"I want to know who's responsible for this fiasco." Dr. Garner spoke
into the phone, his voice tight with anger. "You said they were reliable.
You said they were the best."
He picked up his gold pen, and tossed it back down.
"No, we're on my private line. Where is he now? I suggest you find him." He slammed down the receiver, and then leaned back in his chair.
Things had not gone according to plan. That's what he got, he supposed, for not handling things himself. He wouldn't make that mistake again.
It was now just a question of waiting for his next opportunity.
***************************************
"Yes, I understand. Thank you for calling, officer." Jonathan hung up the receiver and glanced over at his wife. Martha was sitting at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of tea long since gone cold.
"Jonathan, what is it? You have to tell me."
He ran a hand through his sandy hair. "The Metropolis P.D. found our truck, abandoned on the street. The keys weren't in it, but it had a flat tire."
"Then maybe Clark just got delayed."
"Honey, I don't want to say this, but we both know a flat tire wouldn't slow Clark down for more than a moment."
He and his wife had taken turns sitting up all night, waiting for the truck to pull in to the driveway, for their son to come home. And he hadn't. Jonathan desperately wanted another cup of coffee, but he'd already had half a dozen cups and his nerves were jangling.
He'd always believed it was his responsibility, as head of the family, to be the strong one, to hold them together. But lately things seemed to be spiraling out of control, and he didn't know what to do.
If Clark was in trouble, he would do anything in his power to help. But first he had to find Clark. There was no telling where he might be.
Martha looked up hopefully at the sound of tires crunching gravel, but Jonathan, looking out the window, shook his head.
"It's just, Pete, hon."
Pete Ross bounded up the porch stairs two at a time.
"I canvassed everyone who was at the Talon this early-no one's seen Clark, and Lana says he wasn't in at all yesterday."
Martha stood. "Pete, let me fix you some breakfast."
But Pete held up a hand. "That's OK, Mrs. Kent, I grabbed something at home. Thanks anyway." He looked hopefully at his best friend's father, who filled him in on the news from Metropolis.
"So what should we do now? I mean, I know Clark's, uh, different, but this isn't like him."
"I know." Jonathan mused quietly while he fixed fresh cups of tea for himself and his wife. "Pete, do you think Chloe could find out where this Jenna what's-her-name lives?"
Pete looked thoughtful. "You think Clark went back to Metropolis to find her."
"He seemed so taken with the idea that's she's, well, whatever you want to call it. I think he might have."
Martha accepted the fresh tea, but frowned.
"Jonathan, I know Clark was trying to play it down, but it sounds to me like this woman could harm him if she wanted to."
Jonathan could see his wife was trying not to show her fear, but he recognized the look in her dark eyes. He went to her and squeezed her shoulder.
"She'd have no reason to, Martha."
Pete nodded. "Mr. Kent's right-Clark said she was more scared of him than he was of her." He glanced quickly at his watch. "Look, I have to be in class in half an hour, but Chloe and I'll get to work as soon as we can. Don't worry."
Martha rose and hugged Pete.
"Thank you, Pete. I'm glad you're here."
"Just try not to make Chloe suspicious-at least, not any more suspicious than she usually is," Jonathan reminded him.
The young man grinned. "I'll do my best. I'll call as soon as I know anything."
Martha and Jonathan stood in the doorway watching as Pete's car disappeared down the road.
Martha sighed heavily.
"I'm glad he knows about Clark, Jonathan. It's one more person to look after him."
Jonathan kissed his wife's forehead.
"I know. Look, why don't you try to get some sleep? I'll wake you if Clark calls."
When his wife started to object he shot her a stern look. "Don't make me call Dr. Bryce."
"You can't-she's at a conference in New York this week anyway. But you're probably right. Just for a few minutes, though."
As Martha headed for the stairs she paused and glanced back over her shoulder at her husband.
"Jonathan, you know there's someone who can probably locate this woman a lot faster than Chloe can."
"Who?"
"Lex Luthor."
"No, he's the last person we should involve in this."
"But he has all kinds of connections."
Jonathan grimaced. "Legal and otherwise."
"What difference does it make if we get Clark back safe and sound?"
"Martha, let's wait and see what Pete and Chloe turn up. OK?"
It was Martha's turn to look stern.
"But if they don't find something soon we'll talk to Lex. We don't have to tell him everything-just what he needs to know. Promise me, Jonathan."
He sighed, but nodded.
"All right." ********************************
Chloe looked over the top of her green I-Mac.
"Pete, what's wrong with you? Why do you keep pacing like that? You're making me nervous."
Pete looked sheepish.
