No infringement on copyrights held by DC Comics, Warner Brothers,Deborah Joy Levine, Republic Pictures, Witt-Thomas Productions, RonKoslow, or anyone else who might have a finger in the pie, isintended.

TIMELESS

by Becky Bain

Clark Kent crossed the Daily Planet's newsroom, trying to beunobtrusive. From habit, his gaze went to his wife's desk, but it wasunoccupied. A mug next to the keyboard still steamed softly, though,so Lois was probably in the newsroom somewhere.

In his guise as Superman, he'd left home in the middle of thenight, responding to a half-heard news broadcast from the radio hesometimes left playing in the living room - a Greek passenger ferryhad overturned and hundreds of lives were at stake.

He'd flown straight there and salvaged the ferry, carrying it todry land so rescue workers could enter safely and treat the injured,then spent hours plucking other survivors out of the debris-filledwater. By the time he got home, Lois had already left for work. Hewondered what excuse she'd given for his absence.

"Hey, CK!"

Clark turned his smile on Jimmy Olsen. "Hey, Jimmy."

Jimmy's grin turned to concern. "How's the tooth?"

Apparently his delay had been an emergency trip to the dentist.Clark grimaced, feigning remembered pain. "Much better, thanks," heanswered. "Have you seen Lois?"

"Yeah, she's in with the chief," Jimmy answered.

Clark wheeled to look toward Perry White's closed office door. "Dothey need me in there, too?" he wondered aloud.

"Gee, I don't know, CK. I can ask," Jimmy offered.

"Never mind. Let me get some coffee, and I'll just go on in."

"Good idea," Jimmy approved. "Oops, I gotta go. I'm supposed to betaking pictures at the museum this morning. That big opening, youknow."

"The Van Gogh tour," Clark said. "Yeah. Good luck!"

"Thanks!" Jimmy bounded off.

Unlike Lois, Clark always cleared his desk off at the end of eachday, so even without his special visual talents, he could clearly seethe small rectangular object centered on his otherwise clean blotter.The object was about six inches by two, wrapped in shiny silver paperand bound with a glittery red elastic cord tied in a bow. A whitecard said simply, "For You."

He grinned. Lois was mostly understanding about his being calledaway on unexpected emergencies, but occasionally, when the timing wasespecially bad, she succumbed to vocal frustration. Lately she'dtaken to giving him small gifts, to apologize, he was sure, for theblowups, because she really did know the importance of the work hedid as Superman.

He pulled off the cord and parted the paper to reveal a long, redvelvet jeweler's box. Intrigued, he lifted the lid. Inside, nestledin a white satin hollow, lay a gleaming black ballpoint pen. "Wow,"he muttered to himself. "She must have been really mad this time." Helifted the pen from its nest; it balanced perfectly in his hand andits oversized barrel fit neatly between his fingers. He flipped opena notebook and scratched a few lines to test the point. It flowedsmoothly and left a bold, crisp line. He smiled. "Nice pen."

He clicked the retracting mechanism and tucked the pen into hisshirt pocket, then found his coffee mug and headed for the machine.He was on his way back, steaming mug in hand, when Lois emerged fromPerry's office. She spotted him across the room and waved. "Clark!"she called. "You're here!"

He lifted his mug in acknowledgement and quirked a smile.

They met near her desk. "How'd it go?" she asked, her voicelow.

"Fine. We saved nearly everybody..."

"And the ones you couldn't save weren't your fault," she saidfirmly.

"Right," he agreed, though he knew the deaths would haunt him fora few days anyway. If only he'd gotten there sooner, if only he couldhave performed CPR on more victims at a time, if only, if only.

You did what you could, son. His father's voice sounded in hishead, making perfect sense, just as Lois did. "Right," he said again,more firmly. "I did what I could."

"Right," she agreed. "Come on, Perry's got an assignment forus."

"Great." He set down his mug and followed her to the elevator."What's up?"

"Robbery at the Bank of Metropolis," she answered, stepping intothe waiting car.

Out of habit, his hand went to his tie. "Do I need to...?"

She shook her head and punched the button for the ground floor."The attempt was foiled by an alert security guard. "Both suspectsare in custody. Perry wants us to interview the guard." She grinned."We'll have to find out if he's trying to put Superman out ofbusiness."

He grinned back. "Right."

Outside, the sun was bright. Clark rested his hand on Lois's armto steady her until her eyes adjusted; once, she would have thrownoff his concern, but now she leaned into him. "I missed you thismorning," she murmured.

"Yeah, I know. I found..."

"Excuse me? Sir?" A pair of teenagers, looking uncertain and a bitlost, approached.

He stopped politely. "Yes?" Automatically his hand went to hispocket, ready to dispense a dollar or two to those in need. Besidehim, Lois rolled her eyes; he nudged her with a subtle chiding elbowand she subsided.

"Could you tell us how to get to the Metropolis Museum of Art? Wecame to the city to see the Van Gogh exhibit, but so far nobody weasked has been able to help us."

Clark took another look at the pair and this time noted the paintsmudges on faded jeans and worn t-shirts. Budding artists, no doubt,here to see the work of a master. He couldn't really blame them; he'dseen the paintings himself yesterday, since Superman had been askedto be present during delivery and set up, and they were trulymagnificent. He and Lois planned a visit this weekend to see thepaintings again.

"You bet," he told the teenagers. "It's up on Eighty-second. Yougo north for about eighteen blocks, then go right on Firth until youreach Maxwell..."

The girl shook her head pleadingly. "We'll never remember allthat."

"It's really very easy to find," Lois offered, eager to get rid ofthese pesky kids and be on her way.

Clark suppressed a grin. "Here, let me draw you a map." A fewstrokes with his new pen on a clean page of his notebook showed theway - he inked in the street names and tore out the page. "Here yougo."

The boy studied the map for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, we canfind it now," he said. "Thanks."

"Yeah, mister," the girl chimed. "Thanks!"

"Boy scout," Lois muttered as the teenagers moved off. "Nice pen,"she added, as Clark went to return it to his pocket. "Where'd you getit?"

Oh, so she wanted to play games. Well, he could do that, too."Like it?" He held it out, letting the gleaming black barrel catchthe sun. "I found it, gift-wrapped, on my desk when I got in thismorning."

"Really?" Lois's brow puckered. "Who'd leave you an expensivepresent like that?"

"I have no idea," he said, putting as much sincerity as he couldmuster into his voice. "Look, the point retracts, and it's got thisneat carving on the clip..."

The sidewalk lurched and tilted; faster than thought, Clarkwhipped an arm around Lois to steady her. The world around them wentbright white and dead quiet, and tipped crazily on its axis.

*****

Stupid.

Catherine Chandler silently berated herself. It was stupid to havestayed so late at Jenny Aronson's party; it was stupid to havebrought her car, and to have parked it two blocks away. Stupidest ofall was not accepting Paul Tucker's offer to walk her there - shehadn't wanted to take him from the party he was so obviouslyenjoying, hadn't wanted to make him walk the four block round trip,so she'd lied, said her car wasn't far.

Now, walking alone on a quiet, deserted side street, she had timeto reconsider. Jenny's west side neighborhood was generallyconsidered a safe one, but this was New York; after dark, there wasno such place as safe.

Was that a footstep she heard behind her?

Uneasiness crept between her shoulder blades. Uneasiness... and akind of shameful longing. She pushed the feelings away and walkedfaster, her heels tapping nervously against the pavement. Almostthere; she could see the gleam of her windshield in the neareststreet lamp.

Her keys were already out, clutched between her fingers like somany jagged teeth; she scanned the sidewalk, then flipped the keyring around and found her car key by feel. She was bending to unlockthe passenger door when someone grabbed her arm.

She spun sharply, wrenching her arm free and raking the keyviciously at eye-height. A blond boy, no more than eighteen, withstringy hair and torn jeans, leaped back, swearing. "Bitch," hemuttered, and she saw the glint of metal. He had a knife.

Fear rose up, clutching her throat. Knives terrified her.

She swallowed, forcing the fear down, and shifted her purse,holding it in front of her like a shield.

"I want your money, bitch!" the boy shouted, slashing with hisknife. "I want it now!"

If he'd only stop moving, only step back, she'd gladly open herpurse and give him her wallet to be rid of him, to be rid of thedanger, but he kept moving in, crowding her back until she was pinnedagainst the side of her car, and the swinging knife came closer andcloser.

Something fierce and glorious rose up in her; she swelled with itand feinted to the right, swinging her purse left, into the path ofthe knife, and kicking out with her left foot, aiming at his knee.She landed only a glancing blow that sent her foot skidding off tothe side; she lost her balance and went down clumsily. In an instantthe boy was on her, holding the knife perilously close to hercheek.

"Your money, bitch!" he shouted again, kneeing her shoulderroughly. "Now!"

"My purse," she stammered. Something dark inside her demandedaction; she quelled it frantically. "It's in my purse..."

With hands shaking more from the effort of control than from fear,she untangled the purse from its strap and pulled it open. Her walletcame easily into her hand and she held it up. "Here, see? Takeit."

He grabbed it and stuffed it into a pocket of his ragged jeans,but didn't take the knife away.

"I gave you what you wanted," she almost shouted. If only he'd go.Quickly and without hurting her. If only he'd go now. Time was short;she could feel the rage building, getting nearer.

But instead he caught a handful of her hair, forcing her head backpainfully. "You hurt me, bitch," he told her. "You shouldn'ta donethat."

Kneeling on the sidewalk, head arched back, she had a perfect viewof the lethal dark form that dropped soundlessly from the nearestrooftop. Too late; it was too late. The knife at her throat burnedbriefly, then was snatched away. An angry roar split the night; alongwith it came a familiar rush of sensation. She gasped with the darkpleasure of it, longed to lose herself fully, let it completeher.

Instead she fought it, struggling to her feet, reaching out forthe cloaked figure who'd struck once and now coiled to strikeagain.

"No, Vincent!" she shouted, catching his arm. "No!"

He pulled against her grasp, but not hard enough to break free,then dropped his arms, set his feet apart, and tipped back his head,loosing a spine-tingling roar of triumph.

Catherine's keys had gone flying when the boy seized her; she hadno idea where they'd landed and there was no time. Lights were goingon in windows; any moment someone would look out and see... if theyhadn't already. The boy lay slumped against the front tire of hercar; a slow stream of blood flowed steadily from his shoulder wherehis shirt and flesh were torn. She bent quickly and pulled her walletfrom his pocket; she couldn't leave it behind.

She took an extra second to check him. He was breathing - shecould see the rise and fall of his chest, hear the slow wheeze as hestruggled to fill his lungs. Please God he wouldn't bleed to deathbefore help arrived; in this neighborhood, New York or no, someonehad certainly already lifted the telephone to dial 911.

Vincent stood now, head bowed, over the unconscious form of hisvictim. The bloodlust was gone; what was left was a vast sea ofshame. She knew, because she felt it, too.

"Vincent," she said, quietly. "We have to go."

He roused enough to look at her; his eyes, pale and human in aninhuman face, held only despair.

"Come," she said, tugging. "We have to go."

*****

Colors and shapes and noise reappeared with a jerk. Clark thrustout a hand to catch the sidewalk that loomed up, holding Lois tightlyto keep her from falling. The world leveled and steadied; cautiouslyhe stood straight and loosened his hold on his wife.

"Did you feel that?" she demanded. "Was it an earthquake?"

"Shouldn't have been - Metropolis is built on solid bedrock," heanswered, glancing around. None of the buildings looked damaged, andno cries for help reached his sensitive ears.

But the buildings - they looked different. And...

"What happened to the sun?" Lois sounded scared. "Clark, where'sthe sun?"

The sky above them was navy, not azure, and pinpoints of thebrightest stars gleamed through the haze of light pollution from thecity.

"The sun's still there. It's night." He pointed at a sliver ofcrescent moon in the eastern sky.

Her grip on his arm tightened. "But it was morning just a minuteago. Wasn't it?"

"Yeah. It was." Clark looked around.

None of the people passing by seemed disturbed - indeed, most ofthem were hurrying on about their business, except for a couple,nearer, who were frankly staring at him and Lois.

Momentarily horrified, he glanced downward, but despite his fearsno telltale blue peeped out of tears in his business suit. Loislooked a bit disheveled, but otherwise fine, and was already slippingback into reporter mode.

"Excuse me, sir," she said to a passing man. "Did you feel theearthquake?"

He stared at her as if she'd lost her mind and passed by. Lois,not one to give in to adversity, turned to the next pedestrian."Ma'am, what do you think about the sudden time shift?"

The woman, too, looked confused and mildly appalled, and hurriedpast.

"Look, lady," said the next passerby. "I don't know what you'reon, but leave me alone."

"On?" Lois squawked, indignant. "What's he talking about?"

"Lois, come here." Clark took her arm and drew her, protesting, tothe side. "Look around."

She grumbled, but she looked. And froze. "This isn't where wewere!" she hissed. She spun, looking back the way they had come."Where's the Planet building?"

"Not there. Lois, I don't think this is Metropolis. It doesn'tlook right."

"Not Metropolis? But where else could it be? We were just walkingdown the sidewalk! It was just a little earthquake! And a little timeshift..." her voice trailed off.

"I think it's more."

"Maybe you should..." she opened her hand in a swift, upliftedmotion. "Reconnoiter?"

He shook his head. "I have a better idea." He towed her in hiswake, two blocks to the newsstand he'd spied. "Could I get a localpaper, please?" he asked the vendor.

"Which one? Times? Star? Evening Standard?"

"The Daily Planet," Lois insisted. "Do you have one?"

The man's eyebrows rose beneath his grimy cap. "Daily Planet?Never heard of it. Sorry."

"Never heard...?" Lois began to bristle; Clark silenced her with atouch.

"What paper would you recommend as a reliable news source?" heasked.

"Oh, for that you want the Times," the man said. "'All the NewsThat's Fit to Print.' Over there."

Clark picked up the evening edition and paid for it, then draggedLois safely away.

"What does he mean, there's no Planet?" she demanded. "Clark, whatis going on...?"

For answer, he folded open the paper. The New York Times,published on June 4, 1989, New York City, New York.

"New York?" Lois muttered. "What happened to New Troy?"

"What happened to 1998?" he muttered back.

"Time travel?" she guessed.

"Parallel universe," he countered.

"Or both."

"Both," he agreed.

"Tempus!" they chorused.

*****

Catherine's urging finally worked; Vincent bowed his head and lether tug him off the sidewalk and into the darkness of a nearby alley.Desperation made her resourceful; he was too acquiescent. She foundthe round outline of a manhole cover, but he nudged her aside beforeshe could kneel to struggle with it, hooking strong claws into thecrevice around it and lifting.

She went first, finding the ladder by feel and descending untilshe reached the dusty floor. She stood aside, giving him room. Hereplaced the cover and came down to join her.

She studied his face in the faint light, the flattened nose, thehigh, arching brows, the cat-like mouth. She longed to touch it, butshe knew he wouldn't permit it, not now.

She put out her hand to slip it in his, but he shied away. "Don't.My hands..."

Were sticky with blood. "I know," she answered sadly. "So aremine. I'm sorry, Vincent."

His head swung her way; his eyes held surprise. "Sorry? Why?"

"Because I was careless. Because I know what it costs you to cometo me that way..."

He was no more than a shadow in the gloom of the tunnel, but stillshe saw him look down at his clenched fists.

"He's not dead," she added. "He's hurt, but he's not dead."

"You stopped me," Vincent answered. "I would have killed him, butyou stopped me. Thank you for that."

"If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have been there at all," sheanswered, her voice harsh in her throat. "Don't thank me. Pleasedon't."

"If I hadn't come... he might have killed you. You might havedied, Catherine. Stopping that is worth any cost. Any cost."

To him, perhaps, but not, any longer, to her.

In silence, he walked her to the threshold beneath her apartmentbuilding. She turned to him there. "Will you be all right?" Her voicecame out sounding thin and uncertain.

"You are unharmed, Catherine," he answered quietly. "I must weighthat against the injuries of the boy who would have harmed you."

The boy had been about to murder her, Catherine thought. And yetthat would count for little against Vincent's sense of shame, nomatter the words he said. And he'd noticed her assailant's youth.She'd hoped he wouldn't, hoped he would believe he'd attacked afull-grown man.

"He had a knife," Vincent added.

Catherine suppressed a shudder; the assault that led her toVincent had taken place over two years earlier, but she could stillremember the sharp blade slicing into her forehead and cheeks, stillfeel the warm gush of blood flowing into eyes and mouth. Everymorning the harsh light in her bathroom showed the pale spidery linesof scars left behind by careful plastic surgery, the bolder,unrepaired scar in front of her left ear. She'd managed to turn theassociation of those scars from vicious assailants to what they'd ledher to - the wondrous being standing beside her, dark and brooding.He loved her. He would die for her. He would kill for her.

"Yes," she agreed, forcing her voice to be strong. "He did have aknife, and he would have killed me, Vincent, and it was his choice tobe there. We have to remember that. You have to remember that. It wasstupid of me to walk down that street alone, but he was the one withthe knife."

"Yes," he agreed. She hoped he meant it. Hoped he would rememberit later, when the dreams came. "You'll be all right?"

She nodded. "I'm fine." She didn't mention how her knees and handsstung from striking the pavement, or how she was sure the trickle ofblood she could feel on her neck was her own and not herassailant's.

He wouldn't embrace her tonight, not with blood on his hands, onhis clothing. No matter that the same blood stained her fingers andpalms, and probably spattered her clothes. He wouldn't touch her.

"Good night," she said softly, letting her love for him rise up,letting it engulf her, so it would show on her face, and so he wouldfeel it, too.

"Good night, Catherine," he answered, and if there was no joy inhis face, at least there was no despair, either.

She clung to that pale thought as she started up the narrow ironladder.

*****

"Tempus. How did he do it?" Lois wondered. Like Metropolis, NewYork seemed never to sleep, and the sidewalks were crowded even atthis late hour. She and Clark picked an aimless path among thepedestrians. "I never saw a time machine."

Their old nemesis from the future had tried more than once to ridthe world of Superman; to that end, he'd used both time travel and aparallel universe. So far, he hadn't been successful.

"I didn't see one, either," Clark confessed. "But we're here, anduntil we figure out how he did it, we can't get back."

She stopped. "Oh! And if it's 1989 New York... we can't go home.We don't even have a home!"

