His mouth dropped open.
Sheesh! No, I didn’t! Did she just break up with me? Did she want to go to a movie? Did she say she was engaged to someone else?
He tried to raise his hands in surrender, but it hurt too much. “Gwen, please, I’m so sorry. I’m totally exhausted. I shouldn’t even really be out.”
She was clearly still annoyed, but she reached out to steady him.
Our relationship. She wants to talk about our relationship. That must be it, right?
“I know we need to talk. Can we do it a little later, when my last class gets out at four?”
She hesitated. “I can’t. I’ll be busy.”
Peter blinked. “Busy?”
“If you must know, I’m running an errand for my father.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean…is tomorrow okay? Pick a time.”
She nodded. “Lunch.”
He was relieved when she walked off, but also a little hurt.
Something’s really bothering her.
He limped onward, hoping to make it to the back row of the lecture hall without further incident. He nearly moaned out loud when Harry came running up.
“Roommate! I was hoping to see you!”
He tried to rally. “Hi, Harry.”
“‘Hi, Harry’? That the best you’ve got for a friend sporting a new mustache?”
Peter frowned at the vaguely visible facial hair. “Is that new?
It was an honest question. Judging from Harry’s reaction, however, this was not the time for honesty.
“Geez,” Harry said. “Now I know how MJ feels if I don’t notice when she gets her hair done.”
He walked off in a huff.
Pausing at the door to the lecture hall, Peter looked around, wondering whether there was anyone left he hadn’t offended yet—or, for that matter, whether there was anyone else he knew. He didn’t even realize he was blocking the way in until someone shouldered by. The slight contact elicited spasms of pain.
Oh, man! Did my parents accidentally offend an evil sorcerer or something?
* * *
WESLEY admired how quickly and completely the Maggia had set up the half-lab, half-library—until it occurred to him they’d probably followed his own notes after hacking his computer.
In any event, the new, state-of-the-art 3D imaging yielded immediate results. All known forms of writing were two-dimensional, but, as the experts had already discovered, the meaning of the tablet’s symbols changed based on regular variations in their carved depth.
On the other hand, while those experts had guessed that the table contained some type of instructions, they’d focused on distinguishing a ‘recipe’ from the rest of the prose by searching for symbols based on natural ingredients—herbs and so on. Wesley reasoned that the carvers had been far more sophisticated, and the symbols they should be searching for were closer to chemical notation: sodium and chlorine as opposed to salt, a formula as opposed to a recipe. In that case, a biochemist might have an easier time making the distinction. Hence the presence of Dr. Connors.
Indeed, they’d already become the first people to sort a formula from the surrounding prose. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the same as understanding the formula. Since that initial breakthrough, they’d run into a dozen dead ends.
Wesley was so fascinated, he tended to forget the Maggia’s threats. Not Connors. The fate of the man’s family weighed so heavily, it acted only as a distraction.
Was it Samuel Johnson who said that when a man knows he is to be hanged, it concentrates the mind wonderfully? Well, he was wrong about my unwilling partner, at least.
To relax, Wesley had taken to flipping a coin and catching it, something he’d seen George Sanders do in an old movie. Connors, though, kept clenching his fists and throwing a stylus against the wall.
Wesley caught the coin. “You do realize we’ve made more progress in the last few hours than others have made in centuries?”
Connors grimaced. “Yes, but it’s not enough, is it? I couldn’t run any tests, so I only have his appearance and that attack to go by—but if his heart’s as frail as I suspect, it could kill him any minute. Even if Silvermane means to keep his word, which I doubt, he could die long before we finish.”
The information left Wesley feeling torn. Silvermane’s death would leave the Maggia in disarray, at least temporarily. On the one hand, it could be just the opportunity Mr. Fisk needed. On the other, it could rob Wesley of both his life and the chance to solve the great mystery.
