by Gwenda Bond
We were already driving alongside the outside of the massive park, though, streetlights illuminating mostly empty sidewalks.
Taxi Jack slowed and said, “You want to get out here? Your entrance is right up there, on the left.”
“Sounds good. I’ll text if I need you, otherwise I’ll come right back here.”
He pulled up to the curb. “No problem,” he said. “I’m listening to an audiobook from the library. The Three Musketeers. It’s pretty good. A classic.”
Shaking my head at the fact a taxi driver was undeniably becoming my friend—oh well, he was a handy one—I opened the door to let myself out. “I like Porthos the best.”
“Hey, me too!”
I rolled my eyes and set off up the street, imagining Taxi Jack listening to the swashbuckling story Dad had read out loud to me when I was a kid. I’d liked the banter and swordfights, even though I discovered later on that he’d skipped plenty of the good parts. I’d also longed for a close-knit set of friends like D’Artagnan’s, each so different and yet utterly loyal to one another.
How funny it felt to realize I had that now.
I saw a tall figure ahead, near the open gated entrance, and sped up. It was Clark.
He came.
I’d figured he would, but I hadn’t admitted to myself how hopeful I was to have him here. At my back.
Despite the reluctance I felt to put him into any danger. But I contained multitudes—I could feel both ways at the same time, happy and wary.
He had on a jacket too, but his was open to reveal the same plaid button-down over a T-shirt he’d worn to dinner. His hair was a little messed up from the breeze. Seeing him was good. Really good.
“You probably shouldn’t have come,” I said as I approached.
“That’s some welcome,” he said. “My parents must trust you a lot. Because they were semi-okay with it when I told them I had to go with you on a story.”
“You told them?” I squeaked.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “What are the odds they’ll talk to your parents again soon?”
“Very, very poor, I hope.” I glanced around us and detected some movement off to our right.
Someone was headed in our direction. We both turned to check out who it was.
There was a guy in a trench coat shambling toward us, and I nodded my head. “Do you think that’s him?”
Clark squinted. “I think it’s a drunk guy,” he said.
The guy wobbled toward us, and when he got nearer, I could smell that Clark’s diagnosis was correct. He reeked.
He also grabbed Clark for a second and then broke away with his wallet in hand.
“Hey!” I protested, digging in my bag for the whistle Dad insisted I carry. There had to be security around here somewhere. Otherwise, I’d practice some of my self-defense on him. No way he was taking off with Clark’s wallet.
But in a flash, Clark raised his hand and caught the guy’s shoulder, stopping him from taking off. “Hang on,” he said. “Wait.”
It was directed to me and to the man.
“Why’d you try to grab my wallet?” he asked the guy. His voice was calm but commanding.
“Clark,” I said, “you can’t interview a mugger.”
“It wasn’t that stealthy of a mugging.” He gave me a half-smile. My stomach flipped over. He spoke to the man again, “Can you answer?”
“Hungry,” the man said, voice as shaky as his legs. He needed a good shave and a better shower. “Drank too much. Didn’t keep anything for food.”
“Can I have my wallet back?” Clark asked.
The guy sighed. His nose was ruddy and his bloodshot eyes watered up. He extended Clark’s wallet back to him.
I watched, gaping. Clark, the criminal whisperer.
“Thank you,” Clark said. He reached into the wallet, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and handed it to the guy. “For food, okay?”
“For food,” the guy said, and took it. “I’m—I’m sorry about that. I just forget sometimes. That I shouldn’t just take things.”
“It’s all right. Just try not to do it again, okay?”
“Okay.” The guy nodded and then walked off. After a few steps, he started whistling.
Clark turned back to me, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
I shook my head at him. The security lamp above us shone on his face, gleaming off his black hair and glasses. I couldn’t quite find words.
“What?” he asked. “About to give me a speech about how I’m a sucker from Smallville who just got taken advantage of?”
“No,” I said, wonderingly. “How did you know the guy wouldn’t try to fight you or pull a weapon or something?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “But sometimes if you have faith in people they’ll surprise you. Mom and Dad taught me that. Risk is the price of believing most people want to be good.”
“And twenty bucks,” I said. “Seems like a small price to pay.”
I offered him my hand, knowing I would never meet another person like Clark Kent. “Let’s go see if our friend is our friend,” I said, promising myself that I’d try to have more faith too.
Centennial Park was a marvel of tall trees, open green spaces, and flower gardens. When I’d been here during the day, it smelled of hot dog carts, the chlorine in the water fountains, an undercurrent of whatever was in bloom. At night, there was a smattering of noise in the distance, but less activity. The air had a fresh, breezy quality. It was quiet enough to hear the leaves rustling above as we walked along the broad paved path.
“How far past the entrance should we go?” Clark asked.
“We’re a little early,” I said. But then I pointed. “There’s someone on that bench up ahead.”
The bench sat under another of the security lamps that dotted the park, and the person stood as we approached. The light gave us a good view of him.
“It can’t be… him.” Clark said. “Can it?”
