Chapter 57

It's all about context.

Plunk Delores' Café down in some suburban galleria and it would be hailed for its retro kitschiness: the aluminum lunch counter and matching stools, the red vinyl upholstery and red-and-white checkered tablecloths, the ancient noisy soda fountain, the neon sign in the front window proudly promising EATS. Seen in its natural environment, snuggled between the downtown post office and Hoffmann Hardware and Appliance, the place becomes a scuffed and slightly seedy anachronism. For Trish Blum, stiff and uncomfortable in her stylishly conservative Donna Karan business ensemble, sitting in its back booth must have been agony. Heh heh heh.

She didn't pay the slightest attention when I walked in. From a distance, I must've looked like just another hayseed. Even when I came up to the booth, she refused to take her eyes from the menu.

“Good morning,” I said cheerily.

“Hit the road, Jethro,” she snarled. “You may be a hit among the local Ellie Maes but you... you...”

I sat down opposite her.

“Decided what you're having yet? I recommend the tuna melt.”

This was a first. She was speechless. She closed her eyes and shook her head but it didn't help: when she opened them once more, I was still there. Her lips moved but nothing more than random sputtering resulted. And then it hit her. Her eyes rolled back in her head and the hitherto unflappable Trish Blum fainted dead away.

It took only a moment for the waitress to revive her. Trish gratefully sipped from the ice water handed to her and tried to pull herself back together. As soon as we were alone, she found her voice.

“I must be meshuga for even asking but, Val, is that you?”

“You haven't gone crazy, Trish. It's really me.”

“How is this possible? I mean, it's incredible, it's fabulous but what the fuck??!”

“It's a long story.”

“No doubt. So give.”

It took nearly an hour to explain it all. I laid out the events of the last few weeks as concisely and honestly as I could, beginning with the murder of Jose Delgado and concluding with yesterday's visit from the Guardians of the Universe and the revelation of my true parentage, omitting only what was necessary to protect the true identities of those outside the Trevor/Stevens family.

“...and that brings us up to today,” I concluded. “Now you know everything.”

“I swear to God, hon, if I didn't have the evidence right here in my face, I'd say that was the biggest bunch of bullshit I ever heard. No offense.”

“None taken. Hell, I lived it and I'm still not sure I believe it.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“So this is it, isn't it?” she calmly asked. “All those things we talked about the other day, the book, the lecture tour, they aren't going to happen, are they?”

“Yes and no. The book is a sure thing. Now more than ever, I'm convinced the heroes' stories need to be told. But you can forget about lecture tours, book signings, talk show appearances and the rest of it. V. C. Stevens has to pull a J. D. Salinger. He has to become a recluse. I'm sorry.”

“I almost wish I didn't know. Maybe your ma should wrap me up in that magic rope of hers and take it away again.”

“You deserve the truth. I wouldn't tell you if I thought you couldn't handle it. I need a liaison with the outside world, someone I can trust with my secret, someone strong and with loads of chutzpah. I need you, Trish.”

“And after this book? Will you keep writing?”

“Not for a while. ‘Steve Troy’ is going to take a couple of years to see the world. But sooner or later, the words will demand out again. Until then, I think I've found someone to keep you occupied.”

I waved over a man sitting at the counter. He picked up his coffee and slice of pecan pie and joined us in the booth.

“Patricia Blum, I'd like you to meet my good friend, Clark Kent.”

“Hi, how are... Hold it. Clark Kent? The Clark Kent? You're shitting me!”

“Nope. He's the real deal.”

“Oh my goodness, Mr. Kent, forgive my terrible manners. I'm thrilled to meet you.”

“The pleasure's all mine, Miss Blum. I don't know if Val mentioned it but I've decided to come out of retirement. He's persuaded me that there's still an audience out there for my kind of journalism.”

“There is, there definitely is,” she enthused.

“Clark is going to replace me at the syndicate,” I said. “We talked to Ron Troupe about it this morning. His column will take over my slot as soon as the contracts are signed.”

“That's where you come in, Trish,” Clark said. “I'm going to need representation and Val tells me you're the best there is.”

She gulped.

“You want me to be your agent?”

“If you're willing.”

“If I'm willing? What are you, nuts? The biggest comeback in American publishing gets handed to me on a silver platter and you ask if I'm willing? Do you know what a coup like this will do for me? Where do I sign?”

“Good, I'm glad that's settled,” I said as I got up to leave. “I'll let you two hash out the details.”

Trish stood up.

“Mazeltov, kiddo. If anybody ever deserved a miracle, it's you.”

She hugged me fiercely and then, to my eternal surprise, planted a long, warm kiss on me. It roused more than my gratitude and so, after a final round of goodbyes, I left the restaurant with a big dopey grin on my face.

Everything was going my way today.

* * * * *

I'd risen early to see the family, Dr. McNider and Pat Dugan off. That mission accomplished, Etta and I sat down to a quick breakfast of bacon, scrambled eggs and hash browns. I was slowly mastering the intricacies of the opposable thumb so, in lieu of either eating directly off the plate or fumbling with silverware, I fed myself by hand. It wasn't the most graceful exhibition but I managed to get most of the food in my mouth. A glass of orange juice had to shatter in my hand to teach me that some things had to be grasped with less pressure than others. It left a slight cut across the palm of my hand. Damn. Less than twenty-four hours and I'd already scarred my nice new body.

