The Death and Life of Superman (26 page)

“Good. Do you remember your full name? Do you know where you are?”

“Yes, dammit! I’m Paul Westfield, and we’re in Metropolis . . .” There was a slight chill in the air, and Westfield looked around, suddenly realizing that he was lying on a stretcher on the sidewalk. “. . . outside the city morgue building! And don’t worry, I don’t have a concussion! I’m just—just—”
I’m just mad as hell! I’ll have your shield, you self-righteous fool, as well as Superman’s body, before this is over.
“Never mind!”

The Guardian smiled wryly.
I wish Dubbilex hadn’t already left for the Project. I can guess what you’re thinking, Paul, but I’d love to get confirmation.
“Do you feel like sitting up?”

Westfield dearly wished to say no, but he decided that he’d already shown enough weakness for one day. He nodded carefully and grudgingly accepted the Guardian’s hand. He started to look around, saw Supergirl again, and drew back involuntarily.

“What did she do to me?”

Much to Westfield’s distress, Maggie Sawyer stepped forward. “It’s called a psychokinetic blast. And you’re lucky that all she did was sweep you and your toy soldiers out the door.”

Lucky?
“You can’t talk to me that way, Sawyer!”

“Paul . . .” The Guardian’s hand tightened on his. “You
were
lucky. Don’t press it.”

Westfield shuffled uncertainly to his feet. He nearly fell over when he saw Inspector Turpin supervising the roundup of his Cadmus forces. They were filing back into their troop carrier, walking a gauntlet of heavily armed SCU cops. One last Cadmus soldier was glumly dropping his weapon atop a pile of captured assault rifles.

“Hey!” Turpin shoved his derby forward. “Come back here and stack that neat!”

The soldier looked up at the big bear of a man. Turpin glowered down at him, ominously cracking his knuckles. The soldier swallowed hard and rushed to comply.

This was too much. Later, Westfield would wonder where all the adrenaline was coming from, but for now he was simply grateful for the energy rush. He pulled himself up as tall and straight as he knew how and peppered the air with every profane and pungent comment he could think of.

Maggie Sawyer stood patiently with her hands on her hips until his verbal barrage had died down to a sputter. Then she poked a finger into his chest. “I’d light a
candle
if I were you, Westfield.” Her voice was a brittle whisper. “You could have gotten your boys killed in there . . . and we’ve had enough killing around here today.”

Westfield glared at her, furious and frustrated almost to the point of apoplexy. A glance across the street brought added insult: The WLEX news technicians were mounting a new microwave dish to the top of their van.

“You won’t get away with this, Sawyer! I’m holding you all responsible! When Washington hears about this fiasco—!”

“Washington has already heard, Mister . . . Westfield, is it?” Westfield jerked around, but he’d already recognized the voice; the Australian accent was a dead giveaway.

Lex Luthor II sauntered toward him; a shorter man huffed alongside. Luthor gave Westfield his most sharklike smile. “Yes, Mr. Westfield, Washington knows all about this fiasco, as you so accurately put it. And what’s more, they hold you responsible. They’re none too happy with you for ordering the destruction of equipment belonging to my television station, not to mention your interference with the local constabulary.” Lex glanced down at the man who accompanied him. “Isn’t that right, Mayor Berkowitz?”

“You can take that to the bank, Luthor.” Berkowitz stepped forward, his face red with fury and wounded civic pride. “I have a little something for you,
Mr.
Westfield—faxes from the
White House
!” The mayor brandished a curling sheaf of pages like a protective talisman, waving them under Westfield’s nose.

Westfield almost laughed in Berkowitz’s face.
The man’s seen too many old movies.
But then he caught a glimpse of the seal of the President on the top page of the faxes. Suddenly there was nothing at all funny about the little mayor.

“The President himself has rescinded your authority in this matter.” Berkowitz continued to shake the faxes as he spoke. “Superman’s genetic heritage may be alien, but as far as we’re concerned—and the President agrees—he’s an American! And by God, we intend to see that he’s given a decent burial.
In Metropolis!
”

“But, Mayor Berkowitz . . .” Westfield swallowed his pride. “Sir, please, if only you’d let me explain—”

“Don’t bother, mate.” Lex looked at Berkowitz, ready to step aside in case the mayor wanted to do his own interrupting. Berkowitz just smiled tightly and gestured for Luthor to continue.

