Peter blinked, then shook his head in disbelief. “Lady, I understand your grief, but Spider-Man would never help a crook like the Kingpin.”
Pursing her lips, she glanced down, revealing a deep sorrow in her eyes. “Perhaps, but our money also built this hospital wing, which has saved many lives. Likewise, I could use our fortune to ensure that the tablet’s secrets were made available for the benefit of all. Power and money hold no allure for me. I like to think I’ve already learned what Wilson has yet to discover: that everything in life fades, except what we leave behind.”
“What do you mean? What do we leave behind?”
She glanced at the comatose Aunt May. “Family. Richard, our son, holds himself responsible for what happened to his father. He’s attempted suicide before, and now I don’t even know how to contact him. It’s my hope that if my husband is restored, Richard will be able to forgive himself and return. He is our future. My family would be whole. From there, who knows what other changes we might make?”
Peter tried to sound sympathetic. “I understand loss—and believe me, I know how guilt can gnaw at someone. But Wilson Fisk has left a pretty long trail of bodies—”
She cut him off, but somehow made even that seem gracious. “Excuse me—I am, as you journalists like to say, burying the lede. If you speak to Spider-Man and he agrees to give me the tablet, I will pay for the experimental drug to treat your aunt.”
Peter was stunned.
“You’d be saving her life. But I…I don’t know that Spider-Man would put that above right and wrong.”
“You may be correct, but I did some checking. I don’t know if he considers you a friend, but your lives are clearly intertwined. This is no veiled threat, I assure you. I’m only hoping the gesture might help change his mind, help him better understand that my motives aren’t so vile. I hope at least he’ll be willing to meet with me.”
Giving her the tablet would save Aunt May.
But…I can’t help criminals, can I?
“I…I’ll pass the message along.”
TWENTY-SIX
PETER stood in Brooklyn Bridge Park, the offer swirling in his head like the little vortices of water that formed around the concrete pylons.
The choice seemed so simple. It wasn’t a heat-of-the-moment decision, where life and death came down to skill and speed—like how best to take down a villain in a fight, or which way to go to get someone out of a burning building.
He could give the tablet to Vanessa Fisk and save Aunt May—or not.
He could restore to power one of the worst criminals the city had ever seen for the sake of the woman who’d raised him—or not.
In an odd way, actually having this choice clarified some of the other turning points in his life. No matter how much his guilt insisted otherwise, there was no way he could have known that crook would kill Uncle Ben, or that the Goblin would kill Gwen. He couldn’t have known, until it was too late.
It wasn’t even as if any one choice would have fixed everything. Being a hero sooner would’ve saved Uncle Ben, but being a hero had killed Gwen. To think that if only he were good and true enough, everything would work out—was its own sort of arrogance. No matter how great his power, or his responsibility, there were times when the big choices weren’t his.
Not this time, though. Aunt May’s fate really was in his hands.
He looked at the filthy water. The tablet was right down there; all he had to do was dive in and retrieve it.
But he hadn’t decided, not yet.
He turned away and headed back toward the Village.
The thing was, there were other decisions he was grateful he hadn’t made. For a long time, he’d been angry that the Green Goblin’s fate had been taken out of his hands. Now, for the first time, he knew he’d been lucky. Of course he liked to think he wouldn’t have killed Norman Osborn. Becoming a murderer would have betrayed everything he believed in, tarnished Gwen’s memory. But at the time, he’d been so hurt, so eager to lash out. In the heat of the moment, part of him had asked, why not? Why not cross that line just this once?
Just as, now, he asked himself: Why not hand over the tablet?
This is different. It’s not about taking a life—it’s about restoring two lives. But it’s bad enough that the world has to deal with Silvermane again. Vanessa Fisk might believe the Kingpin can change, but I don’t. What if there’s a way to control the elixir, to stop that cycle of aging and de-aging? That would leave both of them more powerful—even immortal. They could end up battling each other for control of the city…forever.
