Feeling good about what she was about to do—Blanche certainly needed a break in her life—Lois went in person to the woman’s small apartment on the Lower East Side. Driving her convertible, she followed the directions she had jotted down.
As she turned onto the right street, scanning the address numbers on the brownstone buildings, Lois had to swerve to the curb as a police car roared past her, siren wailing. With her reporter’s instinct, Lois looked around, keen to see what might be happening. As she eased the car back into traffic, another shrieking siren came up behind her, an ambulance this time, its red lights flashing.
Now she followed, accelerating to keep up with the emergency vehicles, and her heart sank with dread as she began to realize where they were going. The same address she had scrawled on her notepad.
Outside Blanche Rosen’s apartment building, the police car had already stopped at an angle to traffic, both doors wide open. Two officers worked to keep the crowd back. Paramedics jumped from the back of the ambulance, but the body sprawled on the street had been covered with a sheet, already turning red from seeping blood. Several old women on the sidewalk were holding each other, sobbing.
Lois quickly got out of her car and ran over to the scene, but she already knew. A policeman stopped her from getting closer, though she pushed against his implacable arm. “Sorry, ma’am—this is a crime scene. I can’t let you get any closer.”
The paramedics looked under the sheet; both men shook their heads.
One of the old women from the sidewalk pleaded with the second policeman, grabbing his shoulders and looking up at him through owlish glasses. “I saw it all, Officer! You have to catch him—some terrible man ran her down in the street and then just drove off. Just drove off! He left her there on the street. Oh, poor Blanche!” The old woman looked at the policeman, then at the gathered crowd, as if someone there could give her answers. “What sort of man would do something so awful?”
CHAPTER 24
WAYNE TOWER
BRUCE SAUNTERED IN TWO MINUTES LATE FOR THE BOARD of directors’ private Thursday session. Though it wasn’t his regular day to sit in as a figurehead, this would be quite different from the average meeting. He had his own item for the agenda.
The men sitting around the boardroom table were startled by his arrival; he noticed the flash of annoyance that rippled across several faces. All of the directors had cups of coffee; some of them held lit cigarettes. An executive continental breakfast was spread upon a side table.
“Mr. Wayne! We didn’t realize you were joining us. This isn’t Tuesday,” said Buchheim.
Thomson was a bit surlier. “We have a full agenda today, sir. If you’ve come about the new corporate logo designs, I’m afraid they’ll have to wait until later.”
Henning flicked cigarette ash into a large tray in front of him. “I can have my secretary type up a full summary of our meeting for you afterward, Mr. Wayne. That should be all you need to know.”
Bruce went to an empty chair, ignoring their comments. Without sitting, he rested his briefcase on the table. “You’ll make the time, gentlemen. Important matters have come to my attention.”
He unsnapped his case and removed a stack of files. He circled the table, dropping a sealed file in front of each man. They gazed at the folders, perplexed and impatient. Someone muttered about the time wasted on “another charity boondoggle to save the baby seals.”
Director Miles heaved a long sigh and whispered (but not so quietly that Bruce couldn’t hear), “God save us from self-important millionaires.” Bruce let Miles’s folder fall heavily in front of him, with a loud slap.
“Wayne Enterprises is about to experience a hostile takeover,” Bruce said. All nine heads snapped toward him at these shocking words. “By me.” He calmly returned to the place he had claimed and sat down. “You can peruse these documents in detail, though you’ll already be familiar with the contents.” He swept a warning gaze around the table, pausing briefly on each man. “I have my own photographic copies of each.”
The men opened the folders in front of them, flipped cursorily through the memos, photographs, and documents…then began to pay closer attention. The mood in the air changed, and they whitened in shock. Each man had a different vulnerability, and now they were all trapped.
Norlander looked up first, as if he wanted to slide under the table and hide. Huston’s mouth hung open, but no words came forth. McDonnell and Fitzroy gazed at each other, tension building between them like static electricity.
Bruce folded his hands on the polished table. “I am Bruce Wayne. This is my company, created and built by my father, according to his ideals. From now on, we’ll do things my way.”