"Unless our counterparts work for this New York Times," Clarksaid. They'd already established that here, there was no such placeas Metropolis, or even the state of New Troy. There was a Kansas, butnot, to Clark's dismay, a town called Smallville, which was wherehe'd grown up, and where his parents still lived.

"Except in '89 I was barely starting out, and you were still offwandering the world," Lois pointed out.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Well, maybe we can find you, then. OrPerry."

But a careful scouring of the Times masthead showed not a singlefamiliar name. A phone call elicited the terse information from anight editor that neither a Perry White nor a Lois Lane worked there.They got the same response from the other publications they tried. Acall to information revealed there was no Martha Kent or JonathanKent in any of the Kansas towns Clark asked about. He hung up the payphone with a sigh.

"Lois, how much cash do you have on you?"

"Cash? I don't know, maybe twenty dollars..."

He frowned. "And I have about thirty..."

"Why? What's wrong?"

The look he turned on her was very gentle... and frightening."We're in the wrong universe at the wrong time. We're lucky our cashseems to be good, but I don't think we're going to be as fortunatewith our credit cards. And your ATM card's probably not worth theplastic it's printed on."

Lois's heart fluttered up into her throat. "That can't be right,Clark, because if it's right, then we're here in a parallel universewith no money and no jobs and no home and no idea how we got here sowe can't get back and..."

"Lois."

"...that would be really bad, because what would we eat and wherewould we sleep..."

"Lois."

"...so the plastic just has to work, Clark, can't you seethat?"

"Lois!" He took her shoulders firmly.

She let out a long, shuddering breath. "Oh, Clark," she whispered."What are we going to do?"

Clark held up a finger. "First, we need a place to sleep."

"Fifty dollars would buy us a cheap motel room, but then whatwould we eat?"

"And we're going to need some other clothes."

"Other clothes? What for? What's wrong with what we have on? Did Ispill on myself, or do I have a thread, or..."

"Lois!"

She caught herself in mid-word. "Sorry. I just can't helpmyself."

His look was tender. "I know. Look, there's nothing wrong with ourclothes, but they're our only clothes, and likely to be our bestclothes for a while. I think we should save them for job interviewsand things like that."

"Job interviews?" Lois practically squeaked. "I'm not going on anyjob interviews! We'll just fax our resumes. Any paper would be proudto have two Kerth-award-winning reporters like us!"

"Lois."

She glared at him. "Well?"

He sighed. "They may not even have Kerth awards here. And if theydo, we certainly haven't won any of them."

"We might," she said stubbornly.

"You're right," he conceded, "we might have. If we're here, whichI'm increasingly convinced we aren't. We'll check that out at thelibrary, just in case. But if we aren't here, honey, then we have toface facts - in this universe, we're nobodies. We don't have anyclippings, any references, any journalism awards, we can't even saywe have journalism degrees. The Times is not going to hire us."

Lois set her jaw. "Maybe not right away. But we're good, Clark,and once we show everybody..."

"We're not trying to show anybody anything. All we want is to gethome. Right?"

"Okay, so you're right, we need some more clothes..."

"No, no, go back. All we want is to get home. Right?"

"...and then maybe a place to stay, nothing fancy, well, it can'tbe fancy since between us we only have fifty bucks and we have to usesome of that for the clothes and maybe something to eat, althoughsince we're technically homeless I guess we'd qualify for free mealsat the nearest soup kitchen if we knew where that was, but we don'tbecause we just got here, and anyway we have to get the clothes firstbecause if we show up at a soup kitchen looking like this theywouldn't feed us anyway, do you think?"

"I think we'd better see about finding someplace to sleep tonight.Tomorrow morning we look for jobs."

"Right. Except..."

"Except?"

"I'm hungry. I know we don't have much money, but can we getsomething to eat?"

His grin promised that nothing truly bad could happen as long asthey were together. "Sure."

They found a modest diner that was still open and went in. "Idon't need a menu," Lois told the weary waitress who came to theirbooth. "I want a hamburger and french fries, and a diet cola."

"You got it," the woman promised. "Sir?"

"I'll just have coffee, thanks."

"Clark!"

He met her glare with one of his own, so she waited until thewaitress moved away before she went on.

"You're not eating?"

"I'm not really hungry..."

He'd been out half the night on a rescue, and she was sure hehadn't stopped for breakfast before showing up at the Planet forwork. "Clark..."

"I don't need to eat, Lois. You do. Please don't argue withme."

"You don't need to eat if you're still... you know. But what ifyou're not? We could be in a virtual world, or a universe where youdon't have your powers, or..."

"Lois."

She stopped, breathless.

"I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Positive. So I don't need to eat."

"But you like to. You get hungry."

His expression remained implacable, and she sighed. It touched herto think he meant to go without in order to stretch their funds sothat she could eat more often. Or longer. Or whatever. She slid herhand across the table to touch his. "I love you."

His grin, as always, made her heart melt. "I know. It's becauseI'm such a great guy."

She responded with her first real smile since the earth lurchedand threw them into another dimension. "Yeah," she agreed. "Youare."

*****

"There you go." The super pushed Catherine's door open. "You gonnaneed new keys?"

"I have a spare set here, but thank you," she answered. "And thankyou for coming all the way up to let me in after I was silly enoughto lose my keys. I appreciate it."

"All part of the job," he answered. "No trouble. Oops, there goesyour phone."

"Thanks again, Mr. Fowler," she said, and took time to lock thedoor before turning to the phone. "Hello?"

"Cathy! It's Joe."

Deputy District Attorney Joe Maxwell, her boss and her friend,almost never called her at home, and never so late unless somethingwas wrong. The skin on the back of her neck prickled uneasily. "Hi,Joe. What's up?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, why?"

"Some punk got beat up over on the west side; landed up against acar - Greg Hughs called me because the car traces to you."

"My car?" She tried to sound shocked.

"Looks that way. If that's where your car is?"

"Uh, yeah," she answered, her mind racing. "I went to a party atJenny's - she lives not far from where I left the car." That much wastrue, anyway. "But I lost my keys somehow, so I took a cab home."

"Thank God." Joe sounded fervent. "I gotta tell you, Cathy, whenGreg called me, I was scared. And then you didn't answer yourphone..."

A quick glance down showed three messages on her machine. "Sorry.I didn't know."

"No, how could you? Lucky night for you to have lost your keys,though. You might have walked right into trouble."

"Yeah, I guess. How's the kid who got hurt?"

"I don't know, some superficial wounds to his shoulder and aconcussion, I think Greg said. It was the blood on the car thatscared me; it's probably the kid's, but we couldn't be sure, and thenwhen the car turned out to be yours..."

"I guess I'll have to wash it." She struggled to keep her voicelight, and blessed the instinct that made her snatch back her wallet.She could never have explained that. "Did they impound it?"

"No, Greg said they didn't need to; it's right where you leftit."

"I'll get it tomorrow. Thanks."

"All right. See you in the morning."

"Yeah. 'Night, Joe."

"Bye."

She replaced the phone in its cradle and let out a long, shakybreath. She hated lying to him.

In the bathroom, she washed her hands, rubbing hard to get thedried flecks of rusty red from around her nails. The cut on her neckdidn't look as bad as it felt; she washed away the thin crust ofblood and smeared it with some antibiotic ointment, then daubed thescratches on her palms.

Close examination showed dark spatters on her navy blouse and grayslacks; she bundled them together and shoved them into a paper bag.She'd throw it away on the way to work in the morning. Her shoesreceived a good scrubbing with wet paper towels; the towels went intothe bag of clothes. A good forensics team wouldn't be fooled, ofcourse. There were probably still traces of her assailant's blood increvices of her shoes and even in the drain pipe of her sink.

She'd been lucky so far; only reporter Bernie Spirko had evernoticed her connection to the slasher killings. Of course, he'd beenhelped by Vincent's enemy Paracelsus, who had killed Spirko and thenbeen killed himself by Vincent.

But how much longer could her luck hold? Someday someone wouldfigure it all out, the killings, the attacks. The fact that she wasalways involved, always nearby. When they did, what would she do?Stay up here and never see Vincent again? The very thought tore ather heart.

But equally impossible was the idea of abandoning her life, herfriends, her work, and fleeing to Vincent's world. Someday, maybe,but not now, not with so many things still unsettled betweenthem.

Someday someone would put the pieces together... and when theydid, her life would shatter.

*****

Amazing what a juicy hamburger with a healthy side of fries coulddo for a person's outlook. There'd been so much food that Lois wasable, with much teasing, to feed Clark the last few bites of herburger and nearly half her fries. Her rejuvenated spirits lasteduntil Clark announced, after a half hour wedged in a phone cubby,that the very cheapest room he could find would cost them twelvedollars a night - in the very worst part of town.

"I'm not afraid," Lois declared, then mustered a coquettish smile."Not with you around."

"I'm not so much worried about that," he answered. "But it'll besqualid. I mean, really, really squalid. Dirty room, dirty bedlinens, a shared bathroom..."

"Don't tell me, the bathroom will be dirty, too."

"I'm afraid so."

She tried to look intrepid, but her imagination prompted a shuddershe couldn't quite suppress. "I don't suppose we have any otherchoices?"

"Well, we could do what the other homeless people do."

"Sleep on the streets?"

He offered a little grin. "Or on a rooftop?"

So they wouldn't have to sleep in squalor after all - she shouldhave known she could count on Clark. "A rooftop sounds just fine tome. Got one in mind?"

"Not yet. I'll have to look for one."

"Okay. Are you going to..." she lifted her brows in silentquestion and described a quick circle with her finger.

"I don't think so. You-know-who isn't known here, and I don't knowif it's a good idea for him to make a sudden appearance."

"Oh." A good point, and one she hadn't thought of. "So what willyou do?"

He glanced down at himself. "Luckily my suit's dark; I'll blend inpretty well, I think." He reached into his pocket and extracted afive dollar bill. "You're going back into our favorite diner and havedessert while I find a nice, dark alley..."

"Clark, no! I'm coming with you..."

He shook his head. "Not this time. We don't know this city, Lois.Let me take a look around, and I'll come back for you."

She never seemed to be able to help the rebellious feelings thatrose up whenever he tried to protect her this way. "Clark..."

"Lois." Something in his eyes, his voice, stopped her."Please."

He was truly frightened for what might happen; the shift in timeand universe had shaken him, too, more than she'd realized. Inordinary times, she'd have pushed anyway. Now, reluctantly, sheretreated. "All right." She took the folded bill from his hand. "I'lllet you buy me a piece of pie. And I'll wait inside until you comeback. Okay?"

Relief showed in his smile. "Okay." He brushed a brief kiss acrossher lips.

At the diner's doorway she looked back; he still stood on thesidewalk, watching to be sure she was safe. She lifted a hand infarewell; he returned the gesture, then melted into the shadows.

"Hi, honey." It was the same worn waitress. "Your boyfriend go offand leave you?"

"He's my husband," Lois corrected, "and yeah, I guess he did. Hehad something he had to do. He'll be back for me in a fewminutes."

The woman nodded, but her world-weary air said clearly that she'dheard it before and didn't believe a word. Lois stifled theexplanation that sprang to her lips. She knew Clark would be back forher; what difference did it make what someone else, someone who'dobviously been through a lot, and much of it unhappy, thought?

"I saw French Silk pie in the dessert case when I was in earlier,"she said instead. "Can you bring me a piece?"

"Sure, honey. Drown your sorrows in chocolate, hmmm?" She movedaway before Lois could retort.

With a sigh, she turned to look out into the night. Strange. Shenever thought of herself as clingy; even though she and Clark werepartners at work as well as in life, she wasn't joined to him at thehip or anything. They frequently split up to pursue different anglesof a story or even different stories and thought nothing of it.

But that was in Metropolis. Where things were familiar, and safe,and they had a home to go to at the end of the day. Here, who knew?At least there probably wasn't any Kryptonite, she consoled herself.And Clark was impervious to other kinds of harm. He'd be fine. Andback before she could finish her pie.

She nodded sketchy acknowledgement to the waitress who placed afresh, fluffy slice in front of her, and turned her attention to thecopy of the New York Times Clark had purchased earlier. Might as wellcatch up on the news.

Two hours later she was still there, a cup of coffee gone cold infront of her. After she finished her pie, she'd set the paper asideto watch for Clark; after the first hour of staring through the glassso hard her eyes ached, the waitress had wordlessly set the coffee infront of her. Lois had looked around in startlement, so frantic forClark that she couldn't find the words to say she hadn't ordered it,that she didn't want it.

The woman gave her a small, sad smile. "On the house," shewhispered. In her eyes, Lois saw sympathy she didn't need, didn'twant. Clark was coming back. Of course he was.

Unless he couldn't.

Now, sick with dread, she closed her eyes. "Where are you, Clark?"she whispered.

"Right here."

Her head snapped up. He stood beside the booth, looking disheveledand weary, but solid and real. She leaped up, and into his arms. "Iwas so scared," she murmured, into his ear. "I didn't know where youwere, and I was so scared..."

He held her tightly, patting her back. "I know, I'm sorry. Therewas a serious accident in a tunnel that runs under a river near here- a tanker full of hydrochloric acid overturned. I had tohelp..."

"Of course you did," she agreed promptly.

His arm around her shoulders, he guided her out of the diner. "Iused my superbreath to clear the fumes," he said. "And, um, arrangedfor some debris to move in such a way that it formed a dam to keepthe spilled acid contained. I thought about changing..." his fingerdescribed a quick whirl, "...but like I said earlier, I don't know ifhaving Superman here is a good idea or not..."

"I'm glad you were able to help." She leaned into him.

"And while I was out..." His voice held a note of suppressedgrief.

"What?"

"I took a quick side trip to Kansas."

She wanted to berate him for it, when she'd been sitting in thediner worried sick, but she knew the trip would have taken him onlyseconds; even looking around wouldn't have consumed more than aminute or two. She took a deep breath. "Did you find them?"

He shook his head. "There's a farm where ours is - in the otheruniverse, I mean - but the farmhouse is in a different place, theroad is different. It's not our farm, and my parents weren't there.Not anywhere around there, either. I looked."

She linked her arm with his and gave a sympathetic squeeze. "I'msorry, Clark."

"Yeah," he agreed. "I didn't have a lot of hope, after I found outthey didn't have a phone, but..."

"Yeah." She tugged at his arm. "So, did you find a place for us tosleep?"

"Yep." He glanced around quickly, then slipped into an alley.

She followed him, grinning. When they were deep in the shadows, heput his hands on her waist and floated them both straight up.

"Are you warm enough?" he asked a little later.

"Mmm. You picked a very nice roof," she murmured. Wrapped inSuperman's cape and snuggled into Clark's arms, she floated with himlazily a mere inch above the concrete surface. "I can almost see thestars..."

"Almost," he agreed, and tightened his grip.

She twisted to look up at him. "Clark?"

"Hmmm?"

"What are you thinking?"

He shrugged, taking care not to dislodge her head from its placeon his shoulder. "About us. About being here, when we ought to behome, in our own house, in our own bed."

"Mmm. Safe and fed and warm?"

He grinned, just a little. "Something like that."

"I'm happy, as long as I have you."

He turned a tender look on her. "I was thinking that, too. I keepthinking it must have been me Tempus was trying to get rid of; whatwould have happened if you hadn't been right there, beside me, whenit happened? If I hadn't grabbed you? Would I have come by myself?Left you behind?"

"I thought of that. In the diner, when you didn't come back." Sheshuddered and pressed her face into his neck. "That would be awful,Clark. Not knowing where you were - not being with you. I can standanything as long as we're together."

"Yeah. Me, too." He kissed her forehead. "I just wish there was away to let our friends know we're okay."

"And your parents."

"Yeah." His reply was so terse, she knew he'd been thinking aboutthem, worrying about them.

"You don't think we're going to be stuck here, do you?"

His quiet "no" didn't quite carry the conviction she'd have liked."However Tempus got us here, there's got to be a way back. We justhave to find it."

"Right," she answered.

He pressed a kiss into her hair. "Right. Tomorrow. And now..."

"We go to sleep."

*****

"Radcliffe!" Joe Maxwell hailed Catherine from his office beforeshe even had time to reach her desk.

"Yeah, Joe?"

Her boss invited her into his tiny, glass-walled cubicle with acrooked finger. "I've got something for you."

She set her briefcase and purse - a different purse than lastnight's, since she didn't know what evidence it might carry - on thebattered naugahyde couch and picked up the file he slid towardher.

"Woman found dead in her apartment this morning," Joe explained asshe scanned the faxed copy of the preliminary - and very sketchy -police report. "Looks like she suffered a pretty severe beating. Iwant you to get over there, see what you can find out. AndCathy..."

She paused in the act of retrieving her things.

"The victim is a cop's wife, so the detectives at the scene aregoing to be touchy. Watch your step."

The victim's apartment was a modest one in the East Village.Catherine flashed her ID at the uniformed officer guarding thebuilding's entrance and was directed to the fourth floor. There, shefound a dozen police personnel - uniforms, detectives, and forensicstechs - milling in and out. "Excuse me," she said to the nearestuniform. "I'm from the D.A.'s office." Once again she displayed herID. "Can you tell me who's in charge of the investigation?"

"Over there." The young, and thoroughly shaken looking officerpointed. "Detective Briggs."

Catherine thanked him and picked her way across the room.Detective Briggs, a burly man in a crumpled tan suit and stained tie,was talking in a low voice to a man whose face and posture spoke ofdeep distress.

She stopped a discreet distance away and waited for Briggs tofinish. At last he clapped the man on the shoulder. "It's going to beokay, Dave," Briggs said. "We're going to get the bastard who didthis. I promise."

"Yeah," Dave answered.

The victim's name, Catherine knew from the police report, wasLucille Callahan. Her husband's first name was David; no doubt theman being comforted was him.

He pushed past her unseeing; she stepped back to recover herbalance and turned to Briggs. "Detective?"

"Yeah?" The look he gave her was swift and superficial. "I don'tknow what you want, lady, but this is a crime scene. You don't haveany business here."

For the third time that morning, Catherine pulled out her ID andflipped the folder open. "I'm with the D.A.'s office," she saidcrisply; she had no patience for sexist attitudes. "Tell me where youare in your investigation."

It didn't improve Briggs's attitude, but he became marginally morecooperative. "Here," he said, shoving a dog-eared notebook into herhands. "You can read my notes. I'm busy." He stalked off, callinginstructions to one of the forensics techs.