Connors picked up the stylus and used it to rotate the wall-projected images of the chemical symbols they’d discovered. “Even now that we’re just looking at the formula, there are still too many variables. Some could be components, some proportions, some the relationships between ingredients.”
When Wesley flipped the coin again, Connors watched it twirl. Eyes wide, the biochemist looked back at the projection. A hooked bar on a symbol marked it as part of the formula. But each symbol also contained a curve in various positions. Connors went from one symbol to the next, tracing the different curves: straight, slanted, and horizontal.
Wesley realized what Connors was thinking before the man spoke.
“The curves appear in all the symbols, prose or chemical, in about twenty variations. In the formula, though, there are only three, so they could relate to our variables: ingredient, amount, and relationship. No one noticed before because they were never looking only at the formula. I think we’ve got it!”
* * *
WHEN Cicero and his hostages finally reached the Galby building, he planned to secure them and take a few minutes for himself. The long night hadn’t even allowed for a bathroom break. But the instant Silvermane learned they were here, he demanded they all be brought straight to his office. Like a good soldier, Cicero obeyed.
As he stepped out of the crowded elevator, his men shoved the hooded, cuffed mother and child along behind him. Silvermane put his gnarled fists to the desk, pushed himself to standing, and walked over to stare down at Cicero.
“What do you mean by bringing them to our headquarters without informing me?”
Cicero knew that Silvermane was towering over him for show, to accentuate their difference in height and demonstrate that pack-animal superiority. But Cicero was tired and stressed. What should have sounded like a plea came out more like a command.
“Take it easy!”
Recognizing his mistake, he toned himself down. “Mr. Manfredi, Spider-Man showed up at my office. I had to make a judgment call.”
The excuse only made things worse. Silvermane pounded the desk. “Spider-Man? He won’t stop until he finds them. You’ve just brought him to our doorstep!”
We wouldn’t be in this mess at all if you would just die already, you senile gorilla.
Cicero rubbed his face with his hand and forced himself to adopt a civil tone. “First off, I couldn’t call. This is not the kind of thing we could discuss over the phone. Second, last I saw him, the wall-crawler was buried under rubble. Any luck, he’s dead; at worst, he’s hurting pretty bad. Third, I just spent the entire night and half the morning driving around Jersey and Connecticut to make sure no one tailed us. I don’t see what else I could have done.”
At some point Silvermane had stopped listening. His nostrils flared. “You stink.”
Cicero couldn’t take anymore. “Sorry, but they ain’t got showers in the sedan!”
The silence that followed was so complete he could almost hear Silvermane’s lips twitch as they curved into a thin smile. “If I needed an excuse to gut your treacherous hide, you just gave it to me. Marko, take this miserable—”
But the man mountain had a hand to his earpiece. “Mr. Silvermane, it’s the lab. They’ve made some kind of progress.”
When Silvermane’s mouth dropped open, Marko flinched. “Sorry. You said I should I tell you first thing, no matter what you were doing. You said I should interrupt—”
“No, Marko. I’m not angry. I’m thrille
d.” Shaky on his feet, he waved the giant over to use him as a support. “We must go there at once.”
On the way out, Silvermane paused to glare at Cicero. Between the wildly confident look in the mob boss’s eyes and his wide, skull-like grin, Cicero briefly worried that the rock really did hold some weird, powerful secret.
Once they were out of sight, he pushed the thought away. Ah, he’s delusional.
A whimper from Martha Connors reminded him that someone in the Maggia should act sane. He turned to his men, who were still hanging back near the private elevator, and gestured at the hostages.
“Find some room to keep them in.”
When they hesitated, he screamed. “Do I have to check with the boss on that, too? They’re here, okay? We have to keep them somewhere! Do it!”
* * *
AT FIRST, Connors thought the lights in the hall outside the lab had gone out. But it was Marko, his large form blocking the doorway. The giant eyed them warily, but stayed mute as he helped Silvermane into the room. The Maggia leader looked even closer to death than when Connors had last seen him. At the same time, his gray face had a strange new shine—a look of, for lack of a more age-appropriate term, childish eagerness.
