by Len Wein
A broadening of the enigmatic smile was his only reply. The stocky man rose from the armchair, casually crossed the room and then paused next to Huddleston at the bar, a powerful arm gently resting across Allen’s trembling shoulders.
Huddleston felt very weak and very nauseous. His stomach was suddenly empty, and his head throbbed with pain. “What do you want from me? What? Answer me, mister—answer me!”
“Anxiety like that can lead to a heart attack, my friend. I’d learn to calm down if I were you. Try to relax. And you certainly shouldn’t move such heavy furniture, not in your condition. Good God, man, the strain could kill you.
“Here, Mr. Huddleston. Let me give you a . . . hand setting everything right.”
With that, the man turned toward the pile of furniture. Two powerful arms snaked out and grasped the massive cassone in a grip of steel. Effortlessly, he lifted the heavy chest from the floor and tossed it almost casually across the room. Huddleston’s drink trembled on the bar when the cassone landed, and Huddleston trembled with it.
The stocky man chuckled silently, nodded at the astonished Huddleston, then wrapped a rippling arm around the sofa and moved it away from the door as easily as he’d moved the heavy chest. In moments, the doorway was cleared of the massive barricade it had taken Huddleston almost an hour to erect Allen wanted to faint.
“There,” the visitor stated as Huddleston moved cautiously to the writing desk at his right. “That’s much better. Now you’ll be able to come and go as you please. Much more convenient, wouldn’t you say? If you happened to be going anywhere. But you’re not going anywhere . . . are you, Mr. Huddleston?” It wasn’t really a question, more a statement of fact.”
“Listen, I’ll sign those merger papers. I’ll sign anything! I’ll do anything! In God’s name, what do you want from me? Just name it!”
“Oh, please, Mr. Huddleston, no histrionics. You don’t really want me to answer that question and put an end to our pleasant little conversation now, do you?”
Huddleston felt a sudden wetness spread across the front of his pants. “Look, I . . . I’ll do whatever you want of me. Anything! Just don’t . . . hurt me.”
He’d never pleaded like that with any man, never been forced to strip his soul bare in that way. But the intruder just smiled again—a most condescending smile.
“I am a businessman, Mr. Huddleston. If I allow you to go unpunished for your misdeeds, others I associate with might foolishly decide to follow in your footsteps. I gave you an opportunity to cooperate with me, Allen. You should have taken advantage of it.
“Of course, with you out of the picture, my plan can proceed as I originally conceived it. You see, Mr. Huddleston, unfortunately you are really little more than an insignificant cog in a monstrous machine. An operation that spans this very globe. And one that was well under way while you were still a minor bookkeeper for a filthy two-bit mobster.”
The stocky man took another delicate sip of his brandy. “Please, don’t be shocked, Mr. Huddleston. I’ve known all about you for quite a long time now—for fifteen years, to be precise—since I first devised my master plan. I knew you existed, knew you were slowly working your miserable little way up the corporate ladder. What I did not know was how high you would eventually rise. I made a mistake, Mr. Huddleston—which is quite unlike me—and now I intend to rectify it.”
Sweating profusely, Huddleston backed away from his uninvited guest, toward his writing desk and its special hidden drawer. In one swift motion the drawer was flipped open, and a pistol suddenly appeared in Allen’s hand. It was heavier than he remembered, but it would do the job—and that was all that counted.
The stocky man did not move, did not flinch, and that worried Allen for a moment—but only for a moment. In the next instant his finger tightened on the trigger. Three shots rang out in rapid succession, followed instantly by three unnerving whining sounds, as of metal splaying off metal.
Huddleston’s jaw grew slack in stunned surprise, for his adversary still stood before him, casually turning to the bar and pouring himself another drink. “A useless display of bravado, my friend . . . and a costly one. I’m afraid one of your bullets has marred the surface of your secretaire.”
A slight smile punctuated the comment. It drove Huddleston to madness.
