X. Confrontation

It was another whole day before Mary Jane was able to break away from her parents and go see Peter. That afternoon, following school, Peter was tinkering with his web-shooters in his basement, when MJ arrived, bursting in through the storm-door and into Peter's arms. They held onto each other for a few quiet minutes before Peter said, "You have no idea how relieved I am that you're okay!"

"I didn't know what was going to happen to me," said MJ. "I still don't know what happened."

"You really don't remember anything from before you woke up in that warehouse?"

MJ pulled away from Peter's embrace and stood in the middle of the room with her eyes closed. "Not really. When I try to think back—really focus on it—I see flashes. A white room with a mirror. I hear a voice, but I can't tell what it's saying."

"The Green Goblin?" asked Peter.

"No… it's different. Someone else. But if I think about it too much, it's like… there's a wall there." MJ frowned. "It gives me a headache, trying to remember."

Peter stood up from his worktable and went over to Mary Jane. He took her hands in his, and she opened her eyes. "MJ," said Peter, "I promise you that I will figure this out. I'll find the Goblin, whoever he is, and I'll make him tell me what he did to you."

"That's right…" said MJ, suddenly realizing. "We don't know who the Goblin is. Norman Osborn was right there the whole time."

"Yeah," said Peter. He threw his hands behind his head and started to pace around the basement. "It could have been a trick… but the more I think about it, the more confused I get. That was definitely Norman Osborn at the press-conference and the party that night, and not, like, the Chameleon or something."

"How can you tell?" asked MJ.

"Oh, uh… my spider-sense."

"You have 'spider-sense'?"

"Long story," said Pete. "Anyway, the Goblin… I think he was the same guy I fought before. He sounded the same, acted the same, had all the same tech. His moves were a little different though… I don't know, I think it really was him. I'm, like, ninety percent sure."

"So that's it, then," said MJ. "Harry's dad can't be the Goblin." After a thoughtful pause, she added, "Good for Harry."

"Yeah, I guess so," said Pete. "Still, something doesn't add up. The Goblin said that he was there to kill Norman Osborn, and then, what, he changes his mind and grabs you instead? It doesn't make sense."

MJ shrugged. "So the guy's a nut. You'll figure it out when you stop him."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Silence fell over both of them, until MJ remembered something else. "So… Gwen. Sleeping in my boyfriend's bed."

"Technically yes," said Peter. "But your boyfriend is not sleeping in your boyfriend's bed. He's on the living-room couch."

"Make sure that he stays there for the rest of the week," said MJ over folded arms.

Peter chuckled and said, "Honestly, I'm just glad that I was able to sneak all of my Spidey gear down here without Aunt May noticing. I do not need anyone else figuring out my secret identity."

That made MJ start. "What do you mean 'anyone else'?"

"Oh, um… yeah, the other night, the Human Torch kind of… guessed who I was," said Peter, now blushing with embarrassment. "After the Goblin grabbed you, we went looking around the city, and I guess I was acting pretty freaked out. Johnny put two and two together."

"Huh," said MJ. "On TV, he always comes off like such a… a…"

"A ditz?" offered Peter.

"I didn't want to put it that way, but—"

"Yeah, I always thought so too," said Pete. "Shows what we know."

MJ didn't say anything to that. In fact, she was looking away from Peter, as if she didn't want to look him in the eye.

"Is something wrong?" asked Peter.

"Oh, well, uh… I guess I'm a little… disappointed," said MJ. "I liked it when… when your secret was just between us."

"Well I didn't want to let him in on it. He just figured it out."

"Right," said MJ softly. "Hey, uh… I'd better be going. My dad's set down a pretty strict curfew, and… well, I just wanted to stop by and see you."

"You can't hang out anymore tonight?"

"I've gotta go," said MJ. "I'll call you later."

"Okay…" He wondered what was up, but if MJ wanted to be by herself, he wasn't about to intrude. She left the way she came in, out the back of the Parkers' basement.

• • •

That night, Peter really needed to clear his head and process everything that had happened in the last couple of days. So, after finishing his shift at the ESU genetics lab, he called Aunt May to tell her that he'd be studying late at the library that night… and then he changed into his costume and went patrolling around the city. He stopped two muggings, a car-jacking, and an armed robbery that night, all pretty much par for the course for your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man.

What made this night different—and far more interesting—was the sight of the Black Cat, perched on a gargoyle and cheekily waving at Spidey as he swung by.

Peter allowed himself to swing backwards and cling to the side of that building.

