Superman: Dawnbreaker (DC Icons #4)(32)

Lana looked at Carlos before turning to Clark and Cruz. “I wish there was something we could do,” she said.

“We’ll be okay,” Cruz said, forcing a smile. “I’ve got a plan, actually. We’ll see.”

They said their goodbyes, and then Clark and Lana climbed into her car and drove off in silence. After a few minutes, Lana shook her head. “What was that you were saying about Smallville?”

Clark sighed. “I don’t even know anymore.”

Lana eventually merged onto the same back road she’d taken the night before, on the way to the party at the Joneses’ farm. “So now we have two different companies buying up Smallville farms,” she said. “My question is this: Are they competing? If so, how does Corey fit into the equation? Is he some kind of interloper?”

“According to Tommy,” Clark said, “Wesco didn’t officially take ownership of the property until midnight last night. So I doubt we’ll actually find much there.”

“Most leads are dead ends, Clark. But we still have to follow them all.”

Lana pulled into roughly the same spot she’d taken the night before. But this time her car was the only one around. She put it in park, removed the key, and turned to Clark. “Here’s what I keep coming back to: Why would Wesco buy a farm they didn’t intend to use for farming? I mean, doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

Clark shook his head as he took off his jacket and tossed it onto the back seat. “Tommy’s dad thinks they’re going to transform the place into a vineyard. Apparently, the soil around the crater is super rich.”

Lana pushed open her door. “So, that’s why they’re so interested in craters?”

“Maybe.” Clark got out, too, and closed his car door.

As they walked toward the farmhouse, he expected to find empty beer cans and red cups strewn about. Overflowing trash cans. But the only reminder of last night’s party was the charred remains of the bonfire, piled inside the makeshift fire pit he’d tumbled into. Otherwise the place was immaculate. Even the shards from the shattered glass door had been removed. Whoever Tommy had hired to help clean up had left the place in great shape.

“Pretty quiet out here,” Clark said.

“Yeah. But this place is almost two hundred acres, according to the public property sales records I found online last night.”

Clark nodded. Of course Lana had done research last night.

As if reading Clark’s mind, she turned to him and said, “What? I told you—I couldn’t sleep.”

They walked past the fire pit and down the slight slope in the grass where they’d been hanging out when the fight started. Within a few minutes they’d crossed through a thin line of trees and reached the farm area. Aside from the fact that all the Joneses’ farm animals were gone, Clark didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. When he and Lana came upon a small, dilapidated shed, Clark opened the creaky door and looked inside. Nothing but old and broken tools covered in spiderwebs.

They passed an empty mud pen where the Jones family had kept their hogs. Then came a vast stretch of dirt that had once been a cornfield. As they neared the end of the long field, they came upon a second row of trees, which had been planted as a windbreak. This one was unusually dense. Clark estimated that it was eight to ten trees deep, and it stretched out on both sides as far as the eye could see. This must have broken up the land for one of the homes Tommy’s grandfather never got around to building.

Clark stopped when he thought he heard voices in the distance.

Lana stopped, too, and looked at Clark. “What?”

He pointed beyond the line of trees before realizing she likely hadn’t heard a thing. “Hang on,” he said, turning his left ear in the direction of the sound.

There it was again. Human voices. Maybe a half mile away, which he assumed was still within the property.

“Do you see something, Clark?” Lana asked anxiously.

He shook his head. “I thought I heard something. I’m not sure, though.”

Lana stared at the line of trees for a long time before saying, “We should keep going. Just…let me know if you hear anything else.”

As they crept through the dense trees, Clark motioned for Lana to stop a second time. “You can hear it now, can’t you?”

“No,” Lana said. “What is it?”

Clark strained to determine where the sounds were coming from. He heard a male voice: “Mark it there.” The words were as clear as day to him now, and he flashed back to the night he’d found the three men in cowboy shirts on his own property. He half expected to hear the sound of the beat-up white truck.

“Voices,” he told Lana. “Someone giving instructions.”

“Shit, Clark, someone really is here. What now?”

The distinct sound of an aerosol can in use was coming from beyond the third thick grove of trees, this one over a hundred yards ahead of them. Clark waved for Lana to follow, and they hurried through the clearing.

As they neared the third row of trees, they slowed to a walk and then crouched. Lana could hear it now, too.

“What’s that sound?” she whispered.

“I think it’s some kind of spray can.” Clark turned to Lana. “Maybe this isn’t such a great idea. Can’t we get into trouble for trespassing?”