The Death and Life of Superman (37 page)

“Well, all right. If you’re sure . . .”

“Very sure, Jonathan. I’ll be fine.”

Lois shook her head as she watched him shuffle back down the hall.
How different Clark’s childhood must have been from mine! How lucky he was to have been raised by the Kents!

In his office, Lex Luthor was doing his best to remain calm. In an attempt to relieve his tension, he had rung for a young masseuse named Lori. That had proven to be a mistake. He was simply too keyed up to unwind, even with the enticement of Lori’s ample endowments. After several uncomfortable moments, he had gotten up from the massage table and stalked back to his desk to sit staring at his computer displays.

Lori slipped through the door, a bottle and two glasses in her hand. “Oh, you’re so tense!” She gave Luthor her best little-girl pout. He turned away.

“I mean,” she cooed, “why don’t you try relaxing with this nice cabernet sauvignon, and let Lori relax all those nasty old neck muscles for you?” She poured him a glass and held it temptingly near.

Lex barely acknowledged her. “Go away, Lori.”

Lori stared, uncomprehending, for a moment. Then a cautious, almost guilty look came to her eyes. “We
are
alone, right? I mean,
she’s
not here . . . is she?” Lori knew that Luthor and Supergirl were an item and had guessed that was why he hadn’t requested her services lately. His call tonight had surprised her, actually, but if there was any chance of Supergirl showing up and causing a scene—!

Without looking at Lori, Luthor reached for the glass of wine. “She is not. We are quite alone.” Lori smiled, reassured but still just a little uncertain. She handed him the glass, letting her fingers brush intimately against his.

“But I said—go away!” Luthor snatched the glass away from her hand and flung it—not quite at her, but close enough that she screamed.

“I—I—I’m sorry, Mr. L! I only wanted to—”

“You only wanted to leave, isn’t that right, Lori?”

“Yes, Mr. L.” Lori nodded, near tears, and scrambled for the door.

“Bloody cow.” Luthor slouched back into his chair, his face burning with irritation.
Shouldn’t have let her get under my skin like that. But no real matter . . . her kind always responds to a quick apology. Bloody nuisance, though.

A buzz came from the desk console, and he lunged for the speaker switch.

“Hi, Lex. Did you miss me?” Supergirl’s voice was a happy chirp.

Luthor was about to lash out again when he caught himself.
Don’t forget who this is and what she is capable of. She’s young and still very naive, and that’s precisely what makes her so valuable.
“I’ve . . . been waiting with bated breath, love. Have you found anything?”

“Yes and no. That hole in the wall does look as though it was made by someone breaking into the crypt, rather than breaking out. But the shaft itself is really very strange.”

“Just tell me what you see, love, and we’ll go from there.”

“Well, the shaft appears to have been drilled right through the bedrock under the crypt’s foundations. There are no signs of concrete, steel, or any other reinforcing materials. The walls of the shaft look as though they’ve been heat-glazed or something. They’re very smooth, even glassy. I’d imagine the glazing was done to seal the walls and help provide structural support, but I couldn’t begin to guess how it was done. Want me to keep looking? I might lose radio contact if I get too far underground.”

“I’ll take that chance. Just find the body!” Luthor switched off his microphone and purpled the air with a string of curses. He sat fuming for a few seconds and then pulled a special telephone from his bottom desk drawer. There were no buttons on this phone; the simple act of picking up the receiver initiated the call over the private line.

At the other end of the line, the receiver was picked up between the first and second rings. “Yes, Mr. Luthor?”

“We have a situation, Happersen. Meet me in the garage in five minutes.”

Rusty jumped up in surprise as Dan Turpin came stalking toward him through the underbrush.

“I didn’t expect you so soon, Inspector. The roads are pretty slippery out there tonight.”

“ ’S no problem if you know what you’re doin’. This just better be good, to roust me outta a warm bed.”

“It’s good, all right.” He pointed along the wall. “There’s where I saw our ghost.”

“Shhh! Keep it down.” Turpin looked around, making sure they were alone. “The last thing we need is for the tabloids to write about cops chasing shadows.”

“I hear you.” Rusty stamped his feet in a futile attempt to keep warm. He was wearing two layers of good wool socks, but his shoes had been authentically tattered to maintain his cover. “Meaning no disrespect, sir, but can we keep moving? I’m freezing my badge off out here.”

