Marvel's SPIDER-MAN

by David Liss

  “What kind of police presence will there be?”

  “That’s the thing,” she said, a sour expression on her face. “There’s not going to be anything other than the usual security detail. I tried to kick this up the chain of command, but my boss says there isn’t enough evidence to deploy any extra manpower. His sources tell him that Tombstone is lying low, trying to avoid an open conflict with Fisk. I badgered him until he agreed to put the detail on alert, but that won’t matter if Tombstone sends an army to shoot up the place.”

  “Why would your boss ignore this?” he asked. “Could it be that he’s in Fisk’s pocket?”

  “No clue,” she said. “Maybe he’s right, and maybe the threat actually isn’t credible. Maybe Fisk would rather have his own people deal with it. But the last thing I want to see is a shootout with a bunch of civilians in the way.”

  “You want me to stop it?”

  “It’s not my first choice,” she said, twisting her mouth into a frown. “A lot of cops still think you killed Abe Remzi. Showing your face, so to speak, isn’t ideal, but you may be the only option if we’re going to keep this from blowing up. If you get over there and see something going on, let me know immediately. If guns come out, maybe you can keep anyone from getting hurt until I can get more units there. Then you scram.”

  Spider-Man nodded. “On it.”

  Keeping a bunch of innocent people from getting killed would have been motivation enough, but knowing MJ would be there meant he had no time to lose. Activating the phone in his mask, he gave her a call.

  “Mary Jane, you’ve got to reconsider this fundraiser,” he said. “There’s going to be trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?” She sounded breathless, like she was rushing to get ready.

  He gave her the quick version, but MJ didn’t seem worried. In fact, it was exactly the opposite.

  “I’ll keep an eye out, but if anything like that happens, I’ve got to be there to report on it.” She sounded excited at the prospect.

  “Do you even hear yourself?” he asked. “You could be killed.”

  “Look, Tiger, I’ll be careful,” she said. “And thanks for the heads-up.” Before he could respond, she ended the call.

  Spider-Man let out a groan of frustration, but it wasn’t like he could find MJ and web her up until after the event. Okay, he probably could do that, but it didn’t seem like the best approach. His best move was to keep an eye on the event and, if bullets started flying, make sure she was safely out of the way.

  He reached the museum and found his way inside through an upper window. The events were scheduled for the main room off the entrance, and there were plenty of shadowed vestibules in which he could hide. Music wafted upward, played by a string quartet. From his safe position he could peer down at the men in their suits, the women in their gowns, the waiters carrying trays of things that looked really delicious to a person who hadn’t had a chance to grab dinner.

  There was nothing dangerous happening. After a few minutes Fisk entered, with MJ shadowing him. She kept a respectful distance as she listened in on his blather. Each time he finished a conversation she would talk briefly with whomever Fisk had spoken to, then hurry to listen in on the next exchange. He didn’t even know why she bothered. It was sure to be a bunch of blah blah blah. She could just write that, couldn’t she?

  No, she probably couldn’t.

  * * *

  AS the evening dragged on he checked in with Watanabe, letting her know that a whole lot of nothing was happening. Then he turned his attention back to the riveting scene of people making small talk. Fascinating. And they were eating those delectable bits of food like they were no big deal. That was the privilege of being rich, he supposed. You got to stuff expensive tidbits in your mouth while the ordinary people clung to dark alcoves on the ceiling.

  An unexpected movement or a strange flash of color caught his eye. At the same time his Spider-Sense booted up. Off to one side, there were three men in trench coats. They were holding guns. Peter’s years of experience suggested that people dressed this way might have questionable activities in mind.

  The weapons surprised him though. He would have expected assault rifles, but they had only handguns—unostentatious weapons that looked more like a policeman’s service revolver than anything else.

  Spider-Man scanned the room again. Watanabe’s source said there was going to be a small army coming to attack Fisk, but there were no signs of anyone but these men. Three men could theoretically take down Fisk, and they might do it with a lot less collateral damage. While the pistols weren’t exactly sniper-grade weaponry, the chances of a bystander getting hurt were unacceptably high.

  He was going to have to intervene.

  I’d better get a thank you from Fisk, he mused. At least a fruit basket.

  He called Watanabe to update the situation.

  “Maybe you should hang back unless they make a move,” she suggested.

  Not an option. MJ was down there.

  “Making a move isn’t going to take them long,” he said, “and it’s going to involve pieces of lead moving at high velocity.”

  “Okay, I’m calling it in,” she replied. “Hold off for as long as you can without risking anyone getting hurt. Backup will be there soon, and if you can get out of there without being seen, it’ll make everyone’s life easier.”

  As soon as he ended the call, he saw that the three men were moving out of the shadows and approaching the crowd. No one had noticed them yet.

  He shot out a web so he could swing down, but as soon as he leapt off his perch, he saw three more men in trench coats emerging from the other side of the room. That meant he couldn’t take all of the invaders at once. Worse yet, once the commotion started, people would panic. In the confusion the gunmen would have a harder time finding their target, but the risk to innocents would be much greater.

  He turned back to the original trio—and realized that he had made a huge mistake.