Sure, I can tell myself I’ll capture Fisk if he tries to resume his criminal ways—but isn’t that just an excuse to do the wrong thing? Look how long Caesar Cicero stayed in jail.
At the corner of East Houston and Lafayette, he passed a scruffy man in rags, standing on a plastic milk crate. He wasn’t begging, or playing music, or preaching the end of the world. He was just reciting a poem that sounded vaguely familiar:
I grow old…I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
Peter tossed a bill in the man’s hat and kept walking.
And what if the peach isn’t even yours?
He wondered what his uncle would do, but had no idea. And even if he could guess at Ben’s advice, this was still his decision. Only the living would have to deal with the results.
A head full of ghosts wouldn’t change that.
He was alone on this one.
On the way home, he decided to pass the shuttered Coffee Bean. A solitary figure stood out front, hands in pockets, staring at the darkness inside. Probably some other old regular mourning the past. As Peter neared, he recognized him.
Harry?
Peter stepped quietly beside him. When Harry saw Peter’s reflection in the glass, he instantly turned to leave. Pete grabbed his shoulder.
“Wait. Please. If we’re going to live together, we should at least be able to talk to each other. Unless you plan on kicking me out?”
Harry grimaced and pushed the hand away. “And have the gang hate me for tossing poor Peter Parker on the streets? No thanks.”
They both stood there awkwardly for a few moments, staring through the dark glass.
Peter tried to start a conversation. “You’d think they’d have warned the regulars or something.”
Harry frowned. “There were signs up for weeks. Figures you wouldn’t notice.”
After they stood in silence for awhile, Peter gave it another shot. “Look, I get it. You’re furious that I work with the guy you think killed your dad. I know he didn’t do it. If I thought for a second it was him, of course I’d quit—even if it meant losing the little money I earn.”
“You could have worked for my father. He offered you a job.”
Sure, before he went nuts…
“Yeah, but I’m barely handling my classes as it is. I wanted to wait until I’d graduated.”
Harry looked at him sideways. “Brain like yours? You could’ve handled it.”
Pete narrowed his eyes. “Was that, like, a compliment?”
“Just a fact. I wouldn’t read much into it.”
“Fine, I won’t, but can we try putting all this aside for a little while? A temporary truce? I don’t know about you, but I’m going through a lot, and I could sure use a friend.”
Staring ahead, Harry exhaled and tapped on the glass. “I can almost make out where Flash scratched his name into our table. Hard to believe so much is changing.”
“Got that right. I always thought growing up would bring more freedom, but it feels like all you get is tougher choices.”
Harry nodded. “You should see how they look at me whenever I go into the Oscorp executive offices. People think because I’m rich I don’t have any problems. But I’m barely out of rehab, and all of a sudden I’m deciding which companies to buy or sell. And my biggest concern? Not who gets fired an
d loses their homes. Nope—it’s whether or not I’m disappointing Dad.”
Peter wanted to tell Harry he was the only thing that had ever kept Norman Osborn sane, but that would have meant revealing too much. “I’d say you should focus on what you think is right. But, man, lately I’m realizing the big stuff doesn’t always have a right and wrong. Just shades of gray.”
“That’s it exactly. Some days I’m so fed up, I want to fire everyone, take a handful of pills, and let the world burn.”
Peter’s brow furrowed. “But you wouldn’t, would you?”
“One day at a time. Today, I didn’t. Tomorrow?”
“Don’t forget, I’m here for you, whenever, however. We all are.”
Harry shrugged. “What shade of gray are you up against?”
“Not sure how to put this, but if someone you loved was dying and to save them you’d have to do something terrible, would you?”
Harry gave off a little laugh. “Guess we’re not too old for truth or dare, huh? You’re not talking to the bravest guy in the world, Pete. Too much stress and I crumble like paper. But if someone I loved really needed me? I’d like to think I’d do anything—lie, steal, murder, crawl over a pile of dead bodies, whatever it took—to save them.” An odd smirk came to his face, as if his father’s features were haunting his own. “In fact, if I ever prove Spider-Man had a hand in my father’s death? Well…one day at a time. One day at a time.”
