Spider-Man

by Stefan Petrucha

  “Perspective? So, because Jim Crow’s dead, I should shut up and trust whoever’s in charge?”

  His father wanted to say, No, of course not. But you still have so much to learn. You have to rein in that temper so you can pick your battles.

  But he didn’t, and the two walked on in silence.

  * * *

  BEYOND the basement windows, half-below the pavement, stood the dank holding cells that now contained Wilson Fisk, his captured bodyguards, and a glum Wesley.

  “Get me out of here!” the Kingpin yelled.

  He wasn’t truly angry, but he needed the police to think him a mindless fool. To Fisk, the officers guarding him were little men—not in stature but in mind. Whenever he shouted, two of them kept professionally silent, as if hoping that good behavior would one day provide a better assignment and higher pay.

  The third was an utter lout. “Quiet down in there, tubs.”

  He sat with his feet up on a desk, reading the Bugle. Noticing the Kingpin’s stare, he held up the paper. The headline declared:

  Spider-Man Wanted!

  “According to Jameson’s editorial, your buddy Spidey’s run off with the tablet and left you to rot. But don’t worry, the wall-crawler’s going to be in there with you pretty soon.”

  Fisk had to suppress a grin at how quickly everyone had bought into his lie. But for the sake of appearances, he reminded himself how much he did have to be angry about. Spider-Man had the tablet. Fisk’s operation had been hit hard. Worse—his defeat, however fleeting, would give Vanessa more reason to doubt him.

  He gripped the bars. “You’ll see—I’ll be out of here soon enough!”

  The oaf in uniform laughed. “You’re right about that. You’ll be gone just as soon as they find a prison suit big enough.”

  It was probably the first time in his life the loudmouth even thought he was in a position to gloat. But he was right: The clock was ticking. Within hours, Fisk would be transferred to Ryker’s, where maximum security was far better equipped to hold him than this century-old building with its 1920s fixtures and quaint iron bars on the cells.

  Wesley had advised trusting the attorneys to have him released. They were the best money could buy, but Fisk was hardly the only rich criminal they represented. If the Maggia had managed to plant a spy in his own organization, why not among his lawyers, too?

  So, rather than trust anyone on the outside, the Kingpin had been gripping the same two bars all night long, shouting invectives at the guards and the heavens—all the while twisting the old, brittle iron. He gave the bars a little quarter turn. They weren’t ready to break yet, but soon.

  “Come a little closer, and I’ll make you eat that paper,” he growled.

  The fool actually got to his feet. “Yeah, big shot? This paper right here?”

  The other officers stiffened. “Frank.”

  He waved them off. “It’s okay. I got this.”

  When “Frank” was close enough to smell, Fisk pretended to reach for him, knowing full well that his arms wouldn’t fit between the bars.

  As they glared at each other, the lout sneered. “Just another gorilla in a cage, now, huh? You got nothin’.”

  He looked as if he might withdraw, but instead he leaned in close, whispering so the others wouldn’t hear. “Silvio Manfredi sends his regards.”

  Adrenaline flooded through the Kingpin. He didn’t have to twist the bars again—he simply snapped them. Pinning the startled guard’s neck between them, he stepped from his cell.

  The others reached for their weapons. “Don’t move or we shoot!”

  But Fisk kicked the desk up on end, shielding himself. A second kick sent it flying into the guards.

  He lifted the squirming Frank aloft, keeping the man’s skull scissored between the bars. The bright-red shade on the choking man’s face delighted him.

  “Please, I don’t want to die!”

  The Kingpin tsked. “Then I’m sorry to say we’re at cross purposes. But perhaps you can change my mind. Tell me how Silvermane found out about my plans.”

  Blood dripped down the crooked cop’s neck, the rough iron scratching his skin. “Don’t know, but word is he met some guy in a hood calling himself the Schemer. He’s the one you want. He’s…”

  His eyes fluttered up into his head, then closed. Frank had fainted, more from fear than the pressure of the bars. The Kingpin let go. There would be little satisfaction in killing an unconscious man.