“I’d say you’ve already blathered on quite enough. You put your foot right in this one, Westfield. You’ve made a priceless ass of yourself and your entire organization. Oh, and don’t bother trying to claim that Doomsday beastie, either. We’ve convinced the president to let S.T.A.R. Labs dispose of him.”

Westfield felt numb.
How could everything fall apart on me like this? What did I do wrong?

“Now, as a patriotic citizen, I’m willing to overlook the extensive damage done to my property.” Lex took the Cadmus boss by the arm and steered him toward the captured troop carrier. “I’ll even agree to keep mention o’ your little project out of the news,
if
you get in your truck and return to your base—
now.
Do we understand each other?”

Westfield nodded weakly.

“Good. Team Luthor will help the Guardian
escort
you to the county line. Good-bye to you, Mr. Westfield.”

In a matter of minutes, the Guardian kick-started his big motorcycle to life and pulled out, leading the caravan up a deserted Metropolis boulevard. The Cadmus troop carrier followed close behind, and the two Team Luthor men flew alongside, the eerie whine of their armor’s miniature jets echoing down the empty streets. For the sake of Project security, the Guardian had decided that they’d take the long way home. Once they were out of the county and free of Luthor’s men, they could proceed over the back roads to Mount Curtiss undetected. It wasn’t that he had any reason to distrust the LexCorp team, but Westfield had already made far too public a display of Project resources, and Harper was determined to see that some of Cadmus’s secrets remained secret.

I knew that Westfield had it in for Superman—he could never trust anyone with that much power, especially someone not under his control—but I never thought he’d stoop so low as to pick a fight over the man’s body.
The Guardian couldn’t deny that Cadmus had harbored more than its fair share of loose cannons over the years, Dabney Donovan being the prime example, but he’d been caught unprepared for this kind of reckless behavior from the administrator’s office.
Hijacking Superman’s body was the sort of high-handed stunt I’d have expected from Donovan. There had better be some changes made at Cadmus after this!

Scott Harris had just about convinced himself that the interests of national security would be best served by suppressing the story of Westfield’s aborted mission when Wallace Bailey’s voice crackled over his earphone. “I’m told that our remote crew has corrected their technical problems. Scott, are you there?”

“Yes, Wallace.” Harris firmly silenced any last qualms of conscience. “Everything is . . . under control now.”
Except for my nerves. As soon as we’re off the air, I think that I just might go behind the van and throw up.
He paused for a moment, thinking of all those millions of viewers tuned in to WLEX, totally unaware that a paramilitary operation had just been squelched at the city morgue.
And they’ll never know. They’ll never have the slightest idea.
The surrealism of the situation hit him and he had to grit his teeth to repress a sudden hysterical urge to giggle.
Hello, Mr. and Ms. America and all the ships at sea! Guess what? I’ve got a secret!

Scott hurriedly cleared his throat and launched into the introduction he had already prepared. “LexCorp CEO Lex Luthor II has just arrived, accompanied by Supergirl. I believe that Mr. Luthor is about to make a statement.”

The cameras cut to a medium close-up of Luthor and Supergirl standing on the steps of the morgue building, just in front of the main doors. No one would ever have guessed that, just minutes before, both of these glamorous people had taken sudden, ruthless action. Harris
had
been there, as his queasy stomach kept reminding him, and he himself could hardly believe it, even now.

Luthor stared into the cameras as if he were making eye contact with each viewer individually. “Ladies and gentlemen, the . . . death of Superman . . . has affected us all very deeply. A legend has been cruelly taken from us.

“It is fitting and proper that we mourn his passing . . . especially those of us in Metropolis, who knew him so well. To that end, Mayor Berkowitz has informed me that a section of Centennial Park will be set aside as a final resting place for our fallen champion.

