The lack of an immediate response puzzled him. She looked as if she was wrestling with a dark cloud inside her, a fear…or a doubt.
“Wilson, is there anything you’re not telling me?”
His eyelids fluttered. “Of course not. Vanessa. I would never lie to you.”
Tommy the Talker mumbled, as if about to agree. Fisk gritted his teeth. From the corner of his eye, he saw Wesley grab the youth’s wrist and squeeze it, hard.
“How can I be sure of that,” she said, “when you lie so well to others?”
The words stung. “What? Because I love you. You and Richard are the center of my life, all that guides and drives me.”
Frowning as if not entirely accepting his answer, she left. The way her gown flowed around her twirling form made him ache. As a girl, she’d been subject to depression. Now, her somber mood made her seem like a gray ghost who, after a brief visit among the living, must now retreat beyond the veil. He could lay the world at her feet, but he couldn’t protect her from the depths of her own feelings.
* * *
THE ROOM was so silent, no one could help overhearing Tommy Tuttle’s whisper.
“Geez. She’s like the only thing in the world the Kingpin’s afraid of.”
Spinning like a vast globe on its axis, Fisk locked his eyes on the youth. “I’ll show you fear.”
He stalked forward, effortlessly flipping the conference table aside.
Tommy, having seen hippo attacks on video, knew how deadly the heavy beasts could be. The Kingpin was twice as fast. Still, when the first punch didn’t send him squarely into the bliss of unconsciousness, he hoped the beating wouldn’t be so bad. Tommy knew he deserved a lesson. He’d never been able to keep his mouth shut.
It was only after the fifth blow began to flatten his high cheekbone that he realized Fisk was keeping him awake on purpose, so he would feel every second of the pain.
“No one mentions my wife. No one.”
TWO
ALREADY late for the day’s most important appointment, Peter rushed across the plaza at the center of Empire State University. He was concentrating on trying not to run too fast when a pat on the back startled him.
“You’re Peter Parker, right?”
The face that greeted him was friendly, but unfamiliar. “Sure, if you’re not a bill collector…?”
The stranger put out his hand. “Randy Robertson. Robbie Robertson’s my dad.”
Smiling, Peter took the hand, trying to remember whether the Daily Bugle City Editor had mentioned his son was attending ESU. “Right!”
“Dad said one of his freelance photographers was a VIP here.”
“VIP? I can’t even get arrested. It’s great to meet you, but…” The I’m-late part stuck in his throat. Randy looked as new to the campus as his sneakers. Another minute wouldn’t matter. “How’s it going? Need help finding anything? Coffee house? Bathroom? Can’t have one without the other, right?”
Randy shrugged. “I’m good, just wanted to put a face to the name. You’re here for the protest too, right?” He tilted his head toward a large group preparing picket signs no more than a few yards away.
Wow. How’d I miss that? There must be a hundred people.
Activist Josh Kittling, the real VIP, stood at the center of the crowd. Zeroing in on Peter, his sonorous voice boomed from his thin body. “Parker, pick up a Sharpie. If you’re not with us, you’re against us!”
Peter felt like half the crowd stopped to stare at him.
“Uh…what exactly is it I’m for or against?”
“Way to stay on top of things.” Kittling pointed across the plaza toward the Exhibition Hall. “That old rock on display isn’t drawing the donations they hoped, so admin’s planning to spend ten million to renovate the building. We want that money for needs-based scholarships.”
Kittling was usually right, but not always. Afraid of whatever devil might be in the details, Peter hesitated to offer his full support. “I dunno, maybe fixing up the old place will bring in the money to help fund financial aid. Two birds with one stone, right?”
“We’ve been through the numbers, friend. It’s time for action.”
Sheesh. I like the guy, but last time we talked, I almost wound up on a pontoon boat chasing down leaky oil tankers. I’m all for the environment, but somebody has to stick around to fight the super villains.
“I want to hear more, Josh, but I’m running late.”
