Tuesday.
Peter melded with the rush hour crowd headed into the subway to get to work. He had a shoulder bag on one side and his camera bag on the other. He was one with the crowd as they punched their tickets going through the turnstile, then he moved to the side and took some shots of people coming through, lining up the turnstiles and taking a picture like a race track with commuters hot out of the boxes. He wandered down the stairs, deeper into the subway station and snapped a few shots of roof joists. They were always so filthy. Difficult for a self-respecting wall crawler to stay clean.
Then he was down to the actual subway station. He snapped a couple shots of people flowing on and off the train, a shot or two of the train barreling in and streaking out, people waiting. Then he casually slung his camera, slipped off his shoes, and nonchalantly hopped sideways off the platform.
He listened for a moment to see if anyone had noticed his exit. Hearing nothing, he scuttled up the wall and adjusted himself on the ceiling of the tunnel. The next train was not long in coming, and from this vantage he got some unique shots of the front of the train, its loading and unloading, the conductor watching the screen in the train to see when the platform was clear enough to pull out. The train pulled away, and Peter dropped, holding the camera in one hand.
With his other hand and his feet he snagged the top of the speeding train. The train rocketed through the confined space, whisking adrenaline into Peter's blood as he snapped shots no other photographer could get. He grinned.
About twenty minutes and three rolls later, he was ready to call it quits. He had been under trains, in trains, over trains, beside trains, and all over several stations in town. He had as many shots as he needed. Rolling up onto a platform from the track, he brushed at himself and glanced around, slipping his shoes on.
What a lucky coincidence. This station was right by the park. He grinned and trotted up the stairs.
It had turned into a beautiful day. He smiled and soaked in the sun as he walked along a jogging path in the park, not exercising so much as taking in the scenery. The path took a turn, and he saw a construction crew working on rebuilding a burned down gazebo.
He couldn't help but smile. He took a few shots for a friend of his, and a few for himself.
For old times sake, he took a couple shots of pigeons and one of an old woman feeding the birds.
xXx
Peter stood holding the bar on the crowded subway train, half alive like the other passengers, simply enduring the ride until it was his stop and life could resume. The car was half empty at mid morning. Then his senses perked up.
He blinked, and glanced around. Sifted for a moment; what was it? Some smell, some sound? He examined what his senses were telling him, looking for the thing they had picked out, the thing that did not belong. Then his senses almost vibrated with alarm; close, too close!
Peter spun around and found himself face to face with the man from the restaurant. Now that they were both standing, he found himself still looking up at the big man. How did he move so quietly?
The big man took a swing at him, and Peter easily evaded without moving his feet. "You'll have to do better than that," he said. He grabbed the big man's wrist and tugged him off balance, to the side where he couldn't lash out effectively.
The big man grinned.
Peter gasped as he felt an iron grip clamp down on his wrist; a quick twist combined with surprise released the hunter from Peter's grasp. Then the big man was turning, and Peter's eyes widened as too late he saw the blow incoming—
Some part of his mind noted the brass knuckles as the big man's solid fist crashed into the side of Peter's head, right at the hinge of his jaw. Peter's neck muscles elongated with the stress, his skull shifted with the blow, and he rocked back with its force. Another punch lashed downward, into his gut, and he barely rolled with it. Whoever this joker was, he wasn't kidding. The blow thudded home, and Peter spun out of the way and back. Now he was tense, alert, more than human. No more. No more punching. He vaguely registered screaming, people scrabbling to get out of the way of the fight.
"Just taking your measure," the big man said. His smile grew. "This will be good."
Peter tensed to spring as the train slowed for the station. The hunter pulled something out of his belt and tossed it on the floor of the train. A flash, and smoke roiled out in all directions.
Peter reeled for a moment as his senses probed and darted through the smoke, distracted and disoriented by its billowing shapelessness; motion everywhere, but was it smoke or something more dangerous? The doors on the subway train snapped open automatically, and Peter felt people moving, but he struggled with his senses for a moment as they tried to grasp what could not be grasped. He tumbled out of the train coughing, and looked around, furious.
There were a lot of people on the platform, and more moving up and down the stairs, a stairwell on either end of the platform.
Damn. Damn.
Peter was trembling as he leaned against one of the supports. He gingerly touched his jaw. Peter's attacker seemed to be nothing more than an insane, physically fit man, but he was a big strong man with brass knuckles and the reflexes of a panther. Peter felt pain as he opened his mouth and shut it. Must count teeth later, he mused.
The train pulled away, and only then did Peter look down at his bags.
His camera bag was gone.
Must have fallen off during the battle.
"Just what I need," he snapped. He kicked off his shoes, stuck them in his remaining bag, and darted off in pursuit of a train.
xXx
Peter slammed the door behind him just after two in the afternoon. "I'm home," he called.
