The Weiss Residence...
Clark landed discreetly to the rear of the Weiss home, its expansive gardens leaving ample room to make an inconspicuous entrance. In the driveway he could see the police cruiser parked under a multitude of conifers. It was still visible enough to hopefully provide some kind of deterrent, but Kent was concerned the two cops on duty might think their presence enough to ward off the bad guy. That would be a serious mistake.
Unassumingly he strode across the well cared for lawn and approached the cruiser, tugging out his badge from his back pocket to show the on duty officers. As he neared the blue and white he froze, seeing a uniformed arm hanging limp from the driver's side window. Congealed blood covered the deathly white fingers that drooped lifelessly in the looming shadows.
Clark scanned the vehicle without getting any closer, the motionless hand giving off some portent of the evil he would surely now find within the house.
Both officers lay where they had been slain, each man carrying an expression of shock as if they had been caught unawares. Their throats had been sliced, but their heads not severed from their bodies. Had there been time for sentiment, Clark would have gagged at the sight of what turned out to be two old friends. As it was he placed his attentions back to the Weiss home, and what deadly sins lay inside.
Cautiously he stepped onto the veranda and gently slid back the glass patio door, careful not to touch anything that might need to be dusted for prints later. Once inside the home he began to use his visual acuity to its maximum potential. Scanning every well kept room for signs of life, or of the 'Rainman'.
Downstairs appeared to have been left untouched, each meticulously neat area showing no indication of any kind of struggle, or altercation. The kitchen told an almost eerie tale of urban life, every place set for a full breakfast. Clark felt the cups and noted the coffee within them was still warm to the touch. Whatever had happened here had been recent and fast. A ghostly tale from earth's past, about a ship found adrift with the table set came to his mind, and he found himself paralleling this scene with that of the 'Marie Celeste'. What ethereal tale did this home have to tell?
Upstairs Clark perceived music playing, the volume so low only his auditory reach would detect it. With the hope he could still perhaps save a life, he sped up the staircase in double quick time, scanning each bedroom as he reached the top.
Across the landing, more bloodstains spattered along the bright pink walls, dashing all hope of survivors. And in one corner a handprint stamped in red, guided the detective to two more decimated bodies. He didn't need to look for their I.D.'s to know it was the Weiss's. Their corpses lay huddled together near a doorway, as if somehow they had made one last attempt to crawl here and save their son, despite the horrific injuries inflicted upon them.
Clark read the kid's nameplate lovingly affixed to the closed door.
Daryl, The Best Son In The World Resides Here!
Gulping, Clark gently pushed on the handle, suddenly not wanting to x-ray the room for fear of what he would see yet again. Inside was strewn with clothes, C.D. cases, and various other items typical of a ten year old. Posters adorned all four walls, mainly of rock groups, and on the bed lay the source of the music Clark had heard. A tiny MP3 player had been jury rigged to a set of speakers, and as its batteries slowly died, so was the volume of the music.
Clark gazed around, surprised that there were no signs of a struggle or blood anywhere. Perhaps Daryl hadn't been home when the 'Rainman' had called? The detective whirled around; about to tug the radio he always carried in his back pocket out and call in when a white piece of paper blew across from the window sill. Carefully he caught one edge of the note, realizing it held not only another message, but a bloodied, smudged finger print.
Death be not proud, though some have called thee...
This time Clark didn't finish reading the lamenting verse; instead he finally recalled where he had heard it before.
"It's John Donne, one of Lana's favorite's..." The whispered words to no one in particular wafted through the empty bedroom as a long repressed memory caused Kent to panic.
He belatedly pulled out his radio, then paused as the Bon Jovi song 'In These Arms Tonight' began to hum from the MP3 player. It was as if the music added fuel to his already ghoulish suspicions, and fear overwhelmed him.
'I need you, like a poet needs the rain...'
Without further thought he keyed in his access code and hastily called into dispatch, "I want an A.P.B. placed on Byron Moore immediately, and can you patch me through to Detective Lane?" While he waited for the patch he continued to call in what he had found, asking for further backup and forensic units to be sent to the scene.
After ten tense minutes Lois finally pulled up outside in her Cherokee, preferring to access the scene in person rather than radio contact. As she jumped from her vehicle Clark jogged out to meet her. "There's no body this time, there's always the chance the kid is still alive! We need to find Moore and fast."
