Ditzy

by Stephensmat

Ever meet someone, that you'd swear was one thing, and yet suddenly found out that they weren't? That happens a lot in this story. A ShadowSpiderman crossover..

Ditzy

It was a rare afternoon in New York, when two of the city's finest reporters were actually in their office at the New York Classic.  Even more rare, they were there to actually complete work on another exclusive tale of crime busting by their favorite subjects, The Shadow and Spiderman.  But their last case wasn't the only thing on their minds.

"So, how long do you think we have before this counterfeiting gig goes down?" Peter Parker asked, looking over some digital pictures from The Shadow and Spiderman's last crime fighting caper.

"A few days," Stephen Cranston answered. "This job will get Clarke a mint, literally, so timing is very delicate.  Three, four days at most."  He moved a chess piece on the small board that sat on the corner of his desk to illustrate his point.

Peter looked over from the other side of the room. "That's a good move."

"I know," Stephen said, typing the move into an email. "This one should stump Ivan."

"Now, which one is Ivan?"

"The professor in Moscow."

Peter shook his head and clicked windows on his own computer. "I don't know how you do it. You've got six chess games on the go, on average, and at the same time you're planning the strike to take out Simon Clarke's counterfeit ring and managing to meet your deadlines."

"Oh," Stephen said, clicking a different window on his screen and typing rapidly, "thanks for reminding me."  He gave the story in his word processor one last once-over. "And…done."  He clicked the "save" button.  "Got a picture for me?"

"Check your mail."

Stephen clicked Peter's message and popped up the photo.  "Nice.  Are you balancing on two fingers there or just one?"

"Jealous?"

"As if."  Stephen attached the photo and his story to a mail message and sent it on to editor Clyde Marsh.  "This should keep the boss happy for another few days."

There was a knock on their office door.

"Are we here or not?" Peter wisecracked.

"For now, at least."  Stephen looked toward the door.  "It's open," he called.

Clyde Marsh opened the door and stuck his head in. "Hey, guys."

"Speak of the devil," Peter remarked.

"And the devil appears," Stephen added.  "Hi, boss. Check your mail for that story on the illegal casino raid from last night."

"Awesome."  Marsh looked nervous.  "Can I talk to you?"

"Together or separately?" Peter asked.

"Um, together." Marsh gestured out to the newsroom floor. "Out here."

Stephen and Peter traded a look and got up, following their boss.

"What was wrong with the office?" Stephen said over the constant noise of the Classic newsroom.

Marsh grinned nervously. "I wanted somewhere where there were people so that you wouldn't make a scene. See, the Post wants to interview you, Stephen, and as you know, no publicity is bad publicity, and when you get a mention, we get a readership bump, so they're sending a reporter to interview you, and you have to cooperate, and she gets to ask you anything."

Stephen was rendered speechless for about five seconds, then did a slow burn.  Then he exploded.  "Why the Hell did you think I wouldn't make a scene just because there are people around?"

All noise in the room came to a screeching and collective halt, creating a complete and sudden silence to which Peter and Marsh contributed.

Stephen didn't even seem to notice; he just kept glaring at Marsh with enough force to almost set him on fire.

"Mr. Cranston?" asked a confident feminine voice.

Stephen turned around and found himself looking at an attractive brunette, who had a ditzy look in her bright green eyes. "Pleased to meet you.  I'm Sarah Branson from the Post, and I was sent to interview you."

Stephen threw his editor another look and was about to say something when it quickly became apparent that Sarah wasn't finished. "I want you to understand that I would never dream of being a burden but you must understand that I was given a job to do and I take it very seriously, because I love my job, I'm sure you can relate to that. It really was an honor for me to get this assignment, because you and your partner are something of a legend at the Post, but when I volunteered to interview you I got it right away, and I was kind of surprised that nobody else was after it so I asked around, and my co-workers all told me that there was some kind of unpleasantness with the last reporter sent to interview you, and that you're kind of famous for taking apart all the people who try to interview you, well, the ones that can find you at least, you also have a reputation for being hard to find among other reporters. Did you know that at least two newspapers have someone keep an eye on what you do? I'm sure you do because none of them can ever find you. You know why they try to follow you? I'll tell you why: It's because you're so fast at finding these vigilante stories, and everyone wants them, so you can understand, I'm really looking forward to being the first one in a very long time to actually succeed in interviewing you. So, when's a good time?" she finished, pulling out her Palm Pilot.

Peter and Stephen just stared at her for a very long moment, as did several reporters who had followed the entire exchange. The woman had gotten the whole thing out without noticeably pausing to take a breath.

Stephen turned back to Marsh. "So, how long have you known about this?"

"She's been sitting in my office waiting for you two to come in for the last three days now," Marsh said, discreetly showing a pair of earplugs in one hand. "I now pass the torch."

"How about we do the interview over lunch?" Sarah suggested cheerfully. "Because, you know, I hear that you've got quite a bit of pull at the Cobalt Club, and I've eaten there before, the food..."

With all The Shadow's speed, Stephen reached out in desperation and covered her mouth with one hand.

She obediently fell silent and waited patiently for him to let her talk.

Stephen gave his boss a pleading look, but Marsh was already walking away.

Stephen and Peter shared a beaten look. Stephen lowered his hand and gave Sarah a firm, polite, 'mustn't-spook-the-lunatic' look. "Miss Branson, I would be delighted to talk about this over lunch, but I have a story to finish and then a very important meeting, so how about we meet you at the Cobalt Club in an hour?"

"That sounds great," Sarah answered cheerfully

Peter and Stephen turned to head back into their office.

Sarah started to follow.  "But you know, I think I should warn you that I can be pretty persistent, and kind of hard-hitting when it comes to interviews, so you may not be fully prepared for the questions I may ask, so if you just want me to give you a couple of example questions..."

Stephen shut the door in her face and locked it behind him.

The two heroes looked at each other for a long moment. "What the Hell was that all about?" Peter said finally.

"I have no idea," Stephen said, looking almost dazed.

"No, I don't mean her--though she is kind of out there--I mean what she said about the 'unpleasantness' concerning you and being interviewed," Peter clarified, almost grinning.

"Hey, that last idiot they sent to interview me walked into an open sewer hole. The doctors decided he couldn't leave the hospital before his deadline.  I had almost nothing to do with that!"

"Almost?" Peter taunted with a Cheshire cat grin.

"The guy wouldn't take the tape recorder out of my face, and he wasn't looking where he was going!"

"And you just happened to steer him toward the sewer?"

Stephen gave Peter a 'What do you think?' look.

Peter didn't miss the look.  "You don't get a reputation from one guy."

"The other story is totally exaggerated!" Stephen answered defensively. "He said that I paid some cabbie a hundred bucks to drive him off the road and into a fire hydrant. He shouldn't have been following me to my cab anyway!"

"And you never have to pay Moe anything," Peter added.

"Exactly…" Then Stephen caught himself.

"I have seen interviews with you in papers before," Peter reminded him.

"Usually done under protest, or prodding by Uncle Victor.  My name and bloodline attract a lot of attention, and the charity work the Cranston Foundation is involved with often needs the publicity.  That said, I hate doing it.  Too much chance for exposure."  He sighed.  "We don't have time for this. We have a counterfeit ring to destroy.  Let's go over the details tonight at the Sanctum."

"After lunch?" Peter laughed.

"I am not doing that," Stephen clarified.  "I will pick up her tab, I will do it politely, and I will do it over the phone." He picked up his jacket and opened the office door.

Sarah was still standing just outside the door and picked up her sentence from where she left off. "...you know, sample questions.  How about I work out some preliminary thoughts and let you know before lunch?  By the way, what time do you usually have lunch, because I wouldn't want you to eat at an hour you don't normally..."

Stephen closed the door in her face and stared at it for a moment like a dangerous enemy was waiting on the other side.

"Wow, she's persistent," Peter noted.

"Tell me about it," Stephen agreed.  "Looks like I may have to slip out unseen.  Which means I'll need a distraction when the door opens."

"Oh, no way," Peter protested.  "She's your problem, not mine."

Stephen glared at him.  "Do I really have to remind you of the agent rules?"

Peter sighed.  "How long do you need?"

"A few seconds.  But she has to be out of the doorway."

"I'll take care of it."

Stephen nodded his thanks.  "See you at the Sanctum tonight."

Peter nodded and opened the door.

"…that you don't normally eat at…," Sarah continued, then her sentence trailed off.  "Where's Mr. Cranston?"

"He'll be out in a minute," Peter said with a smile, moving closer to her in an attempt to back her off from the doorway.  "He's working on a big story right now and is kind of distracted."

The tactic worked; Sarah backed off about three steps.  "I can certainly understand that; we're all busy working on stories.  That's why I really need to talk to him…"

A coil of black swirled quickly out of sight, relieved to no longer be part of the conversation.

***

Outside, Stephen looked around anxiously, awaiting his transportation.

Moe's cab pulled up to the curb, and Stephen quickly moved to get into it.

Suddenly, Sarah came running out the front door.  "Mr. Cranston?" she called. "I'll go with you!"

Stephen stared disbelievingly at her, then slammed the cab door. "Drive like you never have before!" he directed.

Moe pulled away from the curb, leaving a layer of rubber behind.

Sarah watched the cab pull away, then quickly flagged down another. "Follow that cab," she ordered as she climbed in.

***

"A date you stood up, or another reporter sent after you?" Moe asked knowingly.

Stephen sighed. "The latter.  Ditz from the Post.  This one actually has me worried, though.  She's nothing if not persistent."

"Really?"  The cabbie cackled. "I like her already."

Stephen gave him a glare.

"Oh, come on, boss.  You'll give her the slip.  You always do."

"I suppose…"  Then he glanced behind him.  "Shrevnitz…is that cab following us?"

Moe glanced in his rear-view mirror.  "Yeah, it is.  Think she's in there?"

"Of course she is.  Lose 'em."

Moe nodded and made a hard right turn at the next block.  He quickly wove onto an access road, down another alley, and onto yet another block before glancing back.  "Looks like we lost 'em."

"Good.  To the Sanctum."

Moe nodded and headed for Times Square.

Less than three blocks later, a familiar-looking cab wove its way through traffic to the spot directly behind them.  "You're not going to believe this…," Moe began.

Stephen glanced back.  "Dammit!"  He looked around.  "Make the block!"

Moe turned off the main thoroughfare again, weaving his way through traffic, alleyways, and side streets to get behind the pursuing vehicle.

"Stop here," Stephen instructed.

Shrevnitz did so.

Stephen climbed out of the cab and quickly blended into mid-day pedestrian foot traffic, then ducked into a small deli.

The owner looked up.  "What can I get you, mister?"

Stephen flashed his ring.  "The sun is shining."

The owner flashed a matching ring.  "But the ice is slippery.  What do you need?"

"To cut through your store to the back alley."

The owner unlocked the door separating the counter from the restaurant.  "Knock yourself out."

Stephen nodded his thanks, then hurried out the deli's back door.

Once outside, he quickly made his way toward the street, then stopped in his tracks.

Across the street, standing on a corner and looking around intently, was Sarah Branson.

What the Hell…?  Stephen was confused.  Maybe she wasn't as ditzy as she looked.  She certainly had good pursuit skills.  Maybe too good.  He looked across at her and cast a hard hypnotic suggestion.

Sarah jumped as if startled, then looked behind her, completely taking her eyes off Stephen's hiding place.

Stephen quickly swirled into invisibility and raced down the block, heading for the alley that held his sanctum as fast as he could run.

Sarah tilted her head as if she thought she heard something. Turning, she saw nothing there. Confused, she started walking again.

Chapter Two

Stephen came into the subterranean room and collapsed at the console.

Sitting in one of the chairs waiting for him was his partner.  Peter looked at him and grinned. "She wore you out, huh?"

Stephen looked at him in disbelief. "I have shaken off bloodhounds easier than that."

Peter checked his watch. "I was wondering what was keeping you."

"She caught up to me again a half-block from the Sanctum.  I had to duck into that new market just to avoid her.  It came to a full out sprint through the baby food section. If that stroller had rolled in front of her a second later she would have had me."

Peter laughed. "Well, while you were playing tag, I arrived and found that Burbank sent a message through."  He held up a slip of paper.

Stephen reached across for it. "What is it?"

Peter pulled it away and grinned even broader. "See, if you had gotten here 20 minutes ago like I did, you would know already."

Stephen growled. "Hand it over."

Peter laughed and handed him the piece of paper. "This whole day, I'm going to be 20 minutes smarter than you."

Stephen read the note. "The money print is being moved to New York in two days."

Peter grinned smugly. "I already knew that."

Stephen growled. "I know you know. Underworld contacts have all heard rumors, six conflicting addresses."

"I knew that too."

Stephen gritted his teeth. "I know you know." He turned back to the note. "Two addresses on the waterfront. One on the east side, three in Chinatown. Two bars, three businesses, and a residential home."

"I know that."

"I KNOW…that you know," Stephen snapped.

Suddenly the console bleeped.

Stephen spun, and to his utter shock saw that one of the motion sensors on the Sanctum's exterior had been triggered.  "Oh, no…" He hit a button on the console.

On the screen, a security camera feed activated.

Stephen had his eyes shut.  "I don't want to look.  Tell me that it's some fat tabby cat or a homeless guy looking for a place to sack out."

Peter looked at the screen and laughed.  "Quick, Stephen, pull up the ladder. She found our clubhouse."

Stephen moaned and looked at the view screen, watching Sarah Branson pace away from the alley, only to return again a moment later. She looked intently down the alley once more, and then paced away.