  His captured men called to him, “Get us out!”

  Even Wesley. “Mr. Fisk, I can help you.”

  The others were a dime a dozen, but Wesley he owed a response. “My apologies. The basement will be flooded with police any second. There isn’t time. Once I’ve found our traitor, I’ll see to it that the lawyers get you out.”

  He charged the length of the narrow hall and slammed into a fire door. As he stumbled up the steps toward the sidewalk, a bullet passed by his ankles, sending up a spray of shattered concrete. Apparently one of the officers had already recovered from his collision with the flying desk.

  Avoiding the streets, where he’d be an easy target, Fisk sped along a narrow vacant lot next to the precinct house. A takeout restaurant on the opposite side had left it strewn with garbage, thick with the worst of the city’s stench. His haste, coupled with a desire to avoid the trash, had him brushing against the precinct wall, tearing and staining his white jacket.

  The cop puffed behind him in pursuit. Another shot came from a window above. Ahead, a squad car emerged from the motor pool, hoping to block Fisk’s escape. Scratched and filthy, he leapt onto the car’s hood and vaulted over a barbed-wire fence.

  He landed hard on the sidewalk, scuffing his shoes, tearing his pants. Though loathe to flee any fight, at least now he had the room to do so. His powerful legs carried him through side streets and parks. But the police cruisers on every wide avenue told him it would be foolish to remain on foot.

  Finding a safe spot behind a wide oak, he withdrew the small phone he kept concealed in the leaden heel of his shoe. He flipped it open, then hesitated. His organization had been compromised by the Schemer. Who was there left to call?

  There was only one option: Vanessa, his raison d’être. It would make him look weak. Still, it was fitting that his emotional salvation would become his physical salvation, as well. She would understand. Of course she would.

  “My love, I am…in trouble. The coded GPS in the phone will take you to me. It has to be just you, alone. I’ll explain why when you get here.”

  In less than 10 minutes, he spotted her SUV, its tinted windows darker than most. He slipped inside, relieved to see her, but afraid of how she might react. When she didn’t even turn to greet him, that fear grew.

  “Crosstown, my darling, then head north.”

  Nary a police car in sight. He exhaled a little.

  Her eyes were fixed on the road. He turned to her, about to caress her arm. He saw a dark dirt-smudge on the sleeve of his jacket and stopped.

  “We’ve been betrayed. This…this…worm calling himself the Schemer has been feeding information about my business to the Maggia. I don’t know how much he’s told them, but it’s best we go into hiding as a precaution.”

  When her expression remained distant, his fear turned to panic. He touched her shoulder, marring the sleeve of her dress with the muck on his hand.

  “It’s only temporary. I promise you, I can fix this. Everything will be as it was.”

  He tried to wipe off the dirt, but only made it worse. When she pushed his hand away, he felt as if he’d been stabbed in the chest.

  “Vanessa, I’m sorry I was weak. I’m sorry I didn’t know…”

  When she turned to him at last, he saw, for the first time, disdain in her eyes. “You think I’m angry about the collapse of your business? Or that you’re covered in the filth you swore we would stay above? No, my love, my one love, none of that could break my heart. But this did.”

  She handed him a
printout. The quickest of glances told him it was a document from his private server—one that contained the details of his efforts to quash the press story about their son.

  He felt the knife in his heart twist. He fumbled for words, any words at all, that might remove it.

  “They don’t know for certain he’s been harmed! They’re only guessing…”

  “Guessing? Our son went missing after an avalanche! He’s believed dead!”

  “I…I wanted to save you the pain.”

  She pressed down on the gas. The tires squealed as she took the next turn. He wanted to remind her it was important they not attract attention, but he kept silent.

  Her eyes were wet, but anger seemed to keep the tears from falling. “You swore this was all for him. That was how you justified it: for him, something better in the future. This means you did it for nothing. Nothing!”

  She hit the brakes so hard that the Kingpin, still turned sideways to face her, struck the dashboard with his shoulder. The door popped open.