Lois eyed him with her most skeptical look to date. She was no amateur at this game and had requested Moore's details on the way over. "You're worried that Lana, you're old girlfriend is involved too aren't you?"
Clark had to admit he was, but then he was concerned for everyone involved, not just one person. Whether it was Lana or Daryl, they had to act fast. "We need to find him Lois, do we know where he and Lana are supposed to be staying?"
Lois nodded. "We have a S.W.A.T. team on the way already. Manning is on the ball with this, but to be honest I doubt we'll find him there. He has to know we're getting close, maybe he even wants us to catch him remember?"
"You think he wants a last stand? That's why he kept this kid alive?" Clark could see where his partner was going, it was logical, and yet it didn't explain the Luthor connection. If Byron had escaped what their evil experiment had inflicted on him, why would he do all this for Lex now? It was no coincidence of that Clark was sure. "Can you bring all the properties owned by Luthorcorp or Lex up on the database? Or anything that Byron might have registered in his name? I know it's a long shot but if he really does want us to find him..."
Lois tugged her Jeep door back open and typed in the request, her fingers skipping fluidly over the down-sized keyboard. While she waited for a response she turned back. "And just why couldn't you do this? Where is your car?"
Clark squirmed under her inquiring gaze, and was just about to spout a white lie when the in-car screen blinked with the information they had requested. Using the split second that Lois turned to his advantage, Clark super-sped up behind, read the data he needed, and was just a vanishing dot on the horizon as his colleague whirled back around. Lois's brow furrowed quizzically at his sudden disappearing act, but then she was sorely getting used to his evasive tactics when it came to having a partner...
A Squalid Downtown Building...
Moore inspected the Katana in his possession with a kind of reverence, its evil blade glimmering in the soft candlelit backroom where he stored his trophies. A rat scuttled across the floor, unafraid, and he was tempted to slice it. Whatever part of him that had been remorseful about his crimes had been at last eradicated by repeated doses of the Luthorcorp drugs he had been given. There would never be a cure for the sickness Metron had caused, only a treatment to curtail its effects. Those were the cruel facts that Luthor had laid out to him.
A voice, both terrified and angry called out his name from where she had been tied. "Byron why? Please you need help..."
Lucky for Lana, that he had placed a burlap sack over her head before lighting the candles. Byron doubted she would stand the view otherwise. A short snigger escaped his lips as he gazed on the maggot ridden heads of his victims. The smell must be overwhelming to Lana and the kid, but Byron didn't mind it, somehow it tantalized his nostrils. Odors, contours, shapes, all inspired him to write his best work. Just like the rain motivated him to kill.
"Byron Please!" Lana writhed on her seat, somehow knowing just who and what she had married, but not accepting it. "How could you kill children?"
The poet refused to answer. Instead he ambled over to Daryl, the kid he had thus far spared. He too had been almost smothered in burlap, but unlike Lana remained silent, despite the taunts and overpowering dark gothic atmosphere. Moore ran the sword along the kid's swathed head, watching for the instinctive jerk back, but it didn't come.
"Why don't you fear me boy?" He whispered threateningly into the youngster's ear, "you don't even squirm or cry like the others..."
Daryl shuddered, his thin, wiry frame remaining static on the stool his legs had been tied to. "I can't fear what I already know..." The youthful voice cracked as the words came out, but his cryptic answer displeased his captor even more.
"You already know what?" Moore brought the hilt of the blade to the boy's neck and slammed it sharply down. The blow was far fiercer than he intended, and Daryl slumped forward like a rag doll. For a moment Byron feared he had knocked the kid out, but then Daryl somehow regained his composure, and miraculously kept his seat.
"I know about you, why you do these things, and I know what will be the inevitable outcome..." Daryl stammered out the words, slurring some of them as his bruised brain tried to say conscious.
This time Moore ignored his response, and hauled off the sacking that had been his blindfold. With the tip of the historic Katana he raised the kid's sagging head by placing it under his chin. "Look over there boy, that is who and what I am." He pointed to the rotting heads. "You'll turn out the same. All Luthor creations do. It's better that you die now...I wish I had. The madness has to end, that's why I have done the unthinkable..."