“Do you have it?”
Connors hoped Wesley would answer, but the man had quietly shifted to the rear of the lab. Did he trust Connors, as a doctor, to better explain the danger? Or was he avoiding Silvermane’s attention at all costs?
Seeing no choice, Connors exhaled. “We’ve isolated a formula for some sort of elixir. But we have no idea what its intended purpose is, let alone whether it would work. The next stage would be to start some tests, then in a few weeks…”
Silvermane waved a crooked, shaky finger in the air. “What’s the tablet say about it?”
With a slight pang of guilt, Connors nodded at his partner. By now, they’d both guessed the reason for the aged mobster’s interest in the elixir.
“The prose is not my area of expertise. Wesley?”
Before answering, Wesley cast him an admiring glance, as if to say, Touché!
“We haven’t had time to complete even a rough translation of the full text, but an accurate answer would require years of research. Aside from the variations in meaning, which are problematic in any translation, there seems to be an entire cosmology buried in the layers of the writing—literally.”
Silvermane placed his thumb against his cupped fingers, creating a mocking hand-puppet. “Blah blah blah! Just tell me if it says something like this.”
He tilted his head back, closed his eyes as if entering some sort of trance, and sang:
“They tell us that we’re born to die
But there’s no sense in that—say I.
Those of us who know the truth,
Will drink, drink, the nectar of youth.”
Finished, his impatient essence returned from wherever it had gone.
Confused, Wesley looked to Connors.
Silvermane came forward. “Is it anything like that? Either of you. Is it?”
When neither answered, Marko crossed his arms. “Mr. Silvermane asked a question.”
Finally Wesley said, “Yes and no. There are some similarities, but—”
Silvermane’s childlike delight returned. “Ha! Get to work. Create that nectar for me—now!”
Connors spoke up. “I can’t. I have no idea what these chemicals will do to your body. If it kills you, my family dies. Am I wrong?”
When Silvermane bobbed his head, it didn’t seem quite attached to his body. “The hard part’s done. I could hire any one of a thousand chemists to follow a formula. But I’m in a hurry, so I’ll make your decision easier. Either you create that nectar immediately, or they die now. Starting with your son. And, to be clear, you’d better hope it works.”
As Marko helped his boss to the door, Connors felt the creature stirring in the back of his mind.
“Silvermane!”
The old man turned back. Connors pointed at Wesley. The thing inside him didn’t trust partners—or anyone else, for that matter.
“I have a family at stake. He doesn’t. I don’t want him here.”
Silvermane’s eyes slid back and forth between the two, then settled on Connors. “Okay.”
* * *
WHEN class was over, the rush of jostling elbows and shoulders reminded Peter how much his body still ached. The worst of the pain had subsided enough for him to plod along the jam-packed hall without looking severely disabled. But outside, a late-afternoon chill managed to invade the stiffness remaining in his limbs, even through his clothes.
Web-slinging was still out of the question.
A limbering walk helped, but it was clear from the sharpness in his chest that he had one or two cracked ribs. Fortunately, they only hurt when he stretched a certain way or inhaled too deeply. He was thinking of heading to a clinic to have his side bandaged, but the sight of the Coffee Bean conjured more emotional concerns.
Just as well Gwen’s busy today. I’m not up to a serious conversation.
As he passed the window, the sight of a cozy couple at one of the tables made him sigh.
I still feel like a jerk for the way I blew up at Flash. Did I ever apologize for that?
The waitress was obscuring his view, but he caught a glimpse of platinum blonde hair. Thinking it was a trick of the light, he almost kept walking. But something made him stop and draw closer to the glass.
Wait a minute…
The waitress still concealed their faces, but not the male’s crisp dress uniform.
Flash? With Gwen? It’s isn’t possible.
He pressed closer.
It just isn’t!