At once the room erupted into cries of feigned innocence, outrage, and accusations. Bruce sharply held up one hand, and they fell silent as though shot. “Some of our best breakthroughs, our most innovative solutions, were secretly handed over to LuthorCorp. In spite of our most brilliant geniuses delivering excellent work, Wayne Enterprises has been hamstrung. By you. Richard Drayling resigned because he wouldn’t play your game, or Luthor’s. Every one of you has betrayed me.”
He passed out a chart of the Wayne Enterprises organizational structure, showing himself at the top as chief executive officer. “I submitted this material to the authorities and I will decide whether or not to have you each tried in a court of law. I should have you arrested here and now. Security is waiting outside this door.” He poured himself a steaming cup of coffee and took a long sip. “I could certainly cause a scandal for Mr. Luthor, but he’s as slippery as an oiled eel. I’d rather beat him at his own game.”
Silent as corpses, the nine men stared at him. “I’ll be tendering my resignation immediately,” Norlander said, breaking the silence.
“You will not,” Bruce snapped, his eyes flashing. “Your fates depend entirely on how all of you play your parts. It would not be in your best interests to let word of your…‘extracurricular activities’ leak to your families, to the community, to the newspapers. I will have a further, and particularly binding, nondisclosure document drawn up for all of you to sign, and as I mentioned I have provided copies of these files to Captain James Gordon at the Gotham City PD.” The men muttered, fidgeted, looked away. Bruce felt, though, that the information itself was the biggest stick he needed to keep them in line.
“However, I will not press charges—so long as you cooperate.” He continued. “This is how things will be until I decide otherwise. No one—particularly Lex Luthor—will know there has been a change in your activities. He can suspect nothing.” His tone left no room for questions. “Each Wayne Enterprises team will operate independently. Each division will report its research results and show any designs, blueprints, and prototypes directly and only to me. I will tell you what plans to deliver to Luthor, which components of prototype technologies. That way I’ll be in control of what he does and doesn’t have.”
What he didn’t tell them was that he would have them deliver subtly nonfunctional items to LuthorCorp. Red herrings. He intended to give Lex Luthor all the rope he needed in order to hang himself.
When Bruce ended the meeting, the men couldn’t leap from their chairs quickly enough. Most of them would frantically try to clean up any incriminating material they still had lying around. But it was too late.
“One moment, gentlemen.” His voice was a lasso that yanked them to a halt at the conference room doorway. “Since you’re all involved with Lex Luthor, which of you can tell me why he’s so interested in a secret Air Force base in Nevada? It goes by various names—Area 51, Groom Lake, Dreamland. What technology is Luthor giving the military?”
Bruce was an expert at reading guilty expressions, but all of these men were genuinely mystified by the question. Nobody answered him for a moment, and finally Miles muttered, “I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne, I know nothing about it. Truly.”
Bruce curtly dismissed them, and the directors fled. He would have to do his own investigating into Lut
hor’s connection with Area 51. He remained at the long table, thinking, while cigarettes still smoldered in the ashtrays.
CHAPTER 25
MERCY DRAW, ARIZONA
THE SMALL RANCHING TOWN IN SOUTHWESTERN ARIZONA was named Mercy Draw, and a flying saucer had crashed there. Supposedly.
The town was amazingly far from any other signs of civilization. As Clark and Jimmy drove their rental car for hours, the flat desert scenery looked like…desert scenery. And then more desert scenery. And then more. Clark was very glad he had prudently topped off the gas tank. Though he pushed the accelerator as far down as he dared, the lonely highway rolled out for miles and miles in an endless asphalt ribbon.
When they finally reached their destination during the hottest part of the afternoon, they saw a tall, rusty windmill, a general store, a few shacks, and a saloon. Several dusty pickup trucks were parked outside the saloon entrance.
“And I thought Smallville was small,” Clark said.
“It’s probably one of those towns where everyone knows everyone,” Jimmy said. “We should be able to find that rancher without too much trouble.”
