Supernatural Born Killers

by Casey Daniels

  “There’s the county morgue not far from here,” Jean pointed out.

  “Got it,” I told her. “But that’s not the morgue Vincent was talking about. At least I don’t see how it could be. And there is no other morgue.”

  “There’s a morgue at a newspaper office,” Chet said.

  My head came up. “There’s a—”

  “Morgue at a newspaper office. Sure.” His head bobbed. “The morgue. That’s what we call the room where all the old newspapers and all the reference materials and such are filed. Only these days…” When he looked at the computer on my desk, his mouth puckered. “I suppose it’s all stored some other way now. But back in the day—”

  “Like in the fifties?” I was already on my feet, groping for my purse while I stared at Chet like that would actually make him answer faster. “Did they have morgues in newspaper offices in the fifties?”

  “Sure.”

  It was all I needed to hear. I had my phone in my hand before I hit the door, and when Quinn didn’t pick up that call, I called him three more times on my way back to the hotel. When I got close, I saw why he didn’t answer. Something told me he might be a tad busy.

  Police cars surrounded the place, their lights flashing, and cops and paramedics swarmed around like bees outside a hive.

  With all the commotion, I figured nobody would even notice my car in a no-parking zone. I was talking to the nearest uniformed cop before my door was even closed. “What happened? And where’s Detective Harrison?”

  This cop shrugged and pointed across the parking lot and toward the lobby.

  I took that as a sign that I had free access.

  There was a detective stationed inside the door. Hard to miss ’em what with the trench coat, the rumpled suit, the tie stained with what looked like tomato soup. “Harrison?” I said again. “Where is he? I’ve got something I have to tell him. About the Superman comic book.”

  This guy was middle-aged and tired-looking. “You’re a little late.”

  My mouth went dry. “Somebody stole it?” I squeezed my eyes shut. “They came in through the morgue, right? The pretend storage room of the pretend newspaper office. And let me guess, they were dressed all in black and with their faces covered. Like ninjas. Damn! I should have paid more attention.”

  Unlike this cop, who was by this time paying plenty of attention and looking at me with sudden interest. “We’ll need you to give a statement,” he said. “What did you say your name was?”

  Before I could answer, a team of paramedics raced in with a gurney and my heart skipped a beat. Jack said if we didn’t work this thing out, somebody was going to die. And now things were out of control. Somebody was hurt. Somebody might be…

  When the ballroom doors slammed behind the paramedics, I jumped.

  “I was working with Quinn Harrison,” I told the cop. “I know, it sounds weird, but it’s true. You can ask him. He’ll tell you. It all has to do with Vincent’s murder. Vincent, the security guard? He knew about the morgue, see. He must have overheard someone talking about what they planned to do, and he tried to tell us, but we didn’t listen and now…” A quivering started up in my stomach and my knees shook to the same beat. “Just ask Quinn, he’ll tell you. Where is he?”

  The cop’s mouth pulled into a smile that was completely devoid of amusement. “That,” he said, “is a very good question. For a guy who’s supposed to be our liaison with this shindig, he’s noticeably absent.”

  “He’s not—” The paramedics raced back out of the ballroom and I held my breath. That is, until I saw that the person on the gurney was an old guy who was pale, but other than that, appeared to be fine. “He’s got to be here,” I said, turning back to the detective. “He wouldn’t leave. Not when he knew there was a chance something was going to happen. And—”

  He didn’t give me a chance to say anything else. “There’s an officer over there named Jankowski,” he said, nudging me toward the registration desk. “You go give him your statement.”

  Sure, I headed over that way, but there was no way I was going to let myself get waylaid by bureaucratic red tape. I waited until that detective turned around to talk to another detective type and ducked into a nearby hallway where I wedged myself between the snack and pop machines. I tried Quinn’s cell again.

  No answer.

  “Damn.” I shoved my phone in my purse and decided to take a quick look around and try to figure out what was up. I would have, too, if an arm hadn’t snaked around my waist to hold me in place, and a cloth hadn’t been shoved over my face. Whatever that cloth was soaked in smelled funny and I tried not to breathe.

