Spider-Man: The Venom Factor Omnibus

by Diane Duane

  Peter looked at the most recent statement. “This is dated the week before last,” he said. “Can you get anything more current?”

  She thought. “You know,” she said after a moment, “I think the machine will give you a mini-statement of the account activity for the last week, if you ask it. I’m not sure if that’ll have the ATM code numbers on it, but we can try.”

  “Do you mind if I make a note of these numbers?” Peter said. “Then, when you get that statement—”

  “Wait a minute.” Martha went over to the kitchen counter, got her purse, and rummaged in it. A moment later she came up with a wallet and pulled a card out of it. “Here,” she said, handing it to William. “He knows my PIN number. Go on up there and get a statement, honey, and get twenty dollars while you’re there.”

  “You need anything else. Mom?”

  “You,” Martha said, viewing her son with a practiced eye, “just want an excuse to go to the 7-Eleven and buy motorcycle magazines. You can have one.”

  It was about a quarter-mile’s walk into town. Peter and William strolled down together, chatting.

  “So how did Spider-Man look?”

  “Cool. He always looks cool,” said William. “He was worried, though.”

  “About your dad?”

  “Yeah. It’s good to know.”

  “What? That he was worried?”

  William nodded. “It’s good to know that people care. You hear stuff about the Lizard on TV, and a lot of them think he should just be shot. I want to shout, sometimes—just yell—‘Let him alone! It’s not his fault!’” The words came out in a whisper, but Peter was shaken by how much force underlay them. “So,” William said, a little more normally, a few seconds later, “knowing that someone knows… and would say the same thing—It’s good.”

  Peter nodded. “Someone cares,” he said.

  They made their way to the bank. William slipped the card into the machine, input his mother’s PIN number, and punched the button asking for the mini-statement. The machine extruded it after a moment, and William took it, glanced at it, and deftly tore it in half, handing Peter the side that didn’t have the amounts on it, but did have the code numbers of the ATM machines.

  “A few more uses,” William said. “He’s not taking a lot, though. We’re okay. Is that one Ochopee again?”

  “I think so,” Peter said. “Interesting.” That one was dated the day before, when the Lizard had passed through Deep Lake.

  The two of them walked back to the house. Peter sat down and had one more cup of tea, chatting with Martha about inconsequentialities—how MJ had been redecorating the apartment, what she was up to—and then made his good-byes, promising that he would let them know as soon as he found out anything worthwhile.

  He got back onto the freeway and started to think hard. Peter tended to agree with Martha that Curt wouldn’t bother with driving very far from where he was actually based. It would waste too much time from whatever he was working on—and Peter was sure he was working.

  Most of these ATMs take pictures, Peter thought. I wonder if we could get the bank to release the pictures of his usages to us? But without help from law enforcement, Peter doubted it.

  He headed back to the hotel, ready to meet with Vreni. But when he checked in at the desk to pick up his room key, he was given a note from her which said: “Delayed to check something out. Tonight is off. Breakfast club tomorrow? V.” And another message as well, hastily scribbled: “Call Aunt Anna’s immediately. MJ.”

  Oh my gosh, he thought, what’s happened? What’s wrong? Peter hurried up to the room, hunted around for Aunt Anna’s phone number, and dialed it.

  The phone rang. And rang, and rang, and rang. Peter sat there thinking, in increasing tension, Are they gone? Did something bad happen? What, what—

  Someone picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “MJ! I got your message—”

  She squealed. The sheer joy of the sound took Peter completely aback. “I got it! I got it!” she yelled.

  “You got what?”

  “The job! A job!”

  “On a Sunday?”

  She laughed. “This town operates on strange rules. Mostly that there aren’t any. I was down in one of the bars on the Strip, having a sandwich with Ellanya David, you remember her?”

  She was another model, formerly based in New York. Peter was becoming more amused by the moment. “You hated her! Why were you having a sandwich with her?”