Atop the writing desk there was an ornate golden letter opener, a Christmas gift from Alice two years before. Frantically, Allen fumbled for the gleaming blade as the stocky man turned back from the bar and sauntered casually toward him. The letter opener grew slippery in Allen’s sweaty grip, and he clasped his other hand around the hilt, until the knuckles of his fingers turned white.
His eyes sparkled like those of a madman as he whirled from the desk, planting the makeshift weapon deep into the stocky man’s chest, or rather, that was Huddleston’s intention.
For instead of slicing savagely through flesh, the letter opener shattered as it came heavily down over the intruder’s heart. Allen stared at the broken blade cradled in the palm of his hand, then stared once more at his uninvited house-guest.
“Damn” was all he had time to say before the stranger grabbed him about the neck in his steely grip, then steered him toward the open balcony doors.
They paused at the balcony railing, the stocky man gesturing grandly at the brightly lit Manhattan skyline. “A piece of this could have been yours, Mr. Huddleston, if only you hadn’t been so selfish. You had money. You had power. You had everything a man could possibly hope for. All you had to do was share it for a time, and the world could have been yours as well.
“But now, all you’ll have of this world is a six-foot plot of dirt.”
And with that, the visitor hurled Huddleston from the balcony, then strolled back into the apartment and finished his drink.
It had taken Allen Huddleston a lifetime to reach the top. It took him less than eight seconds to reach the bottom again, screaming madly all the way down.
Two
Why me? Why am I always the one who gets the proverbial door slammed on his fingers? I didn’t ask to be a martyr. I don’t want to be a martyr. So why does all of life’s garbage always have to be dumped on me?
These were the thoughts that tumbled through the weary mind of the youth called Spider-Man as he crouched on a rooftop at the corner of Eighty-second Street and Central Park West, pausing for a moment to catch his breath. The stale Manhattan air tasted bitter through the thick material of the mask that completely covered his face, and he sighed.
It had been a long night.
Holding his brightly clad arm up before him, he studied the jagged rip that extended from the forearm of his crimson glove to the thumb. He allowed himself a wry smile.
Swell. Just what I needed on top of everything else. Now I not only have to take a long, hot bath in Epsom salts to try to soothe the aches and pains from tonight’s battle, but I also have to repair this blasted uniform.
Just when, in heaven’s name, am I supposed to find the time to study for that chemistry exam tomorrow?
He glanced up morosely at the great gray blanket of clouds covering the sliver-thin crescent of moon, then expelled another weary breath. You’re out to get me again, aren’t you? What have you got against me, anyway? I try to do the right thing, don’t I? I mean, how many other people can you name who spend their spare time web-slinging all over New York, looking for crime and injustice to thwart? Anyone else my age, with half an ounce of brains, is in the last row of a theater somewhere, messing around with his girlfriend.
Spider-Man sadly shook his head. There are some days when it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed. For me, that averages about 365 days a year.
Precariously perched on the rooftop’s very edge, the Wall-crawler suddenly pressed the middle two fingers of each hand to a small button secreted on each palm. Twin strands of a unique chemical webbing shot out from tiny nozzles at his wrists with an odd “thwipping” sound. The webbing adhered securely to the ornate cornice of a taller building a
cross the street, and Spider-Man leaped from his own roof, swinging wildly away into the streetlamp-lit darkness. Beneath his mask he smiled. He was web-slinging once again, and despite the pain of this past night’s combat, it felt good to be taking to the sky once more.
As he approached the apex of each swing, he fired his almost-unbreakable webbing anew at another building further up the street, and thus continued his astonishing journey. With a practiced ease gained from years of experience, Spider-Man made his incredible feat seem almost simple.
As the Web-slinger turned the corner at Seventy-first Street, a blinding pain erupted in his shoulder. Man, Wall-crawler, you really did it this time. He grimaced. How could you let yourself get so preoccupied with the leader of that gang of fur thieves that you let one of his mush-minded henchmen clobber you from behind? Your spider-sense was tingling like a cheap electric blanket. You should’ve listened to . . .