The look evaporated. “But we’re not talking about anything like that, right? And maybe that operation’s not as bad as you think. There’re lots worse things out there to be afraid of, you know.”
He thinks I’m talking about donating my liver. That I’m afraid.
Unable to respond any other way, Peter nodded.
After a final glance at their old table, Harry headed off. “Enjoyed the truce, roommate. Helped set me straight on a few things. I’m heading to Dad’s penthouse, so the place is yours tonight. Hope your aunt will be okay.”
Peter wasn’t sure the peace would last, whether they’d ever be close again. It was just something else to add to the long list of things he didn’t know. There was one thing he was certain about: He was drained. He needed a good night’s sleep.
But the day’s strange encounters weren’t over yet. Someone was waiting a few yards shy of the entrance to his apartment building. Seeing Peter, he stepped into the light of a streetlamp. Less than 24 hours had passed, but Silvermane was older now. His clothes were still hopelessly out of fashion, but the suit and vest were a better fit.
When he called out Peter’s name, he extended the vowels. “Peetaaaah Paaahkaaah!”
Peter stopped short. “Mr. Silvermane. Look, I did as you asked. I gave Spider-Man your message.”
Manfredi nodded. “Yeah, and a few seconds later he shows up and nearly beats the crap out of me. I can handle any five normal guys easy, so when I say Spider-Man’s powerful, it means something. I didn’t even get to ask him about the tablet. Still, I’ve gone up against worse, and won. You know how? Finding the weak spot. In this case, that’s you, Peetahhh Pahhhkahhh.”
“I don’t know what you heard about my relationship with him—”
“Ah, I don’t believe half of what I hear. But I do believe what I see. That’s why I’ve been following you. Watching you duck into some shadows, seeing Spider-Man come out. Seeing Spider-Man swing over to the hospital, watching you go traipsing in the front entrance. See where this is going?” He made some motions in the air with his hands, as if trying to draw out a response, but Peter was speechless. He grinned. “Ah, you know exactly where I’m headed. I can smell it on you. You know that I know who you are. Do I have to say it out loud?”
Peter’s worst fear hung in the air between them. As Silvermane reached into his vest pocket, Peter slipped a web-shooter from his belt to his wrist.
Manfredi pulled out an old-style reporter’s notebook and flipped it open. “Let’s see who we got here…Harold Osborn, Mary Jane Watson, Eugene ‘Flash’ Thompson. Heh. Eugene. No wonder he prefers Flash. Randolph Robertson, his dad Joseph. Am I leaving anybody out? Oh, yeah. That old lady you were so eager to get to at the hospital: May Reilly Parker.”
Every word made his muscles tighten. Hearing his aunt’s name, he snapped.
“Is the picture clear enough for you yet? I get the tablet, or they get—”
Peter was on him in an instant. He slammed Silvermane down against a parked car, one hand against his throat, the other pulling back. One good punch, just one, and his friends and family would be safe. The world would be free of a killer.
Was it only an hour ago he’d been wondering what he’d have done to the Goblin in a moment like this? Now he knew.
His fist flew. At the last second, he drove it into the parked car, bending the door inward so hard its hinge broke off.
Silvermane used the opportunity to kick Peter in the abdomen. It didn’t hurt, but it pushed Peter back long enough for Manfredi to point at him and shout:
“Hey, take it easy! I thought you were smarter than that.”
Afraid some bystander might glimpse his face, Peter quickly covered it with a web, sheer enough to see through. Dead eyes drilling into his foe, Silvermane adjusted his jacket. “I took precautions, you idiot. Anything happens to me, sealed envelopes get delivered to all the major media. So go get yourself a drink, or suck on a fly, or whatever it is you have to do to wrap your head around the fact that I’ve won and there’s nothing you can do about. Then you go get that tablet and bring it here in exactly six hours, or the people you know start dying. Got me?”