  “Oh, well, that was then.” MJ giggled. “But now she’s down here, and she’s stuck in this real awful relationship, and I really feel sorry for her. Anyway, we’re having this sandwich, and a guy came over and joined her. His name is Fletch, and he’s from one of the big agencies, one that turned me down. We started talking,, and Fletch found out that I knew Ellanya in New York, and he had just fired her—”

  “This is getting very complex,” Peter said.

  “It gets worse. Or better. So Ellanya had to leave, and another guy, a friend from a different agency came along, and Fletch introduced us to this other guy, his name is Joel. He works for an agency called Up N Over. And Fletch talked Joel into hiring me because I knew Ellanya.”

  Peter blinked. This was hardly the first time he had felt he needed a program or scorecard when trying to keep track of MJ’s professional connections. “Uh, I’m seriously confused now.”

  “You’re not alone. But Joel hired me; he said I had great planes.” MJ giggled again. Peter shook his head in mute amazement. “And he gave me a retainer, right then out of the cash machine. He handed me five hundred bucks, cash!”

  “If you produce results like this in a weekend,” Peter said, “I’m going to be interested to see what you can do on a weekday.”

  “Well, we’ll find out.”

  “So what do you have to do for him?”

  “It’s standard couture. They’ve got a campaign coming up for one of the magazines, all high-tech scenarios, and they’re going to be shooting up by IBM in Boca, and along the Space Coast. And get this: at Kennedy, too!”

  “The Rocket Garden?”

  “Is that what it’s called, where all the rockets stand around? Probably. But Boca’s first, and we leave tomorrow!”

  “So you won’t be commuting, then.” He hadn’t had time to see much of her the last couple of days; now it looked like there wouldn’t be time this week, either.

  “No, Tiger, you know how it is. Until they get the rhythm of the shoot established, it’s going to be eighteen-hour days. The commute would be crippling. We’ll be in Boca the first couple of nights… then Kennedy after that.”

  “You’re going to be up there for the launch, then?”

  “I think so, if I understand the timing right. But Joel wasn’t sure. He said he still had to settle the timing with the director, and get all the people together for this—he was looking for three other models as well.”

  “MJ, this is dynamite! How long is this going to last?”

  “I’m not sure. But money’s money.”

  “And the deal’s good enough to please you?”

  “Not quite what I would be making in New York at the best of times, but—” She giggled once more. “This isn’t the best of times… and this is better than nothing. So I’m coming right over. Where’s the albatross?”

  “The albatross?”

  “Vreni.”

  Peter laughed. “She’s got plans of her own this evening.”

  “Well, that’s just fine. I’ll be right over. And we’ll have some dinner out.”

  “That much anyway,” Peter said. “I had kind of a late night…”

  “You’ve got your second wind—I know you. Until you have dinner: then you’ll fall over.” She chuckled. “I’ll be there to catch you… and then—”

  “Then?”

  “Then we’ll see where our negotiations lead us.” He could hear her smiling.

  So it all came to pass. They had a splendid dinner down in the hotel’s fancier res
taurant, which specialized in Caribbean-style food. Then they negotiated. And four or five hours later, in the hotel room, MJ turned and snuggled up against Peter and said, “So tell me about your day.”

  He told her. When he finished, she looked at him with some concern. “Sounds like you’re starting to get close to what’s going on.”

  “I hope so,” Peter said. “I’d like to get to the heart of whatever’s about to happen before it gets serious.”

  There was a little silence. Then MJ said, “I could almost wish this job hadn’t come up right now.”

  “Why on Earth not?”

  “Well, what if you need me or something?”

  He chuckled. “Good point. I may need you to hold the Lizard down while I web him up.”

  “Peeeeter!” MJ grimaced. “It’s just… I don’t like it, that’s all. When I got married, I promised to stay with you when you were in trouble—that’s the ‘worse’ part of the for-better-for-worse. What if I’m not there for when you need me? When you need my help? Suppose the Lizard beats you up a little? Who’s going to strap your ribs up and tell you you did okay anyway?”