“Right. I’m sure it’s much more important than keeping corporate culture from destroying our education.”
This time the crowd hissed at Peter, until Randy spoke up. “Ease up. You don’t know what he’s got going on.”
Kittling’s condescending headshake was infuriating. “All I need to know is that he’s not standing with his community.”
After years of being bullied as a bookworm, Peter was dying to tell everyone exactly what he stood up for as Spider-Man, but he couldn’t. Trying to ignore the boos, he walked away, gritting his teeth.
As tight as his jaw was when he exited the plaza, it went slack when he saw Gwen Stacy. She was standing with her shoulders against the Coffee Bean storefront, her books pressed to her chest. The way her face brightened when she saw him made him suddenly aware of how nice the weather was.
“Hey, boo!” she called.
He trotted over. She put her cheek out for a kiss, which he happily provided.
“See the raging protest?”
“Yeah,” he grumbled. “Sure you don’t want to hang around and attend? By the time we’re back from Queens, Josh and co. will probably take Manhattan, the Bronx, and Staten Island, too.”
“And miss hearing you quote old song lyrics? Never. Besides, I already signed the petition and wrote to the dean.”
“There’s a petition? We have a dean?”
She slapped his shoulder and tugged him toward the subway. “Classrooms, too. I’ll tell you all about them on the way to your aunt’s.”
The rush of the rattling train was too loud for talk, so Peter contented himself with looking at Gwen. Even without the platinum-blonde hair, doe eyes, and winsome figure, he’d be hopelessly in love. Being a police captain’s daughter had given her a strong moral sense and an even stronger backbone when it came to standing up for what she believed. The only question about Gwen that ever worried him was: What on Earth was she doing with someone like him?
Of course, theirs wasn’t the usual boy/girl dance. More like boy/girl/secret identity, with super villains cutting in on every step. The Meteor, the Rhino, the Molten Man, the Vulture, the Green Goblin, the Shocker, the Lizard, the this, the that. Sooner or later, he’d be facing some crook calling themselves the The.
Back when he’d slouched into his first ESU class distracted by Spidey business, everyone thought he was a snob. But the girl now cuddling with him had ignored Flash Thompson’s advances and approached Pete first. Why? Maybe she’d also inherited a nose for mysteries. Still, whenever he “mysteriously” ran from an emergency, she dismissed him as a coward along with everyone else.
Halfway through the ride, the doors swished open. During the momentary lull, Gwen leaned in and whispered something.
“What’d you say?”
“I said, I’m glad to be with you.”
He pulled her closer. “Yeah, I heard you the first time. I just wanted you to say it again.”
In time, when MJ started hinting Gwen had more-than-friendly feelings for him, he couldn’t wrap his head around it. Even when Gwen herself said she had a crush on “a bashful brown-haired biker,” he thought she was kidding.
A nudge to the shoulder brought him back to the present. “Here we are, beautiful dreamer.”
“Huh?”
“Thought you liked old songs.”
“Yes. Right.”
They exited onto the elevated platform at Forest Hills as lunch hour peaked. Peter tried to make a point of chivalrously clearing a path.
Not that he’d ever been a perfect suitor.
On their first date, he’d forgotten she was a fellow science major. That time, though, when he returned after vanishing to fight Doctor Octopus, she didn’t call him a coward—she wrapped him in a huge hug, genuinely afraid he’d been hurt.
That made him think.
Or, rather, it made him stop thinking for a change.
As they walked arm-in-arm down the tree-lined streets of his old neighborhood, he kept wondering why he didn’t tell her all that. Chatter though they might about every other topic imaginable, he always held back, never letting her in all the way. The same distance he was forced to maintain with everyone now dogged his time with Gwen.
She sensed it, of course. His denial of the obvious had become a personal cliché.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
“You’d be short-changed, Gwen.”
