Spider-Man

by Stefan Petrucha

  Aunt May was in the bed near the radiator and window. The mattress was propped up so she lay at an angle. The blankets tucked in around her were perfectly smooth, as if she hadn’t moved since arriving.

  Bromwell had warned that her high bilirubin had changed her appearance, but until Peter stepped closer, he had no idea how much. The buzzing fluorescents made everyone look a little green, but the yellow tinge to his aunt’s skin was so unreal, she looked like an image on a television with a skewed color balance.

  Swallowing, he sat by her side and placed his palm on her thin shoulder. At his touch, her eyelids opened, and he saw that the yellow had spread to her eyes. He choked back a sob. Fortunately, her gaze wandered dreamily; by the time she fully woke and recognized him, he’d managed to compose himself.

  “Peter!”

  “Liver disease? Aunt May, why didn’t you tell me?”

  She pursed her lips the same way she would if he’d uncovered a more benign secret, like the time she’d sold some of her jewelry to buy him a new microscope.

  “The silly doctors told me this was years away. After all you’ve been through, I just didn’t have the heart.”

  Twisting her lips into a wispy smile, she grabbed his hand and patted it. Her fingertips felt bony and cold. He clasped them and rubbed them until they were warm.

  “If I don’t know what’s going on, how can I help you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Young man, I’ve said the same to you for years. Half the time I have no idea what you’re feeling.”

  “Sorry, Aunt May, I…”

  She pinched his cheek. “Hush. We’ve been through that. If you ever want to know the best way to help me, the answer is to help yourself. Be happy and productive.”

  “But Aunt May…”

  Neither of them noticed Dr. Bromwell at the door until he spoke. “Peter, a word?”

  “Sure.” He turned back to his aunt. “Stay right there, okay? None of those acrobatics, now.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “And here I was looking forward to starting that body-sculpting class.”

  Peter chuckled, hoping it didn’t sound forced. “Look who’s telling jokes for a change. That’s a good sign, right, Doc?”

  “It certainly is.” Dr. Bromwell didn’t laugh, but he nodded pleasantly. “Outside, please.”

  In a scene he’d seen in a dozen sappy movies and soap operas, Peter slumped against the hallway wall. The doctor stood up straight, bending his neck closer as he whispered.

  “Her liver function has been declining for years. She’ll need a transplant if it gets any worse. The procedure is common, but at her age any invasive surgery carries greater risk. Because of that, she’ll be far down the donor waiting list. On the other hand, if a family member volunteered, we could perform the transplant as soon as she’s strong enough—perhaps as early as next week. I know she’s not a blood relative, but your medical records indicate you’re likely compatible. If you’re willing, there are some tests I’d like to perform. We could start in the morning.”

  Peter was nodding the whole time. “Of course, of course.”

  But as the doctor described the biopsy, a terrible reality dawned on him. My blood’s radioactive—my DNA has been altered. A transplant from me could kill her!

  Mouth half-open, the nodding stopped and he found himself shaking his head. “No, no, sorry, I’m gonna…I’m going to have think about this.”

  If Bromwell was surprised, he was experienced enough not to show it. “Of course. You’ve already had a shock today, and it’s a big decision. Take some time, study the information in this packet. But be aware her liver function will most likely continue to fail. We are on the clock.”

  The doctor kept talking, but Peter’s mind was reeling. At some point he mumbled his thanks and stumbled to the waiting room to stare numbly at the pamphlet describing the procedure. No more than a second later, Anna Watson stormed in, her eyes red and wide.

  Wielding a bouquet of flowers like a cudgel, she slammed them into his shoulder. Fresh petals flew everywhere.

  “You have to think about it?”

  He raised his hand to block the second blow, but Anna’s real weapon was the horrified pain in her voice, and it cut deep. “I heard everything, you selfish coward! You’re just going to let her die? That woman’s done everything for you, your whole life, and you’re going to let her die?”

  And, of course, he couldn’t explain.