  Unfortunately, there was only so long I could hold my breath, and only so long I could fight against the weird sensations that skittered through me.

  Flying. Floating. My legs were heavy. My arms went numb.

  Darkness snuck up beside me and gobbled me up.

  Damn! It was just like Jack said. Things were going to go wrong at the convention. Somebody was going to die. I just never realized it was going to be me.

  I have no idea how long I was unconscious, I only know that when I finally woke up, my mouth tasted like I’d sucked on an ashtray and my stomach was doing flips. My head, it should be noted, was pounding so hard, I was afraid to open my eyes.

  And just as afraid not to.

  I spent a couple seconds listening. For the sounds of voices. For some indication of where I was and who I might be with.

  The only thing I heard was a silence that pressed against me like hands.

  Afraid I’d find them tied, I took my time trying out my arms and legs. When they moved freely, I sighed, then because my stomach lurched, I took a deep breath. It made me cough and choke and I sat up. As long as I was that much in the land of the living, I figured I might as well go all the way. I peeked around through eyes that felt as if they’d been weighted down with bricks.

  The first thing I saw was Superman.

  Yeah, blue tights, little red Speedo shorts, cape. Superman. Only this time, not a comic book or a picture or a poster. A person.

  “Still unconscious,” I told myself. “Still dreaming.” Let’s face it, that would be the only thing that could possibly explain the superhero vision as well as the vivid blue walls that surrounded me, the red touches here and there, the framed comic books, and—

  Awareness knifed through me. My spine stiffened and my eyes flew open.

  I was in Milo Blackburne’s weird little museum room.

  Except last time I was there, Superman wasn’t in the room with me.

  I closed one eye, trying to focus on the blue-and-red blur standing across the room, and when that didn’t work, I scrubbed my hands over my eyes and tried again.

  “You’re not real,” I said.

  “Of course I am.” The Man of Steel stepped closer but since the light was at his back and in my eyes, I still couldn’t get a good look at his face. There was a lightweight blanket thrown over me and I plucked it aside and swung my feet onto the floor.

  The room pitched.

  With one hand, I clutched the arm of the couch where I’d been laying and shook my head. Not the best move. Even after I was done, the room kept shaking.

  “Can’t be,” I said, my voice as shaky as my vision. “You’re just a character in a comic book.”

  His laugh was deep and cocky. Just like a superhero’s ought to be.

  He held his hands out to his sides and his red cape billowed around him. “Obviously, I’m very much real. And very much in love with you, Lana.”

  Wide awake now.

  I tried to move fast and get off the couch, but let’s face it, I was at something of a disadvantage, what with having been knocked out and all. When Milo Blackburne in his weird costume closed the distance between us, sat down next to me, and slipped an arm around my shoulders, all I could manage was to scoot back, and try to smack his hands away. Great plan. Too bad I was as weak as a wet paper bag.

  “What are you talking
about?” I hoped he heard the disbelief in my voice and not the panic. This was no time to show how freakin’ scared I was. “And why are you dressed like that?” I gave the outfit another once-over. In his boxy suits, it had always been impossible to tell just how well built Milo really was. Now, muscles bulged beneath the skintight blue shirt with the giant yellow S emblazoned on it. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  He took my hand. “You know it’s not, Lana,” he said. “I’ve told you before. I love you. I know you weren’t listening. But don’t worry, I forgive you. You thought I was nothing more than mild-mannered Milo Blackburne. But now that you know my deepest secret—”

  “That you’re Superman?” Whirling head and flopping stomach aside, I scooted off the couch. When I stood up, it took a couple seconds for the room to settle down. I clutched my hands together behind my back, the better to keep him from holding on to me again. “Stop kidding around. It’s not funny. And it doesn’t make any sense. Unless…” The truth hit as it often does, like a jackhammer. I pointed one trembling finger at him. “The comic book at the convention. You stole it, didn’t you? That would explain the cops scrambling all over the hotel.”