  There was more coming, but Peter put a finger on her lips and said, “I know. I know you’re worried. I’ll be okay. And you having a job, and making money to keep us both afloat—that’s important. It’s also important for me to know that you’re doing things you like to do. That you’re happy and busy. Those things are important to me.”

  “I don’t know,” MJ said. “I just… Never mind.”

  “It’s going to be all right,” Peter said. “It’s been all right until now.”

  “Mmm,” MJ said, not sounding entirely convinced. But then she smiled, and snuggled closer to him. “Never mind.”

  Peter reached over to pick up the phone and arrange for an alarm call, and saw that the red message light was flashing. He dialed for the front desk.

  “Hi, this is Peter Parker, room twelve thirty—any messages for me?”

  The operator tapped at a keyboard for a moment. “Uh—yes. ‘Breakfast club is off.’ Does that make sense?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Right. ‘Breakfast club is off, lunch instead—’” The operator paused. “This may not have been spelled right. ‘V-r-e-n-i.’”

  “That’s right.”

  “What an interesting name,” said the operator.

  Peter chuckled and agreed, and took another moment to set up his wake-up call, then hung up and turned to MJ… and found her already asleep. Typical, he thought. The one morning when we could sleep in, and we can’t—she has to leave early.

  Oh well.

  He turned out the light.

  FOUR

  HE woke up suddenly to light streaming into the room, and looked over in panic at the alarm clock. It read 8:30. I thought I took care of the alarm call! Peter thought. What the—

  Then he saw that there was a note on the pillow. “Ran out to do an errand,” it said in MJ’s small, neat handwriting. “Back about 9, see you at breakfast.”

  Peter chuckled. Sometimes she was an early riser, and there was just no stopping her. This was plainly one of the times. He got up, showered, dressed, and went down.

  She was there waiting for him, already halfway through a plate of scrambled eggs, with an angelic look on her face—that settled and cheerful look that she wore when she had a job, any kind of job, these days. Peter’s heart clenched a little at the sight of it, and not for the first time, he wished he had a job that paid enough that MJ could work when and as she wanted to, rather than because she had to. This look of sheer pleasure was priceless for its own sake.

  “You should try the pancakes,” she said. “They’re great.” And no sooner had Peter sat down than MJ said, “And I have a present for you!”

  “What?”

  “Here.” She handed him a box wrapped up in gift paper.

  Peter tore the paper off as tidily as he could and stared at the outside of the box. It was a cellular phone. He opened the box and got the little creature out of its Styrofoam nest. “MJ! How much—”

  “Not that much,” she said. “They’re on sale. With the connection fee and everything. It’s one of those new netwide ones—it’ll still work in New York.”

  “MJ,” Peter said, still in shock.

  “Now, I want you to take this with you everywhere,” she said, “because they’ve given me one of my own. I have it right here.” She got another one, twin to Peter’s, out of her purse, and dangled it in front of Peter, and giggled. “Isn’t this trendy? Here, write down the number.” She showed it to him, on the little sticker on the back of the phone.

  Dutifully, Peter got out his little address book and wrote the number down. “I want you to call me every five minutes,” MJ said, “until I get back. You understand?”

  She was enjoying this, Peter saw, but there was also a slight twitch to the corner of her eyes, a narrowing that said she wasn’t kidding. “If anything happens,” she said, and lowered her voice, “anything at all, I want to know.”

  “You’ll be the first.”

  “Somebody else is usually the first,” MJ said, raising her eyebrows. “Someone whose name starts with S. But never mind. Right after him—I want to know. Promise?”

  Peter desperately hailed a passing waitress.

  “Promise?”

  Peter looked at MJ and smiled and gave in to the inevitable. “Promise.”