When the woman lifted her head to thank the waitress, Peter couldn’t deny it any longer. It was Gwen. She and Flash were alone together, leaning across a small table to look into each other’s eyes. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but what did it matter? She’d lied to him.
He turned away and stormed along the sidewalk, not caring where he was going.
So that’s how it is, huh?
Time passed. The sounds and sights of the city faded: the bustle of the streets, the passing cars.
I was an idiot to think a girl like Gwen could ever…
The cement at his feet was a blur. He didn’t even notice as it darkened with the fading day.
But I thought…she and I…
He hit something, or something hit him. It didn’t matter. It gave easily enough.
“Watch where you’re going, runt!”
The words felt so far off, they might as well have come from a stereo or TV playing somewhere inside one of the apartments above.
I wouldn’t have believed it in a million years.
“He ain’t listening! Maybe he needs to have his ears cleaned out.”
When the two bruisers came up from behind, Peter’s spider-sense tingled, but barely. He swatted at them with the back of his left arm.
“Get out of my way.”
The fleshy crunch as they slammed into a brick wall snapped him out of it. The wounded men, barely conscious, helped each other to their feet and ran.
No! Didn’t JJJ teach me that lesson? If I’d hit them any harder…
It had all happened so fast, he doubted his attackers would remember much, let alone admit how easily they’d been tossed. Had anyone else seen? Where was he, anyway?
He looked around. Somehow he’d managed to wander onto a dark sidewalk on the Lower East Side. The street was one of the few still abandoned to crack dealers.
It’s almost as if I was asking for trouble. No wonder Gwen prefers Flash over a nutjob like me.
Understanding didn’t make it hurt any less. And when his cell rang, the betrayal felt as fresh as when he’d first seen it, hours ago.
He picked up, then wished he hadn’t. “Yeah?”
“Peter? It’s Gwen.”
“I know.”
“Okay…” She sounded confused by his tone. “You we
re in pretty bad shape this morning. I wanted to see if you were feeling any better.”
“Well, I’m not.”
A long pause. “That’s it? If something’s bugging you, I’ve got a right to know what it is.”
Her voice was tinged with that familiar mix of pain and concern—but for the first time, he no longer believed it was real. “Sure, Gwen, you’ve got your rights. I hope you enjoy sharing them with Flash Thompson, because it won’t be at my expense anymore.”
He hung up.
After spending some time with his head in hands, he eyed the street and decided that whatever aches his body still had, it was time for some action.
TWELVE
SPIDER-MAN hurtled between buildings, cracked ribs and all. Pushing the range of his web-line to its limit, he rose to the heavens, plunged back toward the Earth, and then careened higher still. Yes, he feared for the Connors family, but whenever his hurt body threatened to fail him, it was the image of Gwen and Flash that pushed him onward.
Did it matter what gave him the energy? His uncle would have said it did—that indulging anger could only cloud his judgment, get in the way at the wrong time. But Peter couldn’t help what he was feeling, and this wasn’t the time for a mental-health day. If he vented enough, he hoped the pain would wear out faster and clear his mind.
Who am I kidding? Can I even remember the last time my mind felt clear? Wait, yes I can. It was when I got that check from Robbie. Wow. How long did it take for me to screw things up by attacking Flash? Half a day? Or was Gwen already seeing him?
It was Friday night. He might be heartbroken, but all sorts of New Yorkers were out celebrating— and some of them would be looking for more than a smoothie. With the police in three states focused on the Kingpin, the odds were that any drug runners or distributors still operating on the streets would be Maggia. All he had to do was find one and break them.
He really felt like breaking something.
As he hunted for an informer, a few false alarms led him to interrupt some private, but perfectly legal, conversations. An hour later, a top-down Porsche packed with upper-crust teens screaming about “hardy partying” looked like a better bet. The driver, oblivious to Spider-Man’s presence above and behind them, turned down a quiet side street and tried to hush his rowdy friends. They kept chortling as he pulled up in front of a dingy walk-up and flashed his headlights.
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