  SIXTEEN

  AS SOON as he left the hospital, Peter found the nearest hiding spot and switched into his red-and-blues.

  Aunt May’s dying—and there’s nothing I can do.

  He took to the building tops, soared above the streets, raced through urban nooks and mazes only he could find. But even New York couldn’t supply the distraction he needed. If anything, the city bore the same old stink as his life.

  Nothing ever changes, except that it gets worse.

  No matter how high or how fast he moved, it all felt like a worthless routine.

  What else can I do—sit around and wait? Where else can I go? Back home to hope Harry feels sorry enough for me to have a conversation? Ahhh…I may as well try to take some Spider-Man pics.

  He’d turned in so few to the Bugle lately that JJJ was threatening to fire him. Without that lousy salary, he couldn’t afford the lousy books to pass his lousy class. And then…

  Then what? If I can’t even protect Aunt May, what difference does it make what I do?

  He dropped down onto a townhouse roof near ESU, and resisted the temptation to kick the brick chimney to pieces. He looked out and around, hoping the stillness would somehow reach inside and calm him.

  What is it, like 3 a.m.?

  He swooped by Captain Stacy’s old precinct house. When a new building had been constructed a few blocks away, this one had been converted into an annex to store old files and evidence. No one cared about the place anymore. The brick walls sported bits of graffiti; some windows were cracked. While a few security lights still glowed in the halls of the upper floors, most were broken.

  But there was another light, weak and flickering, visible beyond the low basement windows. And it was moving. Hopping down for a closer look, he saw that one of the windows wasn’t just cracked. It had been smashed.

  Randy said some students think the place is haunted. It’s probably some freshman ghost-hunting on a dare, but a break-in is a break-in.

  Angling through the broken window, he entered quietly. The entire floor was packed with shelves and filing cabinets. The only remnants of the building’s previous purpose were a few concrete walls with the cell doors removed. Without their iron bars, they formed a sort of open maze; he could see the flickering light moving along the far wall.

  Kind of a mini-version of that warehouse at the end of Raiders.

  Spider-Man set up his camera in a high corner. He hoped the wide angle would provide a decent view of the ad hoc labyrinth. As he clicked it on, he heard a satisfied, “Ah!”

  Sounds like whoever it is found whatever it was they wanted.

  The flickering light went out. Fortunately, the camera’s infrared could capture the vandal’s face even in the dark.

  Guess they’ll be leaving soon, which gives me an idea for a better photo-op.

  Sealing the broken window with webbing, he angled the camera toward the only other way out: the basement door. Then he blocked the exit and waited. Sure enough, a slight figure appeared beneath the window. Peter couldn’t make out his features—it was just a shadow emerging from shadow.

  The figure climbed to the windowsill. Finding his way out sealed, the crook grunted, looked around, and hopped back down.

  Okay, come to poppa.

  The figure reemerged dead ahead—just as Spider-Man had planned. They saw each other at the same time, illuminated by the headlights of a passing car.

  That’s no college student—it’s a kid!

  A surprisingly young-sounding voice muttered some surprisingly adult words.
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  “Dude,” Spider-Man replied. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

  His webs shot out, but the boy dove into the labyrinth. After a few more scraping sounds, everything went silent.

  “I know you think you can play hide-and-seek in there, pal, but this is the only way out, and I’m feeling pretty patient.” A full five minutes passed before he added, “I’m not going to turn you in. Just put whatever it is you’ve got back, and we can call it a night. Okay?”

  After another five minutes, Spider-Man realized

  he wasn’t feeling all that patient.

  Thinking his spider-signal might spook the boy, he flashed his insignia along the aisles formed by the shelves. Nothing budged. On the other hand, the footprints it revealed in dust told him where the boy was hiding. Clicking off the light, he crept among the tall shelves.

  A couple of more steps and I can…

  A low rustling turned him around.

  Aw! The little brat doubled back behind me!

  His spider-sense told him the attack was coming, but not how fast and hard it would be. He spun, hands out, and faced a wave of falling evidence racks. With no time to leap away—nowhere to go in the mess of boxes and metal framed-shelves—he was buried in seconds.