Turpin grinned. “Just think warm thoughts, kid. Show me what you’ve found.”

Rusty led Turpin along the wall to the ventilation shaft. The grating was still slightly ajar. The opening left between the grate and the edge of the wall was almost—but not quite—big enough for a grown man to slip through. “This is the way I found it, Inspector.”

Turpin ran his hand along the rim of the metal grate. “Pretty crafty. Nobody ever gives these things a second look. Lotsa folks never notice ’em at all. You could hide all sorts of things in there.” He gave the grating a little tug; it just barely moved. “Hmmph. Heavy sucker.”

Rusty tucked his hands up under his arms and shifted his weight from leg to leg, dancing to keep his blood flowing. “Yeah, I tried sliding the grate the rest of the way open, but I couldn’t budge it.”

“That’s ’cause ya never eat a good breakfast, kid.” Turpin gave Rusty a cockeyed grin and squared his shoulders. “But I bet if ya let an ol’ hand like me help ya out, we can move it just fine.”

After a few minutes of pushing and heaving, Rusty and the inspector managed to slide the grating open a few more feet. “Well, it ain’t perfect,” groused Turpin, “but it’s close enough.” He stuck his head in the opening. “Warm in there.”

“Yeah?” Rusty leaned closer to the opening. “Oh, yeah!” He stood there warming himself while Turpin fished a flashlight out of the lining of his coat. “Hey, you know, Inspector, LexCorp financed a lot of the work to this part of the park, even before they had Superman’s tomb built. You think they might have something to do with this?”

“Maybe.” Turpin shrugged out of his coat and switched on the flashlight. “Could be the answer’s inside. If it is, I’ll find it.”

“You want any backup?” Rusty glanced back at the empty plaza. “Technically, I’m still on duty out there, but—”

“Don’t sweat it, kid. I ain’t afraid of ghosts.”

Rusty smacked his hand against the grate. “Hey, no ‘ghost’ could’ve moved this mother.”

“You’re learnin’, kid. You hold the fort up here, but give Cap’n Sawyer a call and tell her I said to get her skinny butt over here, okay?” The old cop slipped past the grate, then stuck his head back out and treated Rusty to a grin that was halfway on the road to becoming a scowl. “If I’m not back in an hour, send in the marines and tell my daughter Maisie that I love her!”

Rusty watched Turpin disappear into the darkness of the shaft and just shook his head.
What’s that old saying? “There are old cops
,
and there are bold cops, but there are no old bold cops.” Whoever came up with that one surely never met “Terrible” Turpin.
Rusty pulled out his phone. “Sorry, Captain Sawyer, but orders are orders!”

Some sixty blocks downtown, a late-model van shot out of an untended parking lot and roared onto 114th Street.

“Hey, watch it, will ya?” In the back of the van, three men crouched in the empty cargo bay, straining to keep their balance.

“Sorry.” The driver didn’t sound sorry; there was a nervous edge to his voice. “I thought I heard something. I think we may have been spotted.”

As if in answer to the driver’s worries, the glare of a single headlight filled his side mirror. The three men in the back of the van looked at each other and began pulling machine pistols from beneath their coats as the whine of a high-performance engine grew louder. One of them called up to the driver. “What’s that?”

“Cycle cop, I think.” The driver’s voice had gone hollow. “He’s gaining on us. I can’t shake him in this heap.”

“Don’t sweat it. Let him get closer.” The men in the back waited tensely, guns at the ready, as the motorcycle pulled up alongside the speeding van.

A commanding voice suddenly boomed out over an amplifier: “You in the van—pull over!”

The gunmen threw open the van’s sliding side door and opened fire. To their surprise, the man on the motorcycle deflected every one of their bullets with a gleaming golden shield strapped to his left arm. One slug even ricocheted back into the van, narrowly missing one of the gunmen.

“That’s no cop!” The driver was white as chalk. “That’s . . . that’s the Guardian!”

“The Guardian?!” One of the gunmen went wide-eyed. “It can’t be! He busted my grandfather once—an’ Gramps was younger’n me back then! The Guardian’d be older’n dirt by now!”

“Who
cares
? Waste ’im!”

But the only thing they wasted was their ammunition. The Guardian suddenly leapt from his speeding motorcycle into the open van, his shield held out before him, and slammed into the gunmen like a battering ram. Guns went flying in all directions.

