The Death and Life of Superman (28 page)

Jorge Sanchez sat at
the cramped little desk in the morgue, filling out what seemed to be an endless stream of forms and affidavits.
I know that there are good, legal reasons why this must be done, but I wish that I was not the one who had to do it.
The doctor put down his pen and gently massaged his writing hand. Normally, this would have been the job of the city coroner or her assistant, but through his involvement in the resuscitation efforts, the duty had fallen to Sanchez. He pulled his jacket tighter around him.
Wish I’d brought a sweater with me. They always keep it so damned cold in here.
He shivered—
what was the old expression?—“as cold as the grave”? Whoever came up with that one must’ve worked in a place like this!

A knock came at the door, and before Sanchez could answer, a derby sitting atop a massive pair of shoulders pushed it slightly ajar.

“Ah, Doc, you’re still here. Good. Got a moment to gab with a VIP?”

Sanchez looked at the pile of forms.
Given the alternative . . .
“Of course, Inspector Turpin. Be glad to.”

Turpin nodded and swung the door wide. “Mr. Luthor, this is Dr. Jorge Sanchez. Doc, say hello to—!”

“Mr. Luthor!” Jorge was already on his feet, taking the hand offered by the red-haired visitor. “This is an honor, sir!”

“An honor, Doctor? What, to shake hands with me?” The hint of a smile flickered at the corners of the young man’s mouth. “Why, the inspector here could tell you, I’m just a lucky young bastard who inherited too much money from an absent father.”

“From what I’ve seen, you spend it as well as he did, sir. The funds you’ve given my hospital have helped save many lives.”

“Well, we all do what we can. I understand that you signed Superman’s death certificate, Doctor.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor. As I’m sure you’re aware, due to his body’s virtual invulnerability, a standard autopsy was impossible. And as I’d had occasion to examine Superman during his life—”

“You had? Really?”

“Yes, sir. Just a couple of years ago, I treated Superman when he was shot with kryptonite bullets by a deranged killer who called himself Bloodsport.”

“Ah, yes . . .”
Bloodsport botched the job badly; I never should have employed such a sociopathic fool.
“I—ah—believe I read about that, Doctor.”

“Because of my familiarity with Superman, I was called in to assist with the resuscitation efforts. After those proved unsuccessful, this—” he gestured around the room “—became my duty.”

Luthor looked over at an examination table where a still form reposed. It was covered by a stark white sheet. “Is that—?”

Sanchez nodded. “Yes.”

“May we—?”

Sanchez nodded again and solemnly pulled back the sheet, revealing Superman’s battered face. Turpin removed his hat, holding it respectfully over his heart, while Luthor silently stared long and hard at the fallen hero. It was as if, thought Sanchez, Luthor was trying to commit every contour of Superman’s face, every bruise and contusion, to memory.

“I never thought I’d live to see the big guy in here.” Turpin’s voice cracked and snuffled. “I still can’t believe that he’s gone. There’ll never be another like ’im. Never.”

“No.” Luthor finally turned away. “No, there never shall.” He stopped and speared Sanchez with his eyes. “The murderer—Doomsday—where is his body?”

The doctor wilted slightly in Luthor’s gaze. “O-over there.”

Across the room, behind a curtain, Doomsday had been laid out across two examination tables shoved together. Luthor pulled back the sheet. “So this is the beast.” He glowered at the ugly creature. “It isn’t right. It’s just not right!”

Luthor’s hand brushed against an old straight-backed wooden chair. Before either Sanchez or Turpin could react, Luthor swung the chair up over his head, smashing it down on Doomsday again and again.

“Hey!” Turpin came charging across the room. “What do ya think you’re doing?”

“Not right! Not right at all!” Lex was screaming as the chair broke apart. “Miserable, stinking—!”

Turpin grabbed Lex by the shoulders and hauled him back. “Take it easy, Luthor! I know how ya feel, but smashin’ furniture over Mr. Ugly here won’t do you any good.”

No, Inspector, you do
not
know how I feel.
Lex stood shaking with anger.
Superman was mine to kill. Mine! And this bloody monster has robbed me of my revenge.

