by David Liss
MAYA watched the reporter leave the building, stopping to chat with the security guard on her way out. She’d passed that guard hundreds of times, and never spoken a word that wasn’t required by the business at hand.
It must be nice, she thought, to be so relaxed around other people. Maya didn’t want to be unfriendly, but she didn’t really know how to be anything else.
She didn’t blame her father. It hadn’t been easy for him to be a single parent in New York City. Maya didn’t remember anything of her mother, who died when she was very little, but she could recall a few snippets from when they still lived on the reservation in Montana. There were other children there with whom she played, and a pair of kindly women who took care of her. Maya had thought of them as old, but they probably hadn’t been more than 40 at the time. One had taught Maya sign language, but then Maya had taught herself to read lips. Even as a little girl, she would not limit herself. She always wanted options, and she never wanted to be in a position of not knowing what people were saying, wherever she was.
“There’s nothing you can’t do,” this woman had told her, her eyes sparkling with wonder. “I’ve never seen anyone learn like you do. It’s like you can echo anything.”
It always stuck with her. That she could echo—that she was an echo.
There was another powerful memory from those days. A fight involving a man. Someone who came to their house. He’d been drunk, looking to hurt them. The two had fought, and Maya had hidden under her bed, not knowing what was happening, hoping her father would come and tell her it was all over.
Her father didn’t come.
The man did. He was hurt, bleeding from his head, and pressing a towel against a wound on his side. He managed to pull her out from under the bed. She wiggled free from his hard grasp, but he grabbed her again. His bloody hand grabbed her by the face, and she screamed. Then the man fell over, and her father stood across the room, wounded and unsteady, bleeding from his own wound in the shoulder—and holding a smoking gun.
She’d looked in the mirror next to her father and seen that the bad man had left a bloody handprint on her face. For years after, she dreamed about herself that way, as though it was a part of her face, like she wasn’t herself without that handprint.
They’d left that night. People wouldn’t understand, her father had said. The man who had tried to kill them was an important white man from town, friends with policemen and politicians. They would never believe him when he said he’d been attacked.
Years later she’d wondered, but at the time it hadn’t occurred to her to question his word. It never occurred to her to complain when he put her in schools where the other kids made fun of her and excluded her, because when she came home he was waiting, and he made her feel like there was a place in the world where she belonged.
There were times when he was gone for hours or days at a time, though, and their neighbors watched out for her. But that was just a part of life, and it didn’t diminish the love she felt for her father.
After Spider-Man left her an orphan, Maya’s incomplete records, her poor grades, her spotty attendance record, all confused the city’s social workers. They treated her as a problem, as a criminal. She could remember that time clearly if she wanted to, but she chose to forget. It was easier to forget. She didn’t want to think what would have become of her if Mr. Fisk hadn’t taken an interest in the orphaned daughter of a minor business associate.
It wasn’t that Maya couldn’t be social when the situation called for it. After all, mimicry was her greatest skill. She noted who was successful and who wasn’t, and she could make herself emulate their body language. That was easy. Knowing what to say to a near stranger, how to make small talk that didn’t feel strained or awkward—that was something else entirely.
It certainly didn’t matter for her next appointment, since it was with a man who neither valued nor practiced friendliness. Jameson wanted to meet by the hot-dog vendor again, and when she arrived he was already finishing what she presumed was at least his second dog. She checked her watch to make sure she wasn’t late.
“I got here early,” he said. “I wanted to talk, and not let you watch my lunch get cold.”
“I hope nothing’s wrong,” she said. “I’ve heard some of your broadcasts, and I’m told the ratings are strong.”
“The numbers look great,” he told her. “People want to hear what I have to say. They’re sick of what mainstream media types like Robertson are feeding them.”
“The incident in Times Square seems to have come at a perfect time for you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Maybe a little too perfect.”
Maya almost laughed at that. Did he think she would actually coordinate an attack like that, simply to boost his ratings? The attack had been coordinated, though. Mr. Fisk had brought Bingham in, and people died. She knew that Mr. Fisk hadn’t intended it, and that sometimes, in any great operation, with many wheels turning, accidents happened. She wouldn’t condemn him if an accident at a construction site left people dead. A voice told her that this was different, but she didn’t want to think about it. Not yet. Not until she knew more.
“Let’s not jump to any crazy theories, Mr. Jameson.”
“One of my crazy theories was that there was unsavory money supporting my show. You told me I was wrong, but I’m a journalist, young lady. You think all those years behind a desk made me forget how to do a little digging?” He looked straight at her. “The money is coming from Fisk.”
“I told you,” she said, “that there were business interests in the city that wanted to hear your voice. Mr. Fisk is one of those interests.”
“You knew perfectly well I wouldn’t have accepted money from the Kingpin of Crime.”
“Do not call him that,” she said. “Those charges were disproved.”
“No, they weren’t proved,” he said, “which isn’t the same thing. Still, he’s had his day in court, which is more than we can say for Spider-Man.”
“No one is doing more to help this city than Mr. Fisk,” she said firmly. “He knows the false charges brought against him have biased a number of people, and that’s why he wanted to keep his name out of it. But think, Mr. Jameson. You were one of the voices leading the charge against Mr. Fisk before the trial exonerated him. Why would he want you on the air if he had something to hide?”