Daryl shied away from the horrific sight that greeted him, and tried in vain to raise his tethered hands to his face. "I already saw, don't make me look again..." The youth closed his eyes, rocking back and forth like he had entered some semi catatonic state.
"How could I have married such a monster!" Lana still couldn't see, but she knew all too well what her husband was doing. What was worse was the thought that she had never once suspected what he had become. "How did you hide what you were from me?"
"I loved you...still love you, but I could not change the monster Metron made me..." Byron wanted to say more, to explain his irrational actions as best his insane mind could, but outside the concealed mirror door he had heard a sound.
Not wanting to alert his captives that they had company, but needing to be prepared for the inevitable, he stepped over to a long since boarded up window and began to remove the wooden slats. As the muted daylight began to stream in through the exposed, grubby glass, Byron began to change. The transformation appeared subtle at first, but then as Daryl watched, the poet seemed to turn into something not quite human. Had Lana been able to see, it would have been an all too familiar change, and not for the better.
"What's happening?" The ex-cheerleader tried to turn towards the sounds her husband was making, but was hampered by her still secure bonds. "Kid, what is he doing?" Her tone became more hysterical as she began to guess the unthinkable.
Daryl squinted, watching his captor, but finding his throat suddenly far too dry to answer.
Byron was leering at the boy, his thickened brow giving him the appearance of something almost stone-age and untamed. In his hand the Katana whirled delicately in a sweeping motion, ever ready for the opponent he knew was about to enter...
Clark landed on the rotting window sill of Moore's apartment and furtively slid open the decaying frame. There were no locks, perhaps because Byron thought it too high to be a security risk, or perhaps because he didn't care. Either way Kent had gained entry with the maximum of ease, and that was worrying. The room he dropped into appeared uninhabited; there were no signs of anyone ever actually calling this home, but then when Clark glanced around he noticed something he didn't even need x-ray vision for. On the floor, trailing from the door to an unobtrusive mirror in the corner were several sets of footprints ingrained in the thick carpet of dust.
Cautiously the detective walked slowly over to the looking glass, its antique gilded frame reminding Clark of one his mom had back home. This mirror however was much less innocent than his mom's. Tuning his eyes to the exact level required, Clark let the reflecting glass surface melt away, revealing the macabre chamber that lay within.
The first sight that awaited him was Byron Moore's almost possessed face gazing back through the mirror. It was as if he were waiting, just like they had suspected he would, and what was worse he wasn't alone. A long samurai blade sat menacingly under the missing boy's chin, ready to slice out in a heartbeat.
"Come on in Kent...I was hoping it would be you who found me first..." Byron mouthed the words, letting Clark know that somehow he could see what was happening in the outside room. Perhaps he had a hidden camera or other monitoring device, but it didn't matter now.
Not being one to refuse an invitation, Clark spared no time searching for the concealed latch, and with one strategically placed punch, obliterated the aged glass before him. It imploded into the secret room, sending shards of reflective material cascading onto the sparse wooden floor.
"Impressive..." Moore's insincere smile made Kent shudder, "I remembered just how strong you were...I hoped you would be the officer assigned to the task of catching me..."
Clark watched the tip of the sword dig ever so slightly into Daryl's neck. Somehow he had to pacify Moore long enough to formulate a plan. It would be easy to use his powers and save the day, but not if it put the life of a hostage in jeopardy.
Byron sensed the cop's thoughts and backed away towards the now fully open window, dragging Daryl and the stool with him. "Do you really want to show off your strength in front of the kid here? Maybe I should remove Lana's hood too..." The poet taunted Clark, hoping he would react. When no such reaction came, he knew he would have to use more drastic measures.
Tipping the sword till it began to dig into the back of the youngster's spine, he took one last look at his foe. "Stop me now Kent, or his head comes off!"
Clark knew the sentence had been aimed at eliciting a response, but he also knew Moore would follow through if he stood and did nothing. Had Daryl not been so close it would have been easy to relieve his enemy of the Katana, but at this distance Clark wouldn't take any risks with heat vision or anything else.
With little other choice, he used speed to his advantage and hurled his powerful body towards the window. It was what Byron had yearned for, prayed for even, and now it was happening he tossed the insignificant boy to one side.