"Sorry, Clo. Guess I'm just kinda high strung today. Must have been that double mocha I had at the Talon this morning. So, have you got anything?"
"Patience is a virtue, my friend."
He snorted. "Yeah, right, when did you ever believe that?"
"Well, I've got an email address and an office phone number for the elusive Ms. Iverson. There's no answer at the office; she must take Fridays off."
"How about a home address?"
Chloe shook her head. "I'll have to go to some of my connections for that."
"Wait-if she ordered a ticket to the Future tech lecture."
Scrunching her shoulders, Chloe smiled apologetically.
"Sorry, I already checked-sent to her care of the Philosophy Department."
"Damn."
"So, do you want me to call my source at the Planet? He's be the best place to start."
Pete waved a hand absently.
"Yeah, yeah, go ahead. The sooner the better."
But Chloe frowned.
"Look, Pete, if it was Clark asking all this stuff I'd understand. But why do you want to know?" Her eyebrows lifted. "I can't help but notice Clark hasn't been around today-or yesterday either. What do you know that I don't?"
Pete ran his hands over his face.
"Look, Chloe, I can't tell you right now, ok? But believe me, I need to know how to find Jenna Iverson. Now we can stand here talking about it all day or you can help me. Which will it be?"
Chloe, taken aback a bit by Pete's vehemence, opened her mouth the protest. But at the expression on her friend's face she changed her mind.
"OK. I'll make some phone calls."
**************************************
"Mr. Kent?"
From an open window a cool evening breeze stirred the kitchen curtains. Jonathan didn't recognize the voice on the other end of the line. It was female, low-pitched, and definitely not Lana or Chloe. He tightened his grip on the receiver.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Jonathan Kent?"
"Yes?"
Martha appeared at the top of the stairs with a basket of laundry- Clark's laundry--and he waved to her to come quickly. In a flash she was across the room and pushing close to listen.
"Who are you?" Jonathan asked. "Where's my son?"
There was pause on the other end.
"That's a very long story, Mr. Kent, one I'm afraid I don't have time to tell you just now."
"Where's our son?" Martha repeated loudly.
"He's all right. I wanted to let you know that."
"Then why hasn't he come home?"
"He can't, not just yet."
Martha squeezed her husband's arm.
"Is he hurt?"
"I told you it's a long story. I'll bring him home as soon as I can."
Jonathan tried to loosen his grip on the phone, but found he couldn't. Since he couldn't get his hands on the person at the other end this was the next best thing.
"How do we know we can trust you?"
"You don't. But you can."
The caller abruptly hung up, and the Kent's found themselves staring at a buzzing phone line.
"Jonathan, she has him, I know she does. We have to get him back before something terrible happens." She wrapped her arms around her husband's chest and held on tightly.
"We'll get him back, Martha. She says he's all right. We have to have a faith that Clark will come through whatever's happened. He's come through so much else."
The Kents stood there in the kitchen for a long time, holding on to each other and silently praying that whoever had been on the other end of the phone had been telling the truth.
**********************************
The man in the dirty overalls carefully thumbed the crisp hundred-dollar bill in his hand.
"I could get fired for this, you know."
The other man promptly handed him another bill, of equal denomination to the first.
"Well, I guess it would be all right. It's down this way."
He led his benefactor down the rows of cars in the city impound lot. Most carried the yellow immobilization boot of the Metropolis Municipal Parking Services: those would be held until their owners could come up with the money to pay off their fines. But some of the other cars, abandoned or smashed up or both, would eventually be sold at auction or to the salvage yards.
"It's right down here." He paused before a black sedan, its left front end smashed, one headlight dangling like an eye out of its socket.
"And when did you say this one came in?"
"Yesterday afternoon. In the big storm the other night some idiot crashed into the corner of a dry cleaners over on Second Avenue, and just left the car there. Probably didn't have any insurance, the dope."
He watched as his visitor circled the car, examining it from all angles.
"Look, it's just a Lincoln. If you want somethin' flashier."
"No, this is exactly what I was looking for." The other man paused and leaned closer to the windshield. He carefully studied the hole, about seven inches across, in the safety glass.
"That's something, huh?" The attendant did his best to make conversation. "Usually when a head hits the windshield it doesn't punch all the way through like that. Whoever was driving is probably in the hospital with a concussion."
"Assuming that's what caused it," the man said absently. "The broken glass is on the driver's seat, not the hood. And the hole's about where the driver's head would have been, wouldn't you say?"
"What, the hole came from the outside? Guess that could happen, but whoever did it would have to have been standing on the hood of the car. And he'd have broken every bone in his hand."
