm sure she has better things to do with her time.
"Yes, sir."
The gloom outside cut off a lot of the natural light in the basement, and even though it was only late afternoon the fluorescent lights were humming overhead. Clark peered though the door into the lab; Angela was sitting at one of the lab tables, reading something.
"Angela?"
She jumped. "Oh, God, Clark, you scared me. I didn't know anyone else was in the building." She hastily stuffed whatever she had been reading into the pocket of her leather jacket.
"Actually, Dean Carroll is upstairs. He said you'd be here."
"Yeah, well, as you can see I'm just packing up a few things." She gestured to a box containing some books and other items. "Don't know when they'll have me back down here, although I heard they have a line on a few applicants." She glanced around her sadly. "Won't be the same, though, working for someone else."
"No, I guess it wouldn't." Clark took a step closer, gesturing to the pile of papers in front of her. "More grading?"
"Uh, no. Actually, its stuff Roshenko's lawyer brought me." She smiled shakily. "I've only just now looked through it. See, here's our article." Angela pointed to the papers on top. "I'll have to see how soon I can get it published."
"Nothing personal? No letters or anything?"
Clark could see her hand move quickly toward her pocket, and then drop as if aware of his scrutiny.
"No, just work. That's what he was all about, right? His work."
Angela was lying; Clark knew it just as surely as he knew anything. He just wasn't sure what to do about it.
"I've been trying to reach you all week." He nodded towards the phone on the wall.
"Have you?" She couldn't meet his eyes. "Sorry—things have been kind of crazy around here."
"Angela, what about Roshenko's papers? The personal ones Chloe found?"
"What about them?" she said stiffly.
Clark sighed. "I've had a lot of time to think about this, Angela. I want to help, but I can't if you're not honest with me. I think they're important to this somehow; I think you know that, too, but you won't admit it."
"I don't know anything of the kind, Clark." This time she did look him, with a cold, flinty gaze. "I told you I'd look at them when I had a chance."
"But you've already read the letters. What do they really say?"
"Exactly what I told you, Clark. They're love letters from a woman named Mina to a man named Janus. There's nothing in them that could shed light on any of this."
For a moment Clark wished he was the kind of guy who could show his temper: he wanted to shake her. But of course he didn't.
"Angela, please…"
"What exactly are you accusing me of, Clark?" She stood up.
"I'm not accusing you of anything, except maybe being a friend. The kind of friend who'd do anything if they thought it would protect someone they cared about."
Angela blanched. "I'm not talking to you, or to anyone else, about this. You couldn't possibly understand."
"I know about keeping secrets, Angela. More than you could imagine," he said, almost unintentionally. But she was so angry by now she didn't notice.
"Get out, Clark. I mean it."
Clark held up his hands in a helpless gesture. "O.k. If that's what you really want. But promise me one thing, Angela. Promise me that you'll think about this—I mean really think about this," he said as gently as he could. "I don't want you to get hurt because of some kind of misplaced loyalty to a dead man."
Her eyes blazed, and she jerked her chin towards the door. "Out."
"Fine. Goodbye, Angela."
Frustrated and angry, with himself and with her, Clark stalked back up the stairs. He just hoped his words would sink it when Angela cooled off, and she'd understand what he was trying to say. But at the moment, he doubted it.
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