Catherine followed closely. "Excuse me," she said sharply, whenshe caught up with him. "My office sent me over to check on thestatus here, not to read your notes." She slapped the notebook intohis hand. "I'm sure all this information will end up in your report,which will no doubt be on my desk by the end of today. What I wantfrom you now is an overview of what's happened."

"What's happened is a cop's wife got killed!" Briggs snapped. "Anyfool can see that."

"I'm not a fool, Detective Briggs," she answered. "My office willbe prosecuting when you bring a perpetrator to trial; do you want uswell prepared, or don't you?"

That stopped him. He flushed, looked away, and finally muttered,"Sorry. You're right. We're just upset here..."

"And with good reason," she answered, letting her voice soften."The man you were talking to... that's Officer Callahan?"

"Detective Callahan, yeah," Briggs confirmed. "Dave and I havebeen buddies for as long as he's been with the force. This is tearinghim up..."

"How did it happen?"

He shrugged. "He came off shift this morning, found her lying inthe kitchen. She was already cold..."

"When did he last see her?"

"Last night. Dinnertime. They ate, and then he went towork..."

"Any signs of forced entry?"

He waved towards the forensics team. "Nothing obvious - nosplintered door jambs or broken windows - but we're stilllooking."

Catherine nodded. "The report I have says she was beaten?"

Briggs hunched his shoulders and shoved his hands in his pockets."Her face was swollen and bruised; so were her arms, legs, and torso.Looked like a pretty savage beating."

"Have you canvassed the neighbors?"

"I've got some uniforms taking care of that."

"And you'll let me know what they find out."

His muttered "yeah," was grudging, but she accepted it.

"Okay if I take a look around?" She made her tone brisk, daringhim to challenge her. He didn't.

"Suit yourself; the body's been removed."

She expected as much - it had been hours since the murder had beenreported and officers had responded. And she hadn't seen thecoroner's wagon outside.

She surveyed the scene. Except for scatterings of blackfingerprint powder and one broken vase lying on the floor near thetelevision set, the living room was almost unnaturally neat; theforensics crew looked incongruous against such a setting.

The kitchen, where the body had been found, was not so tidy; acanister was overturned and white drifts of flour spread across thecounter. Footprints showed where the flour had sifted down to coverthe floor. The ugly taped outline of a sprawled body surrounded awide smear of blood on the floor. Near the outline, a buncheddishtowel lay crumpled and damp.

Catherine swallowed the despair and sorrow she always felt at suchscenes, and went down the short hallway to the apartment's singlebedroom. It had the pristine neatness of the living room, marred onlyby a man's white dress shirt tossed onto the bed so carelessly thatone arm dangled onto the floor.

Not surprisingly, the bathroom was immaculate. After a cursorylook, Catherine returned to the living room. "I think I've seen all Ineed to, Detective," she told Briggs. "Here's my card. I'll expectyour report, and of course you'll keep me apprised of anything thatturns up..."

He muttered something that might have been agreement and shovedher card into his pocket.

Catherine opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, andretreated quietly. She didn't have to like the man, all she had to dowas work with him.

She nodded politely to the lone forensics tech left in the livingroom and went out.

*****

Clark's carefully chosen roof faced southeast, so aboutmid-morning, Lois woke to a dazzling ray of sun warming her face. Shetried turning away, but it was just too bright; there wasn't anythingfor it except to wake up. She yawned and stretched... and droppedabruptly to the roof as she accidentally lost contact with Clark andhis aura quit holding her up.

"Ouch." She sat up grumpily, rubbing her elbow.

Clark, who evidently hadn't wakened until he heard her grunt ofsurprise, sat up beside her. "Are you okay?"

"Bumped my elbow." She showed him it wasn't even bruised, thenlaughed when he kissed it anyway.

"Sorry you fell," he murmured.

"My fault. I forgot where I was."

"Mmm." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I slept okay. How aboutyou?"

"Very comfortable, thank you, except for the drop at the end."

"I said I was sorry."

"I said it was my fault." She pretended to glare until he grinned."So what's on the agenda for today?"

"First the clothes."

They gathered up their few possessions and Clark spirited away thered cape. After a careful look around, he floated them down betweenbuildings to land lightly in a dank alley. Lois made a face and triednot to breathe as she picked her way to the alley's mouth, andfresh... well, fresher... air.

They outfitted themselves at a Goodwill outlet and changed in therestrooms of a nearby McDonald's restaurant.

Lois emerged plucking at the sleeve of her buttondown blue denimshirt. "I hate wearing other people's clothes." She sniffed. "Theysmell funny."

"You'll get used to it." Clark looked great in a maroon t-shirtand tight jeans. Red boots peeked out at the bottom, and Lois stared."Those are..."

"Yep. My dress shoes looked weird."

He had his suit slung over his shoulder; he must have tucked theshoes into pockets. Or put them wherever it was that he kept thecape.

Lois sighed and draped her own suit - her best suit, the one thathugged her waist without pinching and laid just right over her hipsand always made her feel terrific - over her arm and offered silentthanks that she'd chosen comfortable shoes with a medium heelyesterday; she could have been stuck with spikes!

"At least it's not a total backwater here," she muttered. "Theyhave McDonald's. Can we get something? I'm starving."

Clark hesitated - adding up their dwindling funds, she was sure."Yeah, why not?" he said finally.

*****

By afternoon, Catherine had not only the preliminary police reporton Lucille Callahan's murder, but also what looked like a full set offorensic photos. Slowly she shuffled through the stack of 8x10 blackand white glossies. The woman had been horribly beaten, over enoughtime for the bruises to discolor and swelling to distort her eye, hercheek, her jaw. Trails of dried blood ran from mouth and nose. Herunswollen eye was open, staring accusingly at nothing.

"My God," Catherine muttered, half to herself and half in prayer.The police report contained little that she hadn't observed orsurmised for herself. She picked up the telephone.

"Detective Briggs, please."

It was minutes before Jimmy Briggs came to the phone; when he did,he was brusque. "What?"

"This is Catherine Chandler, from the D.A.'s office," sheanswered, keeping her voice civil. "I have the preliminary report onLucille Callahan on my desk. Thank you for the photos, by theway."

"Right," he said grudgingly. "Thought you could use them."

"Since I didn't get to see the body in situ, I do appreciate them.I'm wondering, though... there's no mention in your report of anysuspects?"

"Don't have any suspects yet," Briggs answered. "Still working onit."

"Any evidence of a sexual assault?"

"Doesn't look like it."

"How about the possibility that the victim's husband could beinvolved?"

There was a long silence. "Look, lady," Briggs said finally. Hisvoice trembled with what she guessed was suppressed rage. "I've knownDave Callahan for ten years, and he's one great guy. I'd trust himwith my life. I have trusted him with my life. So, no, the husband isnot a suspect in this case."

"I'm sorry if I upset you, Detective, but I had to ask."

He backed off. "I know, Miss Chandler, and I'm sorry, too. Losinghis wife this way is tearing Dave up. If you knew him... if you couldsee him..."

"I understand." And she did. But still, if the husband wasn't thesuspect, who was? "You're looking at an outside perpetrator, then,"she said aloud. "With what motive? Robbery?"

"Possibly," Briggs answered. "We'll know more about that when weget the results of the autopsy and the forensics report."

"Right," Catherine agreed. "I'll get copies of those too, ofcourse."

"Of course."

*****

Lois felt like hitting somebody. Unfortunately, the only victimhandy was Clark, and he wouldn't notice. So she growled instead. "Ican't believe you expect me to recreate all the articles I've writtenin the past week." She kept her voice down to keep from disturbingother patrons in the library.

Clark leaned back from the computer terminal beside her andgrinned. "Come on, Lois, you know no paper is going to hire us unlesswe provide them with clippings. So write. Don't forget to leave outspecific references to Metropolis, or New Troy."

"Yeah, yeah. I don't remember what I said, or how I said it. Ihardly remember what the articles were about! Write it and move on tothe next story, that's what I do." The faint click of the keyboardaccompanied her muttering; paragraph after paragraph rolled up thescreen.

She stopped muttering just about the time she hit the last period."There. Happy?"

"Yeah." Clark, who'd probably finished recreating all his articlesan hour ago, grinned. "Want me to look them over?"

"You'd better. Tell me what Perry took out or added."

"Okay. And you can look over mine."

Right. As if he wouldn't remember, word for word, what he'dwritten, what Perry had changed. They switched terminals.

"It all looks great," Lois said, after skimming Clark's articles."How're mine?"

"You did really well," he answered. "You forgot the paragraphPerry asked you to add to your story about the drug ring... and youleft in the part about the mayor's office that Legal thought wastreading a bit close..."

"Okay," Lois muttered. "Go ahead and fix it. I still think thePlanet's readers should know what the mayor's office is up to."

"What you think they're up to," Clark corrected absently. Hisfingers flew over the keyboard. "There. Let's save all this todisk..." he performed the action as he spoke, "and take it to one ofthose printing places to use their laser printer."

Technologically, 1989 New York seemed about on a par with 1989Metropolis - which meant that laser printers were still new and veryexpensive. They had to visit four print shops before they found onewith the capability they needed. Clark formatted the stories for theprint shop's system and printer at high speed, then printed them.Lois gathered the stories into a neat stack and tucked them safelyinto folders.

"Thanks," Clark told the shop's proprietor as he paid for theprinting. "You were a big help."

"You're mighty fast on that computer, young man," the proprietorreplied. Lois glanced at him quickly, but he didn't seem to havenoticed anything out of the ordinary. Probably he'd just noticed howquickly the job got done.

Clark nodded. "Thanks."

"You must be one of those computer whizzes I keep hearingabout."

Clark gave a little laugh. "No, I've just used them a lot..."

"Listen, I have customers come in with jobs they don't quite knowhow to manage for themselves," the man went on, as if Clark hadn'tspoken. "And goodness knows I'm not much on the computer myself! I'dget more use out of all this expensive machinery if I had someone tooperate it for me..."

Clark gave Lois a glance that could only be called inquiring; shenodded tightly, giving her approval. Who knew how long it would bebefore they found real jobs? They had to eat. Or at least, shedid.

"I could help you out some," Clark offered. "If I knew what timeto be here...?"

"I can't pay you unless there's a job," the man warned. "But if Iput a sign up - Computer Expert, maybe?"

"Computer Consultant," Lois suggested.

"Computer Consultant," he agreed, nodding. "Yes, that's better.I'll put a sign up, with hours - say, two 'til six?"

That would leave mornings open for job hunting. "Perfect," Clarkagreed. "Starting tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," the proprietor agreed, and extended his hand. "I'mGeorge Schofield."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Schofield," Clark answered, taking hishand to seal the agreement. "I'm Clark Kent, and this is my wifeLois."

"Ma'am." Schofield acknowledged the introduction with a bob of hishead. "Pleasure."

The smile that came to Lois's lips wasn't even forced. "No, Mr.Schofield, believe me. The pleasure is all mine."

*****

It was late when Catherine got back to the office. Most peoplewere gone for the day, but light spilled from Joe's office.

"Hey," she said, sticking her head in. "You're here late."

He waved toward his heaped desk. "Got some stuff to finish up.How're you coming on the Callahan thing?"

She shrugged. "There's not much so far. We're waiting on theforensics and autopsy reports."

"Police have any suspects?"

"Not yet."

"Okay. Then in the morning I want you to work with Rita preparingthe witnesses for the Brugundi trial. Opening arguments are tomorrow,so they'll be calling witnesses soon, and we can't afford to losethat one."

Catherine understood that. Nineteen year old Alan Brugundi wasaccused of robbing a pizza restaurant - and shooting all four of therestaurant's employees so they wouldn't be able to identify him.Three of his victims had died. Losing the case would not only meanbad publicity for the D.A.'s office, but would also mean putting acallous, cold-blooded murderer back on the street. Nobody wanted tobe responsible for that.

"Sure," she agreed. "I'll put Callahan on the back burner."

"Fine," Joe said. He fished in his desk drawer and tossedsomething onto his blotter. "Look familiar?"

"My keys!" She started to reach for them, then remembered, with astart, where she'd seen them last. She drew back her hand. "Where didyou get them?"

"Greg brought them by. Said they were found underneath that punkthey found bleeding on your car last night."

"Oh." Catherine stared at the keys. Ordinarily, something foundthat close to a crime scene would be held as evidence. Joe waslooking at her oddly; she grasped for something to say. "I must havedropped them when I was getting Jenny's present out of the car." Thatsounded reasonable.

"Yeah," Joe agreed. "Cathy, are you all right? You're white as asheet."

"I'm fine," she insisted with perhaps a bit more fervor than wasstrictly warranted. "Just a little startled, I guess... and it's beena long day."

"And not a particularly pleasant one for you, either." He pushedthe keys toward her. "Here. Go on home, get some rest."

She gestured vaguely toward her desk. "I was going to finish upthe Ketter appeal..."

"It'll keep. Do it in the morning, before you start on thewitnesses."

"Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Joe." She swept the keys into her hand. "Seeyou in the morning."

"Right." He was engrossed in the file on his desk before she'deven made it all the way out of his office.

*****

Four days after their arrival in New York, after interviewing withprogressively smaller and smaller newspapers and magazines, Lois andClark landed a job.

"Good, tight writing." Editor-in-Chief Alex Martin of the WestSide Sentinel laid the folder of their clippings aside.

"Thank you, sir," Clark answered.

Lois waxed indignant for a moment; how did he know the man wasn'ttalking about one of her pieces? Then she realized he was offeringthanks from both of them. She let out a tightly held breath and triedto relax; this process of interviewing was wearing on her, and shewas sick of hearing editors praise their reporting styles... and thendismiss them because they lacked experience. Next time she got thrustthrough a temporal warp, she was bringing her journalism awards alongto wave in the faces of tight-lipped editors who didn't want to hireher. She'd bring Clark's awards, too.

"Not much experience in a big city, though, huh?"

Here it came. Lois gritted her teeth, determined not to scream.The stories, of course, were as close to the originals as she andClark could make them - but the paper they were claiming to havewritten them for was a small midwestern daily that had closed itsdoors a month ago. Lois understood the logic behind it, but the smalltown aura it gave them had closed too many doors already.

"Trouble is, there are two of you, and I have only one opening,"Martin went on. "I'm willing to hire either of you, though, so youtwo talk it over and let me know who's coming to work tomorrow."

Coming to work tomorrow? Lois gave Clark a cautious glance. Hadshe heard right? Did they have a job? Or rather, did one of them havea job?

As quickly as it had risen, her heart sank. She'd spent monthsresisting the idea of a partner - but now, the thought of workingwithout Clark beside her seemed hollow. "You take it," she almostsaid, but then it would be him working without her, and that would bejust as bad.

"We'll both be here, sir," she heard Clark say.

What?

"I'm sorry," Martin repeated. "There's only one opening. I haveonly enough in the budget to pay one reporter."

"We understand that, sir, but we're a team. Partners. We'll bothwork."

Martin's eyebrows went up. "For one salary?"

"That's right."

Only Clark's increasingly strong grip on her hand kept Lois silentas Martin outlined the job parameters. Was he nuts? Two reporters forthe price of one... and a bargain basement price, at that. Her salaryat the Planet was nearly twice the figure Martin named.

"That's fine, sir," Clark said. "Full medical benefits, ofcourse?"

That was for her; Clark never got sick or hurt unless Kryptonitewas involved, and he couldn't very well go to a conventional doctorfor that. For a moment, Lois lamented the loss of STAR Labs and Dr.Klein.

Martin confirmed the benefits and offered his hand, which Clarktook. Lois, recovering, shook hands as well.

"We'll be here first thing tomorrow," Clark promised.

Outside the shabby building, he swept her up in a bear hug. "Wedid it, Lois! We're hired."

"For peanuts!" she growled. "And two for the price of one. Haveyou lost your mind?"

"I'm not working without you," he answered. "I thought you feltthe same way?"

"Well, I do," she admitted. "But Clark, he's getting both of us,and for that salary!"

"It's not much, I know. But with two of us on the job, I can keepon working for Mr. Schofield in the afternoons."

Lois admitted the sense of that; Schofield's print shop had keptthem eating for the past four days.

"Well, he's not going to be paying us peanuts for long," shevowed. "We'll find a big story to crack and he'll see what we can do!The whole city will see. We'll have our choice of jobs."

"Lois, we don't need our choice of jobs. We have great jobs,remember? We just have to figure out how we're going to get home todo them."

But all those slamming doors had Lois's back up; she hardly heardhim. Somewhere in this city was a huge story just waiting for them tostumble on it, she knew it. And she'd find it.

*****

Catherine stepped onto her balcony for a breath of night airbefore retiring. She studiously did not look to her right, toward theshadowed corner. He wouldn't be there, any more than he'd been therethe past five nights.

And she missed him, with a deep ache that wouldn't be soothed.

The boy who'd attacked her, and been attacked by Vincent inreturn, had been released from the hospital this morning. Hisinjuries had turned out to be minimal, and he was expected to make afull recovery. Catherine wished she could expect as much fromVincent. But each time he descended into that darkness on her behalf,it took something from him. Each time, he retreated a little fartherinto himself, and it took a little longer for him to come back.

And he wouldn't let her help him.

She bent her head in sorrow. He had to stop coming to help her;she had to stop putting herself at risk.

Tomorrow. She'd talk to Joe tomorrow.

*****

"Clark?"

"Hmmm?" He was reading a copy of the West Side Sentinel in lightso dim she could barely see.

She curled against his side, floating on the cushion of airprovided by his aura and his ability to fly. She shook his arm."Clark!"

"Hmmm? What?" He finally tore his eyes away from what he wasreading and looked at her, his glasses glinting in the faint glow ofdistant streetlights.

"Why do you wear those? They don't help you see, and I know whatyou look like without them."

"What?" His hand went self-consciously to his face. "I guess I'mjust used to them. I'll take them off if it'll make you happy."

She sighed. "No, that's okay. I'm just bored."

"Well, do something."

"Like what? We're on a rooftop here, Kent, in case you hadn'tnoticed. Not even enough light to read by. Unless, of course, you'reSuperman. Which I'm not."

"I'm sorry, honey. Want me to read to you?"

She laid her head back down against his arm. "No." She couldn'tsummon much interest in what their new employer's paper might have tosay.

He folded the paper and laid it aside. "Want to talk?"

"I want to be home, with my computer and my TV and my VCR..."

His arm slipped around her, bringing her close. "I know. I do,too."