"Maybe," Lex Luthor said absently. "Maybe not."
He picked up his gold pen, and tossed it back down.
"No, we're on my private line. Where is he now? I suggest you find him." He slammed down the receiver, and then leaned back in his chair.
Things had not gone according to plan. That's what he got, he supposed, for not handling things himself. He wouldn't make that mistake again.
It was now just a question of waiting for his next opportunity.
***************************************
"Yes, I understand. Thank you for calling, officer." Jonathan hung up the receiver and glanced over at his wife. Martha was sitting at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of tea long since gone cold.
"Jonathan, what is it? You have to tell me."
He ran a hand through his sandy hair. "The Metropolis P.D. found our truck, abandoned on the street. The keys weren't in it, but it had a flat tire."
"Then maybe Clark just got delayed."
"Honey, I don't want to say this, but we both know a flat tire wouldn't slow Clark down for more than a moment."
He and his wife had taken turns sitting up all night, waiting for the truck to pull in to the driveway, for their son to come home. And he hadn't. Jonathan desperately wanted another cup of coffee, but he'd already had half a dozen cups and his nerves were jangling.
He'd always believed it was his responsibility, as head of the family, to be the strong one, to hold them together. But lately things seemed to be spiraling out of control, and he didn't know what to do.
If Clark was in trouble, he would do anything in his power to help. But first he had to find Clark. There was no telling where he might be.
Martha looked up hopefully at the sound of tires crunching gravel, but Jonathan, looking out the window, shook his head.
"It's just, Pete, hon."
Pete Ross bounded up the porch stairs two at a time.
"I canvassed everyone who was at the Talon this early-no one's seen Clark, and Lana says he wasn't in at all yesterday."
Martha stood. "Pete, let me fix you some breakfast."
But Pete held up a hand. "That's OK, Mrs. Kent, I grabbed something at home. Thanks anyway." He looked hopefully at his best friend's father, who filled him in on the news from Metropolis.
"So what should we do now? I mean, I know Clark's, uh, different, but this isn't like him."
"I know." Jonathan mused quietly while he fixed fresh cups of tea for himself and his wife. "Pete, do you think Chloe could find out where this Jenna what's-her-name lives?"
Pete looked thoughtful. "You think Clark went back to Metropolis to find her."
"He seemed so taken with the idea that's she's, well, whatever you want to call it. I think he might have."
Martha accepted the fresh tea, but frowned.
"Jonathan, I know Clark was trying to play it down, but it sounds to me like this woman could harm him if she wanted to."
Jonathan could see his wife was trying not to show her fear, but he recognized the look in her dark eyes. He went to her and squeezed her shoulder.
"She'd have no reason to, Martha."
Pete nodded. "Mr. Kent's right-Clark said she was more scared of him than he was of her." He glanced quickly at his watch. "Look, I have to be in class in half an hour, but Chloe and I'll get to work as soon as we can. Don't worry."
Martha rose and hugged Pete.
"Thank you, Pete. I'm glad you're here."
"Just try not to make Chloe suspicious-at least, not any more suspicious than she usually is," Jonathan reminded him.
The young man grinned. "I'll do my best. I'll call as soon as I know anything."
Martha and Jonathan stood in the doorway watching as Pete's car disappeared down the road.
Martha sighed heavily.
"I'm glad he knows about Clark, Jonathan. It's one more person to look after him."
Jonathan kissed his wife's forehead.
"I know. Look, why don't you try to get some sleep? I'll wake you if Clark calls."
When his wife started to object he shot her a stern look. "Don't make me call Dr. Bryce."
"You can't-she's at a conference in New York this week anyway. But you're probably right. Just for a few minutes, though."
As Martha headed for the stairs she paused and glanced back over her shoulder at her husband.
"Jonathan, you know there's someone who can probably locate this woman a lot faster than Chloe can."
"Who?"
"Lex Luthor."
"No, he's the last person we should involve in this."
"But he has all kinds of connections."
Jonathan grimaced. "Legal and otherwise."
"What difference does it make if we get Clark back safe and sound?"
"Martha, let's wait and see what Pete and Chloe turn up. OK?"
It was Martha's turn to look stern.
"But if they don't find something soon we'll talk to Lex. We don't have to tell him everything-just what he needs to know. Promise me, Jonathan."
He sighed, but nodded.
"All right." ********************************
Chloe looked over the top of her green I-Mac.
"Pete, what's wrong with you? Why do you keep pacing like that? You're making me nervous."
Pete looked sheepish.
"Sorry, Clo. Guess I'm just kinda high strung today. Must have been that double mocha I had at the Talon this morning. So, have you got anything?"