Peter said nothing.
“Good.”
When Silvermane turned and strode off, Peter held himself together long enough to flip a spider-tracer onto the mobster. Then he raced several blocks away, stepped into a vacant lot—and screamed.
He kept screaming, but no one answered.
TWENTY-SEVEN
ONCE Peter’s hands stopped shaking from rage, he changed back into the red-and-blue. It wasn’t only Aunt May at risk. Everyone he knew was in danger. At the same time, this decision was much clearer:
At least Wilson Fisk has Vanessa to temper him. I can’t give that monster the tablet. I have to find another way.
Silvermane had traveled quickly. He was already far enough that Peter needed his receiver to track the tracer’s signal. It led him to the garment district, to what was left of the metal walls and steel-girder skeleton of an old warehouse.
Something about the building nagged at Spider-Man, as if it should be familiar. Not so much as a physical thing, but a phantom urge he’d neglected to follow.
Silvermane was close, close enough that Peter no longer needed the receiver. His spider-sense led him though the belly of the rotted beast, right up to a pile of old wood lying on the floor. The tracer was somewhere below. He quietly slid the wood aside until there was a gap big enough for his lithe form to slink through to the stairs below. Stooping low on the steps, he crept down.
Most of the basement was in full darkness, but a collection of flickering candles and fading flashlights cast bizarre shadows against the concrete walls and supports. Peter’s other senses weren’t superhuman, but they were more sensitive and precise than most. He knew he wouldn’t be easily seen unless he did something stupid.
Silvio Manfredi was in the center of the open space, kneeling atop some cinderblocks before a frayed wooden sheet. He was muttering, hands clasped as if in prayer. It was the only time Peter had ever seen the man appear humble.
Okay, I found him. Now what? Catch him, and he’ll reveal my identity. Well, he found my weakness, maybe I can find his.
The wooden board, the object of the mobster’s attention, was covered with photos, articles, torn pages, and bits of cloth and jewelry, all pasted, tacked, or nailed in place. Even from a distance, the common subject was clear.
It’s all about him. Silvermane’s life.
As Peter’s eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he real
ized that the walls, all of them, were covered with the same sort of pasted data. As he studied it, he saw there was an order to it, like some sort of crazy, cross-referenced catalogue. One area was arranged by year and decade, another by deed: a list of people he’d murdered—by gun, knife, or fist. Another was a ledger of all he’d stolen—cash, jewelry, gold. A fourth grouping held only photos. A fifth was the other way around, a mass of words: letters, journals, articles. Together, the pieces fit in a weird mosaic that formed abstract patterns depending on how the candlelight played against them.
It’s like some kind of shrine…to himself?
Silvermane stopped muttering and raised his voice.
“They tell us that we’re born to die…”
Now he’s singing? And without a karaoke machine?
His self-assured tenor echoed, filling the darkness. But then it faltered and fell back to mumbling. “Nah. Still not right.”
The clothes, the way he’s been talking—it’s as if he’s reliving the last 80 years in scattered bits and pieces. He’s not praying—he’s trying to remember.
“That’s it!”
Silvermane had cried out so loudly that, for a second, Spider-Man worried he’d been seen. But no, the mob boss was only congratulating himself. Excited, he pulled a new digital recorder from his pocket, tore away the packaging, and fumbled with the batteries.
Then he clicked the record button, cleared his throat, and started singing again:
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.
He raised the recorder as if it were a trophy, then brought it back down to his lips and kept talking. “To my future self—I finally got it, the song. And thanks to this thing, it ain’t ever going away again. Once Spider-Man caves and gives me the tablet, all I have to do is figure out how to change that freaking dinosaur reject I left in the sewers back into a scientist.”
Dinosaur? Dammit! He means Curt Connors!
Spider-Man Page 21