  But not for long. He flexed his arms, clearing enough of the files for him to spot the boy at the exit. A cardboard box cradled under one arm, he was trying to pry open the door with a crowbar.

  Spider-Man tried to move, but his ankle was pinned between a collapsed shelf’s scissored supports. He could yank himself free, but the sharp steel would do some damage, leaving him with a limp he’d rather not have to deal with or explain.

  With two thwips, he fired dual webs from his wrist-shooters. One missed, hitting the debris. The other sailed through and caught the box the boy was holding. An easy tug wrenched it away from him, resulting in another flurry of decidedly adult language.

  Spider-Man caught the box, then turned to prying apart the steel wrapped around his ankle. The thief hesitated an instant, then tore open the door and bolted into the night.

  In the seconds it took Peter to free himself and follow, the kid had vanished along one of a dozen possible paths. Taking to the roof, Spider-Man scanned the streets and sidewalks, but they were empty. The thief was gone.

  The web-slinger turned to the box, marked “evidence.” The seal was already broken, so he opened it, revealing a familiar stone tablet.

  This thing again? No way.

  He thought about it a moment. Hey, it’s not my responsibility. Easy enough to leave it dangling for the police to find. Right?

  SEVENTEEN

  THE NEXT morning, back in his room, Peter sat at his desk staring at the tablet, asking himself over and over:

  Why didn’t I just leave it there? What’s wrong with me?

  In part it was because of the signature on the form he’d found in the evidence box. George Stacy’s confident pen strokes were their own sort of relic, conjuring memories of the captain’s wise, steady hand.

  The thing that had really sealed Peter’s decision, though, was the images his camera had captured. There were six shots of the boy’s face. None were perfect, but a few were clear enough to see a vague resemblance to a certain Silvio Manfredi.

  Is it his grandson? A relative? Or worse, is Silvermane somehow back?

  Peter flipped over the stone, hefted the weight, and returned it to the box. He slipped it under his bed.

  At this rate, I should probably keep the damn thing and have it made into a lamp.

  Truthfully, though? It was a welcome distraction. He still had time before class, and hospital visiting hours weren’t until midafternoon. The latest update from Dr. Bromwell said that Aunt May’s levels were stable, but again with that ominous “for now.” At least he had some time to figure out what to say about the transplant.

  Maybe I should tell Bromwell the truth about me, if only so he starts looking for other ways to help her. Is there some sort of client-attorney privilege with doctors? If nothing else, I sure could use some advice.

  Speaking of attorneys, I know the perfect place to start investigating the break-in. It’s been awhile, but I still remember the way to Caesar Cicero’s office.

  He made the switch to Spider-Man and headed for Midtown. He scaled the building’s 30 stories, looked in through a window, and frowned. Several walls inside the venerable skyscraper had been knocked down, giving the new Maggia leader’s personal office a full quarter of the floor.

  Looks like he’s still feeling his oats. Which only makes the delightful fellow that much easier to find.

  Indeed, no fewer than 12 windows gave the clinging hero a view of the squat man seated behind the largest desk he’d ever seen.

  Talk about compensating! You could land an airplane on that thing.

  Cicero was the picture of satisfaction, his feet up and shoes off. He flexed his toes, staring happily out at the billowing clouds and blue sky above the city. His wide face wore a relaxed smile, as if the world were a joke and someone had just slipped him the punchline.

  The smile remained undisturbed until Spider-Man wrenched open the window and hopped inside.

  “Glad you didn’t replace these classic push-out casements with something I couldn’t open. Otherwise I’d have had to smash my way in.”

  Cicero scrambled forward, reaching for an alarm button—or a concealed weapon. Then he seemed to think better of it. He flopped back into his seat, tsked, and sighed.

  “There’s also a nice new front door, which you could have, you know, used.”

  “And miss that beautiful mix of fear and guilt on your face? No way.”