“And I pledge to you now that the full resources of LexCorp International shall be put to work at that site, to erect a monument worthy of a Superman!”

Among the millions following Luthor’s broadcast were three people in the office of Perry White, managing editor of the
Daily Planet.
Lois Lane sat on an old swaybacked couch, blank faced and blank eyed, still clutching the torn remnant of Superman’s cape. Jimmy Olsen stood across the room, nominally listening to Luthor but keeping a worried eye on Lois. Perry himself stood next to the television, his hands jammed into his pockets. In times of stress, his old nicotine cravings were still acutely strong, and listening to the Luthor boy was most stressful. If Perry closed his eyes and ignored the accent, he swore he could hear Lex the First speaking. When young Lex pledged his company’s help in erecting a monument to the Man of Steel, the editor swore softly but fervently under his breath.
Slimy, opportunistic bastard. He’s setting himself up as chief mourner!

Jimmy kept glancing anxiously from the TV to Lois, increasingly concerned by her lack of reaction.
She’s hardly said a word since she turned in her story.
He started to take a step toward her, hesitated, and uneasily leaned back against White’s desk.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s had two awful shocks, what with Mr. Kent missing and Superman dying in her arms. Why, she was even responsible for giving Superman his name, for gosh sakes.
Jimmy stared forlornly past Lois, looking out unseemingly through one of the big windows in the corner office.
I wish Superman were still alive. I wish Mr. Kent would show up. And I wish Lois would say something. Anything!

Jimmy was so lost in thought that he jumped when Perry White abruptly snapped off the television set. “It’s been a long, hard day. Why don’t you kids go on home?”

“Home. Sure.” Lois spoke as if using the words for the first time.

Jimmy walked over to her. “Need a lift, Lois?”

“Thanks, Jimmy . . . but no. I’m . . . well, I’m
not
all right, but I can find my way.” She paused at the office door. “Thanks again, though.”

Lois was halfway across the City Room before she was noticed by Allie Fitzgerald. “Ms. Lane? L-Lois?” The copygirl had a round, cheerful face, a cherub’s face, but tonight she looked drawn, and her eyes were red from crying. “Has there been any word jet from Mr. Kent?”

“F-from Clark?! Clark is . . . is—!”
Oh, God!
“No, Allie. No word.”

“Well, don’t give up hope. There are thousands of folks still missing—and the phones are such a mess! Mr. Kent will turn up all right. I just know he will!”

“Sure. G’night, Allie.”

From the doorway to White’s office, Jimmy watched Lois pass through the double doors of the City Room and turn down the hall toward the elevators. “I hope Allie’s right.”

“Amen to that, Olsen. But, great Caesar’s ghost, you were there. You know as well as anyone—scores of buildings were toppled during Doomsday’s attack. Most of the people still missing—Kent included—are trapped in all that wreckage. Even if Clark is alive out there somewhere, he might not be by the time rescuers find him. If ever there was a time when we needed Superman and his X-ray vision, it’s right now! But he’s gone . . . and I doubt we’ll ever see another like him.”

“It’s so unfair, Chief. Ms. Lane and Mr. Kent had been engaged just a few months.”

“You don’t have to remind me, Jim. She’s taking it pretty hard.” White paused absently. “I’ve known Lois since she was little more than a girl, and I’ve never seen her so absolutely shattered. Lord, I don’t even want to think about how this must be affecting Clark’s parents! Jon and Martha Kent are damned good people—salt of the Earth! And Clark was dammit,
is
their only child. I should have called them earlier, but I keep waiting, hoping there’ll be some good news to give them. But with things still up in the air . . .” Perry sadly shook his head. “I tell you, Olsen, I’d almost rather face a firing squad than place that call!”

Lana Lang stood in a phone booth on the perimeter of a little self-service gas station outside Cloverdale, Indiana. She glanced nervously through the streaked glass, watching Peter Ross fill the tank of their car with unleaded gas. Their car . . . it was still strange to think of things as being theirs, to think of Peter as her fiancé. She loved him—loved him dearly—but it would never be like it was with Clark.