He could have said he was worried about Aunt May. It was true enough. When Peter left home to share a Village apartment with Harry, Anna Watson, Mary Jane’s aunt, moved in with the woman who raised him. A few days ago, Mrs. Watson had reported that Aunt May was feeling poorly, and he hadn’t had a chance to visit until today.
But that wasn’t all he was thinking, and giving Gwen less than the whole truth would feel like an insult.
“Why do I always go for the silent type?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
When they walked up the path to the modest two-story home, his supposedly under-the-weather aunt opened the door before he could knock.
“Peter!”
Despite the well-earned wrinkles, her face was bright, her smile strong.
He pecked her cheek. “Someone’s got her dancing shoes on, huh? Mrs. Watson said you weren’t feeling so well.”
“Nonsense, don’t listen to her! I feel strong as a lion, especially when my nephew visits!” She looked from him to Gwen. “My, you two have been seeing quite a bit of each other!”
Gwen hugged her as they went in. “I hope you don’t disapprove, Mrs. Parker.”
Aunt May put her hand to her lips. “Disapprove? Sounds as if you’re more serious than I thought. All I can say is you’ve made a silly, sentimental old lady very happy.”
An oddly quiet Anna Watson joined them. Peter set his secrets aside for the next few hours. Sipping tea and eating cookies, he let himself enjoy the rare feeling of being part of something, of a family. That Gwen was part of it, too, made it all perfect.
Once they were outside, Gwen hooked her arm in his. “That woman’s eyes are as bright as a newborn’s. With someone like that raising you, it’s no wonder you’re ever so slightly special.”
* * *
AS SOON as Peter’s only surviving relative closed the door, Anna Watson raced over to keep her from collapsing, then helped her to the couch to lie down.
When she finished settling her friend comfortably, Anna scowled. “May Parker! Why didn’t you tell him about your test results? You can’t protect him forever— he’s an adult. He has a right to know.”
May weakly waved her off. “I know, Anna, I know.” She turned her face toward the afternoon sun shining through the window, revealing yellow traces in the whites of her eyes. “But Peter’s always been so troubled, ever since he was a child, and he looked so happy with his girlfriend. I couldn’t bring myself to spoil it.”
Anna Watson tsked, but said no more.
THREE
BURYING the churning mix of rage, fear, and guilt that haunted his feelings for Vanessa, the Kingpin forced himself to focus on the news.
“…their numbers now over a thousand, we’re hearing unconfirmed reports that the students may try to take over the Exhibition Hall. The occupation of academic buildings has been part of student protests since the ’60s, but…”
Despite their naïve ideals, the protestors were admirably organized. Using real-time connections to support groups such as the ACLU, they’d achieved a wealth of media coverage in just a few short hours. Campus security, surprised by the size of the event, was barely equipped to control the current crowd— and it was growing by the minute.
It was as if the very sky had parted just for him. Events had moved so swiftly, he doubted that the Maggia-front security company, Tech-Vault, had had the time, let alone the interest, to increase its presence at the hall. After all, these children, despite their numbers, posed no real threat to the status quo, let alone the ancient tablet.
But Wilson Fisk did.
Using a satin handkerchief to wipe Tommy Tuttle’s blood from his knuckles, he turned to Wesley. “It’s almost too perfect. The time has come to strike. Gather the best we have and prepare my car.”
Wesley stared at him. “Sir, you’re not planning to go yourself?”
“Of course I am. You know how Manfredi thinks. He should have retired decades ago, but he still acts personally. If the point is to impress the Maggia, I have to be there myself.”
* * *
STRESSED as he’d been lately, Peter managed to maintain the cozy feeling of home even after Gwen left the subway a few stops early to study for an evening class. He didn’t even mind thinking about money, or the protestors.
May as well drop by the Exhibition Hall. I can grab some shots of that tablet for the Bugle, maybe even try for a better conversation with Kittling.
As he exited the subway in Greenwich Village, the feel of Gwen nestled in his arm lingered, like a sweater that had been warmed by a fireplace on one side. It was only when he turned the corner and saw the crowd that he felt the chill in the air.