The elevator of the Clinton Apartments stopped at the third floor, and Lois Lane stepped out. Like a sleepwalker, she shuffled down the hall to apartment 3-D, her head bowed as if in prayer.
Please, God, don’t let anyone come along. I couldn’t bear to talk with any of Clark’s neighbors . . . not now.

Lois fished a key from her purse, fitted it into the lock, and went in. Clark’s apartment was just the way they’d left it that morning.
Maybe I shouldn’t have come here, but all I have of Clark’s . . . all that’s left me . . . is in this place.
She felt suddenly light-headed and had to lean back against the door for support. After several minutes of slow, deep breaths, she regained enough of her equilibrium to make it to the bathroom, where she lost what little was in her stomach. After washing her mouth out under the tap and splashing her face with water, she felt more capable of facing the empty apartment again.

Lois looked around. It wasn’t a very big apartment, but it seemed monstrously large and empty without Clark.
I can’t believe I’ve lost him. Just this morning, we were having breakfast here. Just last night—!
She ran her hand along the edge of a table, collecting no dust. Clark always kept the place so tidy. Lois’s fingers brushed against two framed photographs. One picture was of her and Clark, taken just a few weeks after they’d become engaged, just days after he’d told her that he was Superman. The other picture was of his parents.

Jonathan and Martha . . . by now they must know what happened. The whole world knows by now.
The room seemed to sway, and Lois gripped the desk to steady herself.
By tomorrow morning, the Kents will be getting the same sort of reassurances from their friends as I got from Allie at the
Planet. Lois shuddered, remembering her earlier encounter with the newspaper’s copygirl.
Allie meant well, but it just about killed me when she said that Clark would turn up. I almost slipped . . . almost told her that Clark was Superman.

Lois reached under her coat and pulled out the tattered piece of Superman’s cape. She held it out in front of her, trying to smooth the wrinkled S-shield.
I mustn’t tell anyone. Superman had so many enemies . . . some of them wouldn’t think twice about taking their revenge on his family.
Lois looked again at the picture of the Kents.
His family . . . I was almost a part of it.

I . . . I must call them. They loved Clark so much.
Lois turned and managed to take two steps toward the telephone before she felt all the strength go out of her legs.

Clutching the cape, Lois sank to her knees.
We all loved him . . . so very, very much.
She knelt there on the floor for several minutes, sobbing until there were simply no tears left in her. Completely drained, Lois then slid the rest of the way to the floor and fell into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

In a dark alley in the Metropolis borough of Bakerline, George Rogan sat behind the wheel of a late-model Plymouth. He nervously drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and kept glancing from his watch to the service entrance of the jewelry exchange, waiting for his friends.
What’re they doing in there?
George didn’t care if Superman
was
dead, this was no time to dawdle.
Why can’t I ever pick smart guys to work with?
George shook his head.
Because
I’m
not smart, that’s why.
There they were, risking their necks on a heist that might net them a few thousand bucks—if they were lucky—when every day, guys in suits sat in their offices and scammed millions from suckers who never knew they were being taken.
Yeah, white-collar crime . . . that’s where the real dough is.

Inside the jewelry exchange building, Danny Wilson and Richard Drucker had finally forced open the door of an old vault and were merrily scooping precious gems into a couple of canvas bags. Danny felt something rustle under his touch, and broke into a broad grin. “Oh, mama! I believe we’ve hit the mother lode!”

“Keep your voice down!” Drucker’s warning was a harsh, hissing whisper.

“Okay, okay! But dig it, Richie, there’s a huge wad of bills back underneath these gem cases . . . twenties, fifties, hundreds!”

“And you’re excited about that? Danny, that’s petty cash compared to what we got here in stones . . . even after the fence takes his cut.” Richard pulled tight the drawstrings on the bags. “You want that chump change? Fine. But don’t take time to count it here. We gotta run!”

The two men grabbed up their booty and dashed down a back hall, kicking open the rear door of the exchange. Danny laughed like a kid on the last day of school.

“ ’S about time!” George Rogan turned in his seat as they scrambled into the idling car. “Did you have to make so much noise? What took you so long?”

Richard jerked a thumb at his partner. “Ask Danny-boy.”

“Hey, I was just pickin’ up a little tip, that’s all! Talk to me nice, and I might give you some.”

“You there—this is the
police!”
The cry echoed down the alley.