"She must have seen me coming in," Stephen sighed. "I hate reporters."

"Stephen," Peter reminded him, "we are reporters."

"Oh, yeah." Stephen reached over and grabbed a small pad and two photos. He started scribbling addresses. "Then let's do some investigative work. You check out these three, and I'll take the Chinatown addresses. Find out if Clarke was in any of these places, looking around to get ready for the transfer."

"Now we just have to get out of here," Peter quipped.

"And guess who gets to go first?" Stephen asked rhetorically.

Peter shook his head.  "Has it occurred to you that it might be easier just to give her the interview?"

Stephen gave him the Cranston glare.

Peter sprang out of his chair and bounded up the steps toward street level.

***

The hidden brick door retracted, and Peter peered out of it.  He stepped outside and gave Stephen the "O.K." hand signal.

Fading into invisibility, Stephen slipped out into the alley and peeked around the corner.  Then he groaned.

Sarah was walking back down the alley, as if she'd heard the door opening and was looking for the source of the sound.

Stephen hit the lever again.

The door ground to the shut position, and Peter saw the shadow on the wall gesture for him to move.  He prepared to jump to the roof.

"Mr. Parker?" blurted a surprised voice.

Peter spun, and saw Sarah coming around the corner. "Uh…hi, Sarah. Any luck finding Stephen?"

Sarah looked at him like he was insane. "Well, actually…I thought that he…is he…here?"

Peter gestured around him. "Do you see him here?"

Sarah looked around again, not noticing the disembodied shadow that whisked behind the down the alley to the street. "No.  But I'm surprised to see you here.  What are you doing here?"

Peter thought fast.  "Actually, I took a wrong turn.  I was going to check on a crime scene from the other night.  All these alleys look alike after a while.  What made you come down here?"

"I…er, I thought I saw him come this way.  But there's no place for him to go to, so I probably got lost, too."  She kept looking around, though, as if something were amiss.

Peter smiled and headed past her. "Well, good hunting."

Sarah looked around the alley intently, then headed back to the street herself.

Peter had vanished completely. Sighing, she hailed a taxi. "The Cobalt Club."

Looking back, she thought for a moment she had heard a mocking chuckle.

***

Across the street, from the safety of Moe Shrevnitz's cab inside the driveway of a parking garage, Stephen watched her cab pull away.

Peter got into the cab.  "You're right.  She is persistent."

Stephen began listing rules on his fingers. "Strike without warning. Never let them pick the time or place. Never let them see where you're coming from or going to. Never let them anticipate your strength or direction. NEVER let them trap you." He turned to Peter in amazement. "This woman over the last three hours has made me violate half the rules of classic strategic warfare. I have faced crime lords and chessmasters who couldn't do that."

"You're starting to like her, aren't you?" Peter taunted.

Stephen laughed. "I haven't played a game like this in a long time. Yeah. I'm starting to like her."

Chapter Three

Sarah sat idly in the Cobalt Club, watching the door. She knew full well that Cranston wasn't coming, but she didn't know what else to do.

"Ready to order?" a waiter asked politely.

Deciding not to wait, Sarah picked up the menu, and tried to find something affordable on the menu. While she looked, the waiter poured her a glass of wine. "Uh…I haven't ordered any wine," Sarah told him.

"It was paid for by Stephen Cranston, ma'am," the waiter replied.

She grabbed his arm so fast that he nearly dropped the bottle. "Is he here?"

The waiter extricated himself from her grip. "No, ma'am. He placed a wine order over the phone, then charged the cost of the entire meal to his tab."

Sarah sighed and released him. Looking over the bottle, she smiled. "Well, he's obviously not coming, but I can't fault his taste. This is my favorite wine."

The waiter chuckled.

Sarah looked up at him. "What?"

The waiter suddenly sobered himself. People in this club had been fired for less. "Nothing, my apologies."

She grabbed his arm again and dug her nails in hard. "What?"

The waiter panicked. "Um…it's not policy to gossip on our customers."

Sarah thought fast. "Oh, that's O.K., you can tell me anything about Stephen…he's…my fiancée."

The waiter stared, and Sarah stared right back, wondering exactly what the hell she was thinking. Fiancée? she thought to herself. If that got around…

"I don't see a ring," the waiter said suspiciously.

Sarah thought fast again. "Um…we're keeping it a secret, so I'd appreciate it if you told no one. The thing is, he's been so busy lately that I haven't been able to see him for two days now. We keep missing each other. Do you know where he was calling from?"

The waiter looked her over carefully.

She stared right back.

"No," he said finally. "I don't know where he is, and I wasn't withholding information earlier.  I just thought that you wouldn't be the only one happy to see him here."

Sarah released him. "Why not?"

"Well, he's the greatest tipper ever seen in this building, so he sort of has his own following when it comes to wait staff. It was my turn today, too."

Sarah laughed. "You take turns?"

The waiter looked embarrassed. "We have sort of a roster set up, because when he comes in, he tips about a third of our daily salaries.  We kept fighting over his table, just like his uncle, if memory serves."

Sarah would have asked for more details about his family, but that would have proven that she wasn't his fiancée. Suddenly a thought struck her. "I wonder if others have the same idea," she said casually. "Hotels, other restaurants…cab drivers."

The waiter laughed. "Well, I don't know if he has a regular cab driver, but I've always seen him taking the Sunshine Radio cabs."

Sarah jumped up from the table and headed for the phones without another word.

***

"Three tens," Stephen said, laying down his cards.

"Straight flush," fired back the man across from him.

Stephen groaned as the man dragged his money away. "Whose deal is it?"

"Yours," the woman on his left responded, handing him the deck.

Stephen began shuffling. "You know, this is a nice bar. I have to remember this place," he said casually. "And I haven't played poker like this for a long time. Do you guys play each other regularly?"

"Yeah," the man on his right answered. "Us and a few others, we come pretty regularly."

"Ante up."  Stephen dealt the cards. "Listen, would you guys mind if I did the same? Because if you have a particular group, I wouldn't want to impose."

"The way you lose money," one of the women responded, "I wouldn't mind playing you all the time."

There was a collective laugh at that. Stephen's laugh sounded vaguely shadowy, but nobody noticed. Looking over his hand, Stephen kept his tone casual. "Listen, since you guys gamble, maybe you could settle a little bet a friend of mine and I have. Cards?"

"Two," one of the gamblers said. "What'd you have in mind?"

"Well," Stephen said, dealing, "this place came recommended by a guy named Clarke, but I have a bet with a friend of mine that he's never been in here."

"I'll take one," said the woman on his left. "Clarke? Do you have a picture or at least a description?"

Stephen pulled the small picture out of his pocket and handed it to her.

She looked at it, frowned, and passed it around while Stephen dealt out some replacement cards. Nobody recognised the man in the photo.

"Oh, good," Stephen laughed. "I made twenty bucks back then."

"Not so fast!" said the man on his right. "Ask the bartender. He can recognize anyone who's ever been in here."

"Really?" Stephen said, interested. Then he looked at his own hand.  "Leave it to the dealer to deal himself a hand full of garbage."  He tossed his cards into the center.  "Well, since we need refills, I'll go ask our knowledgeable barkeep.  Who else needs a fresh one?"

Several players raised empty glasses.

Stephen pretended to take notice.  Then he picked up the photo and his own glass and made his way to the bar.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asked.

"Refills please, and some information." Stephen showed the photo. "Recognize him?"

The bartender studied the photo. "Nope." he said. "Should I?"

"Probably not."  He gestured with his head toward the table.  "Refills for that entire group.  On me."  He dropped a hundred onto the bar, then walked away, heading straight out the door without looking back.

***

"Hello? Sunshine Cabs?" Sarah asked. "Um, this is Mitzi at the Cobalt Club.  I'd like to order a taxi for one of our customers…Stephen Cranston. Yes, that's right. Oh, and Mr. Cranston also asked for his usual driver. The name? Oh, damn!" Dammit, she hadn't thought to ask for a name.  Think fast, she told herself. "He gave the name but I can't remember. Please, don't make me go back and ask him! Don't you have it? Moe Shrevnitz! That's it!  Thank you so much!"

***

Peter gave a drunken laugh. "Great story!" he told the table. "I'll remember it the next time I'm in a knife fight."

The table roared with laughter, and Peter pulled out the picture. "Hey, I'm lookin' for a guy who owes me some money. Any of you guys know him?"

"You a cop?" one of the drunks asked suspiciously.

Peter gave another drunken laugh and tossed back the remnants in his glass. "Nah.  I'm the guy who's buying the next round!"

The drunks cheered.

The suspicious guy next to him looked at the photo. "Nope, don't recognise him."

Peter sighed, and stood, instantly sober, heading for the door.

"HEY!" one of the drunks yelled. "Where are our drinks?"

***

"Hello?  New York Classic?" Sarah asked. "Could you put me through to Stephen Cranston, please?"

"He's not in," came the reply. "And he's not likely to be soon, either."

"Do you know where he is?" Sarah asked.

That got a laugh from the receptionist.  "Nobody ever does."

"Can I get his cell number then?" Sarah asked hopefully.

"I'm sorry, but we don't give out that information to the public."

Sarah sighed and rubbed her eyes, in total disbelief of what she even thinking about saying. "It's all right, you can tell me. You see, I'm his fiancée."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.  "O.K.," the voice said finally. "Here's the number. Ready?"

Sarah pulled out her Palm Pilot. "Ready."

***

"Don't know him," the bartender said.

Stephen sighed.  "Thanks anyway."  He headed out the door of the bar, crossing the second name off his list of addresses. The third address he was to check out was a restaurant in Chinatown. It was easily within walking distance, and he started heading for that part of town.

Just then, his cell phone rang. He took it out of his pocket and flipped it open.  "Stephen Cranston."

 "Oh, so this is your number!" Sarah shouted excitedly.

Stephen jerked the phone way from his ear in horror. It was her!  "How did you get this number?"

"From the Classic. Listen, I've been waiting at the Cobalt Club and…"

Stephen hung up. He was almost to the restaurant. The sign over the door read "The Kung Paw".

Barely six seconds later the cell phone rang again.  One glance at the number on its incoming call display told him it was her.  Again.

Sighing, he turned it off, counted to 10 in his head, then switched his cell phone on and speed-dialed a number before it could ring.

"New York Classic," answered a voice.

"Hello, Debbie?" Stephen said, forcing himself to be cheerful.

"Speak of the devil," Debbie laughed.

"And the devil appears," Stephen responded.  "Did you give out my cell number to somebody today?"

"Yeah, just a few minutes ago. To your fiancée."

Stephen stared at the phone. "My what?"

***

Sarah bit her lip and checked her watch. She had only two minutes until the cab was meant to arrive. Making a decision, she dialed again.

"Hello? DMV? Put me through to Maurice Baker please." A pause. "Maurice?  It's Sarah.  Don't you dare hang up on me.  I need some information. Yeah.  Get me everything you can on a cab driver named Moe Shrevnitz. Works for Sunshine Cabs…what do you mean you can't do that? O.K., I understand.  Is your supervisor aware that you were the one that gave me the evidence for that expose on the DMV records?" Another pause. "Yes, I am blackmailing you." She smiled.  "Thought you'd see it my way."  She pulled out her Palm Pilot. "Ready."  She took down several notes, then her jaw dropped.  "Really?  You're not making this up, are you?  Whoa. Thanks, Maurice."

Hanging up again, she made her way to the exit, looking over the notes she had made. "Mr. Cranston, you sure keep some strange company."

***

Moe frowned as the brunette got into the cab. "Sorry lady, this cab's reserved."

"By Stephen Cranston, yeah," Sarah answered, thinking madly once again. "Uh, I was in a hurry and he wasn't, so he told me to take the cab. He said he had some urgent errand to attend to. He didn't say what."

Moe looked her over carefully. "And who are you?"

"Sarah Branson." She put on her most charming smile. "He told me that this was his usual cab, and that he would make it up to you. He had to take an urgent call, I think."

Moe looked her over, and she hoped that she couldn't hear her heart thundering. "It's Moe, right?" she asked. "Moe Shrevnitz?"

Moe frowned. The woman did look familiar. Sometimes, to keep up appearances, Stephen had to have a waiter call for a cab, and sometimes, he had to cancel Moe's approach to avoid suspicion, and Moe had ferried around many agents on many assignments, but this woman was clearly not an agent, or she would have used the code words by now.  But if Moe told her to get out, she would want to know why, and that would draw attention to Moe's connection to Stephen. Also, Moe had not felt the usual mental signals that told him where to go, so Stephen wasn't expecting him any time soon.  So this was simply a fare that knew Stephen's name, which was not uncommon from the Cobalt Club.  Moe took a deep breath and pulled out into traffic.  He was about to ask where to drive her when she spoke again.

"So, you drive Mr. Cranston around much?" she asked.

"Whenever I can," Moe replied carefully. "He's a great tipper."

"So I hear." She laughed casually. "So, where do you usually drive him? Does he always dine at the Cobalt Club? How often do you take him to the Classic? Who else goes with-"

"Oh my God--it's YOU!" Moe blurted, recognizing her suddenly. He had only seen her once, from almost half a block away, but finally everything fit. He hit the brakes, and slid the cab against the curb. "OUT!"

Sarah didn't move. "Look, it's my job. I just want to find him, chat for a couple of minutes and go home. I don't know why that's such a problem for him, Goodness only knows what he's trying to hide, and I don't know what he's paying you to throw me out…"

"More than you could. Out."