"I just wish I knew how we got here. And if we're ever going toget home again."

"Well, actually, I've been thinking about that. How much do youremember about the day we came here?"

"Everything," she said fervently. "I remember it all."

"Specifically? Right before the shift?"

"Before we came?" She thought back. "We were on our way to talk tothat bank guard..."

"Right."

"And those kids came up to you." She looked at him. "Do you thinkthe kids were in on it? Zapped us somehow and sent us here?"

"Zapped us?" he repeated, teasing gently.

"Well, you know what I mean."

"Yeah, and no, I don't. I think they were just kids, looking fordirections to the museum."

"Well, that's all I remember. We started walking and next thing weknew, we were here."

"And I had that pen in my hand!" He said it as though it were anew discovery.

"Yeah? That was a nice pen, by the way."

"Yeah, it was, and I never thanked you for it."

"Why would you thank me?"

"Because you gave it to me?" He made it a question, but therewasn't any uncertainty in his eyes.

She frowned. "I did not."

"Well, then, who did? I found it on my desk that morning, giftwrapped. I figured it was another one of your 'I'm sorry I got madabout you having to...'" his hand sliced the air and he looked at herquestioningly.

Lois sat up straight. "I do not give you presents to apologize forbeing mad! I don't even get mad anymore. All that much. Hardly ever."She paused, thinking over what she'd just said, and decided not toamend it any more. "I give you presents because I love you."

He drew her toward him for a kiss. "I know," he answered. "And Ilove getting them for just that reason."

"But I didn't give you that pen."

"If you didn't, then who..."

"Tempus!"

"That means it must be the transport device!" Clark exclaimed.

"That means, if we can figure out how it works, we can go home!"Lois clapped her hands in excitement.

"Um..."

"Clark, you have the pen, don't you? It was in your handwhen..."

"Yeah. But I haven't seen it since we got here. In all theconfusion, I didn't even remember having it."

"It came with us, though. It had to have come with us."

Neither of them really understood how H.G. Wells's time machinesworked, though, much less any modifications Tempus might have made."I don't know," Clark answered slowly. "I hope it came with us."

"But if it did, you'd have it. And you don't."

"I could have dropped it. The ground was lurching and shaking andI was scared you'd be hurt. I grabbed you, remember? I wasn't eventhinking about the pen."

"So it might be there, where we came in?"

"It might be." Clark's voice was cautious. Remembering theexpensive gleam of the pen's black barrel, Lois understood. But stillthey had to look.

"Let's go," she said, popping to her feet. "Right now."

Five minutes later, they stood on the pavement where they'darrived so precipitously nearly a week before. "Right here," Loissaid. "Wasn't it? Right here."

"I think so," Clark agreed. "I remember this storefront, and downthere's the newsstand where we bought the paper..."

"So if you dropped it, it should be around here someplace." Shescuffed at a bit of trash in the gutter. "I wish I had aflashlight."

"It's okay, honey, I don't need a flashlight, remember?"

Of course she remembered, but she hated just standing by not doinganything. It made her feel even more helpless than she already did.Feeling helpless made her cranky, and poor Clark had already put upwith a lot of cranky this week.

He already had his glasses pulled down; she waited with as muchpatience as she could muster as he slowly scanned the sidewalk, thegutter, and the nearby street. He walked up and down, covering half ablock in either direction before he finally sighed and pushed hisglasses back up. "It's not here."

"Are you sure? It could have rolled, people might have kickedit..."

"I'm sure. I looked everywhere, even into the storm drain underthe street," he pointed to a nearby grate. "It's not here. Honey, I'msorry."

For the first time since their ordeal began, her resolve wavered."Then how will we get home?" she whispered, hating it that her voicetrembled. "Clark, how will we get home?"

He wrapped his arms around her. "I don't know," he answeredsoftly. "I don't know."

*****

"Joe, could I talk to you about something...?"

"Yeah? About what?" It was almost a growl, and she very nearlylost her nerve. Only the memory of anguish in Vincent's eyes kept hergoing.

"I've been an investigator for you a long time. Longer than mostnew hires..."

He looked up then, dark eyes suspicious. "You're good at it,Radcliffe."

"But there's more risk. Joe, I want to get into trials. More thanI have been, I mean. I don't want to go out on any moreinvestigations."

Joe's expression changed subtly, softening with surprise... andsomething else she couldn't quite read. He got up, came around hisdesk, pushed his door shut with a quiet click, and turned to faceher. "What's going on? You getting scared?"

Compassion. That was the something else. She mustered a smile."Not scared so much... just, like maybe I've used up all my luck. Ithink it's time I started watching my step."

Joe scowled at the papers scattered on his desk. "Yeah," he saidfinally. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense. You've scared the life outof me enough times, I know that. Be nice to know you're sitting in anice, safe courtroom. And you did a nice job on the Nolan case.Pulled it out when half the office didn't think you would."

She refrained from asking which half he'd been in. "So, is it adeal? No more investigations?"

He let out a long sigh. "Yeah. I'll talk to Moreno. I'll go to batfor you, and I don't think he'll object."

"Great. Thanks, Joe."

"Yeah," he agreed morosely. "Great for you. But I've got to findsomebody else to do my investigating."

She laughed, and returned to her desk with a lighter heart. Maybetonight she'd go below, find out if Vincent was ready to see her. Shecould tell him about the arrangement with Joe; she wouldn't say so,but he'd understand she was removing herself from danger for hissake... for her own sake. For them.

*****

Lois and Clark shared a job, but they didn't actually have toshare a desk; Martin had arranged to have a second battered metaldesk wedged into the tiny cubicle that was barely large enough tohold one. It was crowded, but they could manage. Barely.

But there was only one computer. Lois had custody of the keyboardall morning, playing with the software and generally gettingacquainted with the antiquated system.

"It's not antiquated here," Clark reminded her, when she mutteredaloud. "Well, not very." The West Side Sentinel was a smallneighborhood paper; its budget hardly ran to state-of-the-arttechnology.

"Yeah, I know," Lois answered. "Actually, it's not much differentthan what they had at the Planet when I started. I just got used tobigger and faster."

"I wouldn't know," Clark said pointedly. "I haven't gotten totouch it yet."

"Yeah, but your learning curve is shorter," she answered absently."Boy, not much stored on the network server."

"Lois, you aren't looking..."

"Trying to," she admitted, and gave a sheepish grin. "But I don'thave Jimmy's knack with computers. I can't crack the passwords."

"Good," Clark said, with emphasis.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter," she announced, and thrust thekeyboard in his direction. "Here, you can play for a while."

"Where are you going?" he asked suspiciously.

"Not out of the building, I swear!" But mischief was dancing inher eyes as she waved goodbye.

She was back twenty minutes later with a cardboard box. The wayshe handled it made it look heavy, and he jumped up to take it. "Youcould have called me," he scolded lightly. "I'd have carried it foryou."

"I'm perfectly capable of carrying my own boxes," she reminded himarchly.

"I know, but..."

"Partners, Kent."

"Right," he conceded, grinning. "Partners. So what've yougot?"

She plunked the box down in the middle of his desk and opened it."Back issues," she announced, and started pulling them out.

"Back issues?"

She nodded, dividing the stack unevenly and pushing the shorterpile over to her own desk. "Back issues of the Sentinel, along withthe last couple weeks' worth of the Times and the Post and the DailyNews."

Clark gazed at the stack of newspapers remaining on his desk."What am I supposed to do with them?"

Her grin was teasing. "Read them."

She settled into her own chair and opened the top paper in herstack with a snap.

"Why?"

She peered over the top of the paper. "Because we're in a newcity."

Light began to dawn. "Oh."

"We don't know anything about the people who run this city," shewent on. "Or who live here, who operate businesses here..."

"Familiarization," he said.

"Right."

"Good idea."

The look she gave him was smug. "Of course."

Clark sat and began to riffle through his own stack of papers,learning about the city and its government and its people. Namesbecame familiar; so did places, and situations. He finished the stackin short order, and turned to see how Lois was doing.

She was racing through the papers, turning pages quickly. Herdiscard pile nearly rivaled his.

"Hey," he challenged. "I thought we were reading."

She looked up guiltily. "I am."

"No, you're not. What're you doing?"

"Reading," she insisted.

He dropped his voice. "Superman doesn't read that fast."

"Yes, he does," she answered, with a pointed look at the stack ofpapers he'd already been through.

"Okay, but you're giving him some competition!" Clark waved atLois's discard pile.

"I'm just good at weeding out the important stuff," Lois said,glancing sideways at him to see if he was buying.

He wasn't. "Lois, you're skimming. What are you looking for?"

"I'm not looking for anything," she began. "Okay, in particular!"she added, when he gave her a pointed look.

"But in general?"

She sighed and came clean. "I'm looking for a story."

"The editors in this world assign stories just like they did backhome," Clark told her.

"Not just any story. A big story."

So that's where this was going. He sighed. "Lois..."

"I know you say we don't need a big story, Clark, but face it,we've been here over a week and we don't really know how we got here,it might be that pen, but it might not be, and we don't know howwe're going to get back, and I hate living on a rooftop and takingshowers at the Y and brushing my teeth in the ladies' room atMcDonald's and only having two outfits to wear and one of them wasn'tmine to begin with and we have to go to the laundromat practicallyevery day and I don't have my car and we're crammed into this littlecubicle, and no one respects us..." Breathless, she wound to a stop.Clark stared at her, hurt.

"Oh, Clark, I didn't mean..."

"I hate it, too, Lois," he said quietly. "I hate not giving youthe things you want, I hate us not being able to go home at the endof the day. But we have a home, and we have jobs. I want toconcentrate on getting back, not on making our way here."

"But we're not even sure how we got here!" she wailed.

"I know. But we'll figure something out. Meanwhile," he nudged thepapers on his desk, "I think your idea was good. We do homework."

"Yeah." She went back to the paper in her hands. Slowly, thistime.

"Hey," she said, a few minutes later. "Here's something."

"What?" Clark murmured, without looking up.

"A story."

"Mmm?"

She folded the paper in her lap and used it to swat his upraisedknee. "Clark!"

"What?" He dropped his feet to the floor with a thump.

She thrust the paper into his hands. "Look at this article."

"Little bitty thing," he commented. "Buried on the back page."

"Yes, but read it!"

He did, very quickly. "Okay, I read it. A teenager withquestionable intentions got hurt. I'm sorry for him, but I don't seea story..."

"No, it's how he got hurt! See, it says here he was slashed, butthe police don't know what kind of weapon or tool might have beenused, it looks kind of like claws..."

"Ninja claws," Clark answered promptly. "I'm surprised you didn'tthink of them, considering your martial arts background."

"I did think of them, but apparently they've been ruled outsomehow... wait, you didn't see that article yet, it's in the nextday's paper, wait a minute, I'll find it..."

A moment later she came up with the succeeding article. "See, itsays here that there have been other slashings, with some deaths,over the past couple of years."

"And you think we ought to make it our business to find out who'sbeen doing the slashing?"

"Yes! This could be the story that makes our reputations!"

"I already have a reputation. I'd just like to get home so I canenjoy it."

"Yeah, me, too, but as long as we're stuck here... and we'rewriting stories anyway..."

He looked at her first with doubt, then with alarm as he saw herexpression. Uh-oh.

With a seductive smile, she insinuated herself into his lap andwound her arms around his neck. "Please?" she murmured, close to hisear. "I'll be really nice to you..."

He couldn't help it - he laughed. "You're shameless."

"Yeah," she admitted, smiling. "But only with you."

Persuaded, Clark flipped rapidly through the rest of the stack,reading at superspeed and pulling out the few articles related to theslasher attacks, then went down to the Sentinel's clippings libraryand brought back the file of slasher-related articles.

"Looks like it started a couple of years ago," he said, placingthe copies in front of Lois.

"Mmm," she agreed absently, intent on the article she was reading.A minute later she looked up. "There's a name that keeps cropping upas a witness. An assistant D.A. Her name's Catherine Chandler."

"Yeah, I noticed that."

"And didn't tell me?"

He grinned. "What, and take away your joy of discovery?"

She gave him a mock glare and turned back to the clippings."Wonder why the police never made the connection?" she mused. "Imean, you'd think they'd have hauled this woman in for questioning bynow."

"Probably because the killings have taken place in so manydifferent precincts," Clark suggested. "The same officers haven'tinvestigated every time."

She peered at him. "We've only been here a week - how do you knowwhere the precincts are?"

He grinned and gestured toward the towering stack of papers on hisdesk. "I read."

"Oh, yeah. It's not fair, either. You whiz, I slog..."

He leaned down to kiss her. "You don't slog. You read pretty fast,actually."

She smiled up at him. "Yeah," she agreed. "Maybe." She looked backat the clippings. "I think we need to talk to this woman."

Clark's smile faded. "Lois, maybe we should just stick to thestory we were assigned..."

"A new lion cub at the zoo? I don't think so. This is the storythat's going to put us back on top!" She stabbed at the clippingswith an emphatic finger, then grabbed her notebook. "You write thestory about the lion, okay? I'm going over to the D.A.'s office."

"Lois!" But it was too late. She was already gone.

*****

Lois got all the way down to the sidewalk before she rememberedshe didn't have a car here. She didn't have enough money for a cabeither. And to top it all off, she hadn't been here long enough toknow where to find the D.A.'s office. Exasperated, she spun aroundand stalked back into the building.

The Sentinel's part time receptionist provided a phone book and amap of the city. It didn't take Lois long to locate the D.A.'soffices - far south of where she was - and call for a busschedule.

The bus ride took longer than she expected; when she finally didstep off, tired and disheveled, Clark was waiting out in front of theCriminal Justice building.

"Hi," he greeted, with aggravating cheer.

"How'd you...? Never mind," she answered herself. "Did you writethe story?"

"Wrote it and sent it off to Alex," he agreed, still cheerfully."He liked it."

"He would. Aren't you supposed to be at the print shop aboutnow?"

"I called Mr. Schofield and told him I'd be a little late."

She gave up being grumpy with him. "Okay. I guess I'm glad to haveyou along."

They made their way up to the fourteenth floor, where the D.A.'soffices were housed.

"Miss Chandler? I think she's... yes, she's over there." The clerkthey'd waylaid pointed out an attractive woman of about thirty. Herfair coloring and small stature made her look vulnerable, but thelook she turned on them was anything but.

"May I help you?" she asked, glancing from one to the other.

"Yes." Lois plunged forward. "I'm Lois Lane, and this is mypartner, Clark Kent. We're reporters for the Da - West Side Sentinel.Is there some place we can talk?"

"I'm sorry, I'm on my way out. If you see Charlene," she pointedout the receptionist who was just returning to her desk, "she'll makeyou an appointment. Excuse me."

Catherine moved past them, toward the door.

Lois wheeled and hurried after her. "Miss Chandler, it'll onlytake a few minutes. We'll walk down with you."

Catherine looked skeptical, then shrugged. "Suit yourselves. TheWest Side Sentinel. I've heard of it, but I'm not sure I've ever readit. It has a good reputation."

The remark sounded just a touch wary to Lois's cynical ear, butClark seemed to take it at face value. "We haven't been with thepaper long," he said, "but its reputation was one of the things thatdrew us."

"I see." She punched the button to summon the elevator, thenturned to face them. "What can I help you with? You realize I can'ttalk about any of my current cases."

Clark managed to sound apologetic. "No, Miss Chandler, we wantedto talk to you about something else."

"A series of slasher murders," Lois added, watching the otherwoman closely. "You were a witness to a number of thesemurders..."

The elevator arrived just then; Catherine turned toward theopening doors, lowering her head so that her hair swung down to hideher eyes.

By the time they'd all entered the car and arranged themselves,she seemed composed, but the color was gone from her face. "I'mfamiliar with the killings," she said, and punched the button for theground floor. "But I've already told the police everything Iknow."

Clark took up the questioning. "We're wondering how it is that youseem to be in the vicinity when so many of these incidents takeplace."

"I don't know." Her voice was flat and expressionless, but thelook on her face was one of defiance.

All Lois's instincts prickled. "In at least a couple of the cases,you were reported missing shortly before the slashings occurred," shepursued. "Can you comment on that?"

Catherine Chandler seemed to look inward for a moment. "Sometimesmy job is dangerous," she said, finally. "I deal, obviously, with thecriminal element. Sometimes I am threatened in an effort to get me tochange my actions."

"Yes, but that doesn't explain the slashings," Clark pointed out."Is it someone who's protecting you? And if so, why hasn't he or shemade a statement to the police?"

"I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to tell you that," she answered,looking grim. The elevator arrived on the ground floor and the doorsslid open. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment..."

She walked away rapidly. Lois would have followed and continued toquestion, but Clark held her back. "Let her go."

"All right," Lois agreed. "But tonight, when she gets offwork..."

He looked at her wearily. "I know. We follow her."

*****

In the tiny threshold chamber below Catherine's apartmentbuilding, Vincent stood braced against the wall; his stillness wasstark counterpoint to the agitation within.

Catherine was distressed to the point of tears, and had been sincemid-afternoon. It was well past the supper hour now, but Catherinehad only reached her building a few minutes before. Her urgency haddrawn him, and held him here. She wouldn't be long.

They hadn't met since that night nearly a week ago. He dreaded themoment, fast approaching, when she would climb down the ladder andturn to look at him.

In her eyes, he knew, would be tenderness, and boundless love.

And in him would rise up a magnitude of shame. So it had been eachtime he protected her, and so it would continue. Until finally sherealized what he was and what he was not.

Then the love she had for him would turn to horror. And he wouldbe once more alone.

The low door at the top of the ladder opened, spilling light intothe small, dark chamber. She climbed down quickly. He waited for herto turn and find him in the dim little room.

He ached to sweep her into his arms; it had been days since he'dheld her and he missed the comfort of her touch. Instead, he asked,"What is it?"

She shook her head in weary frustration. "Some reporters. Askingme about..." She stopped.

Searching for the right words. But he knew. "About me. When I...come to you."

"Yes. It's been months, Vincent, and we've been so careful! I'vebeen careful... except for the other night..."

"You were on a public thoroughfare, going about your ownbusiness..." His first instinct, always, was to shield her.

"After dark, alone," she countered bitterly.

Despair ran between them; hers, he thought, though he couldn't besure. He succumbed to longing and instinct and took her arm, drawingher toward him. She came willingly. He hoped she found as muchstrength in their embrace as he did.