  * * *

  IN the instant he’d been distracted, the attackers had removed their coats, which were lying behind them on the ground. Underneath, the gunmen were dressed as police officers.

  “Officer under attack!” one of them shouted, and he began firing his gun.

  Spider-Man flipped in the air, convulsing to twist away from the bullets. He could feel them zipping past him, missing him by inches. The other three men lost their coats as well, and raced in, their own weapons at the ready. Worse, there were real cops in the room, and they thought their fellow officers were in danger. That would make them far more likely to shoot first and take stock later.

  Everything unfolded as if it were being choreographed. People shouted and ran. As the real policemen rushed forward, the imposters melted back into the crowd. They grabbed their coats, which they would use to get away. The real police, in the meantime, drew their guns, aiming them at the deranged lunatic in a costume who was—as far as they could tell—assaulting the gathering.

  Someone was going to get hurt—most likely him.

  He launched himself into the shadows to get out the way he’d come in. Someone discharged their gun, and plaster shattered into dust on the ceiling. His Spider-Sense exploded, and he webbed across the room, hardly aware he was changing direction. Another blast of gunfire, and he changed direction again.

  As soon as one cop started firing, the rest followed suit, and he was vaguely aware of a discordant popping as he dodged back and forth, webbed up and dropped down to avoid gunfire. There was dust in the air. More screams. It was a mess.

  He saw his chance to make it to the skylight and shot out a web, hurling himself forward. Risking a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw MJ looking up at him as though he’d failed her utterly.

  * * *

  WHILE he waited on the roof, Peyton called from the lab to find out where he was.

  “I’m totally sorry,” he said. “I got caught up in some personal business.”

  “Personal business,” P
eyton repeated.

  “Yeah, I know it sounds lame, but—”

  “We had an important experiment to run,” Peyton said. “The integrity of the synaptic firing is key to the project’s success, and I needed you here. As it is, I had to handle the operations by myself. Do you know how difficult that was?”

  “I know,” he replied. “I’m sorry.” He wanted to say it wouldn’t happen again, but couldn’t bring himself to say something that was so obviously a lie.

  “Your mind is not second-rate,” Peyton said, “but I’m afraid I’ve concluded we would be better off with someone a little less intelligent and a little more reliable.”

  There was a long pause.

  “I’m saying you’re fired, Peter,” Peyton snapped.

  Peter felt his mouth hanging open. He’d worked at the lab since college. He loved working there. He couldn’t be fired, but while he tried to figure out how to say all of that, Peyton hung up.

  * * *

  EVERYTHING was falling apart. He already felt horrible, so he decided to go for broke. He tuned his suit’s receiver to Jameson’s radio station, where there was a special broadcast in the wake of the museum incident.

  “Even his defenders,” Jameson said, “of which there are far too many in this city, wonder tonight why Spider-Man would attack police officers performing their duty. No one knows. Well, I know. I’ve got breaking news, and you’ll be the first to hear it.

  “There are foreign agents operating inside our police force, acting on behalf of the webbed menace. Whether he’s pulling the strings, or there’s someone above him, there’s no way to know. Most cops are good people, hard-working men and women who risk their lives every day. But there are always a few bad apples. We all know that, and I’m here to tell you those bad apples are working with this web-slinging terrorist.

  “What these crooked cops hope to gain is anyone’s guess, but we’ll be exploring that question in the days and weeks to come.”

  He cut the signal and slumped down while he waited.

  * * *

  WHEN Watanabe arrived, she looked miserable.

  “That was all my fault,” she said breathlessly as she came through the door. It looked as if she’d just run up the stairs. “It seemed like a good tip, but Fisk must have gotten to my C.I. It was a setup.”

  “Just to make me look bad?”

  “Someone found out you were working with a cop, and he wanted that to stop. Unfortunately, that’s a win for Fisk, because we’re going to have to take a break for a while.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “The heat is on,” she said. “We’re all being watched, and my work is going to be scrutinized even more closely. I’ve got to make sure nothing I’m doing can be linked to you—at least for now.”

  Something clenched in his gut. “But we’re running out of time. If Fisk gets the appointment, we’ll never be able to stop him.”

  “I know,” she said, “and I’m going to do everything I can to keep that from happening, but I’m going to have to do it alone. At least for now. That means you have to stay away from Fisk, too. If it looks like you’re still working with the police department, it’s going to make my life a whole lot harder.”

  “I can’t just ignore all this,” he said.

  “Look, this is a setback,” she admitted. “We got played, and we lost. Now there are consequences. Maybe you can work on exposing the imposter, but stay away from Fisk and his properties. I’m asking you as a favor, and as a professional. If you don’t, you’ll only be helping him. Right now, you’re toxic.”

  He shook his head, but in the end he agreed.

  There was nothing else he could do.

  * * *

  “WHAT are you doing here?” MJ asked him when he crawled in through her apartment window. Her place was a mess, just like his, with magazines and books and clothes and takeout containers scattered everywhere. It was better lit, though, which he supposed made it less depressing.

  “I just needed to talk to you.”

  She folded her arms and shook her head. “You’re the last person I want to talk to right now. I can’t believe what happened tonight. Did you really attack those police officers?”