  “Get out.”

  He clasped his hands. “Vanessa, you must forgive me. You must!”

  “Get out!”

  The command seemed to carry physical force. He half-fell into the street, landing in a puddle. She didn’t even wait for the door to close before she sped off, didn’t even slow down as he bellowed her name.

  “VANESSA!”

  As he rose—clothes wet, torn, and stinking of garbage—he realized the depths of his failure.

  He couldn’t save her from the pain.

  He couldn’t even save her from the smell.

  A small crowd gathered, like flies drawn to rotting fruit. Thanks to the Bugle, Fisk’s face was as well-known in the city as the wall-crawler’s mask. The crowd kept its distance, treating him like some feral beast. He managed to stumble off before anyone could record him with their damned, ever-present phones.

  He would hide, but not for long. And when he emerged, he would have his revenge—on this Schemer, on the Maggia, on Spider-Man. On everyone.

  SEVEN

  PETER was still afraid he’d punch someone if they looked at him the wrong way, so he skipped class and headed off campus. He reached the end of the plaza and kept going, not even seeing Harry wave, or hearing Randy’s friendly, “Hey, Pete, where you off to?”

  Determined to keep busy until the foul mood passed, he returned to his empty apartment and slid the tablet out from beneath the pile of clothes.

  I could just leave it somewhere, let it become someone else’s problem. But the Kingpin wouldn’t want it so badly without a good reason. If that “great secret” turns out to be for real and it falls into the wrong hands, I’ll be doing more harm than good, and I’ve already got all the guilt I can handle.

  Turning its rough exterior in his hands, he stared at the incomprehensible symbols.

  Yep, that’s writing all right. At least I think it is. Might be doodles for all I know. But hey, this is New York. Find a plumber on the weekend? Forget it. Eminent hieroglyphic experts, why not?

  Sure enough, a quick search turned up several local names.

  Dr. Jennifer Collier at the Met looks like a good bet. Hope she has office hours.

  He slipped into his red-and-blues, webbed the tablet to his back, and exited through the window. As he arced toward the top of the office building across the street, he hoped the exercise would put his head back on straight. With Gwen’s hurt face fresh in his mind, though, kept him remained distracted. As he came in for a landing, he planned to propel himself skyward again. But his toe nearly missed the corner, and he wound up scrabbling on hands and knees across the roof.

  Cripes! Another inch, and I’d be eating air. If I’m going to be up here leaping around in my underwear, I’ve got to get a grip.

  But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Why am I out here in the first place? I’m taking my life in my hands every time I squeeze into this corny suit.

  Exasperated, he swatted an air vent. The gesture felt offhand, the way someone else might slap a newspaper against their desk. But in his case, the pipe bent in the middle.

  Focus on the tablet, Parker, before you do some real damage.

  Chastened, but still champing at the bit, he forced himself to take more care and reached Fifth Avenue without further incident. Perched atop the terra-cotta roof of a cupola crowning a luxury apartment building across the street, he looked at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  Science and natural history were more his thing, but being a city kid, he’d toured the Met more than once during school trips. Most places he revisited from his childhood tended to look smaller than he recalled, but the museum looked much bigger. For some reason, the figure of 2,000,000 square feet stuck in his head.

  Should’ve thought this through. Sure, Dr. Collier’s in there somewhere, but which window do I tap? If I remember correctly, that full-size Egyptian tomb is in the northeast wing. Maybe the offices are nearby.

  He climbed along the tall front windows, but they were either blocked by shades or opened to the exhibits. Meandering lower along the more humble windows, he hoped to see something that said office— cubicles, desks, anything. No luck.

  He turned the corner for more of the same until he saw the ancient temple standing in a huge open gallery area. That indicated the end of the Egyptian section. Hoping a better idea might strike, he squatted halfway up a stone column.

  Can’t just walk in. I’m wanted by the police. Should I buy a cheap burner and call? But how do I convince her she’s talking to the real Spider-Man? Man, this idea sucked.

