It's Not Just a Halloween Costume

Chapter 1

The name's Olsen. Jimmy Olsen.

If it matters, I'm a ginger--real red hair, not auburn. Freckles across my nose, forehead, shoulders, and forearms. The rest of my skin? Burns like newspaper two hours into sunlight, no matter what SPF I lather on. I'm 5'10" and lean--about 145 pounds on a good day.

I shoot the photos that run alongside the stories in the Globe, here in Gotham City. Still and motion. Since the paper launched its online edition, I've been uploading video too--news clips, soundbites, whatever gets clicks. But when I'm out on assignment with a reporter, I'm mostly just the gopher.

"Jimmy, go for this."

"Jimmy, go for that."

There are a few reporters I don't mind working with. They still treat me like a junior varsity intern, but at least they remember to say "please" once in a while. Some even buy me a latte when they're feeling charitable. One of my favorites--though I haven't seen him in a while--is Clark Kent. Tall guy. Quiet. Steady.

Clark has a secret.

I know about it.

I'd bet his wife Lois does too.

Maybe a handful of others, but not many.

Lately, Gotham's been rotting. I'm not talking about infrastructure--we're not ankle-deep in sewage here. I mean something quieter, more subtle. Like the soul of the city is leaking out. It started around Halloween. Now that Christmas is around the corner, you can feel it--the way you feel cold settle into your bones before the first snow. There's a rise in muggings, car thefts, burglaries. Not a bloodbath, not yet. Just enough that everyone's double-checking their locks before bed. And it's creeping into every neighborhood--uptown, midtown, doesn't matter.

Superman's absence is a big part of it.

I don't know where he went or why. But the bad guys have picked up on it. They're testing limits. Pushing boundaries. Perry White, our editor-in-chief, keeps running the same headline: "Where's Superman?" It's practically a recurring column now. Each time he runs it, it seems to stir the pot even more. Crime ticks up, and we run another story. Rinse and repeat.

Lois is pressing him too. I think I know why.

If the world doesn't know where Superman is...

Then Lois can't find Clark, either.

Everyone in the newsroom's acting strange. There's this low hum of tension. Like when you walk into a room and immediately know a picture's hanging crooked--but you can't quite tell what's wrong.

And then it hit me. The picture I'd forgotten.

Clark once mentioned a place. His retreat. I think he called it the Fortress of Solitude. Way up north--remote, frozen, unreachable unless you know exactly where to go. He only told me once, years ago. I don't think he ever mentioned it to Lois. That always struck me as odd, but maybe it was intentional.

So I figured--maybe that's where he went.

I dialed Lois to ask if she wanted to come with me. She picked up on the second ring, but brushed me off. Said she was in the middle of something, that she'd call me back.

Didn't sound like Lois.

Especially since I didn't mention the Fortress yet. And I'm pretty sure she doesn't know about it.

Setting up the trip took a few hours--burning vacation time, filing my sick days, and arranging travel. It's one thing to be flown to the Arctic by a guy in a cape who can see through walls. It's another to book your own logistics to a frozen nowhere, using only a set of vague coordinates. But working for the Globe has its perks. People don't ask too many questions when you tell them it's for a story.

I had the charter drop me at the coordinates, with instructions to return in a week--same spot. No questions asked.

Once the plane lifted off, I hiked north--two kilometers through snow and wind.

I didn't know what I was going to find.

But something in my gut told me this picture was about to snap into focus.

Chapter 2

From the looks of the exterior, this might've been a wasted trip.

The paths leading up to the place were buried in drifted snow--untouched. I could see the massive front door, but I had to keep my snowshoes on until I was practically leaning against it. I grabbed the heavy iron door knocker and let it drop.

Boom.

It slammed against the door with enough force to echo deep inside. Just as I reached for the radio to call in my flight and head back to civilization, the door began to creak open.

With that much snow piled against it, there's no way I could've opened it myself. Then again, this wasn't my house--and the man who owned it was considerably stronger than me.

He wasn't startled at all. In fact, it almost felt like he'd been expecting me. A small smile broke through the worn, weary mask he wore on his face.

"Hello, my friend," I said. "Been a long time. I missed seeing your charming mug."

Clark chuckled. "Hey, Jimmy. Yeah--it's been a while. I missed you too. Come in. Sorry about the mess--cleaning lady's on vacation 'til after Christmas."

I smirked. There's no way a cleaning lady would hike up to the North Pole.

He offered me something to drink. I figured we'd start simple--tea, cocoa, maybe a coffee. We headed into the dining area. There was a massive formal table--ten ornate chairs, all matching. It looked untouched. We ended up at the smaller kitchen table instead, just a couple of chairs.

The water boiled faster than a microwave. Heat vision makes quick work of that kind of thing.

We sat there, each sipping our brew, avoiding the elephant in the room as long as we could.

Finally, Clark broke the silence.

"So... what brings you here? Just passing by and saw I was in the neighborhood?"

I choked on my coffee.

Clark grinned and handed me a towel.

"No," I said, wiping my mouth. "Gotham's in a bit of a panic. Nobody knows where Superman went. Honestly, I just missed my friend. After looking everywhere else... well, here I am."

He looked down at the table. The smile faded.

"I figured it might take you a few more weeks to find me. But I knew you'd be the one."

That hit harder than I expected. It also said everything I needed to know about the real problem.

This wasn't just about Superman. This was about Lois.