  He laughed. “It was quite a sight, wasn’t it? There were all those convention goers, milling around, waiting for the evening’s cocktail party and wondering what was going to happen at it. I saved them the trouble. As soon as the comic was brought into the room, I put my plan in motion. No one ever expected it. No one could stop it. Before anyone even realized what was happening…” There was a computer on a nearby desk, and he flicked on the screen.

  “Webcam,” he explained. “As you can see…” Milo put a reverent hand on the screen and on the scene it showed: that big, empty see-through box in the Fortress of Solitude wasn’t so empty anymore. I might not be a comic connoisseur, but I was willing to bet the comic book inside it—one that showed Superman holding a car above his head—was Action Comics #1.

  “But why?” I tried to stomp my foot for emphasis. It was the first I realized my shoes were missing. “You’ve got enough money to buy whatever you want. You don’t need to steal stuff.”

  He stood, adjusting his cape. “There are some collectors who are simply unreasonable. They won’t sell what they have, not for any price. Sometimes, I simply don’t have a choice. You understand, don’t you, Lana? Of course you do. You know how important it is for me to have these books and these pictures. After all, they are part of my heritage.”

  “Your kryptonite heritage.”

  He wagged his finger. “Kryptonian is the proper word. You’ll get used to it, don’t worry. Kryptonite, remember, is all that’s left of my home planet after it exploded.”

  It was ignore the crazy talk or give in to the fear. I concentrated on the details. “Then you’re the one…” It was hard to put the pieces together when I was feeling this woozy, but I did my best. “You hired Rossetti and Howie to travel to the conventions all over the country and steal things for you. But they…” Milo wasn’t wearing his glasses; it was easy to look into his eyes. “How dare you tell me you love me! They tried to kill me!”

  “Yes, I know. I’m very sorry.” He touched one hand to my hair. “I’m afraid Mr. Rossetti and his associate can sometimes get a little carried away. They realized you were digging around for information about the deaths of that Dingo character and Jack Haggarty, and they thought you were a threat. What they did, they did to protect me. I hope you understand. Believe me…” He traced a finger over my cheek. “I’ve had a talk with them and set them straight. They are never to lay another finger on you. They just needed a little reassurance, but I’ve taken care of that. I told them you’d never betray me. Especially not now that you know my true identity.”

  Okay, it wasn’t the first time the word crazy came to mind when I thought about Milo Blackburne. It was the first time I realized just how serious it was, though. I stepped back, gauging the distance between myself and the door, hoping it wasn’t locked. “I won’t tell anybody. I promise.” Yeah, lying. Like anybody could blame me? “But you’re going to get in trouble for stealing that comic book. If you could just give it back—”

  Another of those devil-may-care laughs sent shivers up my spine. “Never! I’ve worked too long and too hard to get my hands on it. Now, my collection is almost complete.”

  I swallowed hard. “Almost?”

  “The only thing I need now is you, Lana.” Milo dropped to one knee. “Make me the happiest superhero alive. Marry me!”

  “No.” Could I be any clearer? I figured it didn’t hurt to try. “No, no, no. I barely know you. And you just stole a million-dollar comic book. And you’re wearing blue tights, for crying out loud.”

  “I know, I know.” Like I hadn’t just crushed his heart into a million pieces, he chuckled and stood up. “It takes some getting used to. I mean, the whole secret identity, the superpowers. Not to worry, my love, after a while, you’ll accept it. Marry me, Lana.”

  I back stepped toward the door. “No.”

  Truth be told, I don’t think Milo Blackburne really had any superpowers. But I do know that I was still feeling shaky and not at my best. When he closed in on me, it did seem like he did it at super-speed. His hand gripped the back of my neck and though I tried to lock my legs and stay where I was, it was a losing cause. He dragged me over to the computer. With his free hand, he clicked a couple keys and that webcam panned the Fortress of Solitude. It came to a stop focused on the far corner behind that statue of Superman’s parents.

  “See that?” I couldn’t, not clearly, anyway, but that was no excuse for Milo to push my face nearer to the screen. “What do you say now, Lana?”