A sudden unexpected pounding in his head, like the throbbing of a raw, exposed nerve, caught the youthful Web-slinger by surprise. No. Not again. Spider-sense, don’t you ever go to sleep?
At the first telltale tingling, Spider-Man had swung toward the nearest building. Now he clung to the grime-encrusted wall, like the arachnid that had given him his name, and peered across toward Central Park.
Nothing. Yet his spider-sense had never failed him before. Always, in the past, it had warned him of impending danger, and it had frequently saved his life. But now the Wall-crawler saw nothing. Nothing?
Was he overtired? Had he been pushing himself too hard? He considered the possibilities, then noticed a faint shadow in the park across the street. It seemed to be crouched behind a tall Christmas spruce. Bingo!
His fingers and toes gripping the building even through the material of his costume, Spider-Man crawled down toward the street, stooped in a seemingly awkward fashion, bent over like a . . . spider. Step by step, the Wall-crawler flowed like liquid down the building’s side, slithering sixty stories to the sidewalk as easily as a normal man might cross the street. With a final leap, he landed on the yellow line behind a passing taxi, then bounded toward the park in three huge strides.
My spider-sense isn’t tingling anymore, but I can still see the shadow. Maybe this isn’t the . . . Spider-Man’s thoughts ended abruptly as he landed beside what had been responsible for the shadow—the twisted, bloody pulp of what had once been a man.
Holy Hannah! What happened to this guy? He must’ve jumped or . . . Still crouched over the stomach-turning corpse, Spider-Man glanced up. Jumped? From where? Falling from those trees wouldn’t do something like this to a body. And there’s no way for him to have landed here if he fell from one of those buildings across the street. Not even if he had a running start.
Never a dull moment, is there, Spidey? Off one back-breaking case, and smack into another one. It’s just what you needed, right? You’ve got that blasted test coming up tomorrow. You haven’t sold a photo to joyboy J. Jonah Jameson in weeks, and you’re spending all your time playing superhero. The Web-slinger shook his head once more, winced, and then reluctantly studied the bloodied corpse before him. Hard to tell who the man might have been, since the only way Spidey even knew he was a man was from the clothing that he wore. Maybe the police forensic people would be able to identify . . .
A twig snapped behind him and Spider-Man whirled toward the sound. Standing there was a man about twenty-eight years old, his arm around a woman with long blonde hair who wore a red halter top and tight blue jeans. Both were staring in slack-jawed shock at Spidey kneeling over the dead man.
They knew what had happened. Hadn’t J. Jonah Jameson’s Daily Bugle, after all, been warning New York that Spider-Man was a menace? And now he just sat there, like some ominous insect devouring his victim. Jameson was right. By God, he was right!
Spider-Man could read from their expressions what was written in their minds. He had seen that same expression smeared across innumerable faces in the years since that blasted radioactive spider had bitten shy science student Peter Parker—and altered his life forever.
Spider-Man was a freak, wasn’t he? He wore a bizarre red-and-blue costume, with a frightening black spider-web pattern spread across it. His eyes seemed to be huge white orbs, though these were actually only one-way mirrors. No wonder he looked like a monster, crouched on all fours as he was.
It didn’t surprise him anymore—that some people considered him a thing of evil, that others, like J. Jonah Jameson, publisher of the Daily Bugle, offered rewards for Spider-Mans capture and any evidence that would put an end to his career. The Web-slinger had learned to live with the threats and innuendos over the years, but he hadn’t learned to like them.
“Hey, don’t run! I didn’t do this! I found the man like this. I . . . Nuts.”
They didn’t believe me. And that means they’ll report this to the police, who’ll accuse me of murder. Spider-Man will be busy trying to save his skin again, when I should be free to protect this blasted city. Though, for the life of me, sometimes I don’t know why I bother.
I mean, does anyone ever accuse Sherlock Holmes of murder, or Ellery Queen of purse-snatching, or James Bond of stealing candy from a baby? So why me? Is it this costume? Is it my breath? Why are people fearful of me? Why am I constantly hunted like a . . .