Wouldn't a wife know where her husband disappeared to? Unless she was being kept in the dark.

I knew we'd get to the heavy stuff eventually--but not yet.

We spent the next few hours catching up. World news. Local gossip. The Patriots.

(No one cared about the Jets this year--and with good reason.)

Clark wasn't a big football fan, but he played along for my sake.

Eventually we got hungry. I wasn't much for seafood, so Clark pulled out a couple of reindeer steaks. He used his heat vision to warm the pans. Sure, he could've cooked the meat directly with his eyes, but it never tastes the same.

Better to let it sizzle in a cast iron skillet, like a real meal shared between old friends.

Chapter 3

After dinner, we cleaned up and headed into the den--or maybe it was a library. The fireplace was the back side of the one in the living room. Same chimney. No trees up here, so coal was the fuel of choice. Clark had it glowing just enough to take the edge off the cold, leaving a crisp breath in the air. He broke out a bottle of Macallan to take the rest of the chill out of my chest and gut.

No video screen in this room, but I could hear soft classic rock playing somewhere. Low volume, but high fidelity. Couldn't tell where the speakers were, and that figured--this was the Fortress of Solitude, not a man cave.

And then came the elephant.

"I knew you were freelancing now," Clark said, "so I didn't expect to see you every day, but... you've been out of the loop for a while. Everything okay?"

I took a long sip and sat back on the sofa, setting the glass down on the end table. With the lights off, the flickering fire softened the sharp edges of Clark's face. The lines were deeper than I remembered. He topped off his drink--three fingers this time--then spoke.

"It was about 9 p. m. I was heading back to the 23rd precinct with an armload of fentanyl and its dealer. That's when I saw Lois slipping out the back office door at the Globe--the one that opens onto the fire escape."

I knew the door. Perry had converted that office next to his into a bedroom for late deadlines.

"I didn't think much of it then," Clark said, "but I didn't forget it either."

He leaned forward, swirling the Scotch in his glass.

"Two nights later, Lois is late again. So I checked. Sure enough--she's still inside. I saw them... through the wall. They'd just finished. She was at the sink fixing her makeup. I heard her tell Perry not to rent a Superman costume for the Halloween party--said there were always five or six, and she'd already had her fill of Superman anyway."

He stared into the glass like it held answers.

"Hearing her say that--especially her--cut a hole clean through me."

I didn't speak. Didn't need to.

"I didn't need photos or evidence. That's for you guys--for the courts. I just knew I didn't need to go back there."

We talked a little longer. About betrayal. About trust. I started seeing things through his eyes. Clark Kent had never been stabbed in the back--not really. He'd faced villains, disasters, near-death. But this?

Lois and Perry weren't enemies. They were the ones who twisted the knife.

That's why he came north.

I started wondering if I'd come too early. He said he wasn't expecting me for a few more weeks.

I stifled a yawn and glanced toward the sofa.

"Maybe I should turn in," I said. "Long day. I want to be fresh for tomorrow. We've got time, right?"

Clark nodded. "Yeah. We've got time."

I stretched out on the couch and watched the firelight play across his face. A face I'd known for years. A face that now looked like it had been carved from sorrow.

Clark added more coal to the fire, then returned to his chair. He reclined slowly, raising the footrest, glass in hand. I mirrored him from the couch.

Neither of us spoke.

And I didn't see it.

Chapter 4

I was cold.

The fire had died down. No glow, no heat. The room was dark--gray shadows, no daylight, but up here that didn't mean much.

"Hey Clark," I mumbled. "Toss a little heat into the fireplace, will ya?"

Nothing.

"Clark? Little help?"

A few too many seconds passed. No reply. No movement.

"Clark...?" I sat up and pulled the Afghan off my chest. I leaned toward his chair. "You alright?"

His hand was cold. Ice cold. Bluish. His neck and jaw, too. Lips--blue, stiff.

I recoiled.

And then I woke up.

*******

For a moment, I couldn't breathe. The dream clung to me like frost. I looked left--there she was. My wife of fifteen years, Claudia. Still asleep.

She'd had a GNO the night before. "Just the girls," she'd said.

I'd driven past the club. Only three cars. Hers wasn't one of them. With the lights on inside I could see she wasn't in there sitting with her friends either. This wasn't the first time, it was just the last straw.

So no, I don't have a private investigator's video. But I'm not a court of law.

I had enough.

I got up, washed my face, brushed my teeth. Dressed in the dark--jeans and a flannel work shirt. I also grabbed my boots to put on in the truck. Most of my tools were already packed. Electricians don't need much as far as clothes. I figured I'd come back for the rest when Claudia left for her "training seminar" in two days.

I opened the closet and reached up to the top shelf. Pulled out one of the last twenty comics from my boyhood collection.

Superman, Issue #142. This one wasn't in collector's condition.

I tore it in half.

Laid both pieces on the bed beside her.

Then I walked out.

At the intersection, I turned left instead of right. Called the office. "Family emergency," I said. I wouldn't be back.

Claudia wouldn't call the office looking for me until she got home. My final paycheck would be in the bank by then. So no more fixing the plumbing. No more painting the living room the newest fad color. No more 'neighborhood watch' shifts. Someone else could hang the Christmas lights this year.

I stopped for gas before the interstate. The newspaper vending machine by the door had a headline about crime rising. Blamed it on cashless bail.

But I knew better.

The real problem?

Superman's dead.