Peter Parker sat on the bench quietly shaking, looking at his hands. He had struck precisely, cleanly, effectively. But there was no blood on his hands. No blood on his soul that wouldn't wash off. He may have been indirectly responsible for deaths today, but he didn't kill anyone.

So it's okay to cripple someone but not kill them?

Great, Peter thought. Spider's advocate. Lincoln's crippled body will serve as the prison for him, since a guy like that could break out of a normal one. And yes, I have the right. I was protecting myself and my family and my friends. But there has to be a way to keep the spider ghost and Peter Parker separate. For the sake of my life, my people, and my soul.

He felt again the feeling of liquid fire that had energized him when he was dismantling Lincoln. He shivered. That was evil. There was a dark joy in destroying his enemies. He hated how he loved the taste.

"Maybe I need to retire," he murmured.

A shadow fell over him, and he looked up. "Detective Brilhart," he said. "Hi."
"Parker," Brilhart said with a nod. "Did you see what happened?"

"Lincoln confronted me," Peter shrugged. "The officers told me to run. I did. How did it turn out?"

"He killed all the officers," Brilhart said carefully, "then something bigger than him hit him very hard." He looked away. "Any idea what that thing might have been?"

Peter looked up into the chill gray sky. "Whatever it was," he said, "I wouldn't piss it off, that's for sure. Least you got your man," he added, looking at Brilhart directly.

"I've heard that before," the detective muttered. "Five men are dead, five good men. Sure there's nothing more you want to tell me here?"

"A man like Lincoln is bound to have enemies in the underworld," Peter shrugged. "Probably waiting for a prime opportunity to drop him, like red-handed on the scene where he killed policeman."

"That would be a clever answer, wouldn't it," Brilhart said. "Be careful, Peter," he said, then he half smiled as he rephrased; "Take care of yourself."

"Will do, detective," Peter said. "Thanks for the save."

Brilhart said nothing, he just walked away.

Saturday, November 2

Beck stood in the shadows of the board room, patiently waiting as the lieutenants of Fisk's sprawling empire filed out. He quietly approached.

"Lincoln was not enough," Beck said simply to the vast man who watched him as an eagle watches a mouse. "Lincoln made the offer to Parker. They were interrupted. Lincoln killed the officers. Then," Beck said, carefully inspecting his fingernails, "Parker effortlessly broke him." Lincoln looked Fisk directly in the eye. "Now we've antagonized him by trying to use brute force. From the beginning I believed that a little more finesse was in order. Okay, a lot more finesse. We need a soft touch to make this work. He needs to be handled, not coerced."

"Already cared for," Fisk said, flicking an invisible speck of dust from his huge desk. "Klaus Voorhees is on the job."

Beck's forehead contracted in concern. "Voorhees? I thought he was too unstable for this sort of work."

"Special circumstances," Fisk said, looking at Beck casually. "Voorhees will be in touch. And Beck," he added, staring into Beck's eyes, "I do not appreciate this matter returning to my attention. See that it is concluded quietly and speedily."

"Yes sir," Beck said, and he turned and left. "This is not good," he murmured under his breath, shaking his head.

xXx

Harry jogged to catch up with Peter. "Anatomy's a bear, isn't it, Parker."

Peter shrugged. "That's why our study session meets on Saturdays," he said. "Memorization, up one side and down the other. If you don't mind being a walking card catalog, no sweat."

"Yeah, I hear that class would be pretty useful to anybody trying to figure out exactly what went where before Lincoln got hit by a bus."

"I tolja the cops would handle it," Peter said.

"No way the cops did that," Harry said. "No, it was some underworld vigilante or some rival mob boss's muscle. You were right there, man, how could you not see anything?"

"Would you have stuck around after that?" Peter asked.

"Good question," Harry shrugged. "How can you know if you're not there, in the moment? I think I would have stuck around. But there's no telling."

"Yeah," Peter said, looking away. "Services for the cops that were killed are on Tuesday. You going?"

Harry looked at him for a moment. "Yeah," he said, "That's a good idea."