Once Etta had cleaned and bandaged my wound, I headed downstairs to Vic's therapy room. He put me to work on the treadmill. I must've spent two hours on the thing, mostly walking, eventually trotting. Next we worked on climbing and descending stairs. This was trickier. As long as I braced myself on the stairmaster's handrails and watched my feet, I was fine. But Vic insisted I learn to handle stairs without looking and that was harder than it sounds. I kept stubbing my toes on the risers on the way up and missing steps completely on the way back down.

“Most people know instinctively where their body is in relation to its environment,” Vic explained, “but you're having to adjust to a whole new sense of self. I know you're frustrated but give yourself time. You're doing great.”

He next put me to work on a battery of eye-hand coordination tests. While I was preoccupied with trying to fit square pegs into round holes, Stretch Skinner arrived for his morning hydrotherapy.

“Y'know, Val,” he said as he soaked in the whirlpool, “maybe you should think about larnin' how to defend yourself now that you ain't crippled no more. Even a friendly feller like you oughtta know how to handle hisself. Why dontcha let me teach you how to box?”

“That's not a bad idea,” said Vic. “In fact, I highly recommend it.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said. “Just promise you won't do to me what you did to Major Carter.”

“That old fool,” laughed Stretch. “Was a time when he woulda kicked my behind but he shore has let hisself go. Me, I ain't never taken to likker and I still do my roadwork. Jest 'cause you're old don't mean you gotta give up on life.”

“Well, I can't think of anybody better qualified to teach me the manly art of self-defense than Ted Grant's old sparring partner,” I said. “If Mark has me do half the crazy stuff he proposes, I'm going to need to know how to use my dukes.”

By the time I'd finished my therapy session, I was walking well enough to no longer need any help. The rainclouds had passed on and the skies were blue once more so I decided to take a stroll around the grounds. I stuck to the footpaths for the most part, eventually ending up at the lakeshore. I was tempted to wade into the shallows but I settled for sitting down on a convenient log. I'd always wanted to try skipping stones across water but my early attempts were less than inspiring. I did succeed in attracting the attention of an old friend.

Hooty flew out of a nearby copse of hickory and settled on the log beside me. I extended my arm in invitation and the owl hopped on without hesitation.

“Hey there, old fella. Are you feeling lonely with Doctor Mac out of town?”

“Whoooo!”

“I wish I had a treat for you. But then again,” I added, noticing traces of blood and mouse fur around his beak, “you seem to have managed breakfast just fine without my help.”

“Whoooo!”

“It's too bad you can't talk. I'll bet you'd have some great stories for my book.”

“Hello there.”

What the...?!

“I saw you from my deck and thought you might like some company.”

It was Clark. Approaching from the air, he'd come up on me in complete silence.

“Morning. Pull up a log.”

We chatted amiably about the resolution of the Collins case. Clark had spent most of yesterday guarding Don Hall. Once he was confident the minister was safe and on the mend, he and Dick spent the evening unwinding at the Starlight Lounge. Dick had even danced with one of the local dowagers, a sight I'd have paid top dollar to see.

The talk turned to my evolving career.

“I understand why you're switching gears,” Clark said, “but it makes me sad. The world of journalism will be poorer for the loss of your voice.”

An idea began to crystalize in the back of my mind.

“You said the other day that the world didn't need Superman anymore. That may or may not be true, I'm in no position to judge, but I know for a fact it still needs Clark Kent. Much as we all enjoy having you around town, you should be out there showing all these pompous TV hairdos and tabloid sleazebags how the game is really played.”

“Now that's odd you should bring that up. Ever since you helped me, I've been thinking about that very thing. I even dug my old Remington out of mothballs. There are so many things happening in the world that nobody seems to want to talk about, let alone write about. Ah, but I'm being a silly old man. I wouldn't even know where to start.”

“Maybe I do.”

I proposed that he take over my column. He took to the notion with enthusiasm. We walked back to the house to call my editor. Ron, sorry though he was to lose me, couldn't disguise his excitement at having a living legend on the payroll. By the time we'd hammered out a preliminary arrangement, it was time to head over to Delores'. Clark and I flew back to his house so he could drive me into town.

I spent much of the five hours between lunch with Trish and dinner with Jill simply walking around the complex. With so many of the questions that had been plaguing me answered, I was free to simply enjoy the day on its own terms. It was becoming easier to live outside my head.

At 5:30, Mark began helping me dress for dinner. Dick had brought by a few extra changes of clothes so I was able to put on slacks and a nice dress shirt. Too bad all I had for shoes were Hec's sneaks. But then I didn't expect Jill to pay much attention to my footwear.

God, I was nervous.

Mark and Rowena conspired to make this as romantic an occasion as possible, outfitting the dining room with all the usual trappings: candles, soft music, a bottle of chilled wine on the sideboard. I sat at the head of the table facing the door. Already I'd played this scene out in my head in a thousand different variants, from her running away in abject terror to our having wild sex right there on the floor. Too bad real life rarely followed a script.

Waiting was hard. I caught myself drumming my fingers on the tabletop. One day old and they'd already acquired a nervous habit. Good for them.

I heard a mutter of voices in the hallway. This was it.

It was a new Jill who walked into the room, neither haggard barmaid nor fresh-scrubbed tomboy but a third, altogether glorious creature. My ignorance of fashion was colossal but even I knew the cocktail dress she wore had set her back a paycheck or two. It was worth every penny. This was the beautiful girl I had adored since kindergarten, weathered a bit at the edges but more interesting for the wear. Swoon.