The truth was, she knew, he wouldn’t have wanted Jameson on the air at all. Fisk’s empire was large enough that it might be some time before he realized he had Jameson on the payroll. By then, Maya hoped the show would be profitable enough for Fisk to overlook her part in the project, all without his permission.
For Maya, though, it was something more. This was a way to do something, to push Spider-Man that much closer to exposure. She was playing a part in his eventual downfall, and she wasn’t about to stop.
“I don’t like it,” Jameson said.
“I understand,” Maya said casually. What she understood, though, was that having his voice heard all over the city was intoxicating to the man. Being able to voice whatever condemnation came to mind, with no filter, was something Jameson desired very much. She very much doubted he was going to walk away.
He peered at her, uncertain of what to make of her terse reply. He was used to causing people to roll over or flee. He was, she presumed, unused to indifference.
“If I get wind of a story that makes Fisk look bad, I’m not going to ignore it,” he said. “I’ll say what needs to be said. Honestly, I don’t know why I even bother with this radio station. I could have one of those podblasts, and not be answerable to anyone.”
“Think of the show as an opportunity to build an audience…” Maya said, “for your future podcast.”
“Think you’re pretty clever, correcting me, don’t you?”
Maya pressed her lips together in an all-business sort of smile. “Mr. Jameson, we only want your candor. No one is asking you to pull your punches. It’s why you’re vital to this city. Have you rev
iewed and signed the revised contracts?”
This had been a speed bump. The first contracts had included a critical typo—someone’s head had rolled—and they’d had to be redrafted and signed again. Had Jameson really wanted out, it would have been easy for him to sever ties. Still, she wagered he was unwilling to walk away from a growing audience.
He reached into his coat, pulled out a bulky envelope, and handed it to her. She took it, careful to avoid a large mustard stain.
“Signed and notarized,” he said. “But that contract allows me to say what I want, and to walk away if you pressure me to do otherwise.”
“We want an honest voice,” she said. “Nothing more.”
“Then that’s what you’ll get,” he said, “whether you like it or not.”
* * *
BINGHAM was too far away to hear what they were saying. He wished he had the deaf girl’s ability to read lips. That would be handy. Or mind-reading. He’d like that too—but that wasn’t a spider-power, and he could only do spider things, like sneak around without people noticing.
That got him close enough to pick up a word or two, and he’d definitely heard them say something about contracts.
Maybe this time he’d get lucky. After she left the old guy with a thing for hot dogs, she headed east, and Bingham kept after her at a safe distance. He watched as she went into one of the Fisk offices on the east side. She came out twenty minutes later, no longer carrying the envelope.
Contracts. Chances were a copy would go right into the safe. Good thing he’d managed to put a tracker on the envelope before the deaf girl arrived. The old grump had given him an earful for bumping into him, but Bingham had kept on walking. Just another day in the city, right?
He smiled to himself. He was one step closer to his goal.
“WHO here wants to play a game of ‘guess what the Kingpin is thinking’?”
Spider-Man was in a gambling den under a Hell’s Kitchen restaurant. He knew it was owned by Fisk, and it raked in big profits every night. It was supposed to, anyhow. Not tonight. He held a big bag of money that he was going to leave at the nearest F.E.A.S.T. shelter.
Most of the patrons had fled when he came in. Now it was just the boss and the muscle. They weren’t going anywhere because they were webbed up in this mess of overturned furniture, scattered cards, strewn chips, and empty beer bottles.
“I’m looking for information,” he said. “What’s Fisk up to? Why does he have someone impersonating me? What’s his favorite brand of protein powder? That dude is huge.”
“No one’s gonna tell you anything,” the boss said. “Just put the money down and walk away. You don’t want Mr. Fisk angry with you.”
“Yeah, ’cause I can’t imagine what that would be like.” He held up the bag of money again. “Last chance before I put you on the hook for the missing cash.”
No one had anything to say, so he darted out the door, up the stairs, and left. Another evening upending Fisk operations. Another night that brought him absolutely no closer to finding out what was going on.
* * *
A few hours later, after disrupting another gambling den, a brothel, and a hijacking operation, he was still no closer to getting what he wanted. A call came in from Yuri Watanabe, so he webbed up to a rooftop to talk.
“I hear you’re having quite a night,” she said. “You stealing from Fisk now?”
“I’m not stealing,” he said. “I’m redistributing wealth.”
“That’s not what the perps are telling us.”
“Then I guess it must be true,” he said. “Perps wouldn’t lie.”
“I’m just saying this makes you look bad,” she told him. “Check the Daily Bugle web page.”
After he hung up, he did as she advised. There was the headline.
HAS SPIDER-MAN
TURNED SPIDER-THIEF?
Not exactly on the same level as some of the gems from the J. Jonah Jameson days, and not the worst thing imaginable. It was better than SPIDER-MAN CONTINUES TO TERRORIZE CITY, which one of the city’s newspapers had run the day before. All part of doing business, he told himself, but he didn’t feel all that convinced. How long could he continue to knock over tables and tear up gambling ledgers? None of these guys were ever going to tell him anything. Whatever Kingpin was up to, whatever would make him too big to fail, it wasn’t going to be stopped by redistributing his poker earnings.
