Wednesday, October 30
As Peter drove around the corner, closing in on the rental bungalow he shared with Harry, he saw Mary Jane's car pull out and drive down the street. He pulled into her spot and got out, tossing the door shut and heading in.
Harry sat casually sprawled on the couch, the very picture of a content and relaxed young man. "How's it going, King of the Jungle?" Peter asked as he slung his bookbag down on the chair. He sniffed. Mmm. Bacon and eggs. And a double dose of Mary Jane's perfume. His smile faded.
"It's good to be me," Harry shrugged. He grinned.
"So what's your Halloween costume, Gomez?" Peter asked. He opened the fridge and pulled out some orange juice.
"I'm a devil, she's an angel," Harry said.
"That is so backwards," Peter sighed, pouring himself a tall glass of juice.
"It'll be a good time," Harry shrugged. "Hey, are you going to Gwen's party tomorrow?"
"Can't," Peter said too quickly. Harry glanced over at him, and Peter caught the look. "Halloween is one of the best times to get some pix, and the Planetary is a great buyer for that sort of creepy stuff, and cutesy Better Homes and Sanitariums sort of stuff with the little kids who look like an orange diaper who swear they're pumpkins." He shrugged. "I'll be working late."
"Can't argue with that," Harry said. He picked up the remote and snapped on the television.
Peter finished his drink with one whirring swallow. Then he rinsed out the cup. Damn. The whole house smelled like Mary Jane's perfume. He headed back to his room.
Peter quickly changed, then stepped into the bathroom. Great. Mary Jane's hairbrush and lipstick were by the sink. Just wonderful. Marvelous.
He stepped back into his room and lay on his back on his bed, fingers laced behind his head, ignoring things.
That didn't last long.
"Where you off to?" Harry asked as Peter walked back out in the living room with his camera bag.
"New photo assignment, get some pictures of 'contact.' I'm headed to the hospital, I think I can get some good shots there."
"Fair enough," Harry said with a dismissive wave. "Take care of yourself, big guy."
Go to the hospital to get pictures of contact. Because there's none to be had at home. Peter tried not to scowl as he dropped into his car, fired it up, and left the scene.
xXx
Darkness was seeping into the sky from the top down when Peter pulled in to his parking spot at the bungalow. He hopped out of the car with his camera bag and trudged into the house.
Harry's door was shut, and Peter heard some of that big band music Harry liked playing inside. Ah. Calculus. Harry needed the music to do his calculus. Peter dropped his bags off in his room and stood stock still.
Dark night. Windy night. Autumn is in the air. Season of change. Trees doing exciting things. No one will be out. A fine night. A fine night for flying.
As Peter felt his temperature begin to rise, he sat down at his desk with a deliberate thump. "Scuse me," he said, "maybe you don't give a tinker's cuss about the English I have due tomorrow, but I do. I'm already needling a low C in that class, Mister Tights, and I think perhaps I should do my homework."
Bah. It'll keep. Tonight is one in a million.
"I wonder," Peter mused, "if it could be said I'm a driven person. Driven by one of those old ladies from Pasadena, or the Jungian equivalent, who can't see over the damned dashboard."
It's good to be me being you, came the thought. Besides. If you try to do something productive like homework or sleep I have nothing better to do than pester you until I get what I want.
Peter sighed.
Then he reached for his mesh.
xXx
Practice makes perfect. Peter slapped down on the roof and looked across the five lane highway. He had started by bounding from this roof to the light pole on this side of the street to the light pole on the other side of the street then up to the building and over. And that had been a good start.
Then he had bounded from this roof directly to the opposite lightpole and up. And tonight… "Well, tonight's special," he whispered to himself in his mesh. Then he grinned and sprinted to the edge.
He uncoiled with all his strength at the edge of the roof, sailing out into empty space, over the half-empty street below, whistling through the air.
He slapped into the building on the far side, a solid fifteen feet higher than the lamp post and a half dozen yards further from his jumping point. Peter grinned, his heart pounding madly.
"I'm insane," he whispered to himself as he climbed up the wall. "Maybe I should sign up for the long jump at school." He bounded from that roof to the one across the alley that was the beginning of his roof highway.
Something's wrong.
Out of place.
Then gone.
Peter froze on the rooftop, and looked slowly and carefully around, sifting through his thoughts. What. What's the matter.
A light. A blinking light. Peter got a vague image of a little red light in a shadow that blinked once and then shut off. It was a memory the brain could mostly recover, but one that wasn't attached to its surroundings. Peter probed the shadows with his senses until he caught a whiff of brick powder.
