Spider-Man Page 5

  Wesley watched, assuming the Kingpin would strike back immediately. But Fisk fell over backwards.

  “Mr. Fisk!” Wesley’s cry was pointless in more ways than one. He could hear the combatants, but they couldn’t hear him. Worse, microphones in the the sound system were picking up a high-pitched wail.

  Sirens? So soon?

  Thanks to the recent setbacks, Wesley had managed to broach the subject of a police raid with his boss. Thinking it would be madness to confront the cops head-on, he’d advised Fisk to let himself be arrested, at least temporarily, and allow the legal team to handle any charges. By the letter of the law, Mr. Fisk was innocent until proven guilty.

  And unless they found proof, Spider-Man was the criminal here, breaking and entering private property.

  That might work, save for one piece of incriminating evidence: the tablet.

  * * *

  PRESSING his advantage, Spider-Man advanced on the prone Kingpin. “No wounded college kids around this time, baldy, so you’ve got my full attention.”

  But the mobster’s assault on his pressure point had done more damage than he’d thought. His wrist and right arm were completely numb. He rubbed them to get the blood circulating.

  A kick from the Kingpin’s heavy foot caught him off guard. It was weaker than the earlier blows, but it still pushed him a few yards up and away.

  He’s either rattled, or he’s finally getting tired.

  Spider-Man landed lightly near some thick curtains. The Kingpin rose, lowered his head, and charged. As he came, Peter tore the curtains from the wall and, with a bullfighter’s flourish, whipped them in the Kingpin’s direction. “Olé!”

  The cloth twirled around Fisk’s legs, tripping him into what seemed a vulnerable sitting position. But Peter’s spider-sense suddenly sent him leaping away, clinging to a high spot on the wall. He didn’t understand why—until he noticed that the Kingpin had grabbed a fallen AK47.

  “Have you ever actually been to a bullfight, insect? I can tell you it’s far more enjoyable when the bull wins!” Fisk spun around, but before he could engage the trigger, Spider-Man fired a thick glob into the barrel.

  The gun didn’t explode, as it might in a cartoon, but it did split open—and the unexpected backfire slammed the stock into Fisk’s gut. Wincing, he tossed it aside and raised both arms to strike.

  Spider-Man tensed, ready to leap as soon as there was an opening. But then he noticed something else.

  “Uh…KP, is that green smoke coming out of your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?”

  Confused, the Kingpin looked down at his sweat-stained jacket. The rifle butt had shattered a gas pellet— apparently he was still carrying some in his pocket. Cursing, he frantically tried to tear off the jacket.

  As Spider-Man crawled a bit higher to stay out of the way, the wafting smoke reached the Kingpin’s head.

  “I will…!” His eyes swam in his skull.

  “Hold that thought.”

  He fell.

  Once the gas dispersed, Spider-Man hopped down. He was about to wrap the mobster in webbing when the sound of scurrying footsteps caught his attention. He turned and spotted a hallway entrance the curtains had previously concealed.

  Probably one of Fisk’s stooges, making a beeline out of here.

  But when he poked his head into the hall, he realized that the exit was in the opposite direction.

  Or maybe he’s after the stolen tablet?

  Fisk looked down for the count, but Peter had already been wrong about the guy more than once.

  I need that thing to prove Fisk, not the students, was behind the bombing. What to do? Stay here, or go after the tablet?

  * * *

  SECONDS later, the panicked Wesley reached the vault where the tablet was stored. Purchased from a savings-and-loan bank before its demolition, the classic steel-reinforced concrete door was secure enough. But once the police knew it existed, they would get a warrant and demand entry.

  Panting, he entered the code only he and Wilson Fisk knew. The bolts disengaged at once. Wesley pulled at the thick handle. He strained and yanked, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Mr. Fisk had talked about reinforcing the door with additional composite metal. The extra weight wouldn’t be a problem for someone with the Kingpin’s strength. For Wesley, it might as well have still been locked.