Clark went to the general store but found it empty. A handwritten paper sign taped to the door read AT THE SALOON. The sign looked as though it had been there for months.
The pair walked through the swinging doors into the dim warmth of the watering hole. The bar was so filled with cigarette smoke that it seemed to generate its own permanent acrid fog. When he and Jimmy entered, everyone turned to stare at them, marking them as outsiders, strangers, city slickers. Someone elbowed a skinny, grizzled cowboy at the bar who sat nursing a mostly finished mug of draft beer. “A couple more live ones for you, Freddy.”
“Excuse me,” Clark said. “We’re looking for a gentleman named Fred Franklin. He’s supposed to have seen a crashed flying saucer?”
The good ol’ boys at the bar laughed and groaned. They all dug into their pockets and slapped down dimes in front of the grizzled beer drinker, who had just won some sort of bet. “There you go again, Freddy. They’re all yours.”
The man drained the dregs in a gulp and heaved himself up, wiping his hands on his jeans. His Adam’s apple protruded from his neck almost as far as the brim of his ten-gallon hat. “I’m Fred Franklin.” He lifted his empty mug and pointed an elbow at the bartender. “Be glad to talk to you—if you’d refill me.”
Clark pulled out a quarter and laid it down on the bar surface, which was stained by many ring marks. Jimmy whispered, “Mr. White will never reimburse us for beer expenses!”
“I may have to pay for that myself, Jimmy, in order to get the story.”
The bartender dutifully filled Franklin’s mug, leaving a generous portion of suds on top. The rancher slurped while grinning at Clark and Jimmy. “Now, since we’re best friends, tell me what you’d like to know.”
The other bar patrons retired to a table, where a card game soon ensued. The ritual seemed all too familiar to them. Glancing at some fresh newspaper clippings tacked to the walls, Clark noted that Fred Franklin was a local celebrity. Mr. White wasn’t going to be pleased that so many other reporters had gotten here first.
Clark took out his pad. “We’ve heard rumors about a crashed object on your property, Mr. Franklin. Could you please describe it for us?”
“I can do ya one better. Wanna real scoop? I’ll take you out there, show you exactly where the thing crashed.”
One of the patrons snickered, holding his cards close. “Just like all those other ‘scoops’ you gave them reporters, Freddy?”
“You hush up—these gentlemen and I are conducting business.”
“We’d very much like to see the site, Mr. Franklin,” Clark said.
“And I need to take photographs,” Jimmy added.
Franklin shrugged amiably. “Fork over a sawbuck, and you’ll have my undivided attention and exclusive access for the rest of the afternoon.”
The two hesitated; then Clark pulled out his wallet and extracted a ten-dollar bill. He noted the transaction on his pad.
THE LONG AND BUMPY ROADS CONSISTED OF GRAVEL, DUST, and an endless sequence of ruts that didn’t bother Fred Franklin in the least. His pickup roared along, spewing clouds behind them. Since their rental car was not adequate for the rough ranch roads, Clark and Jimmy were crowded in the cab with him, Clark’s large form dwarfing Jimmy’s.
“Please tell us more about the saucer, sir,” Jimmy said. “Did it make any sound? Was it damaged?”
“It sorta hummed and whooshed, then tore a big trench in the dirt when it crashed. Couldn’t tell if it was damaged or not.” He drove along, his voice rattling in time with the bumps.
“How big was it?” Clark asked, remembering what his small Kryptonian ship had looked like. “Was it smooth or made of rough plates? Did you see any markings?”
“I can’t give everything away!” The old rancher sounded cagy.
“We want to get our ten dollars’ worth,” Clark said.
“Oh, you will. You will!”
After passing through several rickety gates of barbed wire and creosote poles, they turned off the alleged road onto an even worse track. Clark scanned ahead with his enhanced vision but could still see nothing. Finally, at no particularly remarkable spot, the rancher ground the truck to a halt, turned off the ignition, and opened the creaking driver’s-side door. Clark and Jimmy were both covered with reddish-brown dust thanks to the open windows. Franklin spat out a mouthful of grit as he swung his legs out. His boots crunched through the gravel to an area where something big had obviously landed.