“Wow,” I said in greeting.

“It's not too much?” she asked.

“You look incredible.”

I caught a glimpse of Mark behind her, smiling as he closed the door. That was my cue.

“This is amazing,” she said as she looked appreciatively around the room. “You did this all for me?”

“I wanted tonight to be special.”

“Me too.”

“I have something to show you, Jill. It's going to be something of a shock so brace yourself.”

I pushed my chair back away from the table and stood up.

The only sound in the room, beyond the soft strains of Tchaikovsky in the background, was the muffled clatter of her handbag hitting the floor. She stared in unabashed wonderment, her eyes roving up and down my new physique, seeing but not yet believing. I took a step toward her. She took a step back.

“This is a trick.”

“No. I promise you, it's all very real.”

“I... I think I'd better sit down.”

She fumbled her way into a chair. I walked to the sideboard and poured her a glass of wine. She took it from me with palsied hand and drank half of it in a single gulp. Pulling out an adjacent chair, I sat down next to her.

“Better?”

“Yes, a little. Oh, Val, what am I supposed to say? It was hard enough accepting you could fly but this is beyond possible!”

“I know. Believe me, I know. I feel the same way every time I look in the mirror.”

“What are you...? How did...? Why...? God, I don't know what to ask first.”

I tentatively reached out and took her hand.

“All your questions will be answered. But we shouldn't let this delicious meal Rowena made get cold.”

While we dined on lemon chicken and tossed salad, I once more laid out the events of the previous two weeks. This time I held nothing back. She absorbed it all without comment. Whether this was due to the dazzling power of my storytelling or simple information overload was not yet clear. I finished my narrative and sat back expectantly.

“Let me get this straight,” she said. “These Guardian creatures altered the minds of everyone in the Corners except me?”

“And the folks here at Lash House.”

“Them I can understand. Why me?”

“Because I asked them not to.”

I stood up and began pacing the room. It was hard enough to speak my mind without having those clear blue eyes boring into mine.

“I don't know exactly what this is that's growing between us or where it's leading but I do know this much: no relationship worth having is built on lies. I want your feelings for me, whatever they are, whatever they might become, to reflect the real me, not some illusion created through cosmic sleight-of-hand. Does that make any sense?”

“Make sense? It's the most romantic thing I ever heard.”

I turned back to look at her. She got up from her chair and walked toward me. We fell into each other’s arms and shared a long, passionate kiss. Then a second. And a third. My empathy was wide open and I drank deep of her excitement, her hope, her joy and... Was that...? Yes.

It was love.

When we came up for air, she looked away and said softly, “If you want me to, I could stay tonight.”

“No. I mean yes, I want you to but no, I don't think you should. It's too soon. I need to learn more about this body first. I want our first time together to be perfect. Do you understand?”

“I think so. But don't get too proficient. Some things I want to teach you.”

My laugh was smothered by another long kiss.

“You'd better go while my resolve is still firm,” I gasped.

“That doesn't seem to be all that's firm but okay,” she giggled.

I walked her out to her car. As she was about to unlock her door, she stopped and looked up at me.

“When I was a little girl,” she said, “I used to fantasize that you would be suddenly cured and become my boyfriend. I forgot that until this very moment. I wonder now if it was the future I was seeing.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

The sheer, absurd understatement of this comment made us both laugh until tears ran down our cheeks. She gave me one last kiss and got into the car.

“Thank you, Val,” she said as she turned the key in the ignition.

“What for?”

“For bringing that little girl back to life and making her believe in miracles.”

Chapter 59

Whether he was wearing a trapeze artist's tights, the dark mantle of the Batman or a simple police uniform, Dick Grayson never lost his flair for the dramatic. Standing in the center of the roof garden surrounded by an attentive audience, he was clearly in his element.

“I'm glad you all could be here,” he was saying. “Not only would I prefer to go through this just once but the more of you that hear the facts firsthand, the less likely the chance of inaccurate rumors circulating. So if everybody's comfortable, we'll get started.

“As you all know by now, Larry Collins a.k.a. Lucius Crawley a.k.a. the Mind-Grabber Kid and a half-dozen other known aliases, murdered six Lash House residents — Pamela Isley, Snapper Carr, Will Magnus, Trevor Stevens, the Old Timer and John Doe, who we now know was Vandal Savage — and attempted to kill Don Hall. He committed these crimes using his superhuman power to telepathically possess other people. In some cases, he possessed the victim. In others, he possessed a third party. These are the basic facts of the case. What they don't tell us is why.”

He held up a tattered three-ring notebook.

“This is the final volume of our killer's journal, the thirty-seventh in a series of diaries dating back to 1983. I spent much of yesterday reading through these documents. They've proven to be quite enlightening.

“The first three years of the journal are numbingly mundane. They could be the private musings of any socially awkward young man stuck in a low-paying job. There are only three mentions of his powers in these early volumes, each a single paragraph marking the anniversary of his pledge to the Justice League to use them responsibly. He makes it clear that he chose not to use them at all rather than risk doing the wrong thing with them.

“Things begin to change in '86. Larry befriends a patient at the nursing home where he works. This man is dying from an inoperable brain tumor. He begs Larry to help him die before the disease can rob him of his dignity. Larry agonizes over this for weeks until finally he can't stand to see his friend suffer any more. He administers a massive overdose of morphine. Aware that what he's done is legally indefensible, he reluctantly uses his long-neglected power to compel the medical examiner to declare that the patient died of heart failure.