  Why had Fisk contracted for the work without consulting him? The thought rankled. Given events, the extra precaution made some sense, but Wesley had never given his employer any reason to doubt his loyalty. Now he’d need three men to budge the thing— and thanks to Spider-Man, they were all unconscious.

  The sirens grew louder—so loud he could feel them in his jaw. An almost forgotten sense of self-preservation kicked in. Wesley turned to run.

  “Hey, pal. Where are you going?”

  There was a short whoosh—like a thin, high-powered spray—and Wesley felt an odd pressure just below the nape of his neck. Something yanked him upwards, his knees coming up to press against his chest. A sticky mesh crisscrossed his field of vision, and he found himself dangling in a sack of webbing.

  “I won’t tell you anything!”

  “Fine by me. Stay right there, and I’ll see if I can guess what you were up to, okay?”

  Twisting, he spotted the smug wall-crawler standing on the ceiling. Tapping a finger to his chin, Spider-Man looked around, then pointed at the vault door.

  “Tablet’s in there, right?”

  Briefly, Wesley hoped the door would hold. But once Spider-Man hopped down and braced a foot against the wall, it opened easily. Seconds later, the prize tablet was in his hands.

  Wesley moaned. “No! You have no idea what you’re holding!”

  “Again, lemme guess. Is it…the mysterious tablet whose undecipherable hieroglyphs are believed to contain the greatest secret in history?”

  As if things weren’t bad enough already, the infuriating philistine sounded like he was reciting from the insipid signs at the Exhibition Hall.

  Spider-Man lifted the tablet. “Time to get this back to the hall.” He cocked his head. The sirens were louder. “Or better yet, the police.”

  Wesley clenched his fists. “Wait! You can’t just leave me here!”

  He thought he caught a smile beneath the mask. “It’s not every day I find such a great straight man—but to answer your question, sure I can. Don’t worry. I’ll let the boys in blue know you’re hanging around up here. I’m sure they’ll find you before you get too lonely.”

  * * *

  THE KINGPIN awoke surrounded by police. His dry mouth tasted of bile; his sense of helplessness infuriated him.

  They’ll never be able to hold me, but now is not the time for a fight. I have a better idea.

  “Gentlemen, come in—I have nothing to hide.” The lead officer whistled at the unconscious men. “If you say so.”

  Fisk held up his wrists. They handcuffed him—with oversized cuffs, he realized. The cops hadn’t responded to some nuisance call. They’d expected to find him there.

  Someone had given them inside information. A traitor.

  It took three straining officers to force their “collar” to his feet. As they read him his rights, he congratulated himself for managing to protect what he held most dear.

  Thank heavens I sent Vanessa to Long Island. I’m used to dealing with vermin, but she should never have to deal with such indignity.

  The lead detective finally asked the obvious.

  “Where’s the tablet, Kingpin?”

  Fisk smiled at the man’s predictability. “If I had it, do you think I’d be foolish enough to keep it here where it could incriminate me? Perhaps it was that very issue that caused the little disagreement with my web-swinging ally.”

  “Spider-Man’s your partner?”

  The grin he gave in response wouldn’t be admissible as a confession, but it spoke volumes.

  The officer at his back, still holding his wrist-clamps, sighed. “Jameson wa
s right: That guy’s a menace!”

  Their disappointment was charming.

  The bedraggled detective grabbed a walkie-talkie. “Anyone spots Spider-Man in the area, I want him taken in for questioning.”

  That was almost too easy. Loathe as I am to admit it, I owe that vigilante-obsessed publisher J. Jonah Jameson my thanks.

  * * *

  LEAVING the crook dangling behind him, Spider-Man found the nearest window and sailed into the night. The cool air felt good against his bruises. As he snagged the side of the luxury building with his web, the wide arc of his swing provided a great view of the flashing squad cars surrounding the front entrance and garage.

  Excited, he scrambled down the side of the building.

  I’d know that shiny dome anywhere. They’ve got the Kingpin!!

  As soon as he was close enough for the officers to hear him, he pulled the tablet from his back and held it aloft like a trophy. “Hey, boys in blue! I’ve got something for you!”