"Hello, Spider," said Cat in her flirty, breathy voice. "Fancy meeting you here, thirty stories up."

"If I didn't know better," said Spidey, "I'd think you were waiting for me."

"Maybe I was," said Cat. She stood up on the gargoyle's head and stretched, her black leather costume pressing tight against her very distracting assets. "A girl gets lonely up here."

Peter felt himself getting hot under the mask. Whew… okay, don't forget, Petey-boy, the last time you met Black Cat, she kissed you; and that was okay, because you weren't dating MJ yet. Now you have a girlfriend. Who you love, very much. You can't fall for this kind of stuff anymore.

"What's the matter, Spider? Cat got your tongue?"

"Very funny," said Spidey. "Look, is this just a social call, or are you planning on some felony larceny tonight? Because I've got to warn you, I'm not in any mood for your—your shenanigans."

Cat laughed aloud at that. "No, no, nothing like that. As much as I would love to have you all to myself tonight… I'm actually here to deliver a message. I'm sure you know everybody's favorite stool-pigeon, Patch?"

"I… uh, we've met," said Peter. Patch, he thought to himself, is another one of Frederick Foswell's identities. The Big Man. I wonder if Black Cat is in on that little secret too.

"Well, he wants to talk to you for some reason. Somehow, he figured we'd run into each other, eventually."

"Where is he?"

"His usual hangout. Blackie Drago's bar, on fifty-first."

"In Hell's Kitchen," said Spider-Man. "Yeah, I know the place."

"Well, let's go then," said Cat.

Peter unstuck both hands from the side of the building so that he could hold them up in a stopping gesture. "Whoa, hold it there, Pussycat. We've covered this before: this web-head swings solo."

"But I can help you with whatever you're doing," protested Black Cat. "I'm not just some helpless waif! I have powers too—"

"Don't remind me," said Spidey. In addition to strength and reflexes that almost rivaled his own, to the point where the Black Cat could hold her own in a fist-fight with him, she also possessed a strange, subconscious power to manipulate probability. People around her who she didn't like had unusual bad luck; while she herself, and those nearby that she considered allies, enjoyed inexplicable good luck. "Listen, if you ever get over this bad habit you have of taking things that aren't yours, feel free to look me up again. Until then, well…" Spider-Man left the rest unsaid, fired off a web-line, and swung away.

Alone again, Black Cat sighed. "How does he always manage to make me feel like a stray, unwanted alley-cat? Oh, well." There were other men out there (although few of them intrigued her like the Spider did), and, even better, plenty of valuables left in the world to steal.

• • •

Very interesting, thought Peter. Fredrick Foswell has been in hiding, ever since this new Kingpin person, whoever he is, has been taking over all the gangs in his and Silvermane's old territories. Why would he suddenly show up now? Peter mulled this over in his head as he dropped down into an alleyway across from Drago's Bar—a seedy little basement dive which was a known hangout for bookies, fences, and paid informants of all kinds. Peter hated coming here; it was always full of rough customers who had no love for crime-fighting, do-gooder types. But it was usually a good source of reliable underworld information.

He went in through the front door, swaggering like John Wayne. Instantly, all eyes were on the costumed hero: thugs and hoodlums sitting at the bar, or milling around the pool tables. "I'm looking for Patch," said Spidey. "Tell me where I can find him, and I won't have to bop any of you on the head."

From behind the bar, a heavyset man with a bushy mustache and dark, curly hair groaned in annoyance. "I have got to get me a new location," Blackie Drago whined. "What are you doin' back here, Bug-Breath? Wasn't it enough that you practically destroyed the place last time you came around, messin' with my business?"

"And saving your ungrateful skin from the Molten Man," Spidey shot back. "Where's Patch?"

"Argh… in back," grumbled Drago. "I guess he's waitin' for ya."

"Thanks, chief." Spider-Man disappeared toward the back door, while the barflies and pool-players went back to minding their own business.

Sure enough, sitting on a stool under a dim bulb in the private room behind the bar, Spidey found "Patch"—really Frederick Foswell in thick makeup, a greasy wig, bum's clothes, and a phony eye-patch—waiting nervously. He held a glass of scotch on the rocks in one shaky hand, and he kept glancing at the wristwatch on his other arm. When he noticed Spidey, he leapt out of his seat. "Spider-Man. You came."

"I heard you were looking for me. Listen, Foswell—"

"Shh! Keep that down, will ya? Tell the whole city, why don'tcha?"