“We can all sympathize with Larry's motivations in this first case, if not his actions. The problem is that Larry gets a thrill from the murder, a rush more potent than any drug could give him. It awakens something dark and hungry in him.

“The next few months of the diary reveal a man torn between his morals and the urge to recapture that rush. But inevitably, given his work environment, another terminal patient arouses his lethal sympathy. He kills again and gets away with it again. Soon, the home's patients are dying at an alarming rate, always under circumstances that don't jibe with the official cause of death. But he gets overconfident and leaves enough forensic evidence to lead the police back to him. He's arrested. From the court documents, it looks like their case was entirely circumstantial but Larry panics, compels a guard to help him escape and goes on the run.

“As do many such criminals, Larry quickly settles into a new life nearly identical to the old one. He finds work in an Arizona nursing home. He tries hard not to give in to his impulses but old folks begin dying suspiciously all the same. This time, he moves on before the authorities get anywhere near him.”

Dick paused to take a sip from the bottle of Coke sitting on a table next to him.

“At this point, there's a two-year-long gap in the journal. When it resumes, we learn that Larry had finally recognized his illness, sought out a psychiatrist to whom he confessed his murderous impulses — carefully omitting that he'd already acted on them — and had himself committed. Larry claims to have been the ideal patient: cooperative, enthusiastic, absolutely dedicated to regaining his sanity. Yet, interestingly, it's during his commitment that he first discovers he can completely possess people as well as compel specific thoughts, beliefs and behaviors. I strongly suspect he used this new ability to engineer his early release.

“Once free of the hospital, he moves to the Pacific Northwest and starts another new life. At first, he does fine. He avoids nursing homes and hospitals, places that might test his resolve. Then he loses his job and can't find another. His landlady offers him a job as live-in caretaker for an elderly relative. Desperate for work now, he takes it. You can guess what happens.

“For the next few years, he roams the country, always one step ahead of the law. His periods of sanity grow shorter and farther apart. He gets better and better at using his powers to cover his tracks but he gets tripped up every time by his overwhelming need to kill. This is when an interesting phenomenon begins in the journal. When he's lucid, Larry's handwriting is loose, even sloppy, with lots of misspellings and grammatical errors. But when he's sick, he prints the entries in tiny, precise letters, his spelling and grammar improve and he begins to refer to himself as the Angel of Mercy.”

“Multiple personality disorder, Richard?” Dr. McNider asked.

“Nothing that melodramatic, Doctor. He seems to be fully aware of both sides of his nature. Nor do the diary entries read like different people wrote them. It'd be more accurate to say he uses the Angel identity the way you and I used Mid-Nite and Batman. He is maniacally focused on what he sees as his sacred duty at those times, obsessively meticulous in his recordkeeping, as if he were chronicling his deeds for posterity. At any rate, these disturbingly precise entries predominate for some time. Another half-dozen old folks die. Then another, shorter gap appears.”

“More treatment?” Hec guessed.

“Treatment, yes; hospitalization, no. During a lucid period, he visits a hypnotherapist. According to the journal, the therapist implants a post-hypnotic suggestion that will block any further manifestation of the Angel of Mercy personality. I've since learned that this therapist has no professional accreditation and has several malpractice suits pending. Larry, nonetheless, believes himself completely cured.”

“Some cure,” growled Pat Dugan from the back row.

“In a sense, Pat, it was. The treatment had a placebo effect. It worked as long as Larry believed it worked. His journal entries from this period are full of optimism and the desire to somehow make up for his previous sins. This is what brings him to Lash House.

“The one constant of his life, even during his darkest periods, is his fascination with The Life. We've been cataloguing his effects. I'm not exaggerating when I say his collection of super-hero memorabilia is museum quality.”

“So it was no coincidence he wound up here,” said Eel O'Brian.

“Hardly, Plas. As he'd told Mark, he briefly worked with a former staff physician. This doctor unintentionally dropped enough hints about Lash House for Larry, with his detailed knowledge of super-hero trivia, to put two and two together. He sees this as the perfect opportunity to start fresh. Understand, Larry simply doesn't believe he's doing anything wrong. He believes he answers to a higher power than the law and should not be punished simply for performing his sacred duty. Nevertheless, he is willing to forgo his mission since it's clear to him that we consider his actions wrong and our approval matters to him. He thinks if he is sorry for his crimes and doesn't kill anyone else, all is forgiven. Clearly, there is a moral disconnect in this man's brain. He gives himself a new name, lands his dream job at Lash House and simply ignores his past.

“The entries for most of his time here portray a man who is genuinely happy for the first time in his life. He makes friends with the residents, many of them his personal heroes since childhood. He socializes with his fellow staff members, something he never did at previous jobs. He joins the Lakeside Church and the Lash House softball team. And he falls in love.”

All eyes turned to where Tina was sitting.

“For what it's worth,” Dick continued, “I think Larry genuinely loved you, Tina. Your relationship was never part of some master scheme. If anything, you gave him extra incentive to stay on the straight-and-narrow.”

“Then what set him off?” Ana asked.

“Ivy did,” I said. “He must have overheard her conversation with Karl about escaping and destroying Lash House.”

“Very good,” Dick said. “That's exactly what happened.”