  In retrospect, given his history with the law, their reaction shouldn’t have surprised him. But it did.

  “It’s Spider-Man!”

  “He’s got something in his hand!”

  “Could be a bomb!”

  “Wait—a what? Are you guys—”

  Bullets sparked against the building façade.

  “Geez, I’m only trying to—”

  “Watch it! He’s probably out to free the Kingpin!”

  The bullets drew closer. He leapt from one spot to another to keep from being hit.

  “Why the heck would I free him? I just caught him!”

  But the sound of gunfire drowned out his words—and the odds that a lucky shot would get him were growing by the second. The more pinned he felt, the more his far-from-ordinary body flushed with adrenaline.

  Catching the high-rise with another web, he swung up and out. At the peak, he let go. A second web, anchored to a water tower across the street, carried him far from the line of fire.

  Losing the police among the rooftops was easy; letting go of his outrage was not. The long day had taken its toll. By the time he landed on the asphalt surface, he was grinding his teeth and sweating.

  Is it too much to ask for a thank-you now and then? Just something small, like having the police not try to kill me while I’m trying to return a priceless artifact. But no, no matter what I do, nothing changes. Nothing!

  More distance from the cops would be good. But when he shot another web, he yanked it so hard that the flagpole at the other end nearly broke in half.

  Instead of putting myself in harm’s way like a sap, I could be earning a decent living! Decent? Hell, with my powers, I could be rich and respected, not a starving photographer with a rep as a coward.

  At the apex of his swing, he yanked at the web. This time, the flagpole did break. Part of him hoped the rush of the freefall would snap him out of his rage.

  It didn’t.

  A second web steadied his path, but not his mind.

  Fine. Screw it. If the world’s going to be against me, I’m done being too stupid to fight back. Call me a menace? Treat me like a menace? I might as well be a menace.

  SIX

  PETER lay in bed staring at the ceiling, his heart hammering. Every now and again he glanced at the tablet, thinking how ridiculous it was to have the greatest secret in history sitting half-hidden under his dirty laundry.

  Something had to change. He didn’t know what, he wasn’t sure how, but something had to change.

  He’d tried giving up being Spider-Man before, but it hadn’t stuck. When the only father he’d ever known, Uncle Ben, had died at the hands of a mugger Peter could have stopped, he’d promised to use his powers to help others. But he’d been doing that for years now, and it seemed as if none of his good deeds had gone unpunished. He was sick of it.

  Maybe I could just stop fleeing muggers that happen to run past me?

  His head filled with the faces of taunting enemies. His boss, Jonah Jameson, laughed alongside super villains like the Lizard, the Green Goblin, and Doctor Octopus. His loved ones—Aunt May, Gwen, Harry, and Mary Jane—looked down at him in pain and disappointment. They were so real, Peter didn’t even realize he was dreaming until he heard Uncle Ben say, “Calm down.”

  In his mind, Peter sat at the old kitchen table in Queens, working on a middle-school science project. It was a crude model of the polymer that would eventually become his webbing. He’d cut his finger twice carving the small pieces, but still couldn’t get them right. Finally, in a fit, he smashed the whole thing.

  “Calm down, Peter!”

  “Why bother? My stupid teacher probably doesn’t know what a polymer is anyway!”

  His classmates certainly didn’t. He was a nerd, harassed daily by Flash Thompson, ridiculed by the others. It all felt pointless.

  “Take it slow. You’ll get there.”

  Peter snapped back, “I can’t! I don’t know how to slow down.”

  As he woke, he realized he still didn’t.

  It was morning. He felt hungover, partly from the bruises, but mostly from the mix of anger and guilt still roiling his gut. The night’s phantoms clung to him like strands of his own web. He robotically made breakfast, managed two bites, then trudged to ESU.

  The morning sun partly melted his funk, but it was only when he saw Gwen that his spirits began to rise. She was crossing the street, walking toward him, hair tousled in the breeze, her sharp, wonderful eyes locked on him.

  And then she opened her mouth.