The ground was churned and excavated. Deep tire tracks ran in all directions. Even the meager scrub brush, mesquite, and sage had been plowed over, leaving a ragged scar. Clark noticed burn marks on the ground, a few black oil stains, but most of the topsoil had been scraped away and hauled off.
“Hey, I don’t see any crashed flying saucer,” Jimmy said.
“Well, it’s not here anymore,” Franklin said. “Never said it was. The government came and took it away, a whole buncha soldier types. Like a military invasion, it was.”
Clark could not hide his disappointment. “And this is all that’s left?” Jimmy began shooting photographs anyway.
“Yep, the army beat you and all those other reporters here. Special squad came out from Nellis Air Force Base, took the saucer, the debris, the rocks, even the dirt. Everything.” He sucked on his teeth.
“But where did they go?” Clark asked. “Where did they take the flying saucer?”
Franklin leaned back on his heels. “Son, they didn’t exactly give me a receipt or a forwarding address. I doubt they intend to pay for all the damage they did to my place here.”
Clark looked at the dusty, scrubby wasteland, where a few dead weeds and some torn-up sagebrush were drying in the late afternoon heat. He didn’t notice any particular damage.
“You boys might want to check out Nellis. I worked for two years out at the Nevada Test Site. Saw four A-bombs go off with my own eyes. People from Las Vegas would drive out to the desert highways, unfold their lawn chairs, and have a picnic, waiting to see the mushroom cloud.”
“And what does that have to do with the flying saucer?” Clark asked.
“You can’t very well keep an atomic bomb test secret, but that’s not all they do out there. I hear they got a special experimental base by Groom Lake—super top secret. Nobody admits to it, but it’s there. It’s called”—he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“Area Fifty-one. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
“And how are you aware of it, Mr. Franklin?”
“Out here in the desert, you hear things. You see things.” He gestured meaningfully up at the sky. “But it was an alien ship, you mark my words. Never seen anything like it. And now they’ve got it at Area Fifty-one.”
Clark refused to give up. “Jimmy, we’ve come this far. We need to get something for our story.”
The rancher hooked his thumbs into
the belt loops of his jeans. “Say, if you really want a headline, for another five bucks I’ll show you the world’s largest cow pie. Got to have something to do with the radioactive fallout from all those nucular tests.”
Clark heaved a sigh. “We’ll pass, but thanks.”
CHAPTER 26
LUTHOR’S ISLAND
THE SMALL ISLAND WAS SURROUNDED BY A CALM, DEEP BLUE ocean. The humid air sparkled in the warm Caribbean sun, filled with the scents of lush tropical vegetation. This was a far cry from Siberia.
When Luthor met General Ceridov at the concrete jetty on the island’s south side, the Soviet officer reveled in all the sunshine and heat. He had eschewed his wool uniform and donned a ridiculous-looking floral-print shirt that already displayed semicircular sweat stains under his armpits. “Lovely installation. Thank you for inviting me, comrade Luthor.”
For his own part, Luthor wore a khaki tropical-weight suit. “You were kind enough to show me your gulag and quarry. I’m returning the favor.” Since the incident at his mansion, in which Superman had helped the other costumed burglar steal his meteorite sample, he’d felt violated. After delivering his damning press conference, he’d departed immediately for the Caribbean.
“And what is the name of this island?” the KGB general asked. “I could find it on no map.”
“Luthor’s Island, of course.”
“Vanity?”
“Clarity. And efficiency.”
“Ah, if you say so.”
Ceridov regarded the warm sea and sugar-sand beaches, the overgrown jungle marred by new gravel roads, and the angular buildings that housed Luthor’s facility and operational headquarters, using some of the structural remnants of a large old Spanish fort. “Ah, the tropical climate. I can see why my government supports Fidel Castro and his Communist revolution in Cuba. Soon all of these islands will be within the Soviet sphere of influence.”
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