  I didn’t say anything. Not until I got a closer look.

  And then my heart stopped cold and my stomach went numb and I couldn’t have said anything if I wanted to.

  “It’s regrettable,” Milo grumbled close to my ear. “But sometimes, even superheroes have to make hard choices. You’ve given me no other options, Lana.”

  My mouth filled with sand, I took another look at the screen and at the man tied up and tossed in the corner of the Fortress of Solitude. He wasn’t moving.

  I ran my tongue over my lips. “Is he…is Quinn alive?”

  “For now.” Milo let go of my neck and still, I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I stared at the computer screen and at Quinn crumpled in the corner. “He’s been drugged. Just enough to keep him quiet. Another dose though…” Before, that cavalier laugh had just been goofy. Now, it was terrifying. “If Detective Harrison stays alive…that, Lana, all depends on you.”

  The words barely made it past my lips. “What…” I managed to tear my gaze away from Quinn and whirl toward Milo. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Oh, my darling! Don’t make it sound so serious.” He kissed my cheek. “All I’m asking you to do is marry me. If you don’t…” Milo skimmed his lips to my ear and whispered. “If you don’t, I swear by my Kryptonian heritage that Quinn Harrison is going to die.”

  “And do you, Penelope Martin, take this man to be your wedded husband to live together in marriage? Do you promise to love, comfort, honor, and keep him for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, be faithful only to him so long as you both shall live?”

  Did I?

  I knew I wouldn’t find the answers out in the sea of faces watching the ceremony—not the answers I wanted, anyway—but I glanced over my shoulder to where Mom and Dad sat in the first row of white chairs. They were beaming. Ella, who was sitting next to my mother, had tears rolling down her cheeks. The rest of the chairs were packed with guests, some of them I recognized and some I didn’t. The entire Garden View staff was there. So were some of our more socially connected patrons. The rest, I assumed, were Blackburne’s business associates or relatives. From the murmurs I’d heard as I was getting ready for the big event, everyone had been as surprised by the announcement of our engagement as they were by the fact that the cer
emony was taking place almost instantly, but aside from Dad (who kept asking, “Are you sure about this, honey?” even as we prepared to walk down the aisle), my family and friends had apparently decided that I was a big girl, and I could make my own decisions.

  After all, Milo Blackburne wasn’t bad-looking and he was obscenely rich. What girl could ask for more? Especially when he stood at my side, those bulging muscles of his—and that red Speedo, thank goodness—hidden under a dapper tuxedo, smiling at me with so much devotion, there was no question that he adored me.

  Well, that he adored Lana Lang, anyway.

  Adored by a crazy person.

  A crazy person who was holding Quinn hostage.

  A crazy person who was going to kill Quinn if I told anyone what was really going on and didn’t go through with the ceremony.

  Okay, so this wasn’t turning out to be one of my better days.

  “Well, do you?”

  The minister’s question snapped me out of my thoughts. Too bad it did nothing for the panic that beat through me like the bass line on a hip-hop recording. Or the worry that gnawed at my insides. Or the fear—

  Honestly, I couldn’t think about the fear. I was already headed for a full-fledged meltdown, and no way I was going to let that to happen.

  Not when Quinn’s life hung in the balance.

  “I…” My voice broke over the words. “How can I not?” I asked. I steadied myself with a deep breath and put a plan into action that I’d hatched as I was squeezing myself into the wedding gown from hell. That’s when the reality of what was really happening finally hit. Namely, that I wasn’t going to get out of this wedding. Not if I didn’t do something clever, and quick.

  Not quick enough? Not clever enough? Heck with me spending the rest of my life as Mrs. Milo Blackburne. The rest of my life wouldn’t be worth very much, anyway. Not if Quinn was dead.

  As sweet a smile as I could manage pasted to my lips, I reached into the little silk pouch I had slung over my wrist and took out my soon-to-be husband’s ring. I cupped it in my palm—the better to keep him from getting a good look at it—and took his hand in mine.