“I knew it!” proclaimed Karl.

“Oh my God,” Tina gasped. “That must be what he was trying to tell me the day we had our first big fight. He kept saying that Ana didn't know what she was doing, that she'd be making a terrible mistake if she transferred Pam to Arkham. I got mad and told him Ana knew her business a lot better than any orderly. I thought he was just being full of himself. Why didn't I pay more attention?”

“I doubt you would've made any difference if you had, Tina. The sickness already had its hooks in him again. It never occurs to him to simply go to Ana with what he knew. Nonetheless, he didn't want to give up the happy life he'd built at Lash House. He would have to plan this crime more carefully than his others. Given Ivy's recent behavior, he thought no one would be suspicious of a suicide. He might've gotten away with it but for a simple mistake.”

“He didn't realize his psychic energy could power her central nervous system even after she was dead,” observed McNider, “thus tipping us off to his presence.”

“On the nose, Charles.”

“Okay, so he killed Ivy to protect the rest of us,” Pat said. “Hell, who's to say one of us might not have done the same? But why kill Snapper? He was no danger to anyone.”

“I know why,” I said. “Larry was there that afternoon Karl and I found Snapper wandering down Lakeside Drive. He heard Snapper say he wished he'd died at Metropolis.”

“I forgot all about that,” Etta said. “You're right, Larry was standin' right there.”

“Correct again,” said Dick. “Snapper gave him his excuse but it was going to happen regardless. Once he'd let the genie out of the bottle, he didn't have the strength to put it back in. The diary also confirms Val's theory that Larry couldn't possess Snapper because of the lobotomy. He'd have to use someone else to kill Snapper. What's surprising is who he chose. It wasn't you after all, Ana. It was Charles.”

“What?” the doctor barked incredulously. “How could he?”

“He knew what you didn't, Doc: that your night vision still worked. You see, he'd been secretly possessing several of you for months, out of curiosity about how your powers worked.”

“That explains my blackouts,” Eel said.

“It also explains the night last June when I caught myself sleepwalking despite never having done it before,” said Ana. “But Dick, if he used Charles to kill Snapper, why were my fingerprints on the murder weapon?”

“For the same reason he staged the fight at the Saddle Tramp: to confuse any investigation. The biggest advantage our side had was that Larry didn't know I was anything but a small town cop. He thought all the contradictory evidence’d bamboozle me. Ana, did you talk to Charles the night of the murder?”

“Yes, briefly, around 9:15.”

“I was in bed by then,” said McNider.

“There you go,” Dick said. “He probably compelled you to impress your prints into the cane without you being aware of it.”

“For a crime he planned so carefully, he sure made a bloody botch of it,” Pat grumbled.

“Snapper wasn't supposed to fight back, Pat. He was supposed to let the doctor push him down the stairs. But something Larry said or did warned Snap that this wasn't the doctor. At any rate, the violence of Snapper's death brought Larry's lucid side back to the surface. The last entry in his journal is from that night.”

He opened the notebook to a page near the back.

“ ‘God help me, I did it again,’ ” he read. “ ‘I killed poor Mr. Carr. I have to get help. But not here. Not from them. They won't understand. I have to leave. But how can I leave Tina? Maybe I can get her to come with me. Tomorrow I ask her.’ That's all there is.”

He closed the book and tossed it aside.

“That was what you were fighting about the morning Val saw you together, wasn't it, Tina? He wanted you to leave with him and you told him you couldn't desert Doc.”

“He proposed,” she admitted. “A week earlier and I might've done it, might've eloped with him. But he was scaring me. I'd never seen him like that: agitated, impatient, furious. So I told him no. Oh God, if only I'd said yes. I killed both the men I loved.”

“You had no way of knowing what he was capable of. We were all taken in.”

“What I don't understand,” Etta said, “is why he stuck around after killin' Doc. I'da beat feet fast as I could if I was him.”

“That was his plan. He was going to kill Don Hall, finish his shift and disappear.”

“Then what kept him here?”

“Believe it or not, there was still a hero buried under all that madness. I think enough remained of that decent boy in the homemade cape and tights that he couldn't desert the residents of Lash House in their hour of need. He did a double shift Monday, didn't he?”

“It was closer to a triple shift,” Ana said. “He was invaluable during the cleanup and I don't know how Rajiv and I would've managed to set up the new ICU for Steve without his help. That's what baffles me, Dick. How can the same man who was so kind and considerate toward Steve and I then turn around and kill him using me as his weapon?”

“I'm not sure, Diana. I suspect by that point his insanity was total.”

“He was doing you a favor,” I said. “He was eavesdropping during our argument about whether to honor the General's living will or not. He saw how the decision was tearing us apart and decided to save us the agony of choosing.”

“You sound as if you're defending him,” Ana said.

“Not defending, understanding. He wasn't trying to be cruel. He was trying to be kind. In his twisted mind, he was honoring you both by letting yours be the hand that ended Dad's suffering. Dealing death is how Larry expressed love.”

“The poor crazy bastard,” Dick said.

“The murdering fuck,” Lyta countered.

“I feel so bad,” Zoe said. “I liked Larry, and Danny too. They were my pals and I miss 'em even though, between them, they almost destroyed everything I love. Does that mean there's something wrong with me?”