"I wish..." she began, speaking softly from just under his chin.She let the words trail away. What did she wish? "I wish I'd beensmarter," she said finally. "I wish I'd paid more attention to what Iwas doing - to you, to myself..."

"Don't blame yourself, Catherine," he said gently. "It isI..."

"Who saved my life more times than I can count," she answeredquickly, roughly, pulling away. "Who would do anything to keep mesafe. I'm the one who got into trouble, Vincent. I'm the one..."

"If you have committed any crime, Catherine, it is only one ofcarelessness."

She swung around to stare at him.

He looked down at his own clenched fists. "Not of murder."

"It's not murder to protect yourself, Vincent. It's not murder toprotect the life of someone else."

"Is it murder... to glory in the killing of another? No matter thejustification for the killing itself?" There. He'd said it. He'ddropped the terrible thing into the silence between him. Now shewould be horrified. Now she would go.

But she stayed. Stayed looking at him with compassion and love."No," she answered softly. "It's a terrible thing, but it's notmurder." She approached him, and put her hand on his arm. "Will youtalk to me about it?"

Shame rose up, closing his throat. He couldn't meet her look. Shemust not have understood, and he couldn't say it again. How could heexplain the joy and triumph that surged within him at each kill?Where would he find the words? "Perhaps... later," he temporized."But now... tell me about these reporters."

"Vincent..." There was pleading in her voice.

"The reporters," he repeated. "You've been distressed allafternoon..."

She gazed at him a moment longer, then looked away with a sigh."They came to me asking about... the killings. My involvement." Sheseldom was agitated enough to pace, but she did so now, crossing andrecrossing the small square chamber with impatient strides.

Vincent settled against the wall and strove for calm. "Your storyhas always been, in every case, that you were being threatened, andthat you didn't see what came to your rescue."

"Yes," she answered. "But I'm not sure it'll hold up in front ofexperienced reporters who are linking all the... incidents...together."

"They may conclude there is something - someone - who protectsyou," he said, wishing only to dispel her fears. "But they cannotdisprove your assertion that you have not seen your protector and donot know who it is."

"They can't disprove it, but they don't have to believe it,either." The look she gave him was ragged with desperation. "If Iwere them, I'd be following me right now. We have to be very carefulnow. I can come to you here, they can't get past the doorman, but Ishouldn't use any of the other entrances, and you should be verycareful about getting messages to me, if you should need to."

"Yes," he agreed immediately. The precautions made sense. But theidea of separation was agonizing. Seeing her used to be a desire;now, in some way he couldn't explain, it was a need, deep-running andconstant. "How long do we go on this way?"

"I don't know," she confessed. The look on her face said she wasas anguished as he. "The paper they work for is reputable - at leastwe're not dealing with the Inquiring Star this time - but it's alsovery small... I'd guess they wouldn't have the resources to keep tworeporters on one story for very long. A week or two?"

He nodded acceptance, but the longing made him reach up and touchher face. "You must be even more careful. It would be dangerous forme to come to you while these reporters are watching."

"I know." She moved her head, pressing her cheek into his palm. "Italked with Joe today... about not doing investigations anymore."

Something inside him went cold and still. "What did he say?"

"He thinks it's a good idea. He's going to talk to Moreno, but hethinks it'll go through. I'll be safer then. Just office andcourtroom work." She bent her head. "I don't want you to have to comefor me any more, Vincent," she said, her voice low. "I don't want itto be that way, between us. Not ever again."

But if it was not that way, what way would it be? Regret rosewhere there should have been relief. Was he so addicted to the kill?So drawn by that rush of ecstasy that he would rather riskCatherine's life than give it up? "I want you to be safe." That muchhe could say, truthfully. Somehow, shamefully, he couldn't summongladness.

*****

A week's separation from Vincent, enforced by occasional glimpsesof one or both reporters from the West Side Sentinel, was wearing onCatherine; once again she hadn't slept well, and got to the office afew minutes late.

Joe's voice summoned her before she could even reach her desk."Radcliffe!"

She headed toward his office. "Yeah?"

He motioned her all the way in.

"What's going on, Joe?"

"I need you to go check out a case."

Catherine stiffened. "I thought I wasn't doing investigations anymore."

"You aren't," Joe answered. "Just like we agreed. Except thisone."

"Joe..."

"I know, I know, but we need you on this."

"Let Baxter do it," she said, naming the newest investigator inthe D.A.'s office.

"Baxter wouldn't be any good at this, Cathy. We need you."

"Why? What's happened?"

"Greg Hughs just called me - about a 911 call that came in lastnight." He slid a shiny-curly sheet of fax paper across his desk."Here's the police report."

Catherine owed Hughs a number of favors, the most recent of whichwas the return of her keys. She couldn't begin to track what she owedJoe, who had always been her friend. Reluctantly she reached for thefolder and flipped it open, skimming quickly. "Domestic call?" Sheglanced at Joe. "No charges filed? I thought that was a requirementnow, whether the victim wanted to press charges or not."

"Yeah, it is," Joe confirmed. "Except in this case, the husband isOfficer Glen Stevens... of the NYPD. By the time a patrol got there -and they took their sweet time on it - it was all over, including theshouting, and the wife wouldn't even come to the door to talk to theofficers."

"Who went away without insisting they at least see her to be sureshe was all right." Catherine could see it all.

"Yeah. Hard to insist, I guess, when it's your fellow officertelling you things are fine."

"Has anyone talked to her today?"

"Greg called the house after the husband's duty shift started. Sheanswered the phone, but when he identified himself, she hung up onhim. I don't like this, Cathy. Greg and I are hoping she'll talk toyou."

"Because I'm a woman," Catherine guessed.

"And because you're not a cop," Joe agreed. "It's investigation,Cathy, but it should absolutely not be dangerous."

"Where have I heard that before?" she muttered, wryly.

"Daytime, good neighborhood," Joe coaxed. "You go down there, youtalk to the wife, you see what you can find out. Okay?"

"All right," she conceded, finally. "I'll do it. But this is thelast one, okay?"

He regarded her thoughtfully, then offered his first smile of theday. "Okay."

*****

Clark and Lois watched Catherine emerge from the Criminal Justicebuilding and turn left, striding down the sidewalk with confidence."Where do you suppose she's going?" Lois asked. "Not thecourthouse."

"No," Clark agreed. "Wrong direction. Maybe something's finallyhappening."

At the corner, Catherine lifted her arm; a yellow taxi swervedobligingly to the curb and she got in.

"Uh-oh," Lois muttered. "We're going to lose her. Darn, I wish Ihad my car!"

"We could splurge on cab fare," Clark suggested tentatively. "Waita minute." He gestured for silence and focused his superhearing, thenturned to Lois. "Any idea where 744 South Logan might be?"

She rolled her eyes in answer. It took a few minutes to find aphone booth with an intact phone directory, but after that it wasonly a matter of seconds to locate South Logan on the map. Clarkslapped the book shut and caught Lois's hand. "Come on. A cab willtake too long."

He dragged her into a nearby alley, glanced around to be sure noone was looking, then put his arms around her and shot into the airfaster than the human eye could follow.

"Whew!" she exclaimed, when he slowed, high above the city."Sometimes you take my breath away!"

He held her closer and grinned. "Oh, yeah?"

She pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw. "Yeah. Andsometimes we aren't even flying."

The only answer for that was a kiss. When it ended, Clark flewthem to where he judged 744 South Logan would be and located asecluded spot in which to land. "We have to go down as quickly as wewent up," he warned.

"Taking my breath away again already," she teased, in answer."This time I'll be ready." She tucked her head under his chin."Okay."

"Okay." He took careful aim and dropped straight down, easing uponly in the last foot to land them gently.

"Wow." Lois stepped back and smoothed her hands over her mussedhair. Usually when they flew together, he held her cradled in hisarms, and went more gently. But she didn't seem to mind the morerapid form of transit.

The alley they'd landed in gave out on Logan Street only ahalf-block from 744. Mere minutes after their arrival, Catherine'scab pulled up to the curb. They waited a discreet distance away whileshe paid the driver and entered the building.

Clark surveyed the area, then veered to cross the street.

"Hey!" Lois called, then scrambled to follow. "Where are wegoing?" she asked, catching up.

The buildings on either side of the street were three- andfour-story brownstone townhouses in varying stages of disrepair.Clark zeroed in on the wide concrete steps of a house across thestreet from the one Catherine Chandler had entered. He took Lois'sshoulders and guided her to sit, then sat beside her. "We're about tohave a heart-to-heart talk," he told her.

"About what?"

"About anything your little heart desires," he answered, grinning."Since I won't be listening."

"Oh." She glanced at the building across the street. "Actually,we'd better be having a low-voiced argument. Since you're not goingto be looking at me."

"Good idea."

Lois slid away from him, turned, and leaned toward him, making herbody language confrontational. She began speaking, keeping the pitchand volume low.

Clark had already tuned her out, concentrating his hearing on thehouse across the street. After a minute he took off his glasses andrubbed his forehead, as if weary.

The house across the street had apparently been converted toapartments; his x-ray vision located Catherine climbing to the thirdfloor. She approached one of the two doors opening onto the dingylanding and knocked gently.

*****

"Mrs. Stevens?" Catherine pitched her voice to carry through thebattered door.

"Who is it?" The voice behind the door was stiff andinhospitable.

"My name is Catherine Chandler," she answered. "I'm with theDistrict Attorney's office. I'd like to talk to you about the 911call you made last night?"

The silence that ensued went on so long that Catherine wondered ifthe woman had simply walked away from the door. "Mrs. Stevens?"

"I don't know anything about any 911 call," the womananswered.

"A call was made from your number," Catherine answered. "Please.I'll only take a moment of your time."

She heard the snap of a lock being turned and the door opened onthe chain; beyond, she could see a wedge of the apartment. It lookedtidy; in a corner stood a baby's playpen. No one had mentionedchildren might be involved.

"I told you, I don't know anything about any 911 call." The voicecame from behind the door. "So you can just leave now."

"Please. I want to help you."

A woman's face - her lip split, her cheek vivid with bruises, hereye swollen nearly shut - slid into view. "You can't help," shehissed, between bruised lips. "No one can. Don't you understandthat?"

The door shut; locks clicked back into place with grim finalityand nothing Catherine could say roused any further response.

*****

Clark blinked and turned off the x-rays. He let his hearing comeback to normal too, and only then realized that instead of invective,Lois was giving him a detailed description of what she might do tohim if they were only in private, occasionally adding a comment aboutwhat he might do to her in return.

It distracted him enough to make him glance at her, but wasn'tenough to hold his attention. His gaze returned to the buildingacross the street.

Lois put her hand on his. "Clark? What is it, what's goingon?"

Only then did he realize his fists were clenched so tight theknuckles were white. "I couldn't hear it all," he said, his voicechoked. "There're kids playing in an apartment downstairs, makingnoise..."

"Okay, but what did you see?"

"The woman... she's been beaten, Lois. Beaten so badly..." Part ofhim longed to get his hands on the man - he was sure it was a man -who'd administered the beating. The rest of him suspected it was justas well the culprit was safely out of reach.

"Beaten...?"

"Bruised and swollen... on her face, her arms..."

Lois's voice went soft and tentative. "Maybe she fell..."

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "You didn't see her.Nobody gets hurt like that from a fall. She looks like a boxer theday after a losing match."

That was an image Lois could understand. She let her breath outslowly. "Who do you think might have..."

"I don't know. I heard Miss Chandler say something about a 911call, but the rest of it..." He shot to his feet. "Come on. I want totalk to some of the neighbors..."

He'd only taken a step when the front door of the buildingopposite began to open. Catherine Chandler was coming out; anothersecond and she'd see them. Clark didn't doubt for an instant that shewould recognize them, and know they were following her.

Lois had risen to follow him; he swung around and caught her up ina hard embrace, pressing his lips to hers. She went stiff withstartlement, then, just as quickly, relaxed and began to kiss himback.

Without breaking the kiss, Clark tipped his head just a little andpeeked across the street; Catherine emerged from the house with herhead down and did no more than glance their way before turningnorth.

Clark waited until she was halfway down the block before he endedthe kiss.

"Mmm," Lois said, when he released her. "Not that I'm complaining,but what was that for?"

He nodded at the rapidly retreating back of their quarry. "Ifshe'd recognized us, you can bet she'd have been over here accusingus of harassment."

Lois smacked him in the chest. "You kissed me as a cover?"

He grinned. "Yeah. But I enjoyed it."

"Hmph." She started off down the sidewalk, but stopped when hedidn't follow. "Come on!" she urged. "We're going to lose her."

Still he didn't move.

"Clark!"

"Listen, Lois, you go on and follow her, okay?" He glanced at theconverted brownstone across the street. "I want to ask a fewquestions... and then I have to get to Mr. Schofield's."

She came back to him. "Questions? Clark, I have nothing butcompassion for that poor woman, but an assault - or even domesticviolence - just isn't as newsworthy as what we're after."

"The slasher," he said heavily.

"Right."

"You know I'm not enthusiastic about that story..."

"Yeah, and I don't know why not. It's the kind of thing we're goodat! Hunting down the truth."

Clark looked to where Catherine Chandler was turning the corner."Yeah. But somehow, I don't think this truth needs to be hunteddown."

"You're a sentimental softy, you know that, Kent?"

He managed a grin. "How could I forget? You remind me oftenenough."

Her look softened. "So, we're splitting up?"

"Yeah. Don't go anywhere too unusual, okay? I want to be able tofind you. If the earth suddenly shifts under my feet..."

"If it moves under mine, I'll yell," she promised.

"And I'll be there before you finish," he answered. "I'm not goingback to our universe without you, and I'm not letting you go withoutme."

"My hero." She stretched up to give him a quick kiss. "Gotta go,or I'll lose her."

"She went left at the corner," he advised, and stood on thesidewalk, hands in his pockets, until Lois disappeared from view.

*****

That night, Vincent came to Catherine's balcony. His claws clickedlightly against the glass of her French doors; she leaped to her feetand hurried outside.

"You shouldn't have come," she said as she went into his arms.

He held her close. "How could I not come? I know how distressedyou are."

"It's just work," she answered, pressing her face into his vest,inhaling his scent. "Not anything I can't handle..."

"But it's upset you, Catherine," he said gently, releasing her andstepping back. His expression, in the dim light from her living room,was grave. "More than your work usually upsets you. I thought youneeded to talk."

She glanced uneasily over the balcony rail. "I don't suppose myfaithful shadows can see you," she decided. "Stay back from the edge,though, please?"

"I will if you will talk to me," he agreed. "What's troublingyou?"

She looked out over the city, gathering her thoughts. "I went outon a new case today. A woman was beaten viciously, almost certainlyby her husband, and she won't talk to us about it."

He looked horrified. "Why?"

"Because she's scared. She made a 911 call last night, but whenthe police finally got there, things were quiet and her husband sentthem away. Joe wanted me to see if she'd talk to me. She wouldn't,though. She acted terrified. I left my card, but I really don'texpect to hear from her... and she'd been severely beaten, Vincent.If you could have seen her face..."

Vincent sank onto a narrow, wrought iron bench. "I cannotcomprehend the thinking of a man who would use his strength againstsomeone who loves him."

"I can't, either," she answered, sitting beside him.

His hand crept over to cover hers. "She needs your help,Catherine."

"How can I, when she won't talk to me?"

"You must try again. And keep trying until she listens to you. Youmust not let her be alone in this."

Catherine nodded slowly. "I won't. I'll go back tomorrow. And thenext day, and the next. Until she listens."

*****

"No, Lois, I'm not going to x-ray the building."

"Oh, but, Clark!" Lois leaned against his arm and wheedled. "Justa little peek?"

He pulled his glasses down and peered at her over the rims. "No.Not even the tiniest glance. Those are people's homes in there! I'mnot going to spy on people in their homes."

"I don't want you to spy on all of them. Just Catherine Chandler."She leaned back and crossed her arms. "You didn't mind peeking intopeople's homes earlier."

"Just the public hallway," he said, not without a squirm ofconscience.

"But you saw the woman's face..."

"Uh, yeah. But she was standing at her front door, talking to MissChandler..."

"You're splitting hairs, Kent. I don't want you to watch womenundressing... in fact," she poked him with her elbow, "you'd betternot watch women undressing! I just want a little peek to see whichapartment's hers, and make sure she's there, and alone..."

"And if she's undressing when I peek in?"

"I expect you to do the virtuous thing and look away."

"Virtuous. Right." He sighed. "Okay, but just a quick peek."

Lois settled against him with a happy sigh. "Great. I checked heraddress - her apartment's 21E. So start with the twenty-firstfloor."

Clark counted windows. "There is no twenty-first floor."

"What?" Lois counted, too. "You're right. It stops at twentyfloors. How'd she get to be 21E?"

"Some builders skip the thirteenth floor," Clark suggested. "I'lltry the twentieth floor." He scanned quickly, and frowned. "Thoseapartments are numbered 23, A through F."

"Weird," Lois commented. "Twenty-one from twenty-three is two; trytwo floors down."

"Got it. 21B... 21D... ah, there it is, on the eighteenth floor.And I thought your old apartment building was numberedstrangely."

"Is she there?"

"What, you think she slipped out the back when we weren't looking?I have to be careful here... don't want to intrude..."

"Have to avoid peeking at women undressing," Lois agreed solemnly."Did you find her?"

"Yeah. She's on her balcony." He frowned. "She looks kind ofpensive... I wonder what's wrong?"

"Well, she knows we're on to her, for one," Lois said.

"I suppose." Clark slid his glasses back up where they belonged."Lois, I've been thinking about that woman this afternoon..."

"The one in the apartment?" Lois guessed.

He nodded. "I think there's a story in there..."

Lois took a deep breath. "Clark, it's not that I don't havecompassion for that woman - I do. But vile as domestic violence is...and I'm making a leap here by assuming that's what happened... it'snot news. It probably ought to be, but it's not."

"Not usually," he agreed. "But I talked with some of theneighbors, Lois. The husband's a police officer."

"Even that's not so uncommon," Lois argued.

"This isn't the first time she's had bruises. The neighbors alltold me it always takes the police a long time to respond when theycall. Too long."

"Maybe they were busy with more urgent calls?"

Clark tapped his ear. "The city was quiet last night, honey. Oh,there were the usual rash of muggings and a couple of hits on liquorstores and stuff... but for the most part it was quiet. And it stilltook the police over an hour to respond. The reporter's instinct youhelped me to hone tells me there's something there."

