Chapter 4: Blasphemy
"Scum. Traitor. Jerk." Peter scowled at his calendar. He wanted to call it a liar, but unfortunately, that was the one thing it wasn't. It really was only two weeks until Mary Jane's wedding, the day when Peter's heart would collapse in on itself like a star gone nova. True, it was entirely his choice that they not be together, and true, it was for her own protection, but that was cold comfort.
Still, every time he felt himself selfishly wishing her into his arms, he forced himself to remember the Green Goblin's hoarse snarl and Doc Ock's icy smile. Both men had targeted MJ when they discovered she was important to him. If Peter hadn't been just a tiny bit stronger, faster, and smarter, she would be dead. And that was simply unthinkable. Too bad Peter had nothing to do but sit around and think about it. He stared out the window, halfway hoping a crook would leap out of the shadows and grab a purse.
Then again, who says Spider-Man can't go on a leisurely evening constitutional?
He stripped down to his costume, climbed to the top of his building, and took a swan-dive, catching himself just feet from the pavement. Instantly, his heart soared. For Peter Parker, there was no better cure for the blues than a nice web-swing around Manhattan. He lost himself in glorious sensation, first savoring the feel of the wind against his body, then concentrating on the dull roar of city traffic. He moved a little closer to street level and let his heightened senses pick out individual sounds from the commotion.
A young-sounding girl with a posh accent: "and they took me to a psychic and the psychic said I'm, like, dead inside and have nothing going for me."
A middle-aged man with the hurried tones of a businessman: "You know, at 2:30 in the morning, I become, like, a zombie of love."
A geeky-sounding boy: "Dead girls? Come on. I'm afraid of real girls. Dead girls are even scarier."
Peter grinned with recognition at that last one. Yet, the conversations he was picking up had a strangely sinister undertone, so he stopped listening and opened his eyes instead. Even through his costume's plastic eyepieces, New York by night–and air–was stunning. He enjoyed himself for some time, oscillating between keeping an eye out for suspicious behavior and not paying attention to anything in particular, until a voice rose above the city's din.
"Hey! Spider-Man! I'm talking to you!"
Surprised, he let go of his web and flipped in the air, so he was going back the other way. He quickly spotted a woman watching him expectantly from the pavement, and dropped down in front of her. She shoved a Daily Bugle extra edition into his hands.
"So what are you gonna do about this?" she demanded.
Peter scanned the headline article. Apparently, a Rabbi Epstein wanted to talk to him about something urgent and was asking him to meet at 10 o'clock that night. Naturally, J.J. had run it as a smear piece, challenging Spider-Man to "listen to local voices," as if he had been ignoring some kind of Spider Signal all this time, as if his little red telephone had been ringing off the hook.
"Do you have the time?" he asked the woman, more politely than he really wanted to.
"You've got ten minutes," she answered, with a hefty dose of skepticism.
"No problem," said Spider-Man.
Six minutes later, he landed with a flourish at the appointed meeting spot. Rabbi Epstein was already there, holding a briefcase. Hanging back in the shadows was a vaguely familiar Bugle staffer. Ned? Ted? Ed? Something like that.
"Spider-Man! I'm glad you came. From what they say about you, I wasn't sure if you would do me the favor."
Spider-Man shrugged. "Bad news sells papers. I could wish you would've picked some other paper, though…."
"For this, I apologize. The Bugle was the only one that would give me a headline."
"I can guess why," Spider-Man said darkly. "But what's done is done–what can I do you for?"
Sadness softened the Rabbi's eyes. "This is a matter of great importance to the Jewish community…and to myself, personally. It would be a considerable mitzvah if you would lend a hand."
"Lay it on me, I'll see what I can do."
"Perhaps you've read in the papers about the recent grave robbing? Bodies going missing?" When Spider-Man shook his head, the Rabbi continued, "No, no, I wouldn't suppose. No victims complaining, nothing valuable stolen. It was never on the front page." He sighed heavily. "To us, it is an offensive thing such that we hardly dare speak of it."
"You're saying that all the stolen corpses were Jewish?"
"Correct. Returning the body to the earth is the most important part of a Jewish burial. Until the body returns to the ash from which it came, the soul cannot rest." The Rabbi opened his briefcase and handed Spider-Man a couple sheets of paper containing dozens of handwritten names, ages, dates, and cemeteries. All had been buried recently, but seemed to have no other traits in common. "This is the most heinous crime that can be committed against our people. Who would do such a thing, I have no idea. And why, I'm not even sure I want to know."
"I don't see a pattern here, either," Spider-Man said. "Have you tried the police?"
"Feh!" spat the Rabbi. "Useless. More evidence, they say. What more do you need?"
"I haven't seen anything suspicious lately. I'll definitely keep an eye out, but I can't promise to see much."
"I said before that this was a personal matter for me. My daughter was one of the–" the Rabbi's breath caught in his throat. From his pocket he pulled a portrait of a smiling woman and handed it to Spider-Man.
Peter's stomach lurched. It was Rosie. Rosalie Octavius. He had known Rosie and liked her; the thought that some ghoul had taken advantage of the fusion catastrophe to steal her body sickened him.
"Whoever's behind this, I'll find them," Spider-Man said firmly. He hoped his cute lab partner would be up for more catch-up, because with roughly zilch to go on, he had a feeling this case would take an awful lot of his study time.
The next Friday, Harry strolled through Dr. Connors' chem lab, watching the diligent students and stepping a little bit lighter knowing he wasn't one of them anymore. He had always hated chemistry. Not only was the subject incredibly boring, but lab work couldn't be bought or fudged. As far as Harry was concerned, that was a no-win situation.
He noticed a row of doors on the far wall. Private study rooms? He walked over and peeked in the windows. He found Gwen in the third room, smiling and laughing with…Peter. Harry was unable to register this information immediately. Instead, he watched stupidly as Peter laid a hand on hers.
Harry's jealous side raged like a Viking horde. He flung open the door and started yelling.
Although it was specifically Peter he was shouting at, it was Gwen's hand that slapped him silent. She stalked out without a word.
"That's it," Peter growled. "You want to be enemies? You got it!"
"Good!" Harry barked, leaving without a backwards glance.
His father appeared to him as soon as he stepped outside.
"Bad time?" Norman asked, as if he didn't know. Harry took a swing at him, but he dodged effortlessly. "That would have been a great time to kill Peter, you know."
Harry thought for a moment. He was on campus; there must be a bar around somewhere. He started walking. The phantom harangued Harry continuously until he was too drunk to understand the words. This was followed in short order by too drunk to walk, too drunk to stand up, and too drunk to stay conscious.