"No!" snapped Sarah. "I have a job to do, and the last two to do it have both ended up in the hospital. I'm not going to be shaken off so easy. And I'm not getting out of this cab till either I speak to Mr. Cranston or you answer all my questions. For instance, who did Mr. Cranston bribe to make you ticket-proof? Seems you've been charged, though never convicted, with breaking virtually ever traffic and driving law there is, multiple times. So how do you stay on the street?"

Moe bit his lip. He knew she was serious. What the heck was he supposed to do now?

***

"Are you sure?" Stephen asked.

"Positive. He came in here last night. Said he was a zoning inspector, wanted to see the small room upstairs."

Stephen put the picture away. "Great, thanks."  He headed out the door, realizing he needed to call his partner and set up a watch on the Kung Paw restaurant.  Which meant he needed to go back to his office for a bit.  Heading down the road, he sent for his driver.

***

Moe's ring flashed.

Smothering a scream, Moe lowered his hands out of sight. The woman hadn't shifted, and neither had the cab. While he loathed losing this battle of wills, he had been called, and he had to respond. And while he did agree that Stephen was being just a little bit ridiculous about this whole interview nonsense, he still had a healthy respect for the power of the man he served, and if he pulled up with her in the cab…"Get out," he told her again.  "I'm not kidding.  I'll throw you out myself if I have to."

"Touch me and even Stephen Cranston won't be able to get you out of the legal charges I'll bring."  Sarah crossed her arms defiantly. "You know my price. One interview, I go away."

Frowning, Moe pulled into traffic again.

***

Stephen looked back and forth, looking for Moe's cab. What was keeping him?

Suddenly he saw it. Then he noticed that there was someone in the cab already. Had Shrevnitz stopped off to pick up Peter?

As the cab pulled up to the curb, he realized it was definitely not Peter…and it was definitely not someone he wanted to see.  Dammit.

Moe popped open the rear door to the cab.  He could already tell that Stephen was in a very bad mood.  And that was not good at all.

Stephen got in the cab and glared at Sarah. "Hello, dear," he sneered at her. Then he glared at the cabbie in the rear view mirror.  "Hello, Moe."

"Mr. Cranston," returned the cabbie, more than a little nervous.

Stephen looked back at Sarah. "So, when exactly were you planning to tell me about the big day?" he asked. "Have you got your dress picked out yet?"

"What are you talking about?" she asked.

"Funny, that's exactly what I wondered about the receptionist at the Classic when she told me that the only person who had gotten my cell phone number was my fiancée!"

Sarah blushed. "Look, how else was I going to…"

The cold look in Stephen's eyes cut off her sentence instantly. "Get out."

Sarah suddenly lost her temper. "No! Look, I've tried being polite, I've tried being helpful, I've tried being patient, I've even tried being reasonable, and in response, you've slammed doors in my face, led me on a foot chase and a car chase through Manhattan, made me knock over a nice lady with a stroller, hung up on me, and tried to make a cab driver throw me out of his cab!  All I want is to do my job, which really shouldn't be this hard. So, I'm guilty, O.K.? But not of anything that could create this kind of response! I'm guilty of something much, much worse! I'm trying to get to know who you are. Now maybe where an elitist Ivy League jerk like you comes from, that's a terrible crime, but really I can't care less. And I am not giving up till I've won, or I get put in the hospital too."

Stephen looked at her and sighed.  The kind of bad publicity that came from a ticked-off reporter with an agenda was definitely not something he needed, but he didn't need this kind of distraction, either.  He quickly spun his brain to come up with something that would at least sound plausible for a busy reporter to not have time for anything other than doing his own job.  "Look," he said finally, "you have a point, but your timing stinks, to put it mildly.  I'm doing some surveillance work for a story…"

"Fine, I'll join you."

"No, see…"

"I've done plenty of surveillance work in the past myself, and I won't give you away," she interrupted.

"I'm sure, but I…"

"I've already got one story, and that's you.  I give you my word I won't steal whatever scoop you've got."

"No, see I have to…"

"If you want to hold off the interview until you're done with whatever surveillance you're doing, that's fine, but I'm not letting you out of my sight till then."

"Wait a second…"

"I'm coming," she snapped, with no room for argument.

Stephen started to blast into her psyche to get his point across, then suddenly stopped and stared at her, wide-eyed.

She looked at him oddly.  It almost looked like he had seen a ghost.  But there was something more…something vaguely sinister in those blue-green eyes, something so intense that it was almost frightening…

Stephen didn't take his eyes off her as he fished into his pockets for his cell phone.  "Moe," he said as he dialed, "my warehouse.  And we will talk about this later."

The cabbie slumped imperceptivity, then put the cab into gear and pulled out into traffic.

Stephen still didn't take his eyes off Sarah as he waited for someone to answer the phone.  "Peter?  I've gotten a little sidetracked.  No, nothing I can't handle.  Yes, alone.  I need you to get some surveillance going on a place called the Kung Paw Restaurant in Chinatown.  I'll be back in touch soon."  With that, he hung up the phone.

Sarah looked at him for a long moment.  The intensity of that stare was unreal.  "Where are we going?"

"You want to get to know who I am?" Stephen responded, almost coldly.  "Fine.  That's what we're going to do."

Chapter Four

Sarah was beginning to wonder what she'd gotten herself into.  What had started out as an intriguing assignment had morphed from a challenging interview to a pursuit to a hard investigative dig to…

…to what?  She really wasn't sure.

All she knew was that right now she was standing in the middle of an empty warehouse with Stephen Cranston, and he was still practically drilling through her with his hard-as-steel gaze.  After they'd gotten out of the cab, he'd told Shrevnitz to take a hike, then pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the padlocked warehouse doors and told her to get inside.  And the look on his face made it clear that he wasn't going to take "no" for an answer.  If she didn't really want this story bad, she'd have defied him and taken off, damn the consequences.

But she did want it.  And so she stayed.

And now he was pacing slowly around her, still looking at her intently.  But his expression was changing, slowly moving from the hard and angry glare he'd held on her during the cab ride to an expression of curiosity.  She wasn't sure what about this encounter couldn't have been accomplished on a much briefer and friendlier level during lunch at the Cobalt Club, but still, she was pretty sure she was finally getting a look at the real Stephen Cranston…or at least a much more in-depth look than just about anyone had in any previous interviews she'd read from the man.

"You're clairvoyant," he finally said aloud.

Sarah gave him a look that spoke volumes about her opinion of his sanity.

If Stephen noticed, he didn't let it show.  "I was wondering how you managed to keep up with me.  I was actually impressed with your tracking skills at first.  Even when I was out of your sight range, it didn't take you long to sniff me out again.  Trust me when I tell you that that is hard to do.  I went so far as to check my pockets for some kind of tracker you might have slipped onto my person somehow.  When I found out you'd been calling around and digging for information about me, I was pretty sure I was going to have to have you arrested for stalking.  When you showed up in my cab, that was almost the clincher.  But then I realized what was really going on.  You're not just a hard-hitting reporter who follows her stories to the bitter end.  You're clairvoyant.  You use your clairvoyance to find and follow your subjects everywhere, even when they try to give you the slip, until you eventually wear down their resistance.  And you've latched onto me with your mind and will follow me everywhere until I give you what you want."

He was serious.  He was completely serious.  Sarah scoffed.  "You know, I'd read something in an old newspaper story on your family that the Cranstons were often considered 'eccentric', but I didn't think that was just a polite expression for 'completely and utterly insane'."

"So tell me I'm wrong."

She frowned.  "There is no such thing as clairvoyance.  It's a bunch of stuff and nonsense, made up by con artists out to separate fools from their hard-earned money."

He smiled coldly.  "You still haven't told me I'm wrong."  He laughed slightly, almost sinisterly.  "And I notice you've dropped your ditzy act.  It is an act, isn't it?  A way to disarm your subjects so you can get a good look at them so you'll recognize them again from the images in your head, right?"

She laughed, a barely disguised expression of exasperation.  "You know what?  I'm sorry I ever got involved with this story.  You want me to leave you alone?  Fine.  I'm gone."  She turned to walk away.

He cut her path off immediately.  "You're not going anywhere.  Not until you tell me the truth."

"The truth?"  She laughed again.  "The truth is that you are nuttier than a fruitcake."

"That's still not telling me I'm wrong."

"You're wrong."  She pushed her way past him.

He grabbed her arm.  "No, I'm not."

"What the…"  She tried to pull her arm free.

He tightened his grip.  "Don't like hard-hitting questions directed at you, do you?  Tough luck.  It's honesty time.  Time you finally told the truth about your real agenda.  Who sent you?"

"What are you babbling about?"

"Who sent you?"

"Let me go!"

He pulled her right up to his face.  "Who sent you?"

"The Post, you idiot!" she screamed, jerking her arm free and backing away.  "I work for the Post!  I told you that this morning!  Dammit, what the Hell is wrong with you?"

He looked at her for a long moment.  Then, he smiled.  "I believe you.  For now."

She looked a bit taken aback by the smile.  "Good.  Now, if you'll excuse me…"  She started to leave once more.

He stepped in front of her.  "Can you control it?"

She looked at him oddly again.  "What?"

"Your clairvoyance.  Can you control the visions?  Are they something you can call up whenever you need them, like images from a surveillance camera?  Or do they just happen, and you're usually glad when they do?"

She started to deny it once more, then realized that he wasn't going to let up on this line of questioning until he got the answer he wanted.  She threw up her hands.  "I wish I could control it.  It would sure make this stuff easier to take."

He looked intrigued now.  "How long have you been able to do this?"

"God, I don't know."  She began to pace.  "I've always had this kind of sixth sense about where people were.  The other kids hated playing hide-and-seek with me."  She gave an ironic laugh.  "See, even then, nobody could elude me.  The older I got, the more obvious it got--I knew when my boyfriend was cheating on me, when my roommate was stealing quarters from my laundry stash, that sort of thing.  So I decided to take up a career where that sort of thing would come in handy."

"Really?"  He smiled again.  "Tell me more.  What kinds of impressions do you get when it happens?  Do you literally get visions?"

"You've seen too many bad TV shows.  Clairvoyants don't really have visions."  She laughed again.  "Or at least, I don't.  Ever hear of biometric detectors--computers and sensors that can detect human activity without traditional camera and microphone technology?  It's kind of like that.  You were right--I do need to get a good feel for the person I'm going to be tracking.  All it takes is a few minutes with them, and I can find them anywhere in my immediate vicinity.  I don't see them, but I can definitely tell where they are."

"So that's how you followed me."

She sighed.  "Yeah.  That's how I did it."

"So you can follow somebody you've only met once?"

"Yeah."

"Anywhere?"

"Anywhere."

"Even when you can't see them?"

She looked annoyed.  "Didn't I just say 'anywhere'?"

"So you did."  He walked behind her.

She turned around…

…and he was gone.

What the…?  She looked around the room.  He was still in here, she knew it.  She tried to let go and let that weird stuff in her head take over.

A sensation of something to her right filled her head.  She stepped over toward it.

A swirl of black appeared for a brief moment, then whisked away from her and disappeared.

The sensation moved with the swirl, and now it was directing her forward.  She reached out.

Once more the swirl of black moved away, and once more she knew where it was going.  She kept moving toward it.

"Can you see me?"

She looked around, stunned.  That was Stephen's voice…and it was coming in from all around.  "No," she said.  "But I know where you are."  She reached out for something she knew was right beside her, even though she absolutely could not see it.

The swirl whisked away quickly, and something practically bumped into her and pushed her a completely different direction.  She started to turn toward it…then realized the sensation in her head was pulling her back in the original direction she'd been moving.  She turned around quickly and reached out again.

Again that swirl of black darted away.  "Fascinating.  You weren't fooled.  That was one of my best tricks."

This time, that weird feeling of something moving past her pushed harder and actually spun her around.  She caught her balance, then closed her eyes and let her brain clear up the confusion.  She reached out and felt her fingers brush against his jacket.

Something grabbed her arm…and Stephen suddenly appeared right in front of her.

She drew back.  "What the…how…"

"Still wondering how I knew you were clairvoyant?" he said, his expression confident and his eyes slightly sinister.

She shook off her confusion and his hand off her arm simultaneously.  "Yeah.  I am.  Because invisibility is impossible.  Unless you're one of those X-Men type mutants, but they're not real."

"Just like clairvoyance isn't real, right?"

She just looked at him.  "Oh, come on.  You're trying to tell me you're really able to make yourself invisible?" She laughed at her own joke nervously, and Stephen joined in.

Sarah's laugh trailed off, but he kept laughing…a low, sinister, menacing laugh that grew louder with each syllable.

She backed off. All the things she had ever heard or read about The Shadow came rushing into her mind. There wasn't much, but the one thing that all the written records agreed on, most of them written by Stephen Cranston, was that he had a terrifying laugh. Which would mean…"Oh, my God…The Shadow!  You're The Shadow!"

He nodded.  "Right.  Which is why I wasn't keen on you following me."

She shook her head.  In a bizarre way, things were finally starting to make sense.  "That's how you get those vigilante stories so fast.  First-hand experience is always the best source of information."  She gave him an odd look.  "So why tell me this?"

"Two reasons.  One:  I'd rather control how you found out this information then have you sneaking around and catching me unaware."

She'd just been awarded a point in this little game of cat and mouse they were playing, and that made her laugh.  "And the other?"

He smiled mysteriously.  "Because if you really are clairvoyant, I think there might be a way to get you a much better story than a puff piece on Stephen Cranston, Billionaire Reporter."

She raised an eyebrow.  "Do tell."