"Patience is a virtue, my friend."
He snorted. "Yeah, right, when did you ever believe that?"
"Well, I've got an email address and an office phone number for the elusive Ms. Iverson. There's no answer at the office; she must take Fridays off."
"How about a home address?"
Chloe shook her head. "I'll have to go to some of my connections for that."
"Wait-if she ordered a ticket to the Future tech lecture."
Scrunching her shoulders, Chloe smiled apologetically.
"Sorry, I already checked-sent to her care of the Philosophy Department."
"Damn."
"So, do you want me to call my source at the Planet? He's be the best place to start."
Pete waved a hand absently.
"Yeah, yeah, go ahead. The sooner the better."
But Chloe frowned.
"Look, Pete, if it was Clark asking all this stuff I'd understand. But why do you want to know?" Her eyebrows lifted. "I can't help but notice Clark hasn't been around today-or yesterday either. What do you know that I don't?"
Pete ran his hands over his face.
"Look, Chloe, I can't tell you right now, ok? But believe me, I need to know how to find Jenna Iverson. Now we can stand here talking about it all day or you can help me. Which will it be?"
Chloe, taken aback a bit by Pete's vehemence, opened her mouth the protest. But at the expression on her friend's face she changed her mind.
"OK. I'll make some phone calls."
**************************************
"Mr. Kent?"
From an open window a cool evening breeze stirred the kitchen curtains. Jonathan didn't recognize the voice on the other end of the line. It was female, low-pitched, and definitely not Lana or Chloe. He tightened his grip on the receiver.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Jonathan Kent?"
"Yes?"
Martha appeared at the top of the stairs with a basket of laundry- Clark's laundry--and he waved to her to come quickly. In a flash she was across the room and pushing close to listen.
"Who are you?" Jonathan asked. "Where's my son?"
There was pause on the other end.
"That's a very long story, Mr. Kent, one I'm afraid I don't have time to tell you just now."
"Where's our son?" Martha repeated loudly.
"He's all right. I wanted to let you know that."
"Then why hasn't he come home?"
"He can't, not just yet."
Martha squeezed her husband's arm.
"Is he hurt?"
"I told you it's a long story. I'll bring him home as soon as I can."
Jonathan tried to loosen his grip on the phone, but found he couldn't. Since he couldn't get his hands on the person at the other end this was the next best thing.
"How do we know we can trust you?"
"You don't. But you can."
The caller abruptly hung up, and the Kent's found themselves staring at a buzzing phone line.
"Jonathan, she has him, I know she does. We have to get him back before something terrible happens." She wrapped her arms around her husband's chest and held on tightly.
"We'll get him back, Martha. She says he's all right. We have to have a faith that Clark will come through whatever's happened. He's come through so much else."
The Kents stood there in the kitchen for a long time, holding on to each other and silently praying that whoever had been on the other end of the phone had been telling the truth.
**********************************
The man in the dirty overalls carefully thumbed the crisp hundred-dollar bill in his hand.
"I could get fired for this, you know."
The other man promptly handed him another bill, of equal denomination to the first.
"Well, I guess it would be all right. It's down this way."
He led his benefactor down the rows of cars in the city impound lot. Most carried the yellow immobilization boot of the Metropolis Municipal Parking Services: those would be held until their owners could come up with the money to pay off their fines. But some of the other cars, abandoned or smashed up or both, would eventually be sold at auction or to the salvage yards.
"It's right down here." He paused before a black sedan, its left front end smashed, one headlight dangling like an eye out of its socket.
"And when did you say this one came in?"
"Yesterday afternoon. In the big storm the other night some idiot crashed into the corner of a dry cleaners over on Second Avenue, and just left the car there. Probably didn't have any insurance, the dope."
He watched as his visitor circled the car, examining it from all angles.
"Look, it's just a Lincoln. If you want somethin' flashier."
"No, this is exactly what I was looking for." The other man paused and leaned closer to the windshield. He carefully studied the hole, about seven inches across, in the safety glass.
"That's something, huh?" The attendant did his best to make conversation. "Usually when a head hits the windshield it doesn't punch all the way through like that. Whoever was driving is probably in the hospital with a concussion."
"Assuming that's what caused it," the man said absently. "The broken glass is on the driver's seat, not the hood. And the hole's about where the driver's head would have been, wouldn't you say?"
"What, the hole came from the outside? Guess that could happen, but whoever did it would have to have been standing on the hood of the car. And he'd have broken every bone in his hand."
"Maybe," Lex Luthor said absently. "Maybe not."