Lana practiced an expression of imperious certainty, knowing that she had had the best possible teacher in Lex. Either it worked, or Lex had instructed the security staff that she was to have the run of the castle, since they didn't even mention that Lex had left for the factory or ask why she was heading to the largely unused east wing.
She just wanted to make sure that Maynard was still safely locked away. If Lex had only thought to call before leaving for work...she hadn't quite been able to bring herself to call, not wanting to come over as the possessive, demanding girlfriend that she feared he might suspect she could turn into. He never said anything direct, but she guessed that his old Metropolis girlfriends were a rapacious crew, emotionally as well as materially demanding. Sometimes she wondered if she should even think of defining herself as a "not them," if she shouldn't concentrate on being herself. But that, she thought wryly, would mean figuring out which aspects of Lana Lang were the real one, the true self, and which were a response to others' expectations.
By the time those thoughts had run their accustomed course and arrived at their usual rueful "who knows" destination, she was down the stairs and cautiously slipping around the corner. Maynard was still sitting on the floor, though he'd drawn his knees up to his chest, his head bowed on top of them. Her mind rejected the first comparison, a statue; he was far too much a thing of flesh and blood for that. But his immobility reminded her of something...she just couldn't think what. Then she remembered. It was another photograph in the issue of Time that covered the meteor shower. A dog, half-spaniel, half-German shepherd, watching over his owner's body.
She reminded herself that she hadn't come to offer the wretched would-be killer tea and sympathy, or a rawhide bone and sympathy, she'd come to make sure that he wasn't able to get out and hurt anyone. Specifically, that he wasn't able to hurt Lex. But as she shifted her backpack on her shoulder and headed back up the stairs, his helpless, resigned posture seemed as burnt on her eyes as an over-bright flare of light.
***
Lex's notes to himself were usually deliberately cryptic to anybody but him. But as he tried to fathom the pattern, they were cryptic even to him. The reports he'd gotten from Philip were a mix of the detailed and the vague, of the trivial and the vital. There was no single common denominator that he could see.
He tried to Zen an approach. Perhaps the pattern was the lack of pattern? That thought didn't make him any more tranquil, any more one with the problem, or any closer to an answer, nor did he stop to look for harmony in the position of his pen when he threw it across the room.
He looked again at his list of all the locations mentioned. While most of the events he'd asked Philip to dig up were located in the United States, there were enough in the rest of North America, South America, Europe, Asia, and Africa to make a solution based on that untenable. The same with the names. Most of the names belonged to the rich and powerful, but not all.
He'd heard or read of only a small proportion of the incidents. Some of the deaths, in fact, he was positive he'd heard were officially solved or attributed to natural causes. Maybe that was the common demoninator. He checked a few online sources.
That was the common denominator. Everything was either covered up to the general public, or never even made it into the press. Excited to at least be finding something out, he checked over the sources that Philip had given for each story he'd dug up. All of them were under-the-counter, illicitly copied databases, reports not known to exist, or otherwise secrets.
Which meant that if he was going to get answers, his best chance would be to get them from May...from the killer. He knew enough to drop the "would-be." For somebody who looked to be about eighteen, he had more deaths to his credit than most entire military divisions.
No wonder he'd been fretting about missing "important assignments." It's a big world, Lex thought grimly as he got up. Lots of people to kill.
***
Clark raised his eyes at the sound of a throat being cleared. He was too dizzy and weak to stand up, and he suspiciously eyed the target as the man opened the door.
"You've got quite a history, don't you?" The man seemed to be speaking casually, as if making conversation. "Mostly murder and sabotage, but also the occasional rescue." Clark tried to ignore him. The target was only trying to taunt him. He'd never committed a murder in his life.
She just wanted to make sure that Maynard was still safely locked away. If Lex had only thought to call before leaving for work...she hadn't quite been able to bring herself to call, not wanting to come over as the possessive, demanding girlfriend that she feared he might suspect she could turn into. He never said anything direct, but she guessed that his old Metropolis girlfriends were a rapacious crew, emotionally as well as materially demanding. Sometimes she wondered if she should even think of defining herself as a "not them," if she shouldn't concentrate on being herself. But that, she thought wryly, would mean figuring out which aspects of Lana Lang were the real one, the true self, and which were a response to others' expectations.
By the time those thoughts had run their accustomed course and arrived at their usual rueful "who knows" destination, she was down the stairs and cautiously slipping around the corner. Maynard was still sitting on the floor, though he'd drawn his knees up to his chest, his head bowed on top of them. Her mind rejected the first comparison, a statue; he was far too much a thing of flesh and blood for that. But his immobility reminded her of something...she just couldn't think what. Then she remembered. It was another photograph in the issue of Time that covered the meteor shower. A dog, half-spaniel, half-German shepherd, watching over his owner's body.
She reminded herself that she hadn't come to offer the wretched would-be killer tea and sympathy, or a rawhide bone and sympathy, she'd come to make sure that he wasn't able to get out and hurt anyone. Specifically, that he wasn't able to hurt Lex. But as she shifted her backpack on her shoulder and headed back up the stairs, his helpless, resigned posture seemed as burnt on her eyes as an over-bright flare of light.
***
Lex's notes to himself were usually deliberately cryptic to anybody but him. But as he tried to fathom the pattern, they were cryptic even to him. The reports he'd gotten from Philip were a mix of the detailed and the vague, of the trivial and the vital. There was no single common denominator that he could see.
He tried to Zen an approach. Perhaps the pattern was the lack of pattern? That thought didn't make him any more tranquil, any more one with the problem, or any closer to an answer, nor did he stop to look for harmony in the position of his pen when he threw it across the room.
He looked again at his list of all the locations mentioned. While most of the events he'd asked Philip to dig up were located in the United States, there were enough in the rest of North America, South America, Europe, Asia, and Africa to make a solution based on that untenable. The same with the names. Most of the names belonged to the rich and powerful, but not all.
He'd heard or read of only a small proportion of the incidents. Some of the deaths, in fact, he was positive he'd heard were officially solved or attributed to natural causes. Maybe that was the common demoninator. He checked a few online sources.
That was the common denominator. Everything was either covered up to the general public, or never even made it into the press. Excited to at least be finding something out, he checked over the sources that Philip had given for each story he'd dug up. All of them were under-the-counter, illicitly copied databases, reports not known to exist, or otherwise secrets.
Which meant that if he was going to get answers, his best chance would be to get them from May...from the killer. He knew enough to drop the "would-be." For somebody who looked to be about eighteen, he had more deaths to his credit than most entire military divisions.
No wonder he'd been fretting about missing "important assignments." It's a big world, Lex thought grimly as he got up. Lots of people to kill.
***
Clark raised his eyes at the sound of a throat being cleared. He was too dizzy and weak to stand up, and he suspiciously eyed the target as the man opened the door.
"You've got quite a history, don't you?" The man seemed to be speaking casually, as if making conversation. "Mostly murder and sabotage, but also the occasional rescue." Clark tried to ignore him. The target was only trying to taunt him. He'd never committed a murder in his life.