***

Shrevnitz could not believe where he'd just been asked to go.  He gave Stephen a pointed look.  "The Kung Paw?  Are you sure?"

Stephen nodded.  "I have this sudden craving for Peking Duck."

Shrevnitz looked from Stephen to Sarah to Stephen again.  "You…you don't want to drop her off first?"

"No," Stephen said firmly.

"I love Peking Duck," Sarah added.

Shrevnitz just stared at Stephen again.

"Drive," Stephen ordered.

Shrevnitz blew out a hard breath, then turned around and put the cab into gear.

***

Shrevnitz was still confused about what the Hell was going on, and why the boss actually seemed to be relaxing slightly with that…that…that reporter in the back seat, when they finally arrived at the Kung Paw.

Stephen got out of the cab and gave Sarah a hand, then looked back inside to Shrevnitz.  "Make the block a few times.  I'll call you when we're ready."

Shrevnitz frowned.  This was either the strangest legitimate Cranston date that he'd ever chauffeured or something really weird was going on here.  But one did not contradict The Shadow, and he knew that better than almost anyone.  He nodded and drove away.

"This is where you had Peter Parker set up that surveillance," Sarah observed quietly.

Stephen nodded.  "Let's not make a point of mentioning these things aloud, shall we?"

She nodded quickly.  "O.K.  So what now?"

"Let's take a break.  I need a cigar."  He gestured over to a spot near the door, leaned back against the wall, and reached into his jacket for his cigar case.  "So, tell me…"  He snipped the end of his cigar, then lit it and took a few puffs.  "Is Peter nearby?"

She gave him an annoyed look.  "I already told you, I can't control this stuff.  It just kind of randomly hits."

"Not so randomly.  It hits on whatever you're focused on at that moment.  That's the mark of an untrained adept."  He took a few more casual puffs.  "Focus on Peter.  You got to talk to him for a few minutes while I slipped out of the office, and you chatted with him in the alley.  Remember those conversations.  Really go over them in your head."

Sarah nodded, then closed her eyes and tried to remember.  She'd been thinking about finding Stephen at the time, but Peter was kind of cute, and she definitely noticed cute guys…

Suddenly, she felt something.  "He's here."

Stephen didn't seem surprised by this in the least.  "Where?"

She started to look around.

"Don't look around.  He's on covert surveillance, and you can't give away his position.  Just tell me where."

She frowned.  "I don't actually see things."

"Oh, I think you do, but you don't quite know how to interpret what you're 'seeing', so you characterize it as a 'feeling' instead of a vision.  Again, that's something that requires training to do it right.  Focus again and guesstimate his position."

She tried again to follow the sensations in her brain.  "He's way up high.  In the building next door…probably looking out a top-story window at this place."

"You sure?"

"It's the only thing that fits with what I'm getting.  He's way above us, but he's right next door--that I know for sure."

"Left or right?"

She concentrated again.  "My right."

Stephen flicked a gaze toward the building next to them and spotted Spiderman crouched under the roof's overhang, in the shadows, binoculars focused on the building.  "Very good."

She smiled, then sighed.  "Man, that was hard.  Normally it isn't that hard to find somebody I'm looking for."

"That's because you're only looking for him because I told you to.  Stay right there and relax for a second."  He casually strolled from one side of the door to the other, toward Spiderman's surveillance point, reached into his pocket to turn on his two-way radio, and cast a telepathic thought conversation toward his partner.  "Spidey…click the radio once if Clarke's in there and twice if he isn't."

The radio gave a click.

"Thanks."  He took another casual puff on his cigar, then reached into his breast pocket and handed Sarah a photograph.  "His name is Simon Clarke.  That's a relatively recent picture.  I've got it on good authority that he is actually in that restaurant.  And I need you to go in there and take a look at him, 'cause we're going to need to follow him pretty closely."

"This is that counterfeiter you were telling me about, right?"

"Not so loud."

"Gotcha."  She studied the picture for a moment.  "O.K., I got it."

"Think you'll recognize him if you see him in there?"

She handed back the photo.  "Absolutely.  What should I do once I find him?"

"Just get a good feel for him.  And whatever you do, don't make it obvious that somebody's looking for him.  We've got to be able to follow him discreetly."

"Don't worry.  The only thing he'll find obvious is that he hates ditzy chicks."  She gave him a wink, then headed inside.

As she left, Stephen's radio gave another click.  He reached into his pocket and discreetly pulled it out.  "Before you ask, I do know what I'm doing."

"I hope so," Spiderman's annoyed voice replied.  "Because the last time I saw you, you were desperately trying to avoid this bloodhound.  Now you're with her here?  And showing her the picture?"

"Trust me."

"I want to.  I really want to."

"Then do it.  Because I really do know what I'm doing."  He paused.  "Just the same…don't let Clarke out of your sight.  One of us has got to keep up with him if we're ever going to find the trail to the money print."

"You're the boss."

"And I like hearing that."  He snapped off his radio again and leaned back against the wall to finish his cigar.

Chapter Five

Clarke hadn't touched his meal. He was too busy looking around, considering dimensions of the whole building and where the room upstairs was in relation to the door. On the table next to his sweet and sour pork was a roadmap, and he was busy circling police stations and other such notable places, then checking their distances to the restaurant.

"Oh, hi!"

Clarke looked up sharply.

An unfamiliar brunette was standing at the table with a huge vacant smile on her face. "Oh, my God, I can't believe it's you!  How long has it been?"

Clarke was confused. Who was this woman?

Before he could object, she sat down at the table across from him. He scrambled to fold the map before she could get a good look at it.

"I mean, it has to have been at least three years," she babbled. "That time in Miami, remember? At the dog track? You gave me that tip in the third race. I won four hundred dollars on that greyhound and you vanished before I could thank you. And it was a long shot too, that dog hadn't won a race in weeks and nobody would bet on it and you told me to bet on it and I was the sole winner at sixteen to one odds. It was brilliant!"

Clarke had finally managed to succeed in folding up his map, and he took the opportunity to interrupt. "I'm sorry, but I've never been to Florida."

The woman stared at him carefully. "Well, I know you from somewhere. Let's see. I know! Were you ever a used car salesman? Because once this salesman that looked a lot like you gave me a great deal on this old car, and he actually told me that the car was perfect for me, I mean, you could shop for years and not find a car that's perfect for you, but this guy, he actually went and found the perfect car…"

"Uh, no…," Clarke said, irritated now.

"Oh, wait! I remember now! In Brooklyn, my car had broken down and you gave me a lift, it was pouring rain and all that, and you came to my rescue! Let me buy you lunch, I have to repay you for that…"

"Wait!" Clarke said sternly. "I do not know you. I was never in Brooklyn, I've lived in New York my entire life, and you obviously have me confused with somebody else, so leave me to my lunch, and go bother someone else O.K.?"

Sarah looked at him, looking for all intents and purposes like someone about to cry, then stood and walked out of the restaurant.

***

Stephen was waiting calmly, leaning against the wall and enjoying his cigar, when Sarah came out.  She gave him a broad smile.

Stephen found himself smiling back. "How'd it go?"

"Well, he'll never get a job at a car dealership, he'll never move to Brooklyn, and he'll sure never go to a dog track in Miami, but I got what I needed."

"Good."

"What do we do now?"

"Now, we wait."

Sarah leaned against the wall next to him. "So…been doing this long?"

Stephen gave her an annoyed glare.

Sarah understood. "Never mind."  She gestured with her eyes at his cigar. "You got another one of those?"

Stephen looked surprised and handed her a cigar.

She reached into her purse and produced a Swiss Army Knife.  "I prefer the 'v' cut myself," she said, raising the pair of scissors from its slot on the knife.  "Gives a better draw."  She snipped the top twice, producing a v-shaped opening.  "Got a light?"

He pulled a box of matches out of his pocket and lit one for her.

She took several puffs to light the cigar, then took it out of her mouth and nodded approvingly. "Mm-m. Good cigar."

Stephen smiled again. "What would be the point of smoking a bad one?"

"Dominican?"

"Honduran, actually."

"Wow--a lot of flavor for Honduran."  She took another puff, then looked as if something inside her head was setting off her mental radar.  She frowned. "I think…I think your partner is staring at us."

The Shadow's mocking laugh rang out. "I'll bet he is."

There was silence for several moments.  Then suddenly, Sarah stiffened. "I think Clarke is moving."

Stephen pulled his radio. "Peter? Clarke's moving."

"How the Hell can you tell that from standing outside?" Peter's voice crackled back.

Stephen gave Sarah a knowing smile but dodged Peter's question. "Moe's cab will be around the backside of your building in about 30 seconds.  Meet him and then come pick us up."

"Us?  You mean you and your new cigar-smoking partner?"

Stephen rolled his eyes.  "Yes, Sarah will be coming."

"Sarah? So it's Sarah now?" Peter's amusement was clear.

Stephen turned the radio off.

"I think I like him," Sarah said. "He has a sense of humor."

Stephen gave her a look.

She started to retort to that look, then stiffened again.  "He's almost to the door."

Both of them turned away from the door, keeping their faces hidden as Clarke came out and hailed a taxi.

As Clarke's cab drove away, Moe's cab pulled up with Peter inside.

Stephen opened the front door to let Sarah in, then climbed into his traditional seat in the back.  "Tail 'em, Moe."

As the cabbie weaved expertly in and out of traffic, Peter looked hard at Stephen, gesturing to Sarah with his eyes.

Stephen shook his head slightly. "Not the time," he mentally cautioned.

Peter frowned.

Just then, Clarke's cab accelerated greatly and spun a hard right.

"He's seen us!" warned Moe.

"Don't lose him!" Stephen ordered.

The New York cabbie gripped the wheel tight and shoved the accelerator to the floor.

The chase went throughout most of Chinatown and made its way toward the lower east side, sending people running terrified off the roads.  But Shrevnitz was closing the gap.

Suddenly, a homeless guy pushing a junked shopping cart walked out into the middle of the street. Clarke's cab swept around him, but Moe didn't have time to swerve.

Moe pounced on the brakes, and the cab came to a scorching halt just short of the oblivious bum, who took his time wandering out of the road.

Moe slammed the steering wheel in frustration. "Sorry, Mr. Cranston."

Peter shook his head. "Damn. He knows he's being watched now."

Stephen looked Sarah right in the eye. "Sarah?"

The young woman bit her lip. "I…I don't…"

"Concentrate," Stephen ordered.

"I…I can't…THAT WAY!" she suddenly shouted, pointing down a particular street.

"Which direction, and how fast?" Stephen queried.

"Two blocks from here."  She thought a little harder.  "He's turned a corner and is going south.  He's slowing down--probably stuck in traffic."

"You heard the lady, Moe," Stephen directed.  "Get around him and cut him off."

Confused but obedient, Moe pressed the accelerator and wove down a side street.

Peter glared fiercely at his partner. "What the Hell are you doing?" he whispered.

Stephen didn't bother to whisper. "She knows where he went."

"How?" Moe asked.

"I know," Sarah said firmly.

Moe and Peter traded a look. She sounded almost like Stephen just then.

Stephen caught the look and smiled.

Peter caught the smile and frowned. "What do you know that I don't know?"

"Peter, when I say that I know something, you know that I know, and now I'm telling you that I know that she knows," Stephen mocked.

Peter threw up his hands. "O.K., O.K., a man can only take so much gibberish."

"Boss!" blurted Moe. "There he is!"

Peter looked out the window and his jaw dropped.

Clarke's cab was coming into the intersection, driving at a much more sedate pace.

Peter glanced at the street signs and realized they were two blocks west and two blocks south from where they'd started…almost exactly where she'd told them to go.  "How the Hell…," Peter began.

Stephen didn't seem to hear. "Moe, slow it down. He thinks he lost us--let's not remind him we're here."

Moe eased off on the accelerator.

Clarke's cab drove several more streets, with Moe carefully following.

Finally slowing, Clarke's turned off the road and into a driveway, where he got out and quickly paid his fare.

Moe kept driving past until he had gone halfway around the block.

"Stop here," Stephen ordered.

Moe stopped the cab.

"What now?" Peter asked. "Or should I ask her?"

Stephen batted his arm. "The money press will be in there."  He glanced at his watch, then at the sky.  "Normally I'd like to wait till it's fully dark, but since he knows he's being followed, I'll have to settle for twilight."

Peter looked frantically at Sarah, then back at Stephen.

"Get your camera, Pete," Stephen said, couching his words carefully. "We're about to go scoop-hunting."  He looked at his other travel companion.  "Sarah, you should probably go home, because in a few minutes Clarke's going to be having a really bad night, and after that, there's not likely much more. Thanks for your help."

"So that's all she wrote?" Sarah asked, sounding disappointed.

"Yeah, I'm afraid so," Stephen said quietly. "Don't worry, we have a deal--I won't forget."

"I know you won't."  She gave a wary smile.  "Be careful in there, though. I know the chase went smoothly enough, but I've never trusted answers…"

"…that come too easily.  I know, me neither." Stephen pulled a parcel wrapped in brown paper out from under the seat. "Let's go, Peter."

The duo left the cab, and Moe wondered once more just what the Hell was going on.

***

"I think that's very cute, Stephen," Peter said as they walked toward a nearby alley.

"What?" his partner asked in confusion.

"The way you two finish each other's sentences," came the amused reply.

A long beat.  "No, we don't."

The duo turned a corner.

Suddenly, Peter turned and shoved Stephen up against a wall.

"What the…," Stephen began.