"You think the police are covering for the husband?" Lois askedthoughtfully.

"I think it's possible. And if it's true, it's a heck of astory."

"Yeah. Police corruption always is." She nodded. "Okay. When weget to the office tomorrow, we'll have to see about getting a copy ofthe police dispatcher's log."

Clark grinned. "I think that's a good idea." He gestured vaguelyupward. "So, can we give up on this slasher thing now?"

"No!" Lois looked affronted. "The police corruption thing's only amaybe, Clark. We need a big story, and *my* reporter's instinct sayswe're onto something here."

He sighed, and looked sideways at her. "It means splitting upagain tomorrow. One of us has to work on the mood piece Alex assignedus."

"Oh. Yeah. I forgot about that."

"I know you hate doing that kind of thing... want me to take it,while you work on the dispatch logs?"

She smiled. "Okay. And then I'll pick up Chandler in theafternoon, while you go to the print shop."

"Great." He leaned back, glancing upward. "Oh, her lights are out.Guess that means we can go home?"

"Home. Right." Lois gave him a crooked smile. "Rooftop, sweetrooftop."

The darkened expanse of Central Park was at their backs; theyfaded into its shadows. When Clark was sure they were invisible fromthe street, he put his arms around Lois and took off.

He set her down a moment later on the rooftop they'd come to thinkof as theirs and, whipping his cape into being, spread it out.

She sank down on it and looked up at him. "Clark, how long do yousuppose it'll be before we can afford a place to live?"

He sat beside her and tugged at his boots. "I don't know. A fewweeks, maybe. The Sentinel doesn't pay much, and we'd have to save upfirst and last month's rent and a damage deposit."

"A few weeks!" Lois modulated her voice with effort. "I'm sorry, Idon't mean to sound critical... but Clark, I can't live another fewweeks on a rooftop! With no running water, and no furniture and wehave to worry about someone seeing us..."

"Yeah, Lois, I know," he said. "I wasn't going to tell you yet,but I was talking with Mr. Schofield about that this afternoon. Aboutus needing a place to stay."

"Yeah?"

"And he thinks he might know of a place. He's going to check andlet me know tomorrow."

"Oh! Oh, Clark, that'd be great! Just think, a bathroom..." sheran a seductive finger down his chest, "...and a bed..."

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing herfingers. "I miss having our own place... and bed... as much as youdo. This probably won't be much - a furnished room in a boardinghouse, maybe, but it'll be better than a rooftop."

"Especially..." Lois held out an experimental hand. Yes, she wasright, moisture was dropping from the sky, "...when it'sraining!"

Quicker than thought, Clark scooped her and their belongings upand whisked them across a handful of rooftops to one that boasted adeep overhang. They stood in its shelter, watching water run from theedge.

"You rat." Lois's smile and hug belied her words. "You've beenholding out on me."

"I spotted this a few days ago," he admitted. "It's not ascomfortable as our usual rooftop, and I don't think it's as secure,but I thought it might come in handy."

"It's kind of nice," Lois admitted, looking out at the rain. "Kindof cozy."

Clark tightened his arm around her shoulders, turning her towardshim. "Yes, it is," he agreed softly.

"Kind of... intimate."

"Mmm." He nuzzled her neck.

"Even kind of... romantic?"

"Yeah."

"You know, we've been here nearly three weeks, and wehaven't..."

"I know." He nibbled delicately on her ear.

"And it doesn't look like we're going to be disturbed..."

"No," he agreed. "What with all the rain..."

"Mmm." She leaned against him. "But we're warm and dry..."

"Yes..."

"So we can..."

"Yes."

*****

Catherine was at Virginia Stevens' apartment first thing the nextmorning. She lingered outside until a fair, slender man emerged fromthe building that housed the Stevenses' apartment. He wore theuniform of a patrolman in the NYPD; he whistled as he strode down theblock.

Catherine had done her homework yesterday, and recognized the manas police officer Glen Stevens. She shook off the chill that wentdown her spine and mounted the steps, thinking of Virginia Stevensand her eight-month-old son.

"Mrs. Stevens?" she called through the closed apartment door.

There was no answer; the chill came back.

Catherine knocked harder. "Mrs. Stevens, it's Catherine Chandlerfrom the D.A.'s office again. I'm not leaving until you talk tome."

At last she heard the rattle of locks.

"Mrs. Stevens?"

"Go away!" An eye, the surrounding flesh bruised and swollen,showed in the narrow opening between door and frame. "You've doneenough harm!"

"Mrs. Stevens, I want to help you."

"And I told you yesterday, you can't! No one can. All you're doingis making it worse!"

"Mrs. Stevens, please..."

"Don't you understand? He talks to the neighbors! They told himyou were here yesterday."

Catherine went cold. "Did he hurt you again?"

There was no answer, but the door didn't close.

"Mrs. Stevens, I can take you, you and your baby, to a place whereyou'll be safe. Someplace he can't get to you."

The answering hiss was low and bitter. "You still don't get it, doyou? He's a cop. He knows where the safe houses are. He'll find me.He'll kill me."

"No. I know a place he can't find. Mrs. Stevens, I promise you...for your own sake, for your child..."

"I can't..." But there was a waver in her voice.

Catherine leaned closer, pitching her voice low. "Mrs. Stevens, Iam not making this up. I know a place your husband won't know about.It's not an official safe house, so the police aren't aware of it.But I have friends who live there, and I know they'll take you in.They'll keep you safe."

"But for how long? Sooner or later I'd have to come out... try tomake my living. He'd find me then."

"Not this place. You can stay there forever if you need to. Youcan live there and work there, your child can go to school... Mrs.Stevens, please believe me. Get your baby and come with me, now. Yourlife could depend on it."

A low moan sounded from behind the door. "If I do, he'll kill me.If I don't... he's going to find out you were here. He's going to beso angry..."

"Then you have no choice. You have to come now."

Half an hour later, Catherine carried a suitcase and bulgingdiaper bag down the stairs. Virginia Stevens followed, her sonclutched in her arms. A cab, summoned by a telephone call onceCatherine had been admitted to the apartment, waited outside. Theyhurried into it and sped off.

Catherine watched, but no one followed. Still, a police officercould access the cab records, so she asked the driver to let them offat a random corner, where she let the cab disappear into trafficbefore hailing another. They changed cabs in this way three timesbefore Catherine was satisfied, and gave the driver a legitimateaddress. "These are friends," she said, as they pulled up in front ofLong's Grocery. "They'll help."

Young Edward Long was waiting to guide them. "I sent a pipemessage after you called, Miss Chandler," he said as he led them intothe shop's basement. "Someone should be waiting."

Someone was. Catherine recognized the blond young woman, and thedark-haired teenager at her side.

"Hi, Catherine," the young woman greeted. "Edward said you needhelp."

"Not me," Catherine said, moving aside. "But my friend does. Thisis Virginia. Virginia, this is Jamie..."

Jamie's eyes widened, but whether that was at Virginia's batteredappearance, or just that Catherine was bringing her to the tunnels,Catherine wasn't sure.

She pushed on doggedly. "...and Zach."

Zach was better at covering his surprise. "Hi, Virginia."

Virginia mustered a tiny smile. "Nice to meet you. You can call meGinny."

"Ginny," Zach repeated, politely.

Jamie fixed Catherine with an incredulous stare. "Does Fatherknow...?" she hissed.

"It's okay, Vincent and I talked about this last night."

"Did he tell you to bring her?" Jamie's voice held more than atrace of suspicion.

"No," Catherine admitted. "But he'll back me up."

"You know he will, Jamie," Zach said. "He always does."

"Father," Jamie predicted grimly, "is going to explode." Shereached for the suitcase.

"Are you coming, Catherine?" Zach asked.

"I can't. I have to get to the office... I'm late already." Sheturned to Ginny Stevens. "Jamie and Zach will take care of you.You'll be safe."

Fear shone in the woman's eyes. "Where will you be?"

Catherine smiled. "Acting as if I don't know anything about it."She pressed Ginny's hand. "I'll come see you, all right? Tonight, ifI can."

Ginny glanced uneasily at Jamie. "If it's okay with thesepeople...?"

"It'll be fine," Zach assured her. "Catherine comes to visit allthe time. Here, can I carry the baby for you?"

"I don't know if he'll go to you," she answered doubtfully.

"Sure he will," Zach answered cheerfully. "Babies like me. Comeon, little guy, I'll bet you get heavy after a while. Let's give yourmom a rest."

Catherine had tried several times to carry the baby herself, buthe would have none of it. But to her surprise, he hesitated only amoment before consenting to be taken into Zach's arms.

"See?" Zach bragged. "What'd I tell you?"

Catherine laughed. "Well, I can see you're in good hands."

Ginny was staring at her young son, who seemed enthralled withZach's nose. "I guess so," she agreed. "Thank you so much, Cathy. Ican't believe I'm finally going to be free..."

*****

"I'm sorry you lost your story, Clark." Lois worked at puttingsympathy in her voice, but must not have been as successful as she'dhave liked; the look her husband gave her was baleful. "I am!" sheinsisted.

"Yeah, honey," he conceded. He was sprawled on the park benchacross the street from Catherine Chandler's apartment building, wherethey'd spent the past few evenings. "I know you are. I just wish Iknew where Virginia Stevens was, so I could talk to her."

She shifted on the hard bench. "Don't you have any leads?"

His grin was wry. "One. The person who took her away was a woman,late twenties or early thirties, dark blonde hair, wearing a graysuit..."

Uh-oh. "Catherine Chandler was wearing a gray suit today..."

"I know. And she's the one person in this city I can'tapproach."

"Oh, Clark! That means you lost your story because of mine. Now Ifeel awful."

He grinned. "About me losing my story, and about your story beingresponsible. But not about your story."

"Well, no." She wrapped her arms around his upper arm and leanedagainst him. "But you knew that."

He kissed her nose. "Yeah. Hey, I forgot to tell you, Mr.Schofield wants us to come by the shop tomorrow afternoon - there'ssomebody who wants to meet us."

"Meet us?"

"Yeah. I have the feeling we're going to be under the microscope.But if we pass muster, it means we'll have a place to stay."

The thought of even the tiniest, grubbiest room sounded heavenly,as long as it had running water and a bed. "Oh, Clark! What is it, arooming house, a tenement apartment, what?"

"I don't know, Mr. Schofield didn't say. But I got the impressionit's more of an extended community."

"Extended...?"

"Like a group of families living in the same building, but withcommon rooms. Maybe kind of like a college dorm?"

"Oh. So you have to fit in with the community to be accepted?"

"I guess so. Anyway, we're supposed to be there at three."

"No problem. Alex really liked the piece we did on the churchrenovation; now he wants us to write a feature on a championshipgirls' soccer team..." She just barely kept from rolling hereyes.

Clark laughed. "You did most of the work on the church piece; theleast I can do is cover the soccer story for you. At least Iunderstand the game."

"Huh. You probably even played when you were a kid."

"Sure. I was a pretty good keeper in my day."

"Keeper?"

"Goalkeeper. You know, the one who keeps the ball from goingin..." He broke off, staring upward. "There's someone up there."

Lois followed his gaze, but from this distance, she could barelydiscern which balcony was Catherine Chandler's. "Catherine?" shewondered aloud.

"No. I mean, she's there, too, but there's someone else." Hetipped his glasses down to peer over them. "Big guy, long hair,dressed in this black..." He stopped again.

"Clark? What is it, what do you see?"

He stood. "I need a closer look. I'll be right back."

Before she could protest, he'd stepped into the bushes. A puff ofwind stirred her hair; seconds later another puff heralded hisreturn.

Lois craned her neck to look up at him as he stepped out behindher. "Who is it?"

"That's exactly what I'm asking myself... and if I told you, youwouldn't believe me." He held out his hand. "Come on. I'll showyou."

He picked her up. She locked her arms around his neck and held onas he lifted off, rising slowly until they were level with CatherineChandler's apartment.

Two figures stood together on the little balcony. Chandler wasalready prepared for bed, wearing a very pretty and not veryconcealing silk robe. The other figure had his back to them. A hoodedblack cloak covered him from shoulders to mid-calf; long golden haircascaded over his shoulders.

"Who is he?" Lois wondered quietly, into Clark's ear. "And whatare they saying? Take me closer so I can hear."

"Lois..." his voice was doubtful.

"Come on," she wheedled. As his ear was so convenient, she coercedhim further by gently nipping the lobe.

He caught his breath, then turned his head to grin. "No fair."

But he drifted closer, edging sideways to keep them in shadow andrising a bit to take them out of the line of sight of the pair on thebalcony.

"I'm glad Ginny's okay," Chandler said. Her voice carried clearly."I was worried about leaving her. She seemed so lost..."

"And so she was, but Mary and Olivia have taken her under theirwings." The voice was deep, husky, obviously male.

"Good."

"What about your reporters? Are they still following you?"

Lois gave Clark a quick glance, but he seemed intent on theconversation on the balcony.

"Not in the daytime. And they definitely weren't with me thismorning. But I thought I saw them this evening, when I camehome."

Lois remembered the quick look Chandler had cast over her shoulderas she entered her building. "She saw us," she whispered into Clark'sear, keeping her voice low so it wouldn't carry beyond the two ofthem.

The black-cloaked figure whirled, and stared right at them.

Lois caught her breath in an audible gasp as his face came intothe light; at the same time, Clark darted upward, carrying themaway.

A moment later he set her down on a nearby roof.

"Did you see him?" she hissed in excitement. "His face?"

"His hands," Clark answered. "Yes. I saw him."

Already her imagination was framing the first paragraph of thestory she'd write. "This is enough to get us a Pulitzer!" she crowed."I wish we had photos, but... his hands, you said you saw his hands.He's the one who killed those people, he had claws, did you see them,they looked sharp. And maybe we can get some pictures later. She's aD.A., I wonder how she squares what he does with her job and herconscience, but she must be in danger when he comes to her, so Iguess it's justifiable, I mean..." She broke off, and looked aroundfor Clark.

He stood at the roof's edge, staring down. His arms were crossed,his back stiff.

Something was wrong. "Don't you think so?" she prodded,gently.

"I think it's enough to ruin their lives," he answered finally. Heturned.

The grim look on his face made her hesitate. "What... what are youtalking about?"

"I'm talking about being different. About being so different thatif people found out about it, it could destroy you."

Funny, she never thought of Clark as different. He was just...Clark. That he could fly, that bullets bounced off his chest, that hecould see through things, or lift buildings, was just incidental. Butthe tone of his voice, the rigidity of his stance, reminded her thathis differences were something he never forgot.

"But you aren't that different," she argued aloud.

"Aren't I?" he asked. For the first time in her memory, his voicesounded bitter. Suddenly he floated in the air over her head. "Isn'tthis different enough?"

"Yes, but..."

He settled to the tarred and graveled roof beside her. "But mydifferences aren't on the outside, where people can see them," hefinished for her. "What if they were? What if you'd been able to see,the moment you met me, how different I am?"

I'd have loved you anyway. She started to say it, but paused. Ifshe said it too quickly, without thought, it wouldn't mean anything.So she considered, carefully. Of course she loved his dark eyes, withtheir faintly foreign slant. His thick hair, and the one endearinglock that kept falling over his brow. She loved his broad chest andwide shoulders, the smooth skin of his arms and back.

But those things weren't why she loved Clark. She loved him forhis gentleness, for his quick wit, and easy humor. For hisintelligence, and honesty, his generosity and his sensitive heart.And for a hundred other things she couldn't begin to name.

Then she tried to picture him, with those inner qualities shetreasured, with that face she'd seen on Catherine Chandler's balcony.Tried to imagine Clark looking at her with those light, alien eyes,smiling at her with that odd, cat-like mouth. Touching her with thosebig furred hands whose fingers were tipped with deadly claws.

"It might have mattered then," she answered slowly. "If you hadlooked like that. It might have taken me a while to see past it."

His faint smile reminded her of just how long it had taken her tosee past a blue and red costume. She resisted the urge to smackhim.

"But once I knew you, if you were the same person you are now...I'd still love you. I couldn't help but love you."

He gazed at her a minute, silent and pensive, then opened hisarms. She went into them willingly, feeling them folding her close.When he spoke, his warm breath ruffled her hair. "I can't write astory about him just because he's different, Lois. I can't."

Visions of Pulitzers wavered, faded, and finally collapsed inunderstanding. "I know," she whispered, into his chest. "Neither canI."

*****

From the tunnel beneath Catherine's building, Vincent looked up.When he'd left her, Catherine's hands were shaking, her voicetrembling as she urged him to go. Even now, five minutes later, hecould feel her fear. For him.

He shouldn't have gone there two nights in a row. It was aterrible risk, and one he shouldn't have taken, no matter how much helonged to see her, hold her, hear her voice.

Someone had been watching them. He'd heard the voice, though hecouldn't make out the words, and then he'd sensed a presence. Morethan one presence, actually, though the sensation, like the sound,had disappeared so quickly he couldn't be certain. He thought he'dcaught a flicker of movement when he spun toward the sound, thesensation, but he couldn't be sure of that, either.

Perhaps it was the two reporters who wanted to write of theslashings. His handiwork, he thought darkly, gazing at his own lethalhands. Perhaps it was someone else, in which case the danger to him,to his world, was doubled.

But whoever it was, nothing he could think of would explain whythe voice he'd heard, the presences he'd sensed, had come from apoint in mid-air, ten feet from the nearest building and nearly twohundred feet off the ground.

*****

Lois woke early, to the realization that instead of the usualcushion of air, she was lying on the hard concrete surface of theroof. Clark must have heard something, and gone, in the dark clothinghe reserved for those instances, to see if he could help.

But he wasn't gone. He was sitting, very still, at the roof'sedge.

Stiffly she got up and crossed to him. "Hi."

He smiled, but didn't take his eyes off that distant somethingonly he could see. "Good morning," he answered. "Sleep well?"

"Not as well as I might. I missed you." She settled down besidehim.

"Sorry. I couldn't sleep." He looked pensive.

She laid her head against his arm. "So. What are we going to do onour day off?"

"I want to find him, Lois. I want to talk to him."

"Him? The guy from last night?"

"Vincent," he said softly. "I heard her call him Vincent."

She suppressed a shiver. "He scares me, a little."

Clark looked at her. "Because of how he looks?"

"Because of what he's done. You saw the photographs..."