"Oh, Peter," Aunt May said, coming out of the kitchen, "two people called for you while you were gone. One was Gwen, something about a party tonight. Then that odd fellow from the Planetary called."
"Thanks," Peter said, giving her a swift peck on the cheek. "I'll call 'em back." He bounded up the stairs.
Tossing his bags on the bed, he scooped up the phone and kicked off his shoes. He consulted his post-it notes tacked up over the phone until he saw Doctor Strange's number. He punched it in.
Three rings, then: "Hello, speak your mind."
"Doc," Peter grinned, looking out the window. "Did you call me?"
"Yes," Doctor Strange said. "I got some information from that tape, and I am concerned for you. Are you busy?"
Peter glanced at the clock. "I have a little time," he said. "I'll be over."
"Very good," Strange said, "come to the office," and he hung up. Peter tossed the phone at the cradle, where it landed flawlessly. He picked up the note with Gwen's number on it.
"Memorize this," he muttered to his brain, which obliged. He scooped up his camera bag and headed out.
Twenty minutes later he walked into the lobby of the office building that contained the Planetary magazine. He took the elevator up and stepped out into the executive office.
Strange was seated at a glass table, some papers before him, a television behind him. Doug was ensconced in a desk setup that surrounded him with screens and keyboards.
"Hello, Doug," Peter said. "How's it glowing?"
"Vicarious and inimitable," Doug said, his face awash in dim light from the monitors. "You?"
"Yeah," Peter said. "Doctor Strange, I presume?"
"Charming," Strange said. "Have a seat." Peter sat. He saw the tape from the restaurant was playing on the television, looped.
"As you can see," Strange said, leaning back, "the man was quite careful not to reveal his features to the camera directly. However, Doug was able to build an algorithmic reconstruction that allowed us to run a search for him."
"Sounds like a lot of trouble," Peter said in a small voice.
Strange looked at him sideways. "I value those who work for me," he said. "Think nothing of it. At any rate, we have an identity for your menacer. His name is Sergei Kravinoff." Strange watched him for a moment.
"Doesn't ring a bell," Peter said with an apologetic shrug.
"Hm. Well, this sly fellow has a bit of a record that Doug could get to immediately. Currently Doug is looking for the rest of the information that is surely out there on such a famous figure. Kravinoff is known in his mother country of Russia as simply 'The Hunter' and he's built a reputation across the third world as an extraordinary poacher. He's wanted in a dozen countries for poaching, across Africa and India and Australia and even here in the United States. If it's dangerous, he's killed it," Strange said. Then he leaned forward. "This is where it gets odd, Mr. Parker. It seems last year our trophy collector sold his collection."
"Sold it? Like, lion heads and claws and buffalo and whatever?"
"Exactly. He sold over a million dollars worth of trophies in one gigantic sale," Strange said.
"Why?" Peter asked blankly.
"Perhaps," Strange said, steepling his fingers, "they had grown stale."
A chill rippled up Peter's spine as he began to understand. "Gotcha," he said, and he swallowed hard. "Now he's out to mount photographers."
"I think we both know it's more than that," Strange said. "Be careful, Peter."
"I don't suppose this guy would pay attention to a restraining order," Peter said.
"Seems unlikely," Strange agreed. "So what are you going to do about it?"
Peter looked at him for a long, long moment. "I'm going to do what I have to do to make him stop."
"A word of caution," Strange said softly, his eyes seeming to gleam in the dim light. "I sense a vengeful streak in you. It can be your undoing." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Remember the fate of monsters, Peter."
Peter watched him for a moment. "What, that's it? 'Remember the fate of monsters'? If they're cool enough they get a movie franchise. Speaking of monsters, though, maybe you can help me out with this mystery. It's embarrassing, but since it's never happened to me before I wonder if you might have an idea as to what's causing it. I've had hella awful breath. This morning I brushed my teeth five times and used a half a bottle of mouthwash and my breath still reeks. I haven't eaten anything different. Do you have any idea what could be wrong with me?"
"Can anyone else smell it?" Strange asked.
"You're the first person I've asked about it, but nobody seems to notice," Peter said.
"Interesting," Strange said. He produced a tissue from his pocket. "Suck on your tongue and spit in the napkin," he said.
Peter did so. He looked down at the sticky glob of spit in the napkin. Its smell was powerful.
Strange sniffed. "I smell nothing," he said. "Can you smell it?"
"Oh yeah," Peter said.
"This is just a hypothesis," Strange said, "but it could be your body is secreting a phermonal tracking device. If you spit on someone with this," he said, gesturing at the colorless glob in the tissue, "you might be able to scent it and track it from some considerable distance off. I know of some other creatures who can do the same. If that's true, no ordinary soap and water could remove the smell."