"What the Hell is going on?" Peter demanded, cutting him off immediately. "What did you do?  What happened between 'Hey Peter, create a distraction so I can escape her' and 'Don't worry, Peter, she knows what she's doing'?"

Stephen laughed, and then froze as he thought it over. "Oh, Hell--what did I do?" he muttered to himself in disbelief. Thinking it over again, he nearly panicked. He had just told a reporter he'd only just met a few hours ago, a tenacious journalist who was out to write an expose on Stephen Cranston, the secret identity of The Shadow. Was he insane? "Peter," he said aloud, "I need someone to give me a really hard slap in the face, because I'm not sure I'm actually awake."

Peter didn't hesitate; he gave Stephen a hard "whack" upside his head.  "Awake now?"

"Yeah."  Stephen took a deep breath and focused on why he told her instead of what he told her, then looked his partner square in the eye. "Peter, she's clairvoyant."

Only a few years earlier, Peter would have called the man insane, but three years of partnership with a powerful telepath had convinced him that such things were possible…well, right now, he still wasn't sure Stephen was in full possession of coherent thought. "Which means what?"

"Which means that she can't mind read, but she can sense things, she can get a feel for people and know where they are even when there was no way for her to have that information, she can find things in places that she's never been to…"

"…and she can find where you are, even when invisible," Peter finished.

"Right.  She gets a feel for someone, and she's like a bloodhound.  I tested her less than an hour ago, and she knew exactly where I was every time, no matter how I tried to fool her mind.  She was going to find out; it was just a matter of time."

Peter gaped. "You didn't."

Stephen nodded, barely able to comprehend what he'd done.  "I did."

"How much did you tell her?  How much does she know?"

"She knows I'm The Shadow. Nothing more."

Peter slapped him again.

"Ow!" Stephen groaned, recoiling from the blow. "What was that for?"

"Sorry," Peter replied with an annoyed glare. "I thought you said you wanted me to slap you to make sure you were awake, and you were still babbling insanely.  Stephen--you told a reporter that you are The Shadow!"

Stephen gave a bewildered chuckle. "Yeah, I did, didn't I?"

Peter prepared to slap him again.

Stephen gave him a mental shove before he could.  "Back off.  She would have found out anyway.  This way, I could control how she learned it."

"Do you trust her?"

"For now.  Besides, she has incentive to trust me as well."

"Great.  Just great.  What did you have to promise her to ensure her at-least-temporary silence?"

"What do you think Marsh would say if the Post got tomorrow's scoop on the counterfeit gig?"

"Ah.  Good thing I'm on salary and not still freelancing."  Then Peter gave his head a rueful shake. "What are the odds that two attractive female psychics both find you?"

"Pretty good, actually. I'm a strong, awakened adept. Like seeks like."

"You do remember what happened with the last female adept you were paired with, right?"

"Don't remind me," Stephen sighed.

"And you still trust her?"

"Yes," Stephen said firmly. "She…I don't know, I think I trust her. Enough to leave alone with our secrets."  He rephrased as Peter gave him an odd look. "My secrets. She's…not the type to backstab, I don't think."

"Oh, my God!" Peter blurted. "You smile at each other, share cigars, trade secrets, finish each other's sentences, and now you're babbling about how trustworthy she is. You're falling for her!"

"I am not!" Stephen said quickly, defensively.

"Tell that to your face!"

Stephen looked confused.  "What?"

Peter was practically laughing.  "You should see your expression!  I have never seen you look so completely over-the-moon."

Stephen stared for a moment.  No way.  He couldn't be…could he?  Then he shook off the doubt.  "Peter, I'm not falling for her. I had to make a choice, and I made the best one I could. Who are you going to believe?  My face, or my voice?"  He began unwrapping his parcel. "Come on. Let's go beat the Hell out of some bad guys."

Chapter Six

Moe's cab pulled up to a nondescript street corner in Manhattan. He'd taken the new gal--she wasn't an agent, and he was not going to think of her that way until he saw a ring on her finger, no matter how the boss was acting around her--out for a bite to eat to try to get to the bottom of her motives.  And after several hours, he still wasn't sure.  But it was not his place to question the boss' decisions, even if they did seem completely insane.  "You sure you don't want a lift the rest of the way?" he asked his passenger.

"No, I'll walk; it isn't far," Sarah asserted.

Shrevnitz nodded and popped open the rear door.

Sarah climbed out of the cab.  "Take care of yourself, Moe."

He nodded again, tipped the brim of his cap, and drove away.

She slowly walked down the dark street toward her apartment. Then she reached out a hand and swung at nothing, but her hand brushed heavy, swirling fabric. "So, were you going to say anything?" she asked quietly, a slight laugh in her voice.

A whispered laugh answered. "And I thought I'd dodged you this time."

She shook her head and shivered against the misting rain that was producing a dark and dank evening chill. "Nope. I take it all went well?"

She felt his hand, a hand sheathed in a heavy leather glove that she could feel but absolutely could not see, take hold of hers, and a moment later there was a large envelope there. "As promised."

Sarah opened the envelope and saw some typed script giving a brief depiction of what happened, along with photographs of Spiderman and the money press and of Clarke himself bound with webbing. She gave the page of text a quick once-over.  "No mention of The Shadow?" she teased.

Another whispered laugh answered. "The Shadow is a myth. He's a useful myth; he sells papers. Tomorrow he'll sell yours, but he doesn't exist."

"Ah.  I understand."

"Good.  Sleep well."

A moment later, she was at her doorstep, and realized Stephen--she still had trouble calling him The Shadow, even in her head--was no longer nearby. She looked back out over the street.

There was nothing there but shadows.

Smiling, she opened her door and went inside.

***

"Rainfall."  Stephen scoffed as he sipped a cup of coffee in his office at the Classic. "The one day that we don't produce a Shadow and Spiderman story, they fill the front page with weather charts."

"Hey, you're the one that gave the story away, not me," Peter reminded him. "May I once again suggest respectfully that perhaps there was more to your generosity that simply shifting the story off your double life?"

"No." Stephen said sternly, but his expression didn't match his voice. "Still, you should have seen her face when I told her she was clairvoyant. You'd think that she…"

Peter grinned. "See, there you go again."

"What?"

"I'm telling you, that you're not acting at all like…well…you."

"In what way?" Stephen demanded.

"Well, you're smiling, for one thing, and …"

"Peter!"

"…and I'm just concerned that maybe this whole experience of actually finding an equal, both on the mental and journalistic fronts, is changing you in some way…"

Before Stephen could respond, there was a knock on the door.

"Are we in today?" Peter asked, already knowing the answer.

"For now."  Stephen turned to the door.  "Come in."

Marsh stuck his head in. "Hey, guys. I'm sure you noticed that the Post scooped us today, and I was just wondering if perhaps that had anything to do with the interview you were supposed to take, which strangely didn't show up like it was supposed to, and maybe that…"

"HEY!" exploded Stephen. "Maybe if you didn't force me into that interview against my express wishes, and send that bloodhound after me, and MAYBE if you shut up and listened to me when I said NO to that interview then she wouldn't have been there at the scoop last night, and gotten the story before us, and maybe, just maybe, if you had listened to us then you'd have something better on your front page than…"

By the time Stephen's rant had reached a full boil, Marsh had fled the room.

"Yeah, you'd better run!"  Stephen calmed down, then turned his attention back to his partner. "I'm sorry, Pete, you were saying?"

Peter smiled. "Never mind."

The phone rang, and Peter answered it. "Hello? Oh, hi, Victor."

Stephen shook his head wildly, and waved his arms in a desperate NO gesture.

"Uh no, Stephen's not here at the moment," Peter said.

Stephen relaxed.

"Oh, you read the Post this morning?"

Stephen panicked.

"You…want to see Stephen today?"

Stephen shook his head wildly, and waved his arms in a desperate NO gesture.

"Uh…I don't know if that's going to be possible."

Stephen nodded gratefully.

"Why, no, Victor, what makes you think he's here now?"

Stephen rolled his eyes.

Peter was clearly enjoying this.  "Just because I'm repeating everything you say aloud…"

Stephen collapsed into a chair and rubbed his temples.

"Victor…no, I don't know where he is. Look, Victor, I am capable of answering any questions, and I'm not telling you this under any kind of direction or duress from Stephen…"

"Oh, just give me the damn phone!" Stephen snapped.

Peter barely managed to contain his laughter and held out the receiver.

As Stephen reached to take it, he noticed his ring was flashing. Overjoyed, he grabbed the phone. "Hi, Uncle, I'd love to talk, but duty calls. What? No, I'm not making it up, the ring really is flashing.  What?  I don't have time for this.  Bye."

He hung up and marched out the door, Peter right behind him and still stifling a laugh.

***

Stephen sat at the console, and flipped a few switches. Burbank's face appeared on the screen, and Stephen spoke. "Report."

"Agent in 26th Precinct reports the escape of Simon Clarke during transport from scene of arrest."

Peter and Stephen traded a look.  "Current whereabouts?" Stephen asked.

"Unknown.  Shall I send a response?"

"No.  I'll handle this one myself."

"Understood."  Burbank's screen went dark.

Stephen got up from his chair and sent for Moe. "We've got to get moving, and fast. Sarah had the story, but she didn't make the capture--she only wrote about it from our notes. Her article says that the money press was confiscated and transported, but it doesn't say where! There are only two people outside of the police who would know…"

"…and neither of them is her, because she didn't write the original story," Peter realized, quickly getting up from his own seat. "But Clarke doesn't know that, and if he wants to get back his private mint, then he'll go straight to her to find out."

"Dammit!" Stephen led the way up the stairs. "We have to warn her! With unlimited money at stake a man like Clarke will do anything!"

Chapter Seven

Sarah poked her head into her editor's office.  "You wanted to see me, Mark?"

Post editor Mark Stewart nodded.  "Sit down, Sarah."

She came in and took a seat.  Right away, she could tell this wasn't going to be good.

Stewart laid a copy of the morning Post in front of her, with her feature on the arrest of Simon Clarke on the front page.  "Good story.  No, I'll go so far as to say great story.  Extremely well-written.  And those are some fantastic photos."

"Thank you," Sarah said, still wondering why he couldn't have told her this over the phone or something.

Then he let the other shoe drop.  "It's so good it leads me to wonder if you really wrote it."

Aha.  Now they were getting somewhere.  Sarah tried to look casual.  "It has my by-line on it."

"And no by-line for the pictures.  And you are a terrible photographer, so I know you didn't take these.  I've seen your work.  You have no eye for detail."  He tapped the cover photo.  "These look an awful lot like the ones that are usually on the front page of our cross-town rival.  You wouldn't have perchance gone fishing through Stephen Cranston's desk while working on your interview, would you?  Or maybe Peter Parker's, because I understand they share an office?"

Sarah tried her best to look offended by the accusation.  "Oh, come on.  Why don't you give me credit for getting this break first?"

"Because nobody gets the jump on Cranston and Parker for these things.  Nobody.  Not even you, Little Miss Bloodhound, so don't try to snow me."

Now Sarah really was offended.  "What, you don't think I'm good enough to get this story on my own?"

"No, frankly, I don't.  Good at finding the unfindable?  Yes.  Good at wearing down your subjects until they cooperate and give us a grand interview just to get rid of you?  You betcha.  Good enough to beat Cranston and Parker to a story about an arrest that The Shadow and Spiderman helped set up?  No freaking way.  There are enough scandals around newspapers nowadays about journalists who make up details in their stories and forge documents and doctor photos and the like, and I am not going to let our paper fall victim to that.  So, just tell me whose notes you pilfered and I'll forget this ever happened."

"You're threatening me."

"Damn right.  Now start talking."

Sarah seethed.  "Look, Mark.  You're the one who sent me on that interview.  You're the one who told me to tail Stephen Cranston like the bloodhound you think I am.  You're the one who said 'Don't let him out of your sight' because you were the one who wanted to know how he was getting the jump on everybody else for these stories.  And I did.  And I overheard him talking about a tip he got--a tip that I decided to follow up first.  And I was right there for everything.  I saw it all go down, I took the pictures, and I wrote the story.  Know why?  It's because I am that good.  You may not think so, but I am.  So, unless you've got some other wild accusations to throw around, I think I'll be getting back to work now."

Stewart just looked at her for a long moment.  "Fine."  He would have said more, but right then, his phone started ringing.

"Fine."  She took that as her excuse to leave and got up and stormed out of the office.  Idiot.  Thinks I can't do anything.  Then she thought about how she had managed to get that story.  Well, I probably should have dressed up the details in that story a little more to make it a little less obvious it wasn't mine.  But still…ugh.

Disgusted, she gathered up her briefcase and left the office before she lost her cool.

She was still steaming with frustration over the whole dust-up with her story as she stood at the elevator when suddenly her head swam with the sensation of someone familiar very nearby…somebody she certainly hadn't expected to ever run into again.  She looked around frantically…

…and then the elevator door opened, and she needed to look no further.

"Oh, my God, I can't believe it's you!" Simon Clarke mocked.  Then he grabbed her arm and dragged her into the elevator.

She started to struggle as the doors closed, but stopped quickly when Clarke twisted her arm behind her back and pressed a gun to her head.  "Do us both a favor…don't scream," he cautioned.

"What do you want?" she whispered, afraid for her life.

Clarke twisted her arm tighter behind her.  "Just some information.  Who are you working for?  How did you know where to find me?  And where did the police stash my printing equipment?"

"I don't know what you're talking about…"

"Don't play dumb.  You wrote all about it this morning in the paper.  How did you get the scoop, sweetie?  Got a friend in the police department?  Huh?  Tell me!"