  “Peh. You like it so much, take a picture. For that matter, take my keys and get the whole place on video.” Straightening his spine, he unhooked a keyring from his pants and tossed it on the carpeted floor between them.

  Spider-Man pointed at the keys. “Is the one for the secret corridor labelled this time?”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide from you, or anyone else.”

  “Really? Pinky square?”

  Cicero slashed his stubby finger across his shirt, making his power tie flutter. “Cross my heart and hope you die. These days, the businesses I run are completely legit.”

  “Riiiiight. The kinder, gentler Maggia I’ve been reading about in Gangster Today. All on the up and up—on paper, anyway.”

  “You’re the lawyer now?” Cicero’s thick broad lips reclaimed their grin. “Of course, ‘on paper.’ How do they say it? The age of the physical object is over.” He waved a hand in the air. “It’s all in the ether. We make more money moving money around than we ever did, excuse me, ever would have, from any illegal trade—if we had ever done such things, which, of course, we did not.”

  Unimpressed, Spider-Man sat on the desk. “Things like kidnapping? I always wondered how you got out of that.”

  “Want to chat about the old days? Fine, let’s chat.”

  Cicero stood, turned his back on the web-slinger, and poured some scotch from a crystal decanter on the bar behind his desk. “Sorry I’m not offering you any, but it’s the good stuff, and—well, you ain’t worth it.”

  He took a swig and smacked his lips.

  “Where were we? Right. Kidnapping. As per the depositions, yeah, I was present in certain named locations along with those unfortunate victims. On the other hand, during the actual commission of any crimes perpetrated upon them, said victims were hooded and, ergo ipso facto, unable to distinguish between those responsible and mere bystanders like myself. As I said under oath, I was en route to report their captivity to the authorities when I was assaulted and illegally detained by a certain web-crawler. He, as it turned out, was unavailable to testify, rendering his side of the story moot.”

  Cicero smacked his lips again. “And maybe, just maybe, someone with my resources managed to pin the remaining charges on the Kingpin’s pal, Wesley. He’ll probably weasel out of it when the case goes to trial in another six m
onths. So before I add trespassing and intimidation charges to the long list of beefs the cops have with you, why don’t you stop with the self-righteous BS and tell me what the hell you want?”

  “Have it your way.” Spider-Man pinged a paperclip on the desk into the snifter in Cicero’s hand.

  As it shattered, the lawyer jumped back from the broken glass and spilling liquid. “Did you have to?”

  “Yeah, kinda. But to answer your first question, there was an attempted theft last night.”

  Cicero pantomimed fainting, raising the back of his hand to his forehead. “Ooh. An attempted theft in New York City! Mercy, how shocking! I already told you, we don’t do that stuff no more.”

  He reached down to the floor, scooped up his key ring, and jangled it in front of Peter. “See for yourself.”

  Without touching any part of the attorney, Spider-Man kicked the ring from his hand. The keys flew across the office, end over end, and landed in the pocket of the fur-lined overcoat hanging in the corner.

  Cicero stared the wall-crawler in the costumed whites of his eyes. “I’m telling the truth. If it’s illegal, I don’t know about it. I even let Marko go. Believe me, it was tough. That dumb giant was so loyal, it hurt—but he just didn’t fit in with the new corporate culture, y’know?” He narrowed his eyes. “What’d they try to take? Must’ve been big to bring you out from the cobwebs. Gold bullion? Some experimental death-ray that turns hamsters into monster trucks?”

  “Somebody tried to steal the tablet.”

  Cicero looked as if he’d swallowed vinegar. “The tablet? Why?”

  Huh. Maybe he doesn’t know anything.

  “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  He cleared his throat. “Wish I could. I never believed in curses until I ran into that hunk of stone. Kingpin wanted it; he’s in a coma. It nearly brought down the Maggia, and you saw how it worked out for Silvermane. Knowing that, why would I—scratch that, why would anyone—want something that turns you into…into nothing?! As a poison? There’s a thousand easier ways to kill a guy. If I ever heard someone was after it, I’d be the first to call the cops.”