“What’re you doin’ back there?” screamed the driver. “He ain’t bulletproof, is he? Shoot ’im!”

A big hand reached out and grabbed the driver by the collar, and a cool, even voice whispered in his ear, “As lousy shots as your friends were, I don’t need to be bulletproof! Now, once more, pull this van over!”

Moments later, the Guardian was sitting back astride his motorcycle, giving his statement to the police as they loaded the dazed gunmen into a paddy wagon. “. . . that’s the story, Officer. I don’t know why that crew went to the trouble of stealing a delivery van. Maybe you can get them to tell you.”

“Well, Guardian, even if we can’t, we have plenty to hold ’em on. In addition to grand theft auto and the weapons charges, there’re warrants out on the whole lot of ’em. Still and all, we may have a problem—at least, you may, Guardian.” The cop shook his head. “Those creeps are making a lot of wild accusations about use of unnecessary force. If they can make their stories jibe, they could file charges against you.”

“Let them try. My bike recorded everything.”

“Your bike—?”

“That’s right. There’s a camera built into the windscreen on this motorcycle.” The Guardian pressed a button on the handlebars, and a silvery disc popped out of a slot on the console just over the engine. “The entire chase was recorded on this laser disc.”

The cop slipped the disc into an evidence folder and broke into a wide grin. “The DA’s office will love you for this.”

“My pleasure. Tell them I’ll be in touch!”

With a single kick, the Guardian started up his big bike and peeled off down the avenue.
That didn’t go too badly,
he thought. It had been years since he’d covered the streets of the city with any regularity, and being back on patrol brought back bittersweet memories.
I’m glad I was able to get leave from the Project to come back and lend a hand. Metropolis has been hurting since Superman died.

As the Guardian turned east onto Bessolo Boulevard, he felt a mild pressure at his temples. The face of Dubbilex seemed to shimmer before his eyes.

“Guardian!”

“Dubbilex? What’s up?”

“Trouble. We need you at the Project—hurry! I must gather the others.”
The mental projection faded as quickly as it had appeared.

The Guardian made a quick U-turn and headed uptown toward Suicide Slum. He didn’t know what was going on, but it had to be serious for Dubbilex to send a telepathic message all the way from the Project.
It’s a drain for him to cast his mind across so many miles. I’d better take the rail back.

At the Hob’s Bay exit, the Guardian made a sharp right and motored down Kurtzberg Lane to a squat brown building. The sight of the place brought a momentary smile to his face.
The good old Red Horse Garage! It seems like only yesterday that my boys were hanging out here, tuning up old jalopies and getting into mischief.
He flipped a switch on his bike, and the garage’s overhead door began ratcheting open.
In a way, they’re still causing mischief behind these doors . . . far behind and below.

As the Guardian rode into the darkened garage, the door automatically closed behind him. A soft, diffuse light came on around him as the garage floor began to sink rapidly down a deep shaft. The Guardian dismounted, marveling once again at the automated systems that Cadmus’s engineers had been able to hide beneath the streets of the old neighborhood.
I must remember to commend the maintenance division. I know this hydraulic lift hasn’t been used in months, but it still runs as smoothly as the day it was installed.

The lift came to a cushioned halt nearly five hundred feet below street level, and the Guardian walked his bike toward a bullet-shaped monorail car that sat waiting. A warning bell chimed as he approached, and he was challenged by a prerecorded message.

“This is a high-security zone. Please state your clearance code now.”

“Priority code seven-A. This is Agent Harper! Repeat, this is Agent Harper!”

There was a click and a ding from a wall-mounted speaker, and the door to the railcar began to slide open. “Voiceprint check confirmed. Agent Harper cleared for transport access.”

As the railcar got under way, the Guardian began to ponder Dubbilex’s summons. He had felt the anxiety in the DNAlien’s thought-cast.
It usually takes a pretty heavy crisis to get Dubbilex that disturbed. I wonder what could be going on? Not more trouble with Paul Westfield, I hope!
The Guardian thumbed a switch on the railcar’s console. “Estimated time of arrival at Cadmus?”

The recorded voice responded with a click. “This car will dock in five minutes, three seconds.”

The Guardian drummed his fingers impatiently against his shield. Arrival couldn’t come fast enough for him.