Sarah shook with fear.  Oh, my God, he thinks I really know this stuff…oh, God…

And then her head swam again, and she knew someone else familiar was practically on top of her.  What the…Peter...?

Just then, the maintenance door on the elevator roof peeled back as if it were a flip-top on a can of cat food.

Clarke turned his gun upward toward the hole and fired several quick shots.

A web line wrapped around his gun barrel and yanked the pistol away.

The sensations in Sarah's head were going crazy with the sudden barrage of activity, then one sensation quickly cut through the chaos.  Stephen!

And with that, a black blur dropped through the hole, becoming solid as it fell, and threw a punch right at Clarke.

Clarke ducked the blow and shoved Sarah toward The Shadow, drawing a second gun from his belt as The Shadow reacted.

The Shadow caught her with his free hand and straight-armed his gun arm straight into Clarke's face.

For a moment, nobody moved. Both The Shadow and Clarke were mirroring each other's pose, the confined space making their arms parallel with each other, both pointing their guns in the other's face.

The Shadow stared straight at Clarke. "Is that a .44 automatic?"

Clarke was sweating. ". 45"

The Shadow tightened his grip. "Mine too."

Sarah, still in The Shadow's grip and pulled slightly to the side protectively, stared up in disbelief at the hawk-like features and burning eyes of The Shadow.  This is Stephen.  It is, I know it is.  But he looks so different…and I can almost feel him thinking…how?

Then the sensations in her head changed.  Peter--or rather, Spiderman, she now realized--was right above her again, and it was as if the sensation was reaching toward her.  She tried to stop herself, but her gaze shifted toward the sensation.

Clarke followed her suddenly acute gaze, instinctively swinging his gun to point at Spiderman.

The Shadow reacted instinctively himself, swinging his automatic like a club, knocking Clarke into the door panel.

Dazed and desperate from the blow, Clarke punched the emergency stop button on the elevator control panel.

The brakes suddenly engaged, sending everyone sprawling.

Spiderman braced himself hard against the top of the elevator, his fingers splayed out to maximize his grip area.

The Shadow lost his balance and fell to the floor.

Sarah stumbled backward and banged her head against the metal handrail.

Clarke got to his feet and pried the doors open, climbing up to the floor they'd just passed.

The Shadow got to his feet and started to run after him, then suddenly saw a very good reason why he needed to stay.  "Spidey--get after him!" he ordered.

Spiderman dropped into the elevator, then practically sprang out through the open doors.

The Shadow knelt down to Sarah, who was bleeding from the back of her head.  "Sarah?  Sarah!"

Nothing.  He took her pulse and was relieved to find it steady and firm.  But she needed help, and she needed it fast…

His radio crackled to life.  "Lost him.  Dammit.  He must have had help.  By the time I got outside, he was gone."

The Shadow fought the urge to roar in frustration.  "Get back here, then.  I need a hand."

"Be right there."

The Shadow quickly summoned his driver, then resumed checking Sarah for injuries, trying to calm down his racing nerves.

***

Victor Cranston opened the door to see Peter and Stephen outside. Stephen's arms were loaded with a sleeping woman who had a crude bandage tied around her head.  Victor stared at them.

"A long story," Peter told Victor.

Victor stared once more as Stephen blew past him and headed upstairs with the unconscious woman in his arms.  Then he turned back to Peter.  "What did happen last night?"

***

Victor looked up as Stephen entered the parlor. "How is she?"

Stephen gave a deep sigh.  "Superficial scalp wound. Looked worse than it was, but it gave her a good knock. She'll be sleeping for a while, but otherwise she's fine."

"Good. Now for my next question: Who is she?"

Stephen gave Victor an uncertain look.  "Peter didn't tell you already?"

"He sort of indicated that you may want to fill me in yourself."

Stephen glared sternly at Peter. "Traitor."

"Hey, you did this, not me," Peter objected.

"Did what? And who is she?" demanded Victor.

"She's our newest agent," Stephen said. "Her name is Sarah Branson.  She wrote that piece in the Post yesterday, and Clarke came after her to find out where his money press got taken when he escaped this morning."

"Yes-s-s-s," drawled Victor as he pulled out a copy of the Post. "On that score, how did Miss Branson get that scoop, before you, when you were in fact there at the time?  And why is there rainfall on the cover of the Classic?"

Stephen shifted uncomfortably. "Well, because the management of the Classic has come to rely on Peter and me too much for front page stories, so when they don't have one from us, they tend to put something safe like…"

"That's not what I mean and you know it." Victor's icy calm interruption cut through Stephen's explanation like a knife. "Because you know, I see that photo, and it has all the markings of Peter's work, yet it's on the front page of a different newspaper. Did you boys change affiliates last night, or has Peter gone back to freelancing and just didn't mention it?"

Stephen winced. "I gave her the scoop.  And the photo."

"Why?"

"Because he's crazy about her," Peter interjected.

Stephen gave his partner a drilling glare.

"Really?" Victor asked, amused. "So, tell me, how did you two meet?"

"She was sent to interview him," Peter explained. "But he decided to trade the interview for the scoop."

Stephen sent his partner a pained glare. "Shut up," he hissed quietly.

Victor sighed. "You'll do just about anything to get out of an interview, won't you?  Stephen, we discussed the issues of your aversion to publicity the first time you put a reporter in the hospital."

"Uncle, I told you, the doctors made that decision, not me," Stephen complained.

"When you give a reporter a scoop like that, you not only put them in this kind of danger where criminals are concerned, you also open yourself to far too much risk, secrecy-wise," Victor continued, as if reciting a lesson. "Not to mention bringing her here."

"She won't find out anything either from the scoop or the room that she doesn't already know," Peter assured.

Victor's look turned sharp. "What's he talking about?" he demanded of Stephen.

"You're killing me here, Peter," Stephen complained sotto voce.

"Stop stalling," Victor warned.

Stephen sighed. "I told her who I was. And who The Shadow was."

For a long moment Victor just stared at them.

Peter and Stephen leaned back, subconsciously wincing, as if preparing for Victor to spontaneously combust.

Victor stood, slowly, and then moved into the hallway.

Peter and Stephen traded a look as the parlor doors closed.

A moment later, they both cringed at the sound of incoherent screams of rage and the sound of shattering pottery.  "What was that?" Peter asked.

Stephen listened to the noises.  "That was a floor urn…" Another smash. "That was a vase…" A higher pitched crash. "That was a crystal goblet…"

"I get the picture," Peter said, cutting him off.

After about a minute of the sounds of non-stop destruction, there was a beat of deathly quiet.  Then Victor opened the door, brushed some broken bits off his jacket, and re-entered the room, as if nothing had happened.

***

A loud clattering noise awoke Sarah suddenly, and she sat up in alarm. Where was she? This wasn't her bedroom, not by a long shot.  What was going on?  The last thing she remembered was…

Feeling the bandage at the back of her head, she winced in remembrance. There had been a fight over her. The Shadow…Stephen…had appeared. Two men, two guns drawn.  The elevator jerked to a sudden stop, and everybody went sprawling, and that's where her memories ended.  So who won?

Another look around the room cleared her thoughts a little more; if Clarke had won, she doubted she'd be left to rest on a four-poster bed in a luxurious bedroom that was bigger than the last hotel room she'd been in.  But where was she?  She got out of bed…

…then noticed something odd.  There was a huge red ring on her left hand that hadn't been there before. It looked a lot like Stephen's ring. Why was she wearing it?  What happened after the dust-up in the elevator?  And where the Hell was she, anyway?

Easing the bedroom door open, she looked carefully into the hallway. It was empty.  Good.  Now to find Stephen and Peter…

And at that moment, she suddenly realized she knew where to go. That way.

***

Stephen and Peter watched with barely restrained terror as Victor sat back down.  The older man seemed to have difficulty composing a sentence. Finally, he managed to crystallize his thoughts into words. "You told her all this…why?"

"She's clairvoyant," Stephen informed him. "The bloodhound type."

Victor raised an eyebrow. "You couldn't shake her?"

Stephen gave a mortified shake of the head. "She was everywhere."

Victor laughed for a moment, then sighed. "Stephen, what were the first two rules I taught you about being The Shadow?"

"Secrecy and solidarity," Stephen responded instantly

"Secrecy--trust no one with your true identity.  Solidarity--protect the family secret at all costs.  You have made quite a habit recently of breaking both rules. I present Peter here as Exhibit A of breaking the rule of solidarity. As for the rule of secrecy…" Victor began counting on his fingers. "Peter Parker, Mary Jane Watson, Kuba Khan, Diane Burke, Karol Stankowicz, Sarah Branson. Six people. Three years. You're not very good at this, Stephen."

Stephen winced at the barb.

"Hey, wait a minute," Peter interjected, coming to his partner's defense. "First of all, Stephen told me because he knew I was close to figuring it out on my own and he wanted to control how I found out.  Which is also the reason he told Sarah.  MJ found out because his life was in danger and she already knew about me and had kept that secret for four years. Khan was telepathic and he knew all about the Cranston family secret, so you couldn't have kept it from him if you'd tried, and Stankowicz figured it out because he had access to his father's records, which nobody else did. Diane is the only one who found out in a way that neither of us could possibly have had any control over, and I take full blame for that one because I didn't notice her pawing through Stephen's stuff in the cab.  Besides, Stankowicz is dead, so is Diane, and MJ and I are both agents."

"And so is she," Stephen finished.  Then he looked over at Peter.  "Thanks."

"Then neither of you should be very proud of yourselves," Victor snapped.  "Worse, Stephen, your newest agent is a reporter, of all things.  And you know my opinion of reporters."

"Uncle," Stephen pointed out, "Peter and I are reporters."

Victor looked smug.  "I rest my case."

***

Sarah eased the parlor door open and saw Stephen and Peter there with an older man she didn't recognize--but looking at him, she'd bet good money he was related to Stephen. And it seemed he was angry. She was certain she was the topic of discussion.

"Stephen," the older man said, "here's my problem. You know what trusting her with this means."

"Yes."

"You know how many lives rest on her silence now."

"Yes."

"There are ways out of this. You have another chance to make a better choice, but the effectiveness of making this choice grows smaller every minute..."

"Victor!" snapped Stephen. "I went into this with my eyes open. If I didn't tell her, I'd still be running from her. I can't play hide and seek with a clairvoyant forever. Sooner or later I'd lose. This way I control the circumstances of the revelation."

Victor gave Stephen a hard look.

Stephen matched it.

From their expressions, Sarah thought that they were talking to each other without words.  Then it occurred to her that they probably were. Telepathy, she realized.  That's how he knew.  That's how he does it.  Wow…

Stephen, apparently exasperated about the silent conversation, turned his back on Victor.

Victor's expression went from angry to inquisitive.

Stephen spun and gave Victor an outraged look.  "Like Hell!" he snapped aloud.

Victor looked amused. "You're right," he said, turning to Peter. "He is."

Stephen gaped at them both.

Sarah decided that now might not be the best time to introduce herself. Easing the door shut, she moved away from the room …

…and ran right into a man who was carrying a tray of cups.

The man, who looked every bit like a butler from a movie, jumped back in shock, as did Sarah, as one of the cups toppled off the tray and shattered on the floor.

Stephen and Peter were there in a heartbeat, Victor a moment later.

For a moment, everyone just looked at each other.

Finally, Stephen spoke. "Hi. How are you feeling?"

"O.K.," Sarah answered, trying to sound casual.

There was another awkward pause.

 "So," Peter said, "how long were you listening at the door?"

Sarah looked embarrassed.  "Long enough to know that it wasn't the time to introduce myself."

"Ah.  Good idea, right, Andrew?"

Andrew, the butler, looked embarrassed at the mess and quickly knelt to gather the scattered pieces.

Stephen and Peter bent at once to help.

Victor was staring intently at Sarah, who couldn't help but stare back.

Stephen, deciding he needed to do something to clear the air, stood up. "Sarah Branson, my uncle, Victor Cranston."

"Miss Branson," Victor said coolly.

"Mr. Cranston," she returned nervously.

"Terribly sorry, sir," Andrew said as he finished gathering up the broken cups.  "Shall I bring another tray?"

"Yes, thank you, Andrew." Victor said, still looking at Sarah. "How do you take your coffee, Miss Branson?"

Sarah hesitated. "Cream, two sugars."

Victor smiled at her. "Just like Stephen."

"Of course," Peter laughed.  "Ask her about her taste in cigars."

Stephen elbowed him hard and led the way back into the drawing room.

***

"So, we'll have to keep an eye on you." Peter finished. "Clarke will try again, and he'll bring help now that he knows that he'll have to face us too."

"You really think he'll try again?" Sarah asked, fingering the ring on her hand. She still couldn't believe it. An agent of The Shadow. Her.

"He thinks you know where his money press was taken," Victor told her sternly. "He wants that money."

"Your house likely isn't safe right now," Stephen added. "He knows you work at the Post, so you can't go back there, either."

"Fine with me," Sarah said, remembering the conversation from earlier with he boss.

Stephen laughed slightly. "You don't like your job?"

"Not my job, just my boss," Sarah retorted.

Peter smiled. "What? After your great scoop this morning?"

Sarah snorted scornfully. "Which he thought I stole. He wanted to know whose notes I swiped for it."

"He didn't think you did it yourself?" Victor asked.

"No," Sarah answered, not sure where this conversation was leading.

"And he wanted to know where you got the information?" Peter asked.

"He out and out accused me of thievery.  He asked explicitly if I'd rifled through your desks."

Stephen spun the pieces through his mind.  "Didn't you say he gave you this interview right away when you volunteered to take it?"