“If there is, it's infected us all,” Ana responded. “If we hadn't considered them our friends, we wouldn't feel so betrayed. That was why my security procedures failed. I was prepared for any sort of direct attack but I wasn't ready for this... infiltration. I won't be making that mistake again.”

“I think we've all learned an important lesson,” Dick said as he began gathering his things. “We've grown too comfortable, too complacent, in our little small town hideaway. We've forgotten that the evil in the world can still touch us if we aren't wary. Please, folks, I can't emphasize this enough, be careful what you say to outsiders. That's all. Thank you for coming.”

The crowd began to break up.

“Before you go, I have an announcement to make,” Ana said loudly.

We stopped and waited.

“In case you haven't heard yet, Etta and I are going away for a much-needed, long-overdue vacation. We won't be back until Christmas at the earliest. In my absence, Val will be in charge. He has complete legal and administrative authority so what he says goes. I expect you all to show him the same respect and cooperation you show me.”

She looked from face to face.

“I'll miss you all. Speak kindly of me while I'm gone and don't let Val change everything until I'm at least out of Wisconsin.”

Scattered laughter preceded a round of congratulations and bon voyages.

After the meeting, the family walked back to the mansion accompanied by Clark and Dick. Lyta had summoned Wonder Woman's invisible jet. It was parked in the barn. She, Ana and Etta would leave for Paradise Island as soon as they loaded their luggage. Hec and Donna would be leaving on commercial flights in the morning, he to an expensive private sanitarium in Colorado, she to New York to complete a photography assignment before joining the other girls on Paradise.

Nancy Hutton met us at the door.

“Mrs. Stevens, I'm sorry but there's a man here to see you. I told him you were catching a flight but he's very insistent.”

“Did he give his name?”

“Yes, ma'am. Mr. Kent Nelson. He says he's an old friend. Oh, and he wants to see Val and Mr. Kent too.”

“All right, Nancy. Have him wait in the library, please.”

“Now what do you suppose this is all about?” Clark wondered.

“Only one way to find out,” I said.

“Mind if I tag along?” Dick asked.

“Fine with me,” Ana said.

In the end, everyone but Etta and Hec followed Ana to the library.

I was half expecting to see the Dr. Fate of the newsreels in his golden helmet and blue-and-yellow tights but our visitor was a mild-looking blonde man in a tweed suit. None would suspect that this professorial archaeologist was the world's most powerful wizard or that magic kept him young and virile despite his nine decades. He stood next to Etta’s writing desk, upon which sat a fat leather briefcase.

“Hello, Kent,” Ana said as she entered the room. “This is a surprise.”

“It's good to see you again, Diana,” he answered as he stepped forward to shake our hands.

How strange. His voice echoed. Ours didn't.

“How's tricks, Fate?” Clark asked. “Read any good poems lately?”

“It is poetry that brings me here today, old friend. Poetry, and a most interesting phone call.”

“I see you haven't lost your penchant for riddles,” Dick said.

“I'm afraid I lack your gift for plain speaking, Dick. I'll try harder. A young lady phoned the office I maintain at the Peabody Museum to ask about some Bahdnesian artifacts I had acquired for their ethnography collection. During our conversation, she mentioned that she was doing research for the journalist V. C. Stevens.”

“I did ask Tonya to research Bahdnesian magic, Dr. Nelson,” I said, “but I had no idea the trail would lead her to you.”

“I'm thankful you did, my boy,” he said as he carefully removed a scroll of ancient parchment from the briefcase, “or else I might never have found this among the trinkets.”

“Bahdnesia,” Ana mused. “Is this connected to Johnny and T-bolt?”

“It is indeed.”

“You don't mean to say that's the scroll to which Solomon bound the Thunderbolt?” I gasped.

“The very same, written in the King of the Israelites' own hand. Is Johnny here?”

“Yes, but he's very ill, Kent,” Ana said. “The chances that he's coherent enough to summon T-bolt are pretty slim.”

“Leave that to me.”

“I'll go get Uncle Johnny,” volunteered Lyta. She left the room.

“There is another whose presence is required,” Nelson continued. “We must summon the steward of Lash House.”

“Lash House has no steward,” Ana said in confusion, “does it?”

“You mean Bat,” I said. “You want the ghost of Bat Lash.”

“I do.”

“He's here. He was already here when we came in.”

“Then by the wisdom and will of Nabu, let him be seen and heard by all.”

Even I, who had been aware of his astral form quietly lurking behind a bookcase, was startled when Bat abruptly materialized, as solid and real as the rest of us.

“Tarnation!” the astonished phantom exclaimed. “What kinda hoodoo is this?”

“The kind that was once child's play for me,” Nelson replied, wiping away the perspiration that blossomed on his brow, “but that now taxes my strength. Might I trouble you for a glass of water, Princess?”

“I'll get it,” said Dick. “I'm just a spear carrier in this act, anyway.”

“Is this what you was talkin' about the other night, Valentine,” asked Bat, “when you said my story warn't all writ?”

“I'm sorry, Bat. I don't have any answers.”

“The answers are coming, my spectral friend,” said Nelson. “I must ask you all to be patient just a minute longer until... Ah, here is the last piece of our puzzle now.”

Lyta reappeared with Johnny Thunder in tow. Johnny was as bad as I'd ever seen him: distracted, disoriented, unconscious of the world around him. Dick walked in behind him carrying a tumbler of ice water. Nelson took it and drained half of it.

“Thank you, Dick. And now, I need a moment with Johnny.”