  MJ smiled and started playing little tunes on her phone’s keypad, while she finished her scrambled eggs. Peter rolled his eyes, then smiled at the waitress and ordered breakfast, wondering at how complicated life could become without warning.…

  * * *

  SOUTH of Miami proper, the Florida coastline trends gently southward and westward and becomes slightly less developed. Parkland appears, dotted here and there: places like Biscayne National Park, and Homestead Bayfront Park near the air base. Farther north, though, about fifteen miles south of Miami proper, Matheson Hammock Park rests against the water, a beautiful, flat landscape of wetland and cypress leading down to a wilderness of salt grass, and finally to the dunes and the white sand beach of the coast. The coastline itself is a long, wide welter of tidal washes, little bays, and tide-pools, alive with sea life and the land-based animal life that comes down to catch it. The busy surburban and city life of south Florida seems very far away.

  Such places at night can be very quiet and very lonely. Some people count on that.

  The little boat came nosing in to shore without a sound, nor a light. Northward and inland, Miami lit up the sky with a faint golden glow; southward, the lights of Homestead and Coral Gables glittered, distant sparkles flat on the edge of the flat world, unsteady through the warm night air. There was no sound but the rush of the waves.

  One of the two men in the little boat peered through binoculars at the coast, saying nothing. He was a big husky man, dressed in shorts and a windbreaker. When his companion got close enough to see him, in that uncertain light, the other’s face was as closed as a shut door.

  Dealing with that face’s owner made Satch nervous. But he was stuck with him for the time being, and so just sat, used the oars to keep the boat steady, and said nothing.

  Half a mile away, on the beach, there was the merest flicker of light. “Right,” said the other. “Start rowing.”

  Satch rowed, not arguing the point; when this man told you to do something, you just did it. Or else you got as far away as you could, as fast as you could, before he found out you hadn’t done what you were told.

  The other kept his gaze fixed on the coast through the binoculars, and Satch rowed steadily on. The two of them had done this run before, several times now, though in different spots, so that there was now a kind of routine. They would motorboat down from Dinner Key, say, or up from Coral Castle, and loiter when they got to the right spot—just a couple of fishermen out for the afternoon. But they wouldn’t come back in. Darkness would fall, and they would wave at anyone who stopped, and say,
“Night fishing…” This was common enough. Lots of people around here night-fished for pompano and blues. Occasionally, by night or day, a police boat would hurry by on business. Satch’s gut would always clench when this happened, but the other man would just wave and shade his face with the bill of his cap. There wasn’t a lot of Coast Guard activity around at the moment. Satch had been very relieved at that. He hadn’t known quite what to make of it when the other told him that the Coast Guard were “being taken care of.” If money had changed hands, well, that was common enough. But how much money did it take to buy off a whole Coast Guard cutter? Satch often thought about that, and shook his head.

  “Come on,” the other said, “get a move on!”

  “I am, I am,” Satch said, muttering. “If you’re in such a rush—” He was about to say, “Why don’t you row?” At the look the other gave him, though, Satch shut up and concentrated on rowing faster.

  Another ten minutes’ rowing and they were into the combers. The bottom didn’t shelve evenly here: there were dips, and there was an undertow, and Satch had to work twice as hard as he had earlier. The other man cursed at him. “Can’t you go any faster, goddammit?”

  Satch didn’t bother answering, just grunted and rowed.

  Sand hissed softly under the keel as the boat came to shore. He could see them waiting, just above the high water. They were pretending to be fishermen, too; a couple of lawn chairs were set up on the sand, and fishing poles were stuck in the sand next to them.

  Nearby, as Satch and his companion stepped out of the boat into the backward-rushing water, Satch could see evidence of recent digging, being hurriedly covered by another man. There also were the things they had come to fetch—the three small drums.

  Satch’s companion gave him no help with the boat. He simply strode up through the water to the beach, and up to the others. As he went, he pulled something out of his belt. Satch looked at it with some concern. He hadn’t known Lugers came that big. He didn’t want to see any that came that big. He didn’t want to see this one now, or in this man’s hands, where it might wind up pointed at him.