"Yeah, he seemed really interested in getting an interview with you--said I should pull out all the stops and really keep on top of you…"  Realization suddenly dawned. "…as if he wanted to make sure he knew where The Shadow and Spiderman would be and you would be the best way to find out.  Oh, my God…he's working with Clarke, isn't he?"

"Once Clarke gets the money press, he'll be able to pay anybody good money," Stephen said quietly. "If Stewart thought you didn't get the info, then he'd want to know who did know where the money press was."

"And I managed to convince him I knew," Sarah said quietly.

"So Clarke, Stewart, and whoever else is on his promised payroll will be after you now."

There was a beat of thoughtful silence.  Then Sarah's eyes brightened.  "Mark doesn't know that I know about him.  That gives us an advantage."

Stephen looked at her. "That's true. Are you suggesting a plan?"

Sarah smiled. "Always ready to do my part as an agent."

"I may have something to say about that!" Victor shouted angrily. "Young lady, you have forced us into one of the biggest risks we have ever taken, and have an opportunity to break open a secret decades old, the moment we take our eyes off you."

"Uncle," Stephen warned sharply.

"Don't 'Uncle' me!" Victor snapped back, then turned back to Sarah. "Miss Branson, you have driven my nephew to distraction at a time when he needs total concentration. You have trailed him without realization of what you were getting into, you have interfered where you clearly were not welcome, and harassed my nephew and his partner to the point where he was so desperate, he decided he had to tell you his greatest secret, putting countless lives, including your own at risk, because he was so paranoid you'd find out for yourself." Suddenly, his angry expression dissolved. "I always knew someone would manage it sooner or later."  He extended a hand.  "Congratulations."

Sarah cautiously shook it, still not entirely certain what she'd gotten into.

Peter laughed.

Stephen rolled his eyes. "Come on. We have planning to do."

***

Mark Stewart looked around nervously as he rifled through the papers on the surface of Sarah Branson's desk.  If she really had found this story by herself, she had to have notes on it somewhere.  Things were starting to get desperate after Clarke's failed attempt to get information from her, and there were hundreds of thousands of dollars hanging on this information.

"What are you doing?"

Stewart looked up at the sound of the familiar voice--and was shocked to see Sarah standing in the doorway to her cubicle.  "Uh…I was looking for one of my notepads.  The monogrammed portfolio my wife gave me.  Last time I saw it, it was in a stack of stuff I handed to you."  He held up the folio.  "Found it."

"Good," she said, looking like she'd bought that pretty desperate lie hook, line, and sinker.  "God Bless America, you would not believe what I've been through so far today.  I nearly got my head taken off by some guy who wanted me to tell him where that counterfeit printing press was!  It was unreal!"

Stewart drew back slightly.  "Did you…did you tell them?"

"Of course not.  I'm a reporter.  We never divulge our sources, right?  That's what you always told me."  She set her briefcase down in her chair.  "Man, it was pretty hairy."

"Did you call the police?"

"Yeah, and they said they'd make sure somebody kept an eye on me.  Haven't seen anybody tailing me, though.  Typical.  Should have stopped off for donuts.  Then I'd have seen one, right?"  She laughed at her own joke.

Her desk phone rang.

"Excuse me."  She picked up the phone.  "Sarah Branson.  What?  No kidding!  Really?"  She turned to Stewart.  "Can I borrow that?" she whispered, gesturing at his folio.  "My Palm Pilot needs a recharge."

Stewart handed her the folio.

She picked up a pen and scribbled down some notes.  "Wow, that's pretty wild.  They must be really worried about somebody finding it, huh?  Yeah, I know you could get in real trouble for this.  I appreciate you calling me.  Thanks."  She hung up the phone and tore the page off the pad.  "Got a hot lead in that counterfeiting case--sounds like they're moving the press after that attack.  They must think somebody's gonna try to steal it since they tried to get info about it from me.  Gotta run."  She gathered up her briefcase and rushed out of the cubicle.

"Good luck," Stewart called after her.  Then he fished through a tall cup on her desk filled with writing utensils and pulled out a pencil.  Looking around once more to make sure no one was watching, he gently rubbed the pencil over the remaining paper on the pad.

The pencil highlighted the indentations from Sarah's writing, revealing the address and information she'd written down.  He fished through his pockets for his cell phone, then hurried out of the cubicle as he dialed.

He never noticed the coil of black that was trailing behind him.

***

Clarke looked out the window at the dirty street below, chewing his nails. What was going on out there? Logically he knew that he couldn't leave, and that he couldn't look for the reporter. He was a marked man; he had to stay hidden. But he still felt like bouncing off the walls. It was all going so well till that woman showed up in the restaurant. He had the print, he had plates that matched the real thing perfectly, the counterfeits would for all intents and purposes be genuine.

To get this far, he had made promises to many, many men. Most of them were dangerous. Soon they would want their money. Money he hadn't printed yet. He had told them the situation, and they were willing to help, but still, they wanted their money, or they'd take it out of his hide.

The phone rang.

Fairly diving across the room, Clarke snapped it up. "Hello?"

It was Stewart.  "She's back!"

"Where?" demanded Clarke.

"At the Post. I'm following her, and I know where the press is being taken. I found the address."

"Does she know you've got it?" asked Clarke, grabbing his own keys.

"I still don't think she knows about me. She called the cops, but I've been watching her for a while--she's not being followed."

Clarke stood near the door, the phone cord stretched to the limit, calculating something. "O.K., get everyone we've got together, get them armed, and get them to that address. Stop following her--she knows about me, but not about you. Don't tip our hand."

"Understood."

Clarke didn't even bother hanging up the phone before he left.

***

Sarah couldn't help but be nervous as she walked through the parking lot to her car. If she was going to be attacked, this was likely going to be the place.

Her mind tingled again. Stephen was coming closer. As a car drove past, its headlights on, she noticed that her shadow was one of a tall man in a slouch hat and cloak.

"Amazing, isn't it?" an amused voice echoed in her mind.

"It would almost be fun if I wasn't being stalked," Sarah whispered under her breath.

"Well, no one's following you any more except for me.  That's what I came over to tell you. He made a phone call, then took off."

Sarah thought that over, heading for her car. "He's heading for the money press."

"Right. What do you want to bet that the call was to Clarke?"

"I don't take sucker bets.  What should I do now?"

"Get somewhere safe."

She nodded.  "Be careful."

"Always."

The tingling in her mind faded, and by the time she reached her car, her shadow was normal again.

Smiling, she got into her car and drove away.

***

Stewart arrived at the small warehouse, with the dozen or so men trailing him in their vans.

Getting out of his car, he called the other men to his side. "O.K. boys, here we go. The place should be empty, but stay alert." He knew full well he was lying to them. He would have bet anything that the masked maniacs were in there, but these men, tough though they might be, wouldn't dare try if they knew. Besides, Stewart had an ace up his sleeve even if they were there.

The twelve men filed in the small side door, single-file.

"O.K.," Stewart said as soon as he heard the door close. "Spread out and find it."

For a moment, the group stayed together, looking at the almost empty warehouse, with only a few shelves at the far end of the room.

"Where's Erik?" one of the men asked.

Stewart looked around and gripped his gun tightly as he realized in horror that there were suddenly only eleven men in the room.

***

Sarah was almost home when her head swam with a sensation of absolutely the last person she expected to detect.  Gripping the wheel tightly, she fought the rising panic. No, she thought in horror. Not now! Not here!  She kept looking subtly in her mirrors.

Then she spotted it.  A black luxury cab, with tinted windows, following her at a discreet distance.  And she knew who had to be in there.  Her sensations were never wrong.  Clarke isn't with his men; he's hunting me.  Oh, my God…

She took a quick turn off the main route to her house as she debated what to do next. Stephen told her to get somewhere safe, but now her home was not a safe place. She couldn't keep leading him on; with Manhattan's unpredictable traffic patterns, there was too much of a risk she'd get caught in a traffic jam and be a sitting duck. She couldn't take him to a public place without putting others at risk.  Worse, Stephen and Peter were trying to catch Clarke--that was, in fact, the point of the trap they had set, and the point of her being bait--but they'd be waiting in a trap that might never actually get sprung, at least not by the one they really wanted to catch, because Clarke wasn't there to be trapped.  And that put them all in incredible danger…danger that was, after all was said and done, caused by her falling for Mark Stewart's original trap of following Stephen to the point of distraction.  Oh, my God…what now?

She thought about this for several long seconds, then realized she had no choice. She had to lead Clarke into the trap. Stephen and Peter were there, waiting for him, and chances were better than good that they could handle it. She would lead Clarke to them, and take off.

Driving with purpose now, she kept an eye on the sedan behind her.

***

The men were supposed to split up, but the loss of one of their men had stuck in their minds, filling them with a terrible sense of foreboding, turning the group into a gang, all with guns drawn.

"Where could he have gone?" mumbled one man.

"Weren't you watching?" mumbled another.

"It doesn't matter!" Stewart said finally. "We came here to get this thing and we are going to get this thing. Let's move!"

Whap!

A sharp impact sound echoed on the other side of the nearby shelf. Hearing it, the entire gang ran as fast as they could around the side, to see what it was.

It was Erik, lying flat on the ground, bruises already forming.

The group crowded around him, checking for signs of life.

Suddenly one of the men stiffened. "Where's Greg?"

Everyone looked around madly. Another of their group was gone.

***

Clarke looked at the car in front of him in confusion. Where was she going? He had started following her from halfway between the Post building and her house, but on the way there she had suddenly turned around and started heading in a totally different direction.  She'd spotted him.  Dammit.  "Back off a little bit," he urged the cabbie.  "But keep her in sight."

"Whatever you say, Mister," the cabbie said as he dropped back in traffic.

The tactic apparently worked, because she had started driving like she had someplace to be.  But not her home. She was heading for the warehouse address where the press had been taken.

Perfect. She was going to go check up on a story, and in so doing walking right into the hands of his men. He would kill her, eliminate the evidence, and get the money press all at once.

Settling back into his seat, he decided to enjoy the ride.

***

The men all looked around, searching the shelves, and taking turns carrying their fallen man around. No subtlety now, no attempts to hide the criminal nature of their task, when suddenly, they realized what was really going on.  "The press isn't here!" one of the men shouted.

"It's a trap!" Stewart realized aloud. "Let's get out of here!"

Cracks were starting to form, and it was obvious. The slightest sound caused panic. Everyone watched the dark corners.

But nobody looked up.

Until something dropped downward into their midst.

Swinging down into them like a pendulum was a long web line. Acting as the pendulum weight was the unconscious body of Greg.

And balanced on top, using the line as a swing, laughing maniacally, was The Shadow.

The Shadow swung down into them, leaping off at the last minute, pulling two of them to the ground.

The swinging body hit another man, knocking him down.

Guns were drawn, and the remaining members of the group hurried to the end of the shelves, seeking cover from the man in black.

When they made it to the end of the row, they barely noticed the second shape as it moved. It was fast, so unbearably fast, that two of them had slammed into the shelves before they recognized the second shape.

The three that had made it past the Spiderman's first blow tried to fight back.

The first swing was blocked by Spiderman's forearm, the second lashed out with a boot, and Spiderman countered, ducking under the swing, and firing a very short web up around the moving ankle.

Then Spiderman moved straight up the wall.

The web was pulled up with him, flipping the man over, landing him painfully on his face. Somersaulting backwards, he landed neatly on the second man's shoulders using the super grip in his feet to throw him backwards as he flipped again.

Staccato gunfire broke out, sending everyone diving to the floor.

Stewart, two guns in his hand ran for the main door, hitting the button next to it, covering his solo retreat with wild gunfire.

The roller door started to move upwards, revealing the street and the sound of squealing tires.

***

Sarah looked around frantically as she arrived at the warehouse. There was no sign of anyone. A few blocks back, a useful traffic jam had given her a huge lead, so much so that she actually considered doubling back, so that she could lead Clarke into the trap.

Then when she spotted him again, she realized that he had apparently divined her destination.  So it didn't matter whether she was leading him on or not.  All that mattered was getting him to the trap and delivering him into Stephen's hands.

Which she'd done.  Except where was everybody?

Then the sound of faint gunfire met her ears, and she floored the brakes, bringing her car to a halt just as the warehouse door rolled up.

As she tried to see who was coming out, she saw Clarke's car come screaming around the corner, far up the street.

"Come on, Stephen, where are you?" she muttered as Clarke closed in on her.

***

"Spidey!" The Shadow shouted, as he traded gunfire with the remaining gunmen. "Where's Clarke?"

Spiderman, moving to join his partner, paused and looked around. "Never mind that--where's Stewart?  He was here just a second ago!"

The Shadow looked horrified. "Dammit!"

Spiderman understood at once. "Go find them! I'll finish these guys and come help you."

The Shadow sprinted for the roller door.

***

Sarah was watching Clarke's headlights approach when suddenly the sensation in her brain indicated somebody else approaching fast.

Seconds later, Stewart smashed a hole in her passenger-side window and shoved his gun at her head. "Sorry to tell you this," he hissed menacingly, "but you're fired."

Her eyes widened.  She'd brought everybody into a trap, all right, but now she was the one caught.

Jumping into the car next to her, Stewart shoved the gun under her chin and looked in the mirror. "That wouldn't be my boss, would it?"

Sarah didn't bother to answer as something tingled in her mind. Her eyes flicked back to the warehouse.

The Shadow was running toward them, and Sarah could see shock on his face as he saw her.