He approached the fragile old man and gently forced him to meet his gaze. They looked into each other's eyes for a long five seconds before Johnny haltingly whispered, “S-say... say you.”

As before, static electricity and the stench of ozone filled the air. The Thunderbolt materialized, sadness and boredom on his face at first until he got an eyeful of his reception committee.

“I'm here, Johnny. What do... Oh, hello, everyone.”

He immediately noticed the parchment in Nelson's hands.

“My scroll. So it does still exist.”

“You promised us answers, Kent,” Ana reminded him.

“I must begin with an apology. I am not the wizard I was before the black magicians cast their spell at Metropolis but that does not excuse my negligence. In the course of translating the lost quatrains of Nostradamus, I discovered that he had foreseen a manifestation of great evil that would, if unopposed, alter the destiny of mankind. A check of the relevant astrological charts told me when and where this manifestation would occur: here at Lash House three days ago.”

“The bomb,” I guessed. “You foresaw Ra's al-Ghûl's attempt to start World War III.”

“Just so. I saw nothing in this prophecy that required direct magical intervention. It was clear from your charts that everyone necessary to prevent the disaster was already in place so I contented myself with forwarding Nostradamus' prophecy, confident that my old Justice Society teammates would make things right. What I failed to recognize was that, as with all the old seer's writings, there were multiple meanings to the quatrain. Had I bothered to look beyond the most superficial, obvious interpretation...”

He stopped to clear his throat and take a sip of his water.

“As I said earlier, were it not for Miss Tonya Karenin, I might not have discovered that I possessed the Scroll of Solomon. It was only then that I realized my translation of the second line of Nostradamus' verse was wrong.”

“When the unliving helpeth the dead death attain,” recalled Clark. “Which part is wrong?”

“The word I translated as ‘unliving’ is more accurately, if less euphoniously, translated as ‘living spirit clothed in unliving matter’. It is an ancient synonym for the djinn.”

“The quatrain refers to T-bolt?” asked Lyta.

“That line of it, at least. When I realized my error, I began examining the scroll in earnest,” he said, unrolling the parchment on Etta's desk. “It is here, in an area that seems to be blank, that I discovered an invisible message from Solomon.”

“What does it say?” T-bolt asked eagerly.

“It says the following: ‘If, in the opinion of the mage wise enough to perceive these words, the djinn bound to this document no longer poses a threat to mankind, he may be released from bondage to mortal man.’ ”

“And your opinion is...?”

“That you are in fact one of the truest friends mankind has ever had. It is my intention to perform the ritual outlined in the hidden text and free you. Never again will you be forced to obey the orders of another. However...”

“I knew it,” the Thunderbolt said despairingly. “There's always a catch.”

“If I perform the ritual as written, you will be free but you will become a being of pure spirit, immortal but no longer able to interact with the physical universe.”

“Then I gain my freedom at the cost of losing my friends.”

“Yes, if I perform the ritual as written. There is an alternative. Wise though Solomon was, he was a relative novice at sorcery. He did not know what I know.”

“Which is what exactly?” Dick demanded, his curiosity getting the best of his patience.

“The metaphysics are not easily explained to those who have not studied the higher planes of existence, Dick, but I'll try. There are places of great magic in the universe. Lash House is such a place. It exists at the center of a nexus of synchronicity. Periodically, every ten billion years or so, seemingly unrelated threads in the fabric of destiny come together in defiance of all the laws of probability and alter the course of history. Consider the amazing events of the past few days and ask yourselves why they all happened here and now. Consider the billions of coincidences that brought the right players together in the right place at the right time to both prevent a world war and open the eyes of the Guardians to the reality beyond the material world. This is not two old but long separated friends picking up the phone to call each other at the same moment. This is the Hand of God shaping the universe.

“Every nexus has a steward, an avatar of the divine will who interacts with the material world to prepare the stage upon which synchronicity will strut and fret its hour. The ghost of Bartholomew Lash is the latest in a line of stewards who have guarded this sacred locale since before the beginning of life on Earth. He did not volunteer for the job. In truth, he was until this moment unaware of his role and yet a good and faithful servant he has been. He has earned his final rest but, alas, there must always be a steward, for this was not the first time the nexus has figured in the history of Creation, nor will it be the last. He can only be set free if...”

“If another offers to take his place!” the Thunderbolt excitedly interrupted. “Yes, I understand!”

“You understand that if I do this, you may be bound to this place for all eternity.”

“Will I retain my magical powers?”

“Within limits. Your spells will have no effect beyond the borders of this property and you may only use them to preserve and defend it and its inhabitants. You may not turn back time or resurrect the dead. As before, if you willingly take a mortal life, you will lose your powers forever.”

“But if I do this, I can cure Johnny's Alzheimer’s, right?”

Nelson smiled. He was touched by the djinn's devotion to his friend, as were we all.

“T-bolt,” he replied, “you will be able to cure the afflictions of all in your charge, if that's what you want to do.”

“Wait jest a minute,” protested Bat. “Am I hearin' you boys right? I'm gittin' set free? I git to go up?”

“Just as soon as Fate can perform the ritual,” T-bolt answered.

“Well, what're you waitin' on, Hoss? Work that hoodoo!”

“This can't be a simple spell,” Ana said. “What will you need?”