  “No, of course not,” he said. “How can you even ask me that? It was a setup. We got played. I shouldn’t have rushed in the way I did. I made a mistake.” It seemed like the right thing to say, but Peter wasn’t actually sure. People who looked a whole lot like they had badness on their minds had taken out guns. He couldn’t just wait and see what happened next, on the off chance they weren’t really planning on hurting anyone. He didn’t have the strength to explain all that, though.

  It seemed easier to admit guilt.

  “Let me ask you something,” MJ said. “If I hadn’t been there, would you have made the same mistake?”

  Peter sighed. He didn’t know the answer. Maybe he would have been a little more cautious, but how could he know for sure? He’d done what he thought he had to do to keep people safe.

  She took his silence as an answer.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Are you saying that I shouldn’t act if I think you’re in danger?”

  “That’s not it,” she insisted, “but sometimes you see danger where there isn’t any. You’re so determined to keep me safe that you stop thinking and start acting. You could have been killed. You could have gotten other people killed.”

  “I know,” he said, “but the alternative was to do nothing, and you know that isn’t an option for me.”

  She took a deep breath. “Peter, I love you, but I can’t keep living like this. You’re smothering me. I’m afraid to tell you what I’m doing, afraid when I do tell you that you’ll show up. You aren’t letting me live my life.”

  “I know you feel that way, but—”

  “But you have to be who you are,” she said. “I get that, but maybe it’s time for you to be who you are with a little distance from me.” She took a step toward him, but then reversed herself.

  The silence lasted for only a second or two, but felt impossibly drawn out. It seemed as if gravity had increased. Peter’s body felt heavier. The air was thick in his lungs.

  “Are you breaking up with me?”

  “I just think it’s better,” she said. “For now. For us to, you know, be apart…”

  He didn’t want to hear more. He couldn’t. He was out the window and swinging through the night before he was even aware of it—flying through the dark, unaware of which direction he was headed. He didn’t hear or see anything or anyone. The noise and the sights of the city were a blur, a fog, no more intelligible than static.

  * * *

  HE wasn’t sure how long he’d been going, but he knew he must have gone in circles. He stopped without thinking, landing on a rooftop. The expanse of city lights loomed behind him.

  Everything had been ruined. He’d lost his job. Yuri didn’t want his help. She didn’t even want him going after Fisk. His best friend was gone, and not likely to come back any time soon, and now his girlfriend had broken up with him because he’d made a mess of things.

  He wanted to list all the reasons why she was wrong, but he knew she wasn’t. He knew that he had blown everything. Being Spider-Man had made his life a mess, and he didn’t see any way it was going to get better. He’d shattered nearly all of his relationships, and was utterly alone.

  BINGHAM had no way of knowing how long he had been in the lab. There were no newspapers or television broadcasts. The TV didn’t work like the one in the other room, where he could just turn it on and there would be shows. Here there was nothing on at all unless he chose something.

  At first he was glad not to have to argue with anyone about what he watched. He could sit in his room and watch what he wanted for as long as he wanted, or even watch the same thing over and over again. After the fun of that wore off, however, he began to get lonely. The doctors and techs and guards didn’t make conversation with him. When he asked if he co
uld go back into his old room, he was told there was no one left there.

  They were all gone.

  That meant they had died. He knew that, but he didn’t want to say it out loud. That sounded bad, and it took away from what was really good. They had died, yes, but Bingham had survived. He could do what none of the others could do. He could live.

  His mind was working differently. He knew that. They gave him tests where he had to answer questions or write things down or pick shapes or talk about pictures. He didn’t always understand the tests, but he could tell he impressed them. He’d never done well on tests before, and he liked the feeling.

  His body was changing, too. He had grown lean and muscular, even though he hadn’t worked hard to get it that way. He hadn’t changed how he ate, and he never lifted weights except when the lab techs asked him to. It happened from the medicine.

  He could jump now—crazy distances that made no sense. And he could climb walls, even smooth ones. Sometimes they made him fight the guards, and at first he hated it. Bingham had always hated fighting, because he would get hurt. He wasn’t getting hurt anymore, and he discovered he liked being good at fighting. These guys would come in with their shirts off, trying to look tough with their big muscles, but Bingham was stronger. He was faster. He somehow knew what they were going to do before they did it. His body reacted without him telling it what to do.

  “When can I fight again?” he would ask the director, and the director would smile like he had a secret. One time he attacked the director. He didn’t remember it well—it was like there had been a fog in his mind. The guards must have stopped him, though, because the director kept coming. Each time he entered with guards already pointing their guns.

  Bingham understood things that people said, but he also understood what they meant when they said nothing. That was new, too. He was smarter now. It was like the medicine had cleared the fog away. He could see things in a way he had never seen them before—and he would make connections. They would serve him a hamburger, and instead of just eating it, he would understand things about hamburgers, like where it had come from and how someone had to cook it. He would suddenly realize that all the hamburgers he’d ever eaten had become part of him. That he was part hamburger. Not all of him, but a part. He couldn’t come into contact with something without it changing him, and without him changing it. Understanding this gave him a kind of power, but he didn’t want to use this power yet.