Clark crashed headlong into Moore as Daryl landed safely just yards away. The two battling strongmen slammed into the grimy window, shattering the glass, then recoiled just far enough not to go hurtling through onto the ground below.
Moore brought up his weapon and swiped at his adversary with bone-wrenching blows. The blade rebounded from Kent's skin, tiny shards of metal tearing from its cutting edge where it had impacted with indestructible flesh. Byron scowled, but refused to drop his artistic weapon. Instead he dragged back his muscular frame and spun it again, ready for another assault.
Clark retreated slightly, checking on the hostages. "Don't do this Byron. We can still get you help...we need to stop the real monster...the man behind this. Only you can help us do that."
Moore laughed, and this time it wasn't the chortle of a mad man. It was the cold, fearful laugh of a man who knew there was no hope. He eyed Clark, shaking his head, then turned his gaze slightly as booted footfalls echoed from the landing corridor. "You'll never catch him...he's inexorable..."
This time Byron launched himself at the detective, wielding the Katana above his head as he screamed some ancient, despondent battle cry. Clark dodged the first maneuver, and Moore smashed headlong into his own grisly trophy table, his garish hoard rolling slimily across the floor. The pause was momentary, and then the madman was charging again, this time at Lana. If he could not incense Kent to kill him for anything else, then surely for her...
Clark predetermined his rival's plan faster than Byron could even think it, and placed himself between husband and wife for one last time. Now that he had Moore on his own it would be simple to use his heat vision to melt the offensive weapon. Using just the right temperature to make Byron drop the blade, he honed in on the hilt. Startled, his adversary stumbled, and the weapon fell from his grasp onto the grimy floorboards. Incensed, Moore resumed his charge and barreled into Kent; both men crashing into the wall so hard the whole room rocked with a tiny tremor.
"Dammit, fight me Kent!" The aggressor dug his fingers deeply into Clark's throat, and the cop was surprised at just how strong he had become. His power however was still no match for Clark.
With one tap of his hand, Clark sent Moore sprawling across the sordid chamber, leaving miniature dust flurries in his wake. He rolled with the blow, like some martial arts master and reacquainted himself with his sword. The hilt still dissipated great heat, and as his fingers wrapped around it they began to blister. Byron never noticed, instead he made one last kamikaze run, knowing reinforcements had at last arrived...
The sudden footfalls came to a stop outside the now accessible mirror door and after seconds Lois flew in, gun drawn. She was swiftly followed by Brett Falmer and a handful of uniform cops. Now Clark would have to be much more restrained, or let them see his true self.
"Put the weapon down now!" Lois screamed the order, keeping her barrel pointed firmly on her target. "I said now!" Falmer had his thirty-eight's sights trained in much the same way.
Byron carried on as if he had never heard them. Perhaps the sane part of him had, because he knew what the outcome of disobeying the order would be.
"No!" Clark could see what was happening in a kind of time warp, and felt powerless to stop it. "Don't shoot!" Without Moore they had no concrete proof who had been behind the killings.
Byron continued undaunted, and this time there would be no respite. As his blade almost reached Kent, a single shot rang out across the apartment, sending Byron sprawling in a fine spray of his own blood. Falmer watched as his victim tumbled to the ground, then approached with his weapon still at the ready. When it became apparent Moore would be no more trouble, he turned to the uniforms and began to bark out essential orders.
Clark ignored the rules, ignored the protocols and kneeled, cradling the dying man's head in his arms. "Why Byron? It needn't have come to this..."
The kid killer's glazing eyes looked up at the man he had once considered a friend. "I had to die, and so did they, you'll understand..." He paused, wheezing as he coughed up a mouthful of blood. "The moving finger writes; and having writ moves on: nor all your piety nor wit shall lure it back...I cannot change what I have done. My time has come to an end. Watch over Lana for me..."
Despite all he had done Clark looked down on the mortally wounded man with pity. Moore couldn't help what he had become, but perhaps Clark could stop it ever happening again. "You have to give me a name Byron, who wanted these kids killed and why?"
Moore grinned as he drew his last few breaths, each effort draining more from him. His eyelids fluttered closed, and for a moment Kent thought it was too late. Then his lips pursed and he rasped out one final poetic lament. "Lu...t...hor..."