“I have all I need right here,” said Nelson, pulling a pair of reading glasses from the breast pocket of his jacket. “It should not take long but I recommend that everyone but T-bolt and Mr. Lash leave the room. Some things are not meant to be witnessed by human eyes.”

Reluctantly, we mere mortals filed from the room. The doors were slid shut and locked. We stood in the hall staring at each other for a minute before Ana led us to the reception room to wait. Ten minutes after we settled in, an ear-splitting peal of thunder shook the entire house. The air turned a smoky green, the scent of mothballs and overripe melons filled our nostrils and a flash of pink electricity ran through the mansion's steel reinforcement, a flash so bright it turned the surrounding wood of the walls momentarily transparent. Just as quickly, everything was back to normal.

“Jesus, what was that?” Donna gasped.

Before we could answer, the ghost of Bat Lash walked into the room through the west wall. He was oblivious to our presence, his eyes focused on the ceiling. “Look,” he was saying. “Look at the light!” A second later, his face aglow with joy, the phantom gunfighter faded from sight, never to be seen again.

We heard the library doors slide open. Kent Nelson, briefcase in hand, greeted us a moment later. He was exhausted, his face gray and drawn, his voice a raspy whisper.

“It is done,” he said.

“And the Thunderbolt?” I asked. “Are you sure the spell did what it was supposed to?”

“Holy moley, what am I doing in my pajamas in the middle of the day?” said a familiar tenor voice from behind me.

I turned to behold Johnny Thunder, his eyes clear, his thoughts unclouded, regarding us all with undisguised bafflement.

“Say, you wouldn't want to fill a fella in, would you?” Johnny continued. “What's it all about?”

The Thunderbolt materialized beside him and threw his arm across Johnny's shoulders.

“Faith and hope, old buddy,” T-bolt said with a grin. “It's all about faith and hope.”

Septagenarian Artist Takes MOMA By Snowstorm

By Earl Crawford
Exclusive to Newsbeat

The current darling of the art establishment isn't yet another effete Parisian poseur or wacky Sixties casualty. She is a tiny, gray-haired 78-year-old retired college professor improbably named Byrna Brilyant. Our older subscribers may recognize that name. For eighteen months in 1944-45, she was better known as the Blue Snowman, a so-called super-villain infamous for crippling the city of Dallas with an artificial blizzard then extorting millions of dollars from other cities before Wonder Woman ended her rampage. Today she restricts her fascination with nature's fury to the huge powerful canvases that have made her the talk of the town

“I'm not proud of my past,” Brilyant told this reporter in a Newsbeat exclusive, “but I've made my apologies and paid my debt to society. I taught atmospheric science at Calvin University for 35 years. I would much rather be remembered for that than for my foolish excursion into crime, though I guess now I'll be remembered for my paintings.”

Her paintings are at the heart of Brilyant's sudden celebrity.

“Byrna is a powerful voice in the current abstract expressionism revival,” says Galaxy Weekly fine arts editor Clayton Wetley. “She represents a compelling argument for the aesthetic superiority of non-subjective art.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” snips Krista Graham, his counterpart at Picture News. “Ms. Brilyant is the foremost surrealist of our time. Only the most superficial reading of her work could fail to miss the iconographic references in the ‘Philadelphia Snowstorm’ series.”

“I don't know what they're talking about,” counters Pierre Antal, editor emeritus of the Gotham-based Art Today. “Byrna Brilyant is clearly a neo-impressionist.”

However you label what she does, there's no arguing that people like it. Since her modest debut in a small Soho gallery two short years ago, critical acclaim has sparked a frenzy for her creative endeavors. She can already ask $25K per piece and get it. And still there is not an ounce of arrogance in her entire body.

“I never set out to be a professional artist,” she says. “I don't know a thing about theory or technique. I never thought what I did was special but enough other people think different that I'm slowly letting myself be persuaded. People are crazy to pay me 25Gs for these things but I like money as much as the next gal so if they keep buying 'em, I'll keep supplying 'em.”

It's this outspoken candor that has garnered Byrna Brilyant a following among a blue-collar public generally indifferent to the hoity-toity world of fine art. She wowed Conan in her first appearance on Late Night and held her own with Jon Stewart on The Daily Show. The opening of her Museum of Modern Art exhibition last Saturday set a new attendance record for that worthy institution, due in no small part to the curiosity seekers who gladly paid big bucks for a glimpse of this petite phenomenon.

How did a retired college prof living in a Wisconsin retirement home catch the eye of the New York art crowd? Regular readers of my ‘Whatever Happened to...?’ columns will be delighted to learn that Byrna is the discovery of bestselling author and notorious recluse V. C. Stevens, whose new book The Neverending Battle, co-written with journalism legend Clark Kent and reputed to be the definitive biography of Superman, comes out this winter. Stevens took the media by surprise when he made a rare public appearance at the MOMA opening accompanied by his beautiful new wife Jillian.

“A talent like Miss Brilyant's comes along once in a lifetime,” Stevens told the crowd, “and I consider it an honor to have introduced you to her. I want her to enjoy every minute of this time. If showing my ugly mug in public helps make that happen, so be it.”

Judging by both the quality of her artwork and the high prices it commands, Byrna Brilyant is here to stay. The artist herself isn't so sure.

“I know I could just be a fad,” she says, “but that's all right. I'm an old woman. I've already earned more money than I'll ever live long enough to spend. If this all goes away tomorrow, I'm okay with that. As long as I can paint, I'm the happiest woman on Earth.”