But Spider-Man had no time to complete his thought. The strange tingling sensation crashed against his head like a wave. His spider-sense, he’d called it—his own personal early warning system. And then he heard the wail of police sirens growing closer in the distance.
Swell.
The people who’d spotted him must’ve called the cops. He had to get out of there—while he still could.
Almost instinctively, the two middle fingers of each hand curled back to trigger his web-shooter, but the only response he received was a single, disheartening “fhisht.”
Empty. He had forgotten to refill the thin cartridges of web-fluid attached to the web-shooters beneath his gloves. Of all times, not now. Anybody ever tell you you live under your own personal black cloud, Webhead? Maybe that explains why your luck is always all wet.
“Freeze, Wall-crawler,” ordered the booming voice behind him. “Don’t move, not a fraction of an inch, or we’ll scatter you from here to New Jersey!”
Spider-Man stood stock still and cautiously tilted his head. As he expected, two policemen stood behind him, feet apart, both hands steadying their pistols—which were aimed directly at his heart.
“I know you’re not going to believe it, fellas, but I had nothing to do with this. In fact, I just got here a minute or two before you did. Okay if I put my hands down now?” The cops didn’t budge an inch.
“No, somehow I didn’t think so.”
The younger of the two officers seemed nervous, uncertain, and he had good reason. This was his first late-night tour of duty since graduating from the Police Academy. He’d hoped it would be quiet, nothing more than settling a domestic squabble or two, or steering a happy drunk home. Then he’d be able to go home and tell Carrie how all those other guys exaggerated the danger, how working nights was really no different from working days, And things had gone so well for the first few hours—until this.
He knew. Spider-Man’s reputation, knew how the Web-slinger was wanted for questioning in connection with several past murders. Then to find him like this, crouched over the very body of his latest victim! Hank Carver was nervous; he had every right to be, and his sweaty fingers tightened carefully about his wavering pistol.
Besides, just look at him. He wouldn’t stand straight-arrow even with two Police Specials targeted in on that ugly spider-shape sewn into the center of his chest. He seemed almost off-balance, his legs spread on the ground, inhumanly far apart. His arms were held out low before him, his fingers bent in a most demonic fashion.
Was Spider-Man really human? Hank Carver didn’t know, and he didn’t really want to guess. Staring at that harsh, unholy face, almost everything else was forgotten, including h
is duty. He was scared, very scared, and he would never be sure whether he really meant to pull the trigger at that moment, or not.
Even as the gunshot shattered the silence, Spider-Man leaped, expecting the worst, then thanked his spider-sense for once more saving his life. The bullet whistled overhead when, an instant before, it would have pierced his heart. But an instant was all that he needed, and with two impossible leaps he reached the tall apartment building across the street from the park and began scaling its granite walls.
Hank Carver didn’t know what to do next. He turned to his partner Willie Rand, his eyes damp and pleading. Rand grimaced; there would be hell to pay later, but right now they had to recapture that blasted bug! The question was: How? Should they shoot? Rand bit his lip. Not a chance. One stray bullet through an apartment window, and God only knew what would happen next. There was only one alternative.
The building the Wall-crawler was scaling was only ten stories high; the buildings on either side were taller. If Spider-Man wanted to escape, he’d have to move on to one of the other structures.
Carver and Rand split, each taking one of the flanking buildings. Remarkably, luck was with them both, and the elevators sat waiting in their respective lobbies. A minute later, and each of the men was on his roof, eyes narrowed and searching.
Rand’s heart was pounding in his chest, but he was under control, totally capable of handling whatever might occur next. He knew that Carver, on the other hand, was quietly coming apart at the seams. Just as he knew Carver would wash out when he came up for his six months’ review, which was, in a way, a shame. Carver was a nice kid, after all, with a pretty little wife and a brand-new baby boy. He really needed this job. But, still, maybe it was better for Carver to be mustered out now, than for Rand to have to tell that pretty little wife someday how her husband had been shot down in the street. Yeah, all things considered, maybe it was really for the best.