Because the person who stood there to meet us? It wasn’t the pasty adult tech genius I’d expected. No, this boy was close to our age, maybe a year or two older at most. He had a lean face and shaved head, and he was wearing clean, preppy, and obviously expensive clothes. Not that I knew enough to gauge the labels, but they clearly were designer of some variety. The cut was too fine for anything else.
When we reached him, he smiled at us. It was a cool smile, hard to read or take at face value.
“Hello,” he said, “Alexander Luthor, pleased to make your acquaintances in the flesh. You can call me Alex.”
CHAPTER 23
We stood for a moment in the sort of silence only shock can bring.
“Luthor,” I repeated his last name, trying to place it. The boy’s words had been silky smooth, practiced.
“You’ve probably heard of my dad,” he said.
I glanced at Clark. “We thought you’d be older.”
“Who’s we?” Alex said, tossing a look at Clark.
Not for a second did I trust this guy, same age as us or not. But I held out my hand to shake his. “Lois Lane. And this is…” I hesitated. We hadn’t discussed whether we’d reveal Clark’s online pseudonym to TheInventor or not.
“Clark Kent,” Clark said, stepping forward to shake his hand next. Clark was several inches taller than him.
“Firm grip.” TheInventor—Alex Luthor—leaned forward. “I thought the same about you two. That you’d be older. You are SmallvilleGuy?” he asked Clark.
Clark nodded, then lowered his hand to take mine. Alex followed the movement, raising his eyebrows but refraining from comment.
“Who’s your father?” I asked. “You said we’d have heard of him.”
“Billionaire, blusterer, bully… goes by Alexander,” he said. “He runs a number of companies. His latest is a media start-up—Loos
e Lips is its primary site.”
I grimaced. Figured. “I wouldn’t call Loose Lips media,” I said.
Clark interrupted, chiding me gently. “Let’s play nice.”
Oh right, I was trying to have more faith in people. “Sorry,” I said.
Alex shrugged. “No apology necessary. It’s a blight,” he said. “Like I said, my dad’s a bully. He stole my Skies code for it too. Speaking of which…”
So that’s why the site’s operation had seemed so intuitively familiar. “Our military snoops,” I said. “You’ve been supplying them with information.”
“Actually,” he said, “it turns out that after I scared the spooks off, I discovered dear old Dad had been giving them a heads-up about things. While he was stealing my code.”
I examined his face, wishing I was a human lie detector. “Why would your dad care?”
“He doesn’t, not about much,” Alex said with a delighted laugh. Clark’s fingers tightened on mine. Alex continued, “The military had asked him if he had any knowledge of someone like our mysterious flying man. He happened to have seen the threads on the site and suggested they try the technique they did—announcing the sightings.”
“And you didn’t tell us this originally, because… ?” I asked.
“I like you,” Alex said.
Somehow it hit me the wrong way. “I’m not sure if it’s mutual. That wasn’t an answer.”
He really laughed then. Clark said, “Lois…” But I could tell he didn’t know what to make of this slick, strange guy either.
Alex stopped laughing. “I didn’t know until later. I had to dig to find the record, because I wasn’t suspicious of myself. Not until I found out Dad had been messing with my code. And I did supply the list of usernames to my dad’s contact.”
“So I was right!” I said, trying not to enjoy it.
“About?” Alex said.
“That you were trying to put them on our tail. You’re a double agent.”
“Uh, no,” he said. “I trust you both to cover your tracks… Except for that bug whichever one of you attached to my computer. That’s why the list existed. I was hurt by that.”
“Oh,” I said, guiltily. “I asked a friend to do that.”
“So it was you,” he said. “Well, or your friend.” He squinted at me. “I would never have guessed you. I assumed it was Clark. And I wouldn’t have made or supplied the list unless you hit first.”
He was slippery. It was hard to tell if anything he said to us was truth or lie or something in between.
No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t blame him for being upset I’d tried to track his movements. His explanation made sense based on what we knew.
“I have only one question for you,” Clark said.
Alex lifted his hands. “Shoot. I’m an open book, to mix metaphors.”
Clark didn’t take his eyes off Alex. “Are you our friend or not?”
It was a simple question. But even though the question echoed my earlier words, I wasn’t sure it could have a simple answer. The “our” from Clark made the rhythm of my heart quicken, the implication that Alex could only be friends with us both or not at all.
“Yes,” Alex said. “I don’t have many friends. I value you both.”
A gust of wind blew past us. I waited to see if Clark believed him. He’d read the mugger correctly, so I would trust his decision here.
“That’s good enough for me,” Clark said. “So how do we be on the same team now? We need to get rid of the people snooping around without causing any more problems. Or crossing any lines.”
Alex angled to face me instead of Clark. “Is my word enough for you too?” he asked.
Clark looked at me expectantly. Finally, I said, “It’ll do. For now.”
“Did I mention I like you?” Alex said, grinning.
“You did,” I said.
I still planned to keep my eyes wide open where Alexander Luthor was concerned.
Clark released my hand and took a seat on the bench. The tension between the three of us defused a bit at the motion. He was good at that, I realized. Being the peacemaker.
I sat next to him and asked, “What do we do to get rid of these government guys for good?”