  Before he understood what was happening, his spider-sense had him springing 10 feet to the next column, barely avoiding a bullet. Clinging by one hand, he looked down. He’d been so preoccupied with his search, he’d failed to notice that a patrol car had pulled onto the curb along East 84th. The stiff-lipped young officer who’d fired at him stood outside the passenger side, both hands on his weapon, legs planted apart.

  His spider-sense was no longer tingling, which meant the guy had already realized his bonehead mistake. Knowing that did nothing to improve Peter’s mood. “What the hell, man? Don’t I even get a ‘Hold it right there or I’ll shoot’?”

  “Fine. Hold it right there, or I’ll shoot. Again.”

  By then his older partner had raced over from the driver’s side. He wrapped his hands around the weapon and forced the rookie to point the barrel down.

  “Joe, are you freaking insane? There’s people all over!”

  “He’s way up there. What else am I going to hit, a bird?”

  “Holster that weapon, now!”

  Joe grimaced, but obeyed.

  Still irritated, Peter couldn’t resist blowing off some steam.

  “Let me guess: good cop, stupid cop?”

  The senior partner grimaced. “His mother’s in the hospital, okay? Look, we’re not going to shoot you off that building, but SWAT’s on the way and they’re already cordoning off the area. You’ll make it easier on everybody if you turn yourself in.”

  “Why? I didn’t steal the tablet!”

  The officer made a face. “Spidey, I can see the freaking thing stuck on your back from here!”

  At least they couldn’t see him frown under the mask. “Oh. Right. But it’s not what it looks like!”

  The rookie scoffed. “Give me a break. You’re probably taking it to the Kingpin right now.”

  “Yeah, that must be it. I was gonna bake it into a cake and sneak it to him at Ryker’s.”

  Both stared at him. “Where’ve you been? He busted out an hour ago.”

  “What?”

  The air filled with the promised chuk-chuk-chuk of helicopters. Fortunately, the Met abutted Central Park and its 800-plus acres of tree cover. The perfect place to get lost.

  His web stuck fast to an oak tree’s high branch. He swung down low, trying to make it look as if he were headed right for the police. They dropped to the ground.

  “Appreciate your leveheaded handling o
f the situation, officers, but I’ve got to go find him.” As his feet sailed over them, his web snagged a second tree. “To catch him! Because we’re not partners, okay?”

  By then he was off, facing the sky. He doubted they’d heard him—or that they’d believe him if they had.

  If Baldy’s out and about, he gets the Bigger Threat Award. I’ll figure out what to do with the tablet later— but as long as I’ve got it and he wants it, I bet I can make him come to me.

  Hiding from the police in Manhattan was an old game. He waited a few hours and then scoured the city’s seamier areas trying to get some attention from the other side of the law. During the daylight, he managed to stop a few muggings, but it wasn’t until sunset that the real pros came out to play. In short order, Spider-Man fouled up a break-in, crashed a meth lab, and mopped the floor with some musclemen collecting protection payments. He even entered a few downtown bars where the hired guns hung out, just to put every crook on notice. Each time, he made sure they all got a good look at the tablet webbed to his back.

  The rush of city-swinging usually cleared his head. Today, whenever he took a breather, he was still fuming about Gwen. If she’d cooled off, she’d be wondering where he was. Plus, he’d missed all his classes—again. It was late. By rights, he should’ve been exhausted by now, but the bubbling anger made him feel like he could keep going for days.

  For the third time, he hit the more desolate sections of Hell’s Kitchen. The Kingpin wouldn’t dare go near his home turf—there were still police parked outside his building. But his boys on the streets still had their jobs. Spidey could get lucky.

  And he did.

  The first thing that drew him to the short, lonely avenue was the fact that all the streetlights were out save one. The second was the tractor trailer backed into a space that could barely hold it. Coming in for a closer look, Spidey spotted the driver backed up against the truck with his hands up. He was surrounded by gun-toting criminal types. A black van idled nearby, waiting.

  Landing in their midst brought a satisfying cry of, “It’s Spider-Man!”