Stewart saw him coming and shoved his gun to her temple. "Drive!" he ordered her, pushing the gun just a bit harder.

Sarah threw a helpless look at the cloaked figure as she hit the accelerator.

***

The Shadow looked on in horror as Sarah's car pulled away.  He fired at Sarah's tires, but she was already too far away.

Moe's cab arrived less than an instant later. "Boss?" Moe shouted as the cloaked figure dove in. "Was that…?"

"GO!" The Shadow roared, and the cabbie instantly took up the chase.

The two cars tore through New York's busy streets.  But no matter how hard he tried, Moe couldn't get around Sarah's speeding car.

The Shadow finally realized that his only hope was to take Stewart out.  Rolling down his window, The Shadow fed his automatic a fresh clip, then sat on the empty window ledge, leaning out of the speeding cab as far as he could.  Aiming carefully, his hat suddenly flew off his head as twin bullets whistled past his ear.

Jerking back into the cab, he shoved his cabbie lower as the back glass exploded.

Moe gave a whistle.  "Let me guess--that guy's backup is behind us?"

Peeking up over his seat, The Shadow saw Clarke in his car behind them, pointing a rifle out his driver's side window. "Gun it!" The Shadow ordered.

Loud metallic thumping filled the cab as Clarke peppered the Cord with bullets.

"Shrevvy, stay up with them!" The Shadow directed as he pointed his weapon out of the window at Clarke's car.

The chase headed for the Lincoln Tunnel, the drivers desperate, the speeds intense.

The Shadow's automatic barked, sending lead into Clarke's windshield, headlights, and grille, until Clarke's car swerved, then braked to avoid smashing into another car.

The Shadow's mocking laugh rang out as he turned forward again.

***

Sarah was panicking. The gun hadn't wavered so much as an inch, despite the desperate chase.  Stewart had kept one hand on the gun and the other on the wheel, preventing her from doing anything at all.

Gunfire had followed them all the way from the warehouse district and now they were almost to the Lincoln Tunnel. Sarah could still sense Stephen…The Shadow…behind her, coming closer, but she still didn't know what he could possibly do. But she knew that his best opportunity was just ahead, as she had to slow down for the tollbooths ahead.

"Turn!" Stewart shouted suddenly, noticing the tollbooths also. "HERE!" He gripped the wheel tighter and spun her car in a ninety-degree turn.

In an instant they were up on two wheels, Sarah pulling the wheel one way, Stewart pulling it the other, somehow balancing them, until they thumped hard on all four wheels again. And suddenly they were speeding laterally across six lanes of traffic coming and going to the tunnel.

***

The Shadow was watching the car ahead helplessly as the lanes of traffic had suddenly become a shooting alley.  Both Stewart and The Shadow had to weave fast, trying to dodge the incoming cars.

The Shadow knew he had to end this fast, or there would be possibly dozens of fatalities from a multi-car pile up.  He once more leaned out the window and looked for a shot.

A truck speeding past made him pull back in once more.  Dammit!

Once the coast was clear, he leaned out again and aimed straight at the back of Stewart's head.

Gunshots rang out from behind again.

Ducking back into the Cord, The Shadow saw Clarke's car coming closer again.  Apparently, Clarke had found time to reload as he was catching up to them.

Once again the gunfight echoed across all the lanes of traffic, traffic that was suddenly noticing the flying lead, creating utter bedlam. Cars and trucks screeched in every direction, creating road chaos, as the orderly lanes turned into demolition derby. Small cars were buffeted around by larger ones. Semi-trailers jackknifed and their loads spilled across the road, the debris causing still more chaos. Two horse-drawn carriages, caught up in the mess, now had panicked horses galloping around in the midst of the debris.

And somehow weaving in among them were three cars moving at hideous speeds.

The lanes of traffic were running out, and The Shadow could see Stewart yank at the wheel of the car ahead, pulling them back toward the tunnel, this time into oncoming traffic.

Another burst of gunfire brought his attention back to Clarke.  The Shadow fired back.

Clarke jerked his arm as the gunfire came in, making his next shot go wide and spray right into a gas tanker truck, which just barely missed hitting Sarah and Stewart.

A massive fireball erupted, chasing all three cars into the tunnel with a wave of flame.

Cars were hurtling toward them head to head, at speeds almost impossible to comprehend, sheer luck seeing them through, until they finally emerged on the other side.

This had gone on long enough.  The Shadow had to end the chase.  But how?

Stewart pulled the wheel sharply again into another shallow turn.

The car went skidding and rammed through a plate-glass window of a car dealership.

The Shadow screwed his eyes shut as the glass went flying.  He ducked back into the cab and blindly found a rag to clean the glass shards and blood off his face.  "Stay on them!" he ordered.

Sarah's car blasted through the showroom, bashing cars out of the way, using its momentum as a battering ram, until it smashed out the other side, and back onto the road, going with the traffic this time.

Shrevnitz kept the cab right behind them.

And Clarke followed them through the melee, and the chase was on again.

Frustrated, The Shadow leaned out of the cab as far as he dared and shot at the tires on Clarke's car, sending it skidding into a small grouping of expensive cars.

Groggy, Clarke clawed his way out of the mangled wreck of his car. Noticing all the other high performance cars around, he grinned.  He'd rejoin this chase yet…

"Not so fast, speedy," a voice wisecracked, and a red-gloved fist filled his vision.

A second later there was darkness.

***

With Clarke out of the picture it had become a two-car chase once more.  But The Shadow realized that there was no way he could reach Stewart from here, and he could not risk a stray shot taking out Sarah.  "Keep going," he ordered Shrevnitz sternly, then, gritting his teeth as exhaust and grit was blown into his eyes and open wounds, he clambered out of the window and gripped the cab lights, pulling himself onto the roof of the cab.

Balancing carefully, he holstered his gun and watched Sarah's car, looking for an advantage.

Suddenly a strong hand snaked around his waist and he was yanked off the cab's roof.  "Need a lift?" Spiderman asked sarcastically.

The Shadow's laugh echoed wildly through the streets.

***

Stewart yelped as the view from the windshield disappeared under a web of netting, then yelped again as Sarah automatically slowed down and a loud thump hit the roof of the car.  Taking his gun off Sarah for a moment, he pounded bullets into the windshield until the entire windshield splintered and fell away.

Sarah shut her eyes on reflex, feeling glass scratch her face and hands.

"Keep driving!" Stewart ordered, closing his eyes and shielding his face until the wind blew the shards away.  He finally dared a glance behind them.

Shrevnitz's cab had been forced to stop behind a large truck.

Stewart almost laughed.  "Your friend isn't coming for you now," he sneered at Sarah.

Sarah smiled at him with surreal calm. "You're right.  He's coming for you."

And with that, a dark mass landed on the hood of the car.

Stewart screamed and started shooting at it.

The bullets tore into the form, which suddenly went limp and flopped into the car.

Stewart clawed at it…

…and realized with horror that it was nothing more than a heavy black cloak.

The Shadow himself swung down through the windshield, kicking Stewart hard in the face.

The man slumped and passed out.

"Slow us down," The Shadow urged, trying to calm Sarah's panicked mind.

It worked.  Sarah finally slowed the car to a stop.

The Shadow pulled Stewart out onto the hood, where Spiderman calmly webbed him down.

All three of them gave a collective sigh of relief.

"Need anything?" Spiderman asked.

"Go back and see to Shrevnitz," The Shadow ordered, easing himself into the car to check on Sarah.

Spiderman nodded and slung away.

"You can let go of the wheel now," The Shadow urged Sarah, gently prying her fingers off the wheel.

Sarah shakily nodded, letting her hands straighten out.

"Are you all right?" he asked, tending to her cuts.

"Better than you, it looks like," she answered, feeling carefully at the razor-like wounds on his face.

The Shadow winced and felt blood trickling into his collar. "I've had worse."

She slowly began to calm down and realized she'd better explain her actions--and fast. "Listen, I know that I shouldn't have shown up in the first place, but still, I knew that Clarke was following me and I…"

"Not now," The Shadow interrupted. "We'll discuss this later. Now isn't the time."

Just then, sirens came into earshot and flashing lights blinked in the mirrors.

Sarah turned to tell her rescuer to go, but he had vanished into nothingness.

She felt a gloved hand squeeze her wrist reassuringly, letting her know he was there. "When they start demanding answers, ask to speak with Officer Donovan Mulcahy.  He's in the car behind you, ring on his right hand. Tell him the code words and explain that he'll receive the official story through the usual channels soon. If anyone asks for the broad points, give Spiderman the credit."

Sarah nodded. "What about you?"

A whispered laugh answered. "I have to go find my hat."

"Wait?" Sarah asked, grabbing at his invisible hand. "Don't you want at least the unofficial credit? If just Mulcahy knew, then there wouldn't be any security problems…"

A whispered laugh interrupted her. "Now how could The Shadow get the credit? He doesn't exist." He pulled away. "I'll be in touch."

Sarah nodded, and felt Stephen vanish, just as the police cars arrived. She didn't even have to fake the scared exhausted look that a victim should have, but as they led her to a police car, she felt something shift her attention and saw a beat up cab come from around a corner and drive away.  It made her smile.

"You all right?" one of the officers asked.

She sighed.  "I am now."

***

It was practically dawn by the time Sarah finished talking to police and getting her wounds dressed at the hospital.  It was eerie, though, how many people she encountered throughout the evening wearing those huge fire opal rings.  Even the ER doctor who'd stitched up her worst cut, the one on the back of her right hand, had one of those rings squirreled under his scrubs on a chain around his neck--she'd seen it as he bent over to examine her.  What an incredible end to an unbelievable two days.  By this time, she was completely exhausted and had gladly accepted a ride from Mulcahy back to her apartment building, trying desperately to stay awake the entire way.

"Last stop," Mulcahy told her.  "You O.K.?"

"Yeah," she yawned.  "Thanks, Officer."

"Anytime.  Want an escort to the door?"

"No, thanks.  I can manage."  She climbed out of the car and walked toward her door.

Mulcahy drove away.

Sarah waited until he was gone, then glanced over her shoulder.  "The coast is clear."

Stephen swirled into visibility behind her.  "And here I thought I'd finally managed to slip in under your radar."

She shook her head.  "That is uncanny.  I knew you were there, but I absolutely could not see you."

"That's the idea.  You O.K.?"

She showed him her bandaged hand.  "Yeah, but I won't be writing a story any time soon."

"Probably for the best, since I just submitted it under my by-line ten minutes ago."

She swatted him with her purse.  "You rat."  Then she looked him over.  "Uh…did I lose a huge block of time, or is making cuts and bruises disappear one of your tricks?"

Stephen smiled mysteriously.  "There are some questions better left unanswered."

She grimaced.  "The sad part is that after today, I'd believe either one of those choices."

They both laughed slightly, then went silent, regarding each other cautiously.

"In case I haven't said it yet, thank you," she finally said aloud.  "For everything."

"You're welcome."  He gave her a wry smile.  "Probably not the kind of journalistic pursuit you had in mind when you volunteered for the assignment."

That made her laugh again.  "No, definitely not."  She looked at him for a moment.  "You know I'll never tell anybody about…"

"…I know," he interrupted, his eyes vaguely shadowy.  But he said it with a smile.

That got another laugh from her, then conversation died out again.  Once more, they regarded each other, as if neither knew where to go from here.

"Look, Sarah, I…," Stephen began.

Sarah suddenly and firmly cut off any further conversation when she put her hand behind his head and pulled him into a deep, full kiss.

Stephen was startled for a moment.  It took a second for him to realize that he was not so much startled at the act…but that he wasn't immediately pulling away from it.

They broke.

Stephen gave her a surprised look.  "Are you always this forward with your interview subjects, Miss Branson?"

"No.  But I couldn't think of another way to get you to stop second-guessing yourself."

He raised an eyebrow.  "Really?"

"Yeah.  Everybody thinks you did the wrong thing by telling me the truth.  I wanted to make sure you didn't think that."

"Sealed with a kiss?"

She was blushing now.  "Yeah, that was kind of dumb, wasn't it?"  She started to turn away.  "Look, forget it…"

"That's not the kind of thing you forget.  You are aware of my reputation, right?"

"Which one?"

"Touche."

She laughed.  "All right, all right, I get it.  Consider it a 'thanks for saving my life' gesture and we'll both walk away from this whole thing…"

"I'm afraid it's not quite that simple."

She sighed.  "Never is, is it?"

"No, it isn't."

She sighed again.  Wow, she'd just blown it big time.  What had possessed her to do such a thing?  This was ridiculous; she'd practically thrown herself at a multi-milllionaire who'd just days ago she'd been chasing for an interview, like some stupid schoolgirl with a crush.  And she barely even knew the man.  Maybe she really was as ditzy as she acted…

"What say we continue this discussion over dinner at the Cobalt Club tomorrow?"

She looked at him for a long moment.  Had he been listening to her entire internal dialogue?

"I can if I want to," he answered her unspoken question.  "But I can also read body language really well."

She stared at him incredulously for another moment, then laughed.  "You know that I told one of the waiters that I was your fiancée."

"Then it might be a good time to clarify the situation."  He gave her arm a gentle squeeze.  "Pick you up at eight."  He started to walk away.

"I haven't said 'yes' yet," she called after him.

"You will."

"How do you know?"

He turned around and looked at her.

She laughed at the ridiculous of her own question.

He joined in her laughter, then swirled away into the darkness.

She shook her head.  "At least I'll always know where you are," she joked to no one in particular as she headed into her apartment building.

A mirthful laugh trailed away into the night.

THE END