Every time Spider-Man thought about giving up, he’d see Anika’s face and he’d remember what drove him. This was a matter of the purest sort of justice. He’d known Anika, and so she was the face of the twelve people who had died, but elsewhere in the city there were others mourning—parents and children and friends—demanding answers, demanding someone pay. The thought stoked a cold fury in him, a fire he had to channel. He had the power to punish those responsible, and because he had that power, he had the responsibility.
At the hijacking operation he found paperwork leading back to a warehouse supposedly full of goods stolen by Fisk’s thugs. He figured he’d go there and see if anyone was feeling chatty. He was on his way when a call came in from MJ.
“Remember me?” she said. “We went to high school together.”
“I know,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve been—”
“A little obsessive?” she suggested. “Weird and moody?”
“Exactly. I’m glad you understand.”
“For what it’s worth, I do understand,” she said. “You’re not made to sit back and hope something happens. That’s why I’m calling. I have a lead that might be of use.”
“Really?”
“I was in Fisk Tower today—”
“Again?” It escaped before he could call the word back.
“Peter, my job. Remember? I interview people.”
“Not all of those people need to be Wilson Fisk,” he said, though he knew it was exactly what he shouldn’t say.
“Anyhow,” she said, speeding over the bumps in their conversational road, “I literally ran into some walking slabs of muscle from Roxxon Blackridge, the military contractors.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Any idea what they’re up to?”
“Couldn’t get anything out of them,” she said, “but apparently they keep a schedule. They may be getting their marching orders from Fisk on a regular basis.” She told Peter everything she’d learned from the security guard.
There was no way to know how it fit into the picture, if it did at all, but it was something—and something was exactly what he needed.
* * *
BINGHAM climbed into the window of his apartment, sure no one had seen him. He could never be sure, really, not in New York. Anyone might be looking out their window and see a guy in a spider-suit coming and going. To be sure, he’d have to have some sort of sixth sense. Still, he figured he was in the clear. If not, he’d deal with it later.
Let them try to come for him.
He sat heavily on his bed and pulled off the mask. He liked the feeling when fresh air washed over him, but he also missed the hot, constricted feeling. Something was always lost when something else was gained. He’d learned that one for sure.
It had been an entertaining evening, watching the false Spider-Man messing with Fisk’s gambling places. The guy was starting to lose it, and it was fun watching him unravel. A couple of times Bingham had to fight the urge to step in, to take on the impersonator. The true Spider-Man vs. the imposter. That would be something to see—but it wasn’t yet the time. It wasn’t the mission.
He didn’t follow the impersonator every night, but often enough. Bingham couldn’t always find him, though there were places he could go to hide and wait, and the impersonator would swing by eventually. He was predictable enough if you knew how to think. Most people didn’t, but Bingham did.
Tonight he just watched, but one of these days he’d see an opportunity, a way to make his life miserable. And when he saw it, he’d strike.
* * *
THE next morni
ng he was there before 7:30, in plenty of time to watch three beefy men in suits enter Fisk Tower. If they came out with assignments—which is what Spider-Man assumed was happening—he could follow them. If he got very lucky, he’d learn something of value.
Perched on the edge of a building, he picked up a cup of coffee he’d bought from a food truck around the block. The owner refused to take his money. At least a few people hadn’t given up hope on him.
Lifting the bottom of his mask, he took a sip. The coffee was still steaming.
* * *
IT was pure chance. She was about to leave her suite and head down for her first meeting of the day when a flash of red and blue struck her from across the street. Though it was distant, she was certain it was a person in a Spider-Man suit.
At first she thought it had to be Bingham, but when she looked through the binoculars, she realized it was him. There were enough minor differences that she could be sure. Maybe a typical person wouldn’t notice, but Maya didn’t miss those sorts of details.
What was he doing here? It looked like he was watching Fisk Tower, but in broad daylight? She couldn’t imagine why. As she watched, he picked up a cup of coffee, folded up the bottom of his mask, and took a sip.
It was jarring. She’d always known there was an actual person under the mask, but she’d ceased to think of him as anything ordinary. That he would sip a cup of coffee and then wipe his mouth with the back of his hand—it was uncanny. On a subconscious level she expected there to be nothing under the mask but a void of evil.
Even if he was a coffee-drinking human being, it didn’t make him any less of a monster. He thought he could come here, spy on them, work against everything they hoped to accomplish. What could anyone do about it, after all? It wasn’t like anyone would be able to follow him.
He hadn’t counted on Maya Lopez. He hadn’t counted on a woman who was an echo.
She grabbed her phone and quickly scanned the morning schedule. Nothing that couldn’t be rearranged. She sent a quick text to her admin and then prepared to run outside. Then she stopped. A pencil skirt wasn’t exactly the right thing to wear when leaping from roof to roof. She needed something that would give her the necessary flexibility. Casting her work clothes onto the floor, she changed into what she’d been wearing when she had chased after Bingham—black pants, a black top, gloves.