George spun back around in his seat and felt the bile rise into his throat. A patrolman was standing in the mouth of the alleyway, his service revolver drawn, and he was walking their way.

“Get out of that car and put your hands on top of your heads!”

“No—aw, no!” George could feel his sweat start to flow. He swiftly slipped the car into gear and hit the gas.

“Stop! Stop or I’ll shoot!”

George wasn’t going to give him the chance. The big Plymouth side-swiped the cop as it peeled out of the alley, knocking him back against a stack of crates piled by a dumpster.

“Look what you doofs have gotten me into now!” George yanked hard on the wheel and turned onto Dunmore Avenue, heading uptown.

“Hey, watch those corners, Georgie! You’ll make me lose count!” Danny fanned himself with the stolen cash, laughing wickedly.

“Oh, you’re a funny man, Danny. Real funny! Both you guys are just hilarious! ‘It’s a simple, easy job,’ you said. Lordy, I may have just killed a cop!”

“Relax, George! Even if you did, they’ll never be able to pin any of this on us. We didn’t trip any alarms. By the time anybody finds that cop, we’ll be halfway across the state.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s real easy for you to say, Richard—your sheet’s clean. I’m lookin’ at hard time if I’m caught!”

“Will you lighten up?! The blue boys are way too busy digging people outta rubble and enforcing the curfew downtown. They won’t be looking for us.”

“Danny’s right. It was just a fluke that cop came by when he did! We got nothing to worry about!”

George had stopped listening to Richard and Danny. He glanced at his side mirror, half-expecting to see a flashing red light. But all George could see in the tiny mirror was a swirl of red and yellow curves. It took him a few seconds, but George finally realized what he was looking at. It was a reversed letter S . . . Superman’s emblem!

George made a choking sound as a red and blue blur shot past the Plymouth.

“Hey! Danny slid across the backseat as the car was buffeted by backwash. “What was that?”

George gripped the wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “Superman . . . it’s Superman. You said he was dead!”

“He’s supposed to be—” Danny stared down the street to where the flying figure was landing. “Wait a minute, that’s not Superman!”

The figure was now framed in the Plymouth’s headlights. They could clearly see the trim, tapering legs . . . the long, flowing blond hair. Richard gave an appreciative whistle. “Definitely not Superman!”

“It’s that Supergirl bimbo! Damn—” Danny let out a long string of curses.

“Who?”

“You know—that flying chippie that LexCorp’s been promoting! From what I heard, she ain’t nowhere near as tough as Superman! Floor it!”

George’s foot reflexively went to the floor, and the Plymouth shot straight at the Girl of Steel. At the last possible moment, Supergirl dove for the pavement. There was a loud thump from beneath the car, and then nothing.

“Did you see that?” Danny roared. “Tripped over her own feet and fell flat on her face! I told you she wasn’t so tough!”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” George’s shirt was wringing wet with sweat. “Two of ’em. I never killed anyone before, and now I’ve killed two in one night!”

Richard patted the driver on the back. “It’s okay, George. It’s over. No more trouble now.”

The next instant, the Plymouth lurched six feet into the air. Danny and Richard fell to the floorboards and slid to the right. George lost his grip on the wheel and was flung, screaming, across the right front passenger’s seat. He hung there, helplessly searching for the seat-belt release, as the car shook like a loose shutter in a windstorm.

Out on the street, Supergirl had risen from the underside of the car. She held it by its frame high overhead, shaking the vehicle as hard as she could. The doors on the right side finally swung open, and the felons and their loot tumbled roughly to the pavement. Satisfied that the car was empty, Supergirl hurled it into a vacant lot and turned to face the three men.

“S-she . . . she’s alive!” George was practically gibbering.

Richard grabbed him by the arm and gave a shove. “Run!”

Supergirl stalked after them. “I hate reckless drivers.”

Danny reached under his jacket and pulled a scored and battered .38 automatic from his waistband. “How about lead, huh? Ya like hot lead?!” He squeezed the trigger, and three sharp retorts rattled the air.

Danny was never quite sure what happened next. From what he could see, the air started to ripple around Supergirl, and the bullets stopped just inches from her face.

For a moment, the Girl of Steel seemed to study the bullets. Then she frowned. “I don’t think I like hot lead at all.”