Peter wasn't in the mood for games. "Whatever. You're still wanted by the police, 'Big Man'! Give me one good reason I shouldn't haul you in right now!"

"Because my life is in danger!" whispered Foswell. "And you are the only one who can help me."

Peter sighed. This is why it sucks to be the good guy. "All right. I'm listening."

"Word on the street is, there's a new super-mercenary in town, getting auctioned off to the crime-lords. I don't know who keeps making all these freaks, but I've heard that Tombstone, the Kingpin, and the Master Planner are all very interested in buying."

"Ugh, another handmade, custom-built super-villain?" grumbled Spider-Man. "I have got to figure out who keeps doing this!"

"Yeah, well, that's not the worst part," said Foswell. "I heard through the grapevine—which reminds me, I owe Hammerhead a favor; he really did me a solid, cluing me in on this—the auctioneers are going to demonstrate their product… by having me assassinated."

"Okay," said Spidey with a shrug. "So skip town. Run away. Hide."

"No, you don't understand," said Foswell, draining away the rest of the scotch in his glass in one swift gulp. "This is supposed to happen tonight. Any minute now—"

Foswell was interrupted by the sound of a loud crash and screaming voices, coming from the front of Drago's bar. Terrified, he grabbed Spidey's arm and cried, "They're here for me! Please, say you'll help! I'll do anything!"

"All right," said Spidey, leading Foswell to the back way out the bar. "But if I stop this, and you live through it, you have to turn yourself in to the police, okay?"

"Yeah, sure! Anything!" said Foswell. "I'll even go legit if you get me outta this!"

"I'll believe that when I see it," muttered Spidey. He pushed Foswell out the back door and said, "Go! Run! I'll hold them off here." Then he turned and ran back to the front of the bar… and froze at what he saw.

A woman stood in the middle of the bar, holding a pool-table over her head, while several of the bar's regulars cowered beneath her on the floor. She was dressed from head to toe in a skin-tight spandex outfit, blood-red in color, except for the white spider-emblem across her chest. She also wore a mask, with white glass eye-pieces altogether identical in shape to those on Spider-Man's own mask. Only, her mask was open at the top, allowing a mane of long, red hair, the same color as her costume, to flow freely behind her head. "Where's the Big Man?" she screamed, slamming the pool-table into the floor and reducing it to splinters. "I know he's here!"

"Well, well," said Spider-Man, striding into view. "Come here often?"

"Spider-Man!" hissed the mysterious newcomer. "Stay out of this! I'm looking for Foswell!"

"Yeah, about that… he's not here. Say, you got a name?"

The woman responded by extending her arms and pressing down on the hidden catches on her palms. Two cone-shaped nets of webbing sprayed out from nozzles on her wrists, catching Peter by surprise and tying him up from neck to ankle. "They call me Scarlet Spider," she said. Then, turning a few easy handsprings, she back-flipped her way out the front door of the bar.

Blackie Drago peeked his head up from behind an overturned table. "Oh, no!" he cried. "No, no, no, dear God, please don't let there be two of them now…"

"Scarlet Spider," said Peter aloud, mostly to himself. More curious than anything, he flexed his muscles against the net of webbing and found, to his relief, that it snapped apart without much effort. "Whoever she is, she's using discount webbing." He ran for the front door, making to chase after his latest foe, but he paused when Drago shouted.

"Hey, waitaminute, Web-Head! You've trashed my bar again! Who's gonna pay for all this?!"

"It wasn't me," said Spider-Man, pointing out the door after Scarlet Spider. "I mean, women, am I right?" Then he dashed off, fired a web into the air, and was gone.

• • •

Spidey swung around into the alleyways behind the bar and searched until he found Foswell, cowering behind a dumpster. "Foswell!" he said, landing on the ground.

The ex-Big Man of Crime yelped nervously and spun around, pointing a .38 revolver.

"Hey, easy there, chief," said Spidey. "It's just me."

Foswell heaved a sigh of relief. "Did you stop it? What was it?"

"About that," said Spider-Man. "We may have a big problem on our hands. Can you tell me anything about where this auction is supposed to go down?"

"Uh… yeah, I think so. It's—"

"Good. One more thing. How did you get in touch with Black Cat?"

Foswell replied, "She, uh, sometimes uses the fences who hang out at Drago's. I got a number from one of them. Burner phone, probably."

"I'll need that number," said Spider-Man. "I can't believe I'm going to do this, but… I think I'm going to need…" he shuddered, "to ask Black Cat for help."