  “Peter! I’ve been looking all over for you! Where’ve you been?”

  He was used to the accusing tone, but not from her.

  “Sorry, Gwendy. Been a little tired, I guess.”

  “Too tired to answer your cell?”

  “Uh…sort of…”

  Her hand went to her hip. “Really? Well, maybe you should be exhausted from running out whenever it’s time to take a stand!”

  “Wait? What?”

  Here it was again. The same old questions, the same old insults—even from the one person who he thought cared enough to trust him unconditionally.

  “Where were you while the protestors were getting arrested?”

  Getting the snot kicked out of me while trying to prove their innocence! Not that I can say that out loud.

  “The least you could do is fumble for an excuse!” After a beat, she hissed. “Okay, stand there chewing your cud. There must be a reason for your disappearing act. Maybe I should have my head examined for not writing you off, but I’m going to wait until you level with me.”

  “Gwen…are you crying?”

  She was. Trying to choke it back only made the tears well up and curl down her cheeks.

  She turned away. “Forget it. It just stinks losing your heart to someone who always acts like a coward!”

  Again, that word: coward. The sickly feeling that had barely started to fade came rushing back. Mute, face flushing, he stood watching as she walked off.

  “I’m going to the precinct house to check on the students. They at least stood up for what they believed in.”

  After a few steps, she broke into a run.

  * * *

  IN THE precinct’s walnut-paneled conference room, a stoic Dean Corliss met the glares of the tired protest organizers. Though there were no armed officers present, Captain Stacy watched from the sidelines, accompanied by Robbie Robertson.

  Bleary-eyed from a long, sleepless night in the basement holding cells, Josh Kittling refused to sit at the same table with Corliss. “Bad enough we’re facing jail terms. Are you here to expel us?”

  The gray-haired dean’s sigh communicated both his ease with his own authority, and a lack of patience. “No, Mr. Kittling. The police have determined that your student group had nothing to do with the bombing. And, despite the YouTube video in which you personally threaten to steal the artifact, ESU is dropping all the charges. I’m also here to tell you that the money initially earmarked for the hall h
as been reallocated to needs-based financial aid.”

  He waited for the news to sink in.

  Randy blinked. “Then…we won?”

  “If you’d like to think of it as some sort of contest, yes.”

  Kittling’s brow knitted. “Why didn’t you do that in the first place? Why refuse to meet with us?”

  The second sigh was more irritated. “I never refused. I delayed the meeting because I was trying to arrange additional donations that would’ve made both expenditures possible. Admittedly, I should have shared that with your group before things spiraled out of control, but our biggest donors didn’t want to be seen as rewarding your protest.”

  Kittling sneered. “So you kowtowed to the two-percenters.”

  “Again, if you like, yes. But they are the ones with the money. In any case, we’re past that now. The structural damage the thieves caused is being covered by insurance, giving us ample funds for the renovation. That’s all I came to say.” As the dean rose, Captain Stacy handed him a cane that was leaning against the table. “I hope in the future we’ll all be able to continue this dialogue in a more productive manner.”

  When he limped toward the exit, Robbie held the door open. His father’s relieved “Thank you” earned a killer stare from Randy.

  * * *

  ONCE the release was processed, Robbie walked his son out, trying to figure out the best way to talk to him. If now was the time to talk at all.

  They paused on the steps to enjoy the sun. Randy looked exhausted. What he needed most was rest and a home-cooked meal. But Robbie still couldn’t quite believe how difficult it had become to reach the boy he’d raised for 18 years.

  He opted for an attempt at humor.

  “So, Rand, which bugs you more: that the dean you were blaming turned out to be an ally, or that sometimes the system does work?”

  Randy scoffed. “The way I see it, Josh was right. The system only works when it doesn’t have a choice. If Corliss really was on our side, he’d have communicated with us in the first place. He’s part of the problem.”

  “He’s been limping half his life because his hip was broken during a protest that did turn violent. I know the ’60s are ancient history to you, but you have no idea how much worse things were then. You have to put things in perspective.”