"Creatures? Like animals?" Peter said, a small tremor in his voice.
Strange hesitated, then shook his head. "No, Peter. Not like animals. Creatures." Strange stood. "I wish you good luck, Mister Parker," he said. "If we can help you deal with this hunt, we will. You know how to reach us."
"You've already given me a head start," Peter said, standing and extending his hand. "Sorry about the attitude. I'm a little rattled."
"You should be rattled," Strange said as the shadows shifted behind him. "This is a very dangerous time for you."
"Well, thanks a lot, I'll look forward to hearing from you guys," Peter said on his way out.
Strange watched him go.
xXx
"Hi," Peter said, leaning against the side of the phone booth. "Is Gwen there? Thanks." He shifted positions. "Hey, Gwen," he said. "Peter. Uh, I've had something come up. I'm not gonna be able to make the party tonight. I have this heinous deadline for some photography. Can we get together on Wednesday so I can give you a briefing on dealing with Aunt May, just the primer course? Sure, lunch on Wednesday sounds great, I'll pick you up. Look, sorry to miss out on the party. You know I love Flash like a brother. Okay, well, good deal. MJ already offered to take you? Mighty sweet of her, give her a kiss for me, wouldja? Heh, no, have a great time, if I can wrap this photo essay up in time I'll drop by tonight. See ya, hon." Peter hung up and thunked his forehead against the phone. "God I'm a heel," he muttered.
He walked into the science building and headed down the hall towards the photography lab. "Get these suckers developed and I'm on my way to fiscal security," he muttered. "Lunch with Gwen—ah, no," he said. "I'm apartment hunting with Harry on Wednesday! No, no, we can do this, just do lunch at eleven, meet him at noon. I'm okay. I can do this." He got to the lab and moved to open it; the door was locked. He saw the note on the door.
Lab closed for cleaning Tuesday—staff
Peter counted to ten very slowly.
Then he counted to ten again.
"It's okay," he whispered. "I'll swing by home and then pick up Gwen and take her to the party and give MJ the money afterwards. We're still okay. It just maybe is possible I need to relax anyway. Maybe."
He turned and with measured deliberate steps left the building.
xXx
Peter was halfway up the stairs when he registered what he had seen; he went back down and glanced into the kitchen.
Aunt May was unloading grocery bags.
"There sure is a lot of stuff here, pretty lady," Peter said, glancing around.
Aunt May turned, beaming. "Oh yes," she said. "We're going to have a perfectly lovely dinner on Thursday."
"There's only three of us," Peter grinned.
"And supper will be just perfect for three people," she said primly. "Now leave me be, I have planning to do."
"It's Tuesday," Peter said.
"Which gives me plenty of time so I won't have to rush around at the last minute," she sniffed. "I want things to go well, to make a good impression on your special lady."
Peter successfully tried not to laugh. "Okay, well, don't wear yourself out. I'm going to a party," he said.
"Have a good time," she said with a wave as she peeked into one of the bags. He trotted upstairs.
As he walked into his room the phone rang. He picked it up. "Yellow."
"Peter, this is Doug," came the voice. "I hit paydirt on this Kravinoff guy. You sitting down?"
Peter sat down. "Hit me."
"He's the son of a czar family, if you can believe it. Peter, I've found out some about his hunts. This guy is a loon. He killed a bull elephant with a katar, Peter. I have a record of him killing a lion with weighted fists, beat the poor thing to death. He's killed a shark with a knife. Here, five years ago in the Rockies he killed a grizzly bear with a weighted chain, for God's sake. Three years ago he headed north and took out a moose with a hatchet. With a hatchet. I'm worried for you, Peter. This guy is fearless and unhampered by self preservation or common sense. Watch yourself, man."
"Don't worry about me," Peter said. "I'll be fine. Just give me this guy's address and phone number."
"Wasn't easy to get," Doug said. "He is a fugitive in this country. You could get him jailed."
"No good," Peter said, shaking his head. "He's declared the hunt on me. If he goes to jail, then either I have to keep track of when they release him and start this ridiculous business over again or I get nailed when I least expect it. They got anything on him that would be more than a couple years in jail?"
"Not if he has a good lawyer," Doug said. "I see your point." He read the address and phone number to Peter.
"I'll take care of this," Peter said shortly. "See you later." He hung up.
Vulnerability moved to fear, which moved to anger, which moved to hate, all in a seamless motion through Peter's chest. He felt that anger coiling in him as he looked at the address he had quickly written. Hunter, indeed.
He didn't realize he had completely forgotten about Flash's party. Such a petty notion was alien to the creature that slipped into mesh and stole out the window.