"Yes. I saw them." He let his breath out in a long sigh. "But youknow, my hands aren't entirely clean. People have died because ofthings I've done... things I haven't done..."

"It's not the same thing," she argued. "You can't beeverywhere."

"I'm talking about when I am there. And people die."

She stared; she'd never heard him say this before. "Likewhen?"

"Like Spencer Spencer, and his doctor. I froze them, Lois, andwhen a ricocheting bullet struck them, they shattered. They wouldn'thave died if I hadn't frozen them."

She remembered the incident clearly, but never knew he'd beenletting it haunt him. "Clark, Spencer Spencer was trying to kill you,or have you forgotten that part?"

"I haven't forgotten. But I'm stronger. I'm faster. I say I standfor something higher, something bigger... and then I make peopledie."

"It wasn't your fault. You weren't the one firing the bullets, youweren't the one putting them in danger."

"But I'm the one who froze them," he answered quietly. "Andthere've been others. Johnny Corbin - I melted his legs, and hedied."

"Clark, he was already a cyborg. You didn't know Rollie Vale wasgoing to remove the kryptonite that powered him, and kill him."

"What about Nor? I didn't kill him... but I wanted to. I tried to.It was only his own superpowers that saved him from me."

"Nor was trying to..."

"I know what he was trying to do!" Clark's voice had a suddenangry edge to it. "I know. But that doesn't absolve me fromresponsibility for my own actions. I froze Spencer Spencer. I meltedJohnny Corbin's legs. I tried my best to kill Nor."

Lois stared at him. She hated feeling so helpless.

He looked at his hands. "I've saved you, Lois, so many times. Inever killed anybody doing it. I never even came close. Because I'mso much stronger, so much faster. But what if I wasn't? What if Iwere an ordinary man? With an ordinary man's speed and strength? Imight have had to kill in order to save you."

"No, Clark, you're not like that. You don't hate. You don'tkill."

"But if you were in mortal danger... if there were no other way. Iwould. If I had to, if it was the only way, I would." He looked ather then, his eyes stark. "I would."

Under the intensity of his stare, she believed him. She swallowedonce, hard, before she spoke. "Okay. Okay. But the reality is, youdon't have to. You never have had to. And this other guy... thisVincent. He has."

"Yes," Clark agreed softly, turning his gaze back to the horizon."He has."

He was lost again in dark thought.

"Clark, the people who got hurt because of you... that wasn't yourfault. Or," she amended, when he fixed her with a merciless gaze,"not entirely your fault. Those people chose to do the things theydid; if they got hurt, if they were killed, it's because of thechoices they made. They were trying to hurt other people, innocentpeople, and you stopped that. You didn't mean for them to die, butit's always been the bad guys who've gotten killed. You always savethe good guys."

"That's true," he admitted. "I tell myself that constantly; if Ididn't, I don't think I could continue being Superman."

"The world... our world... needs Superman, Clark."

"I know. And so I try to learn from my mistakes, and I keep on.But still, people have died. At my hands. Just as they have atVincent's hands."

Lois remembered the grisly crime scene photos and shuddered. "Ithink his hands are a little more closely involved than yoursare."

"But the people who have died... who he's killed... they've allhad criminal pasts, been armed, been threatening people."

"Threatening Catherine Chandler," Lois clarified.

"Mostly, yeah. I understand that. But he's only going after thebad guys, too."

Lois could see his point, sort of, but she still couldn'treconcile in her mind the idea that Vincent, who killed bloodily,with his hands, was anything like her Clark, who tried his best to benoble and good. "I guess so."

Clark didn't seem to notice her reluctance. "I feel an empathywith him," he went on. "A... kinship. He's as different in his way asI am in mine. I've never met anyone like that before."

"That different?"

He nodded.

"What about the New Kryptonians who came to Metropolis?"

"It's not the same. They're Kryptonian, like me, but they grew upin a Kryptonian society. They were just like everyone else. I grew upKryptonian on Earth, and I've always known how different I am."

"I guess I can see that," she conceded. "If you find him, do youthink he'll talk to you?"

"I don't know. But I have to try."

"How will you find him? Following Catherine Chandler hasn't doneus much good."

"I have an idea about where he might be." Clark tipped his glassesdown and raised his eyebrows; obviously he planned to utilize hisx-ray vision. "Want to come with me?"

The idea of looking for the fearsome creature of last night wasfaintly appalling. And anyway, she had something else on her mind. "Idon't think so. I've been thinking, too. About Catherine Chandler. Ikeep remembering all the times it looked like our secret was going toget out. How scared I've been. We scared her, Clark."

"I know we did. I wish now we hadn't. She loves him, youknow."

Love? Affection, certainly, Lois could see that. But love? Forthat alien creature with his bloody hands? "How can you tell?" sheasked, her voice going ragged.

"When I first saw him... them. They were hugging. And the way shelooked at him..." His expression went tender. "You look at me thatway."

She managed her first smile of the morning and forced away all herdoubts. "Then you must be right. I want to tell her we aren't goingto write our story, Clark. I want to apologize."

*****

After breakfast at their favorite diner, they separated.

"Yell if you need me," Clark said as they parted.

"If the earth moves," she agreed, smiling. "I'll probably find herand be done by lunchtime. Want to meet somewhere?"

"I don't know yet. Tell you what, I'll leave a message with Mr.Schofield if I can't make it. And we have to be at the print shop bythree, anyway."

"Oh, that's right. Okay. Be careful."

"You, too." Her hurried kiss fell half on his cheek, and he had togrin as he watched her striding away.

Only when she had passed from sight did he start on his search. Hebegan at Catherine Chandler's building, which he x-rayed carefully;Vincent had reached Chandler's balcony without Clark's seeing him,and he certainly hadn't used the front door. The only two logicalpoints of access were from the roof and the basement, so he focusedhis attention in those areas. And there, in the basement, he spottedan opening, carefully hidden, that led into a small, forgottensubbasement. From there, a brick-walled passage gave way to averitable warren of other tunnels and passages.

"It's like a maze down there," Clark mused aloud, pushing hisglasses back up. "And I'll bet all those passages go somewhere."

But where? There was one way to find out.

He supposed he could try to talk his way into Chandler's building,and access the tunnels from there, but he'd noticed that some of thebrick-walled tunnels tied into storm drains and utility accesstunnels beneath the city streets.

He strolled in and out of three different alleys before he foundwhat he wanted - a manhole cover out of sight of the street. With aquick glance around to be sure he was unobserved, he toed aside theheavy steel cover, stepped out over the opening, and floated down,pausing only to replace the cover.

He found himself in a round cement pipe, large enough in diameterthat he could stand comfortably without hitting his head. The floorof the tunnel was dusted with a fine layer of silt; from the look ofit, no one had passed this way since the last rain turned dust intomud.

He peered over the top of his glasses, scanning the area, but itdidn't help much. Tunnel after tunnel wound off into the distance,but he saw nothing to indicate where Vincent might be found.

He did, however, know where to find Catherine Chandler's apartmentbuilding. He pushed his glasses back into place and set off.

Before long, he came to an intersecting passage. He paused,studying it. The dirt floor here had been disturbed, and recently.Imprints left by large, heavy boots showed where someone hadtraveled, and then come back the same way. Other impressions appearedolder, and were less clear, but tipping his glasses down for closerinspection revealed a number of other tracks, including a faint setthat were clearly made by a woman's heeled shoe.

Catherine Chandler's apartment was to the north; Clark wentsouth.

He'd expected it to be quiet underground, but pipes running alongthe sides and top of the tunnel clattered and gurgled and hissed. Theclattering was the loudest, and the most annoying. The pipe to hisleft rang in a flat pattern that sounded repetitious.

There were lights here, too, and the faint scent of damp woolunderlying the more earthy smells.

"That's far enough."

The voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. Clark tuggedhis glasses down and swung his head from side to side, seeking thesource. It didn't take long to locate a false wall cleverly builtinto the side of the tunnel. Beyond the false barrier, looking fierceand protective, was Vincent.

"I didn't come to make trouble," Clark said, lifting his free handin a conciliatory gesture. "I only want to talk to you." He sawstartlement in Vincent's eyes before he pushed his glasses back intoplace. He waited, and noticed for the first time that the clatter ofthe pipes had stilled. The tunnel was ominously quiet.

The voice, when it came again, was more definitive, and moreeasily located. Vincent, if it was Vincent who spoke, had moved to aspot some yards ahead of where Clark stood. And he had done it sostealthily that Clark hadn't heard him go.

He turned toward the voice, showing his open hands. "Please. Ijust want to talk. Vincent."

"You know my name."

"Yes. Mine's Kent, Clark Kent."

This time he did hear something - the rustle of fabric, maybe?

"The reporter," Vincent said, after a moment.

Clark was only faintly surprised. "Yes. I'm sorry about that. Wedidn't know."

"Didn't know...?"

"About you. Until last night."

"It was you I heard from Catherine's balcony."

"My wife, actually. Whispering to me. You have very sharphearing."

Vincent let that go by. "Your wife... the other reporter?"

Clark nodded, then remembered Vincent couldn't see him. "Right.But you don't have to worry about that now. There won't be any story.Not about you."

"You frightened Catherine." Vincent's tone was carefully neutral,but still it sounded like an accusation. Clark wondered how his ownvoice would sound, speaking to someone who scared Lois that much.

"I know. I'm sorry. My wife is looking for her now, toapologize."

"And you are here. Why? To amuse yourself?"

"No." He hesitated. Standing in the cold, damp tunnel wasn'texactly what he had in mind. "Is there someplace we can talk?"

"We can talk here," Vincent answered.

Right. Vincent obviously had no intention of taking him furtherinto the tunnels. Clark let his breath out slowly. "Okay. I'm nothere for fun, or to get a better look at you, or anything like that."He swallowed; saying this was harder than he'd expected. "I want totalk to you... because for the first time in my life, I've foundsomeone who's as different as I am."

The silence that ensued seemed to go on forever.

Clark almost tugged his glasses down for a peek, but changed hismind. "Vincent?"

"I am here," the voice replied. "But I am wondering what you sawlast night, or if you have recently consulted a mirror. You and Iare... not alike."

"Not like each other, no," Clark agreed quickly. "But not likethose around us, either. You're different on the outside... mydifferences are inside, where they can't be seen. But they'rethere."

Another silence.

"Look," Clark said, feeling desperate. "I'll show you."

Except that Vincent couldn't possibly see him, unless he, too, hadx-ray vision, and somehow Clark doubted that.

"You'll have to come forward," he added. He didn't wait for aresponse. He levitated, rising above the tunnel floor and hoveringthere, his hair brushing the ceiling.

Clark folded his arms and waited, tracking Vincent with his ears.The sound of slow breathing, barely audible even to him, came closer.Something dark and formless moved at the bend in the tunnel. Clarkwaited until he was sure Vincent had a clear line of sight, thenrotated his body forty-five degrees, until he was suspended, on hisback, in the middle of the tunnel. He hung there for a handful ofheartbeats, then rotated again to hover upside down. A half twistbrought him around to face Vincent. "Convinced?" he asked, keepinghis tone conversational.

For the first time, he detected uncertainty in the other man'svoice. "This is... not possible."

Clark flipped neatly and settled on his feet. "Some people," hepointed out, "would say that about you."

*****

Tracking down Catherine Chandler was harder than it should havebeen, but Lois finally caught up with her outside the courthouse.

"Miss Chandler!" she called, and hurried across the sidewalk.

Catherine paused just long enough to see who was calling, thenwalked on, her expression suddenly grim.

"Miss Chandler. I've been looking for you."

"What do you want?" The question was snapped, not asked. "If it'sabout your absurd theories..."

"They aren't absurd," Lois retorted, stung. "We both know that. Wesaw him last night on your balcony."

If she hadn't been watching for a reaction, she'd have missed thetiny hesitation in Catherine's stride. She took a momentarysatisfaction in that, before remembering why she'd come. She reachedout and caught the other woman's arm.

"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that... at least, not inthat way. I scared you, and I didn't mean to."

Catherine Chandler's gaze was haughty. "Scared me? Don't beridiculous." Only an experienced eye would have noted the terrorlurking behind the cool exterior.

Lois consciously softened her voice. "I'm not. We did see him lastnight. Vincent."

Catherine paled visibly. "I don't know what you're talking about,"she managed, and tugged to free her arm.

Lois held on. "And we realized... Clark realized," she corrected,wanting to be honest, "that we couldn't do a story about him. Andthat means no story about the slashings. He protects you, doesn'the?"

Catherine pulled loose and stalked away.

Lois hurried after her. "He does. That's why you don't turn himin."

Catherine continued walking as if she hadn't heard.

"Look, I'm going about this all wrong. I didn't mean to say thosethings. Not yet, anyway. I just meant to say I'm sorry."

Catherine stopped so abruptly that Lois overran her. "Sorry forwhat?" she demanded.

"For scaring you. For threatening to expose your secret."

"Assuming I have a secret. Which I don't."

"Right. Whatever. But if you did have a secret, I'd feel bad aboutcoming too close to it... because I know how it's felt the timespeople have come too close to my secret. Mine and Clark's."

Catherine refused to be deflected. "Speaking of your partner,where is he? I thought you two were a matched set."

Lois managed a grin. "Not always. Today's our day off; I wanted tocome find you... and he wants to talk to Vincent. He's looking forhim."

If it was possible, she thought Catherine would have gone evenwhiter. Lines of strain around her eyes and mouth grew deeper, andher breath caught in her throat.

"Catherine Chandler!" A man's voice, harsh and demanding,interrupted.

Catherine swung toward the voice, her expression at once annoyedand expectant. Lois turned, too.

A mid-sized blue sedan pulled up to the curb beside them. Thepassenger threw open his door.

"Where's Gary's wife and baby?" he demanded, coming towardthem.

Puzzled, Lois looked to Catherine.

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about," Catherine said,standing her ground. But her voice held the same indefinable noteit'd had when Lois and Clark had first approached her about theslashings. She was lying.

And in an instant Lois knew what was going on. The story Clark hadbeen following, the policeman's wife who'd been beaten and thenspirited away. By Catherine Chandler.

What Clark could learn, a policeman could learn. And while Clarkhad morals and ethics, Gary Stevens had no such restraints. He'dobviously sent someone to make threats to learn what he wanted toknow.

Somehow, though, Lois didn't think Catherine Chandler could becoerced by threats.

The man moved closer, invading Catherine's personal space, forcingher to take a step back. "Tell me where to find Gary's wife andson."

Catherine had to crane her neck to look up at him, he was soclose. "I told you," she said, through gritted teeth. "I don'tknow."

"And I know you're lying, lady." This came from another man, darkand burly, who'd emerged from the sedan's passenger side. He seizedCatherine's arm and her shoulder, spinning her and shoving her upagainst the car.

"Callahan!" The name came out in a gasp. Catherine struggledbriefly, but the man had her in a solid grip, exerting pressure tohold her in place. When she let out a whimper of pain, hegrinned.

Never one to back away from battle, Lois stepped forward, lookingfor a way to effectively intervene.

"Johnson!" snapped the man. "Get her."

She remembered the first man too late; suddenly he was behind her,gripping her wrist and twisting her arm painfully. "What do I do withher?" He sounded anxious. "You said we were just going to..."

By now, Catherine was in handcuffs; the man who held her forcedher into the rear of the car. "Shut up and bring her. She might beuseful."

"Hey! What's going on here?"

Johnson swung around to see who had spoken, giving Lois a clearview of an older man in a coat and tie, looking concerned.

Callahan brought out a slim leather folder and flipped it open."Police business," he snapped, showing the man a badge.

"Oh, sorry, officer. Detective." The concerned citizenbackpedaled. A pair of women who had stopped to watch clutched ateach other's arms and pointed.

There would be no help from that quarter.

Callahan swung around on his partner. "I said, put her in thecar!"

Johnson hesitated and Callahan growled, coming around the car todeal with her himself. As Johnson released her, Lois kickedbackwards, trying to free herself, but Callahan knew his stuff; hedeflected the kick and caught her arm, forcing it high behind herback, until she thought her shoulder would come out of itssocket.

If Superman were here, in this universe, now would be the time toshout for him. She could shout anyway, and Clark would be here in aninstant, but that would expose him, or force him to conjure upSuperman after all, or...

She felt the cold snap of handcuffs around her wrists as thepressure on her shoulder eased, and then Callahan was pushing herinto the car. It was now or never...

She took a deep breath. "Help!" she shouted. "Superm..." The restwas lost as a meaty hand, stinking of nicotine, slapped over hermouth.

"Shut up!" Callahan hissed. "Johnson, get me some of that ducttape."

The hand was replaced by a strip of wide silver tape, sticky andcold across her lips and cheeks. With it in place, all she couldmanage was a muffled "mmmm!"

She tumbled into the back seat of the car. Behind her, the doorslammed. The men threw themselves into the front seat, and spedoff.

*****

"I know what that's like," Clark said. "I know now where I camefrom, why I'm so different, but for years I didn't have any idea.I..."

Across the room, Vincent's expression went from interested todistracted, quivering alertness. Clark listened, but didn't hearanything out of the ordinary. And then he did.

*Help!* He snapped to attention himself. That was Lois.*Superm...* Her voice cut off in mid word, and there hadn't been timefor him to get a fix on her location.

"Catherine," Vincent breathed. He was on his feet; he snagged along, black garment from the back of a chair and rushed out thedoor.

Clark was right behind him. He protects her, Lois had said. Heremembered the slashed and bloody bodies left behind. Catherine wasin danger... and Lois was with her. With her, and calling not forClark, but for Superman.

Vincent sprinted through the winding passages faster than anyoneClark had ever seen. Even so, the pace chafed at him. He left hisfeet and hovered alongside. "Where are they?" he shouted. "I'm fasterthan you. I can help!"

Vincent ran on as if he hadn't heard. And perhaps he hadn't; hiseyes were glazed and far-seeing, focused totally on something Clark,with all his supersenses, couldn't detect.

And Lois didn't cry out again.

Clark reached out and caught Vincent's shoulder. "Where arethey?"

Vincent shook him off with a force so powerful, it threw Clarkagainst the tunnel wall; shocked, he went down in a shower ofdislodged rock and dust. He was up again, running this time, beforethe debris finished rolling.

It was clear he wasn't going to get any direction from Vincent.He'd have to follow, have to confine himself to Vincent's pace,which, fast though it was, seemed laborious to him. But running feltlike he was working harder; flying was just too frustrating.Simmering with impatience, he pounded along in Vincent's wake.