He walked over to the chimney near the center of the roof and peered into its shadow. There. A small black camera, it had been bolted to the brick. Peter jerked it loose with one smooth motion.
Wireless. Battery powered. And unless he was totally wrong, motion sensitive. Had it already beamed its pictures elsewhere? He turned to see what it was pointed at. A cold feeling settled across him. He couldn't think of anything besides pigeons and himself that it could be looking for.
"Great," he muttered. He crushed the camera with one swift squeeze, and dropped it. Whoever put it here can find that. Then he sat down. "Time to think."
He had most likely been spotted, and someone was looking for him. Again. He thought briefly of Kravinoff, who had probably found him the same way. Randomizing his route would expose him to fresh danger every night. A pattern is lethal for one keeping a secret.
"Only one answer," he muttered, his heart sinking. "Time to face it. The exercising has got to end. I can't afford the risk."
No no, laughing boy. Not even if you wanted to.
"Once a week, tops," Peter muttered. "And no interfering with crimes in progress."
Say what you want, whispered the spider ghost. Swear whatever oath makes you feel better. Try not to get too blasphemous. No oath there is can keep you from the night wind when it wants you to come out and play.
"We'll see about that," Peter said, narrowing his eyes. He stood up. "It's time to go home." He bounded off the roof.
In the busy city, with its never ceasing cacophony of machine noise, his senses did not isolate as unusual the thudding chop of helicopter blades far above…
xXx
"You have good news for me?" Fisk rumbled as he stepped into the side meeting room.
"Sorry to pull you out of the meeting," Beck grinned, his eyes shining, "but I've got a lock on him. I was in the chopper already when I got a signal from one of my cameras that it was tampered with. Crushed, more like. By the time we got over the location he was just leaving, and with the infrared gear we tracked him to a bungalow across the East River. We got him, sir," Beck said.
"So you know who he is."
"Almost," Beck shrugged. "I didn't want to get too close to scare him off, so I set a watcher at the place and ran a background check. It's rented by a couple college kids, Peter Parker and Harry Osborn. That fits with the random activity of the shadowy figure, sir. He doesn't seem to have a purpose. Probably is a college kid."
"Good work," Fisk nodded. "I've made arrangements to get you a special agent to assist in the work. I don't want you risking yourself in direct contact. May I introduce you to Mr. Lincoln."
Fisk's assistant, who had scurried in behind him unnoticed, moved to the side door. "Mister Lincoln," he said, "Mr. Fisk is ready for you."
Beck's first impression of the man who stepped into the room was that he was tall, almost seven feet. He was more than tall. He was broad, heavily muscled. His suit was black, as was his band collar shirt, and they contrasted sharply with the dead white of his skin, the bleached paleness of his hair. His eyes were pink and watery, and his hands were huge. He moved noiselessly.
"Mister Lincoln, this is Mister Beck. He will be instructing you," rumbled Fisk. Lincoln looked down at Beck and slowly smiled. His teeth were sharp.
"It will be a pleasure," he whispered in a voice like sandpaper. Beck nodded and attempted a smile.
"Terms," Fisk said. "You are entitled to offer the wall crawler two hundred and fifty thousand dollars per year as a retainer, plus bonuses, for cat burglary and other necessary tasks." He lit a cigarette and looked speculatively at Lincoln. "See to it," he said, the words rolling out of his huge bulk, "that he says yes."
Lincoln smiled, then nodded his huge head. His eyes never left Fisk's eyes.
"Right," Beck said. "That's all very nice. But I'm going to need a little more backup." He raised his eyebrows at Fisk. "If he does decide to say no."
Fisk and Lincoln looked at him blankly.
"You seen this wall crawler move?" Beck asked. "I mean, Mister Lincoln here is very impressive. But—"
"You'll work with what you're given," Fisk said dismissively. "I must get back to my meeting." He turned and steered his incredible mass through the doors back into the meeting.
"I'll be enough," whispered Lincoln.
"We'll just have to see, won't we," Beck said, looking after Fisk, his nostrils flared and his lips tight.
"I'll be," Lincoln said, his hand darting out and bunching the entire front of Beck's shirt in one handful, "enough." He hauled Beck up to eye level. Beck's feet dangled almost a foot off the floor. There was strength in those hands, strength unguessed.
"Believe me," Beck said with a hard smile, "I'm not the one you have to convince…"