ESU’s grassy, open plaza was standing room only. Forced to the fringes, campus police were struggling to keep people from spilling into the street and blocking traffic. Satellite vans from the major new outlets lined a cordoned-off media area. NYPD crowd-control units were just beginning to arrive, but he didn’t see how they could hope to contain things.
He loved the Big Apple, but just looking at the tightly packed throng made him claustrophobic. The crowd-control units nearby looked like they were sporting tear gas cannisters. And the students weren’t organized, the way he’d seen in other protests like Occupy Wall Street. This felt more like an overcrowded concert where a stampede might get someone killed.
The mass, insofar as it had shape, centered on a small group passing out signs and pamphlets near the hall’s entrance. Peter weaved closer, using his press pass to get onto the plaza and his student ID to get beyond the cordoned press area.
Turns out having multiple identities isn’t always a bad thing.
The first face he made out was, of course, Josh Kittling. He was literally standing on a soap box, megaphone in hand. The second was Randy Robertson, who looked somewhere between impressed and overwhelmed.
His face brightened as he saw Peter. “You’re joining us for the takeover?”
Takeover?
Before Peter could answer, Kittling wheeled the megaphone his way. “Finally decided to man up, Parker?”
“Josh, I totally agree about the financial aid. I couldn’t afford it here in a million years if it wasn’t for my scholarship…”
“Exactly, bright boy. That scholarship makes you bought and sold, while the rest of us who scrimped and saved to get here are being forced to drop out left and right.”
“Yeah, you’re right, but I barely made it this far without getting trampled. If you start a takeover with this big a crowd, and someone starts shoving, there could be a panic. People could get hurt. Have you at least given the administration time to respond?”
“Time? You kidding me? We’ve got the eyes of the world on us right now. If we don’t ride this wave, the press will be gone by morning, along with the biggest reason admin has to meet our demands.”
“Look around, Josh. Is it worth the risk?”
“My answer’s yes! What’s yours going to be? You going to be part of the solution, or hide in the back like a coward?”
Peter knew Kittling was talking more to the protestors than to him. But the jibe still hit its own very special nerv
e. Especially when everyone booed at him, except for Randy, who looked confused.
Peter clenched his fists. Trying to get away before his rising temper made things worse, he shoved through the densely packed protestors. He all but popped into an empty space beyond a line of sawhorses that blocked the steps to the hall.
Two private security guards wearing riot gear stood at the door. Seeing Peter, one held up his hand.
“Back off. No students past this point.” The massive crowd was clearly making the man nervous.
But Peter was still steaming. “Really? I thought the place was built for students.”
One stomped toward him. Peter flashed his press pass.
“Look, I’m just here to take some pictures of the tablet.”
With a simian grunt, the guard stepped aside.
Seeing this, some of the students came forward, pushing aside the sawhorses. Panicking, the guards raised their shields and batons. Peter tensed, but Kittling ordered the students back. “Not yet, not yet! We go in a small group, and together!”
Huh. Maybe he was listening to me about the crowd. Either way, the takeover will begin in earnest soon. What should I—what can I do?
Unsure of the answer, Peter went inside, marched down a long hall, and entered the main gallery.
At least I can get a look at what the fuss is all about.
Surrounded by four more security guards, the only thing on display in the huge marble-tiled room was the tablet. It was surprisingly small, maybe a foot across. Even the signs surrounding the case dwarfed it. He skimmed a few sentences. The legends about its origin were vaguely interesting, but after hitting the word “unknown” for the umpteenth time, he stopped.
Sure takes a lot of words to describe something they don’t know much about.
As for the tablet itself, the ancient writing had a nice swirly thing going for it, if you liked hieroglyphs. The fact it had survived thousands of years provided a passing sense of wonder. But ultimately Peter found the display more interesting—probably because he knew the molecular structure of its super-strong transparent polymer.
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