*****

"I'm sorry." Catherine Chandler's voice was low, in her ear.

Lois fought her way up until she was sitting, more or lessstraight, in the back of the car. "Mmmph?" She tried to lookquestioning.

"For getting you involved in this. I'm sorry."

In the front seat, Johnson leaned across to his partner. "Should Iput tape on the other one?" he hissed, barely loud enough for Lois tohear.

Callahan shook his head. "She's not yelling, is she?"

"I thought we were just going to scare her!" Johnson continued, alittle louder.

"Well, we did," Callahan answered, casting a glance over hisshoulder. "She looks plenty scared to me. They both do."

To Lois, Catherine looked not so much scared as determined. Butshe knew her own heart was pounding in apprehension.

"But the one, the D.A.... she knows who you are!"

"So what? She talks about cops kidnapping her off the street,who's going to believe her?"

Probably just about everyone, Lois thought. It wasn't a pleasantnotion.

"We're just going to take them someplace where we can scare themgood," Callahan continued. "Someplace quiet, where we won't beinterrupted."

He was taking entirely too much pleasure in the situation forLois's comfort. She could only hope Clark had heard her half-voicedcry for help, that he was on his way. But how could he ever findher?

She couldn't identify the area to which Callahan drove them; ifshe had to write a story based on what she knew now, she could onlysay it was minutes from the courthouse, and looked pretty seedy. Thecar pulled up in front of a boarded-up warehouse and stopped. Loiswrenched her body around to fight when the door on her side wasyanked open.

Johnson dodged her awkward attempt to kick, reached in, anddragged her out of the car by her arm. Once out, she tried to twistaway from him, but he held her easily, and in such a way that shecouldn't reach him with any telling blows.

On the other side of the car, Catherine was putting up a similarstruggle with Callahan, with similar results. Finally he cuffed herhard on the side of the head, growling, "Cut it out!"

Catherine quieted; Lois hoped she hadn't been badly hurt by theblow, but her eyes seemed clear. And then Lois wondered whyCatherine, whose mouth was not taped, didn't call for help. The arealooked deserted, but surely someone was near enough to hear.

The men wrestled them over to a metal door set flush with thesmooth concrete side of the warehouse. Callahan produced a small tooland worked for a moment on the lock.

"Breaking and entering. That's good." Catherine's tone was calmbut acerbic.

"Breaking and entering's the least of my worries," he retorted,and shoved her through the open door.

Lois, still held firmly in Johnson's grip, was forced tofollow.

The warehouse was wide and cavernous... and very, very empty.Their footsteps echoed in the hollow space. The men took them to asmall room tacked onto the far wall - an office, Lois guessed,spotting the battered metal desk and two wooden chairs that stilloccupied the space.

Callahan pushed Catherine roughly into one of the chairs; on hiscommand, Johnson forced Lois into the other.

With a hard hand on her wrist, forestalling any chance of escape,Johnson unlocked one of the handcuff bracelets around Lois's wrists,then fastened it again, very quickly. He released her, stepping awayfor the first time. A tug confirmed her fear - the handcuffs had beenthreaded through the slats in the back of the sturdy wooden chairbefore being refastened. She was now chained to the chair.

A quick glance showed that Catherine had been similarlyrestrained.

"Now what?" Johnson looked to Callahan for instructions.

In answer, Callahan swaggered around to stand in front ofCatherine.

"Lieutenant Callahan," she said coolly. "I'd think you'd beconcerned with finding your wife's murderer."

"Oh, I am. But right now, I'm more interested in helping Gary." Hestood before her, cold and menacing. "Now, Miss Chandler," he said."Tell us where to find Gary's wife and son."

Catherine's expression went grim. "I don't know."

Callahan's hand swung so fast, Lois barely saw the blow. But sheheard it, as his hand connected with Catherine's jaw with solidforce. Catherine let out a grunt and slumped to the side. "Wronganswer." He tangled a hand in her hair and pulled her upright. "I'llask again. Where is Gary's wife? Where's his son?"

"I don't know."

This time, Catherine tried to dodge the blow as it came, but shewasn't quick enough. When she lifted her head again, blood trickledfrom her nose and mouth.

"Again," Callahan said. The pleasure in his eyes was unnerving."Where...?"

Lois thought she might be sick. Each time Catherine deniedknowledge of Stevens's family's whereabouts, Callahan hit her. Herjaw was becoming misshapen, and one eye was swelling shut.

"This isn't working," Callahan announced, after one more tellingblow. "She's just too damn stubborn. I hit her many more times,she'll be unconscious, and that's no good."

"What are you going to do?" Johnson asked him. He lookeduneasy.

Callahan's gaze turned toward Lois. "You know what?" He soundedscarily cheerful. "Chandler's a do-gooder. Softhearted. What you wantto bet it'll be harder for her to watch her friend get beat up?"

"She's not my friend," Catherine managed, between split andswollen lips. "I don't even know her."

"No?" Lieutenant Callahan was plainly skeptical. "I guess we'lljust have to see about that."

He whirled on Lois so fast, she didn't have time to try to dodgethe blow. It exploded against her cheek, driving her head sidewaysand bringing the sharp metallic taste of blood to her mouth. Callahanturned away. "So, you going to tell me now? Where is Gary'swife?"

Catherine's eyes, seeking hers, were full of sorrow as sheanswered. "I don't know."

*****

It seemed they'd been running forever, and Clark was sure they'dchanged direction entirely at one point. Still, he hadn't a hope offinding Lois by himself unless she called for him again, so he stayedclose on Vincent's heels. They were in a maze of brick-walled tunnelsnow, near to the surface; above them, Clark could make out the whirof rubber tires on asphalt, of heels on cement. In the distance asiren wailed; somewhere nearer, jackhammers stuttered. The tunnelstwisted and turned, divided and joined.

Vincent charged unerringly through them, never pausing to choosehis path, never slowing to catch his breath. And then he let out asavage roar and hurled himself straight at the bricks that markedanother turn.

*****

At first, Lois thought the roar was in her ears, the result ofanother heavy blow to her head, but Callahan pulled back, turning tolook at the little office's far wall. She looked too. At the edge ofher peripheral vision, she saw Callahan yank out his gun.

And then the wall imploded, scattering bricks everywhere. Afigure, black and golden and terrible, burst through the opening andsent Johnson flying with one sweep of his arm. Beside her, two shotsrang out, and then Clark was there, too, shoving Callahan against thewall, dropping a bullet, caught in midair by an invulnerable hand atsuperspeed, into the dust.

One bullet. When there had been two shots.

She heard Catherine say in a choked voice, "Vincent."

The creature, gold and black but no longer terrible, staggered andwent to his knees. Crimson blossomed on the gray of his vest. Hefought for balance... and then, with terrible slowness, toppledforward.

"Vincent!" Catherine was struggling to free herself, struggling toreach him.

Clark hesitated for a heartbeat, hanging on indecision, thenflashed across the room to Catherine's chair. An instant later he wasback at Lois's side, pulling her to her feet. Her hands were free,and beyond him, she could see Catherine falling to her knees besidethe recumbent creature. Vincent, she reminded herself. Vincent.

Clark clutched her to his chest. "Are you all right?"

She reached up between them to pull the tape gingerly from hermouth. "I'm okay," she mumbled, through swollen lips. "More or less.But he..."

Clark glanced over his shoulder.

Catherine hunched over Vincent, struggling to turn him over."Vincent?" she whispered.

Clark gave Lois one last squeeze, then moved away. "Here," hemuttered. "Let me..."

He put a hand on Vincent's shoulder and eased him over to hisback. The dark splotch on his chest had grown, and was still visiblyspreading. His eyes, half-closed, sought Catherine's face.

"Oh, God..." Catherine's voice was low, heartfelt, despairing."Oh, no."

"Cath..."

"Shhh," she whispered. "Don't talk."

"He's bleeding badly," Clark said, slipping an arm under Vincent'sshoulders. "I have to get him to a hospital..."

Catherine caught Clark's wrist. "No! You can't. He can't."

Clark paused, uncertain. "He needs help. He needs it now."

Vincent moaned, and tried to escape Clark's supporting arm. "No.Catherine..."

"She's fine," Clark told him. "You're the one who's hurt. I'mgetting you to a doctor."

Catherine paused, swallowed hard. "His father is a doctor. If youcan get him home... he lives..."

Clark broke in. "I know where he lives. I'll get him there as fastas I can."

He looked past Catherine to where Lois stood, watching. "Becareful."

She nodded once, jerkily. He lifted Vincent in his arms and wasgone.

*****

Catherine staggered back. Where had the sudden gust of wind comefrom? And where had the man carrying Vincent disappeared to? Shehadn't seen him go. The reporter - Lois, she reminded herself -caught her arm, steadying her. "How did he..." she broke off, andshook her head. She was woozy from the beating she'd taken; she musthave just lost a few seconds of time. "Never mind." She dragged in adeep breath, and looked at the other woman carefully.

Lois's face looked the way Catherine's felt: bruised, swollen, andvery painful. "You're all right?"

Lois offered a grimace that was meant to be a smile. "Pretty much.You?"

The ache in her head was nothing compared to the deep, poundingfear in her heart. "Better if I knew Vincent was all right. Butokay." She longed to race after him, to see how badly he was hurt.But protecting him came first. She looked around. "We have to cleanup here before we can go..."

Lois looked confused. "Clean up... can't we just call thepolice?"

Catherine glanced at her. "We could have. Before. Not now. Whatcould we say? How would we explain..." Her gesture took in the gapinghole in the wall beside them.

Blessedly, that seemed to be enough. "Oh," Lois said. "I guessyou're right."

Catherine didn't like placing so much trust in someone who had sorecently been threatening to expose Vincent, but reality gave her nochoice. "We can't leave evidence to link us to this place." She tookthe handcuffs that had so recently restrained her and tucked theminto the waistband of her skirt, then scrubbed hard at the back slatsof the chair with her sleeve. "No fingerprints. Did you touchanything but the chair?"

Lois looked thoughtful, then shook her head. "No." She put her ownhandcuffs in her pocket, and wiped down the back of the chair.

"Did they touch anything?"

"Clark touched the bullet," Lois said, and bent to scrabble in thedust.

Catherine gave her a long, incredulous stare. She couldn'tpossibly have heard what she thought she'd heard. The ringing in herears, the slow dull thumping of her pulse in her head, must beinterfering. She turned to examine the body of Officer Stevens. Hebreathed with slow, noisy breaths, but he wasn't bleeding. Vincentmust have caught him with a backhand, or a forearm, instead of deadlyclaws. She said a brief, chaotic prayer of thanks for smallblessings, and glanced toward Callahan, sprawled against the wallwhere the other reporter - Clark - had thrown him.

"He's alive," Lois said, mumbling through swollen lips. "Clarkdoesn't believe in killing."

Catherine wondered if that was some kind of challenge, wondered ifLois thought Vincent did believe in killing, if maybe he liked it.Just as quickly she shied away from the perilous thought.

"They were going to kill us if you'd told, weren't they?" Loiswent on.

"They would have had to," Catherine admitted, giving in to athought that she'd kept at bay until now. She suppressed a shudder ofhorror and rubbed the back of her hand across her bruised forehead.There was no time for that now.

A palm-sized pool of dark liquid on the concrete floor showedwhere Vincent had fallen. How much blood? A couple of tablespoons? Aquarter cup? She didn't have any idea, but it looked like a lot. Morethan should have dripped in the minute or so Vincent had lain there.Much more.

Oh, God. She wanted to cry. How badly was he hurt? Was he stillalive? No, he had to be. She'd know if he wasn't. She'd feel it. Hewas alive, he was hanging on, and she had to be strong for him, hadto protect him.

She stiffened her spine and lifted her chin.

Lois came to crouch beside her. "Blood," she said.

Catherine nodded. "We can't leave it here."

"Why not?" Lois sounded genuinely curious, rather thanchallenging, and Catherine found herself answering.

"Forensics. I don't know what story these two..." she gesturedimpatiently toward the two unconscious men, "will come up with whenthey wake up, but it's just possible they'll call in the lab. Wecan't let them test Vincent's blood."

"They'd trace it to him?" Lois ventured, a sounding littlelost.

Catherine shook her head. "No. It just... let's just say it's nota good idea for them to test it. Come on, help me clean it up."

Lois's purse was lying beside her chair. By some miracle, it hadmade the whole trip with them, though Catherine had lost her ownbriefcase somewhere early on. Lois snatched up the bag and rummaged."Here are some tissues," she said.

Catherine accepted the wad of crumpled tissues and pressed theminto the pool. They came away crimson, leaving the concrete wet andsmeared.

Lois stood over her, watching. "Water," she said. "We need water.A building this size should have a restroom, shouldn't it?" Shedidn't wait for Catherine to formulate a reply; a moment later shewas back with a handful of soaked paper towels. "Here. Guess thebuilding's not as abandoned as it looks."

"Thanks." Catherine exchanged the wad of blood-soaked tissues forthe dripping towels; when she finished mopping, there were no visibletraces of blood. No traces of the dust that pervaded the room,either.

"It's too clean," Lois said. "And no way you got rid of all thetraces." She kicked dust toward the spot. It billowed up in a cloud,then settled wetly. "That's going to stick."

"Give it a minute to dry," Catherine advised. She held the wad oftissues and paper towels cradled in both her hands.

"No, wait." Lois disappeared for a minute, returning with anotherhandful of paper towels, these dry. She blotted at the damp spot,absorbing what she could, then sat back. "It's still going to have todry some more. Here, you're dripping." She soaked up the spots ofmoisture at Catherine's feet, then offered the dusty, damp papertowels as a cradle for the soggy ones in Catherine's hands. Catherineaccepted gratefully.

When the spot on the floor looked drier, Lois kicked and shuffledher feet, stirring the dust until it looked as disturbed and nocleaner than the rest of the floor. Catherine eyed the dirt on thetunnel side of the broken wall.

"Footprints in, no footprints out," she murmured, thinking aloud."That ought to cause some confusion." She didn't voice her own.

Lois ignored her questioning look. "Look, they could wake up anytime," she said instead. She put a hand to her head.

"Hurting?" Catherine asked.

"A little." Her look, unexpectedly, was wry. "Probably not as badas yours; they hit you harder, and more. I don't know how you'restill on your feet."

"Me, either," Catherine confessed. Except she couldn't stop,couldn't rest, until she knew how Vincent was. And she couldn't dothat until she'd finished covering their tracks. "We should go."

She let Lois go first, and paused in the doorway to be sure theyhadn't missed anything. Chairs, wiped. Handcuffs going with them.Weren't they? "Do you have your cuffs?" she asked aloud.

"Yeah," Lois said, from behind her. "Right here."

Okay. So everything was wiped, and the blood spot scarcelynoticeable, unless you knew where to look. Satisfied, she startedacross the warehouse. "The bathroom," she said suddenly, stopping."When you got the water. What did you touch?"

Lois thought. "The door and the faucet, I think. I'm prettysure."

Catherine nodded toward the tissues and paper toweling filling herhands. "Can you get it?"

"Yeah. I'll be just a minute."

Catherine thought about hurrying away; if she was quick, she couldlose Lois and make her way to the tunnels unobserved. But with herhead pounding and her mouth tasting of blood, her heart racing andher hands shaking, quick wasn't really something she felt up to.Besides, this part of town wasn't the safest, even for someone whoseemed to have her own very capable protector. She'd wait.

But she'd do it outside.

The sunshine and open air was a relief after the oppression of thedank, unlighted warehouse. She crossed to the locked car and peeredthrough its windows to make sure they'd left no evidence that wouldlink either her or Lois to the scene.

Her briefcase, tweed and honey-colored leather, was wedged on thefloor of the backseat.

"Damn," she muttered, under her breath.

"What?" Lois stood behind her, squinting against the brightsun.

"My briefcase." She nodded toward it and held out the wad ofsoggy, bloody paper towels and tissues. "Look, can you hold these fora minute?"

Lois gingerly accepted the dirty, wet mass, holding it at arms'length and looking as if she were trying not to think too hard aboutwhat it was.

A discarded length of two-by-four lay against the warehouse wall.Catherine picked it up and hefted it, then swung it hard against therear door window on the passenger side of the car. The windowshattered into small, roundish bits of safety glass that cascadeddown into the back seat. She used the two-by-four to brush away bitsof glass that clung to the window frame, then reached through andpulled out her case.

"Got it," she said. "Here." She opened the briefcase and pulledout a stiff manila envelope. "Put that mess in here."

Lois deposited the soggy mass in the envelope and wiped her handson the thighs of her jeans.

"I know," Catherine said, grimacing. "Thank you for helping."

"I kind of didn't have a choice," Lois pointed out. "Nowwhat?"

Now I get you out of here, so I can go to Vincent. "Do you knowwhere we are?"

Lois looked reluctant, but finally shook her head. "Notreally."

Catherine pointed. "Two blocks that way will bring you to a majorstreet. You can catch a cab there."

Lois whirled on her. "And where will you be?"

Catherine's face was stiff with bruising. She tightened her lips."You don't need to know that."

But Lois wasn't so easily dissuaded. "You're going to whereverClark took him," she persisted. "I'm going, too."

Oh, God. She had to get below, had to find out how Vincent was.And she couldn't bring a stranger down with her. "It's no place foryou," she countered. "You won't be welcome. I'm sure your partnerwill be back at your office soon."

Lois's eyes narrowed. "He's not just my partner, he's my husband,"she all but spat. "He won't leave until he knows... Vincent... willbe okay. And where he is, I'm going."

Worse and worse. "You can't, okay? Father's going to be angryenough without me bringing some stranger down..." she broke off,knowing she'd said too much, and fought back sudden tears.

Lois started to speak, then seemed to reconsider. "Look, I'msorry. I know you're worried, and you want to get to where he is tobe sure he's okay. But you need to understand, I'm worried about myhusband, and I know he wants to see me, too."

Catherine softened as she eyed Lois's face, swollen and bruised,and all because she happened to have been standing at Catherine'sside when Callahan and Stevens approached. She wondered briefly ifher own face looked as bad, and let out a long breath. This argumentcould go on all afternoon, and Lois Lane obviously had no intentionof backing down. And she couldn't wait any longer.

What difference did it make, really, anyway? Clark Kent wasalready down there. Already knew... everything. "All right," she saidroughly. "Come on."

*****