“You don’t need to worry about it,” Alex said. He perched on the arm of the bench. “I figured out how to lock Dad out again, so he’s gone. And I won’t have any reason to communicate with them again.”
“Yeah, well, I’m still on the list,” I said.
“What about you?” he asked Clark.
“We don’t think they found anything in my town,” he said. “Your IP tip worked.”
Alex clapped his hands and considered. “I could send them a cover story, Lois, about you.”
He must not have figured out that my dad was among the people looking, which was somewhat of a relief. There was almost a… childlike quality to his movements at times, a weird counterpoint to his precise, adult-sounding phrasings.
He pursed his lips. “On the other hand, I didn’t supply IP addresses. The odds of them finding you based on a screenname in Metropolis are extremely low. Although… you used the same IP for some of your postings at Loose Lips, and that made it clear where you were. That’s how I found you.” He snapped his fingers, having a stream-of-consciousness conversation with himself. “I can hack in, fix that. I know exactly where the exposure is. I’ll get rid of your account and posts. Poof.”
He smiled at me, waiting for me to praise him or something.
“Um, thanks,” I said. “That’ll work.”
“No problem, easily done.” He peered down at us and said, “So, what do you think about the flying man anyway? Is he real?” And then he started another stream of consciousness. “Do you think these reports of strange things here in Metropolis are real? I think you do,” he said to me.
“I know they are. I’m working on a story about them.”
“Oooh,” he said.
Clark’s hand drifted to my arm. Why had I said that? Oh well, Alex knew my name. It’s not like Google wouldn’t reveal where I worked.
“I’m a reporter, remember,” I said. I’d told him that much when we met up in the game before, when he’d also been going to great pains to conceal his own identity.
“Right,” he said. “So what’s the operating theory? Who are they?”
Clark nudged my leg with his own. “He might be able to help you.”
I still wasn’t sure I trusted Alex—that it could be so easy to resolve my doubts. But there was the faith thing. And Clark’s seeming certainty he was okay, coupled with the fact Alex clearly was better at this tech intrigue stuff than even Devin. Maybe he could turn up former home addresses for the silver squad for us.
Or the elusive reason for the whole project, and why they wanted me in particular.
“I’ll send you some first names,” I said, “if you can dig up anything on them, it would help. We think they’re all missing teens, but we haven’t had any luck finding their families. The other names I’ll send are behind the experiment, we’re pretty certain. I need proof of what they’re up to and to catch them at it. I need a story.” I pictured smug Steve Jenkins tossing that copy of the Daily Planet in the trash, and Dabney Donovan’s cool unconcern with anything resembling human decency. The Contessa standing, waiting to toy with me on the street. “I refuse to let them to get away with this.”
“I can’t wait to get started!” Alex rubbed his hands together in eagerness, another gesture that barely made sense for someone our age. “Just tell them to me. I have an excellent memory.”
It was almost like he’d been pretending at adulthood before, and now that he trusted us, he’d relaxed into this rambling little kid optimism. But, then, if he wasn’t used to having friends… I felt a sudden pang of sympathy for him.
“Read
y?” I asked, and then ran through the teens first, then the others. I added, “We think the Contessa donated to a homeless shelter here, but it was anonymous. Just in case it helps.”
“It might. I hate to dash,” he said, “but I’d better head home and get cracking on this.” He stopped for a second, though. “Why are you here too? In town, I mean?” he asked Clark, like it hadn’t occurred to him before.
“Why are you?” Clark asked.
“Dad came to meet with people at Loose Lips. He dragged me along. I have a tutor, no school to miss. Not like you guys,” he said.
“I’m here with my parents, birthday present,” Clark said, and nothing more.
Good.
“Ah, well, I’ll be in touch ASAP, Lois,” Alex said with a wave. “I hope I get to see you both again while we’re all under the same sky.”
He strode off, but I waited until he was out of sight, disappeared through the entrance to the park before I spoke. “He’s… odd,” I said.
“No kidding,” Clark said. “But he seems harmless enough.”
“Only because he likes us,” I said. “If he can find anything, though, I’ll owe him.”
“Nah,” Clark said, “I declare you even.”
“Come on. Since you forked over your twenty, I’ll give you a ride home.”
Clark jostled my shoulder with his. He asked, “You have a car?”
“I have Taxi Jack,” I said.
But I lingered on the bench and so did he. Maybe this was finally the time. The kissing time. Finally.
Clark stood up and held out a hand for me.
I looked up at him and sent kiss me, you fool thoughts in his direction. Then again. Kiss me. He did not magically pick them up. Apparently I didn’t have even marginal telepathic abilities.
Disappointing, especially because I wanted a kiss to happen to an embarrassing degree.
“Lois?” Clark asked, softly, hand still extended.
Not to an embarrassing enough degree to ask out loud.
I took his hand. “This way. He’ll be ecstatic to meet you.”
*
We dropped Clark at his parents’ hotel in the cheesy tourist paradise of Glenmorgan Square after he and Taxi Jack chattered nonstop all the way. I stayed quiet. We’d averted crisis, but somehow I still felt in a vulnerable position.