Peter smiled at him briefly. "Hey, want some lunch? My treat."
"Yes, my good son," Harry said, "never turn down free lunch from Bait Boy."

"Great," Peter said, "a new super hero name…"

xXx

Beck sat in the Chinese restaurant watching Voorhees. The thin man was completely bald, and he had heavy eyelids and a hooked nose. He moved with a sinuous grace that was somehow alien and repellant. His musk was peculiar. Something was very wrong with him.

At the moment, he was agilely maneuvering with chopsticks, tweaking up dumplings and swallowing them without chewing. The expression on his too-sleek features was one of ecstasy.

"I hate prison food," he said, his voice sibilant and oddly wet. He glanced at Beck. "Prison wasn't so bad after I killed three inmates, they learned quickly to leave me alone or be dead. But the food," he said, shaking his head. "The food was unbearable."

Beck idly reflected on how glad he was he had all the skills of a master hypnotist. That gave him a bit more freedom meeting Voorhees' gaze. The man's eyes were deep, too deep for a mortal man.

Beck was still waiting for him to blink, and they'd been together for almost an hour.

"Parole suits me," Voorhees said. "Who's the target."

"Peter Parker," Beck said. "Crawls walls, a freak job, you'll like him. Prefers to be called 'spider ghost' apparently, from the information we gathered from our last operative who was broken in half by this guy."

"Yeah? Who?" Voorhees said, food forgotten.

"Lincoln," Beck shrugged.

"Don't know im," Voorhees said, returning to his meal. He glanced down at the picture Beck slid to him. "A kid, huh. Okay, it's your money," he shrugged.

"You are to offer him two hundred fifty grand a year plus bonuses for a little cat burglary and whatever other odd jobs Fisk comes up with. He doesn't need to know who his employer is until he's in the fold. Try not to let him break you."

"He can't break me," Voorhees hissed. He picked up the photograph and memorized Parker's features with his cold, lidless gaze. A smile slithered across his face. "I'll need six hours in a lab, then this Peter Parker will be at your mercy."

"Your lab is ready for you," Beck said, and he handed him a slip of paper with the address. "I'll handle the bill. Be in touch."

"Your troubles are over," Voorhees said, staring into Beck's eyes. "I'm on the job."

Beck nodded curtly, paid the cashier, then hit the street and leaned back against the building breathing hard.

Must go home and try to shower the slime of that insane creep's presence off. Beck shuddered once, then headed for his car.

xXx

Mary Jane was sitting on her bed reading in her thick Norton Anthology when her roommate poked her head in the room. Amy tossed the cordless on the bed. "It's for you," she said, and she was gone. Mary Jane picked up the phone. "Yes?" she said.

"MJ, it's Gwen," the phone relayed. "Hey, we're working on the decoration for the dance tonight, and… this is so awkward… I was wondering if you would do me a big favor."

"Why does this have 'Gwen owes me another big one' written all over it?" Mary Jane asked, a hint of amusement in her voice, as she rolled over on her back on the bed.

"I'm worried about Peter," Gwen said.

"Gawd," Mary Jane replied.

"No, listen," Gwen said quickly. "He's been so quiet and withdrawn lately anyway, and this whole thing with that big scary hit man… I really think he needs some face time, in a room with people, maybe with some people he doesn't know. It'll be different for him. He doesn't really talk to anybody, you know."

"Like I care," Mary Jane said.

"He saved your life," Gwen scolded. "I appreciate that, if you don't."

"Ooh, calling in the big guns," Mary Jane said. She sighed. "We aren't even to the request yet."

Gwen took a deep breath to brace herself. "I want you to find Peter a date for the party tonight, then make sure he goes. Please?" she asked in her very best wheedling tone.

"Gwen," Mary Jane said, her arm flung over her eyes, "do you have any idea how much I hate this idea?"

"Pleeeese?"

"Oh, no, come on, cut that out—"

"PLEEEEEEEEEESE!!"

"Alright, okay, cut it out! Fine! I'll saddle some poor soul with Peter Parker. I'll find him a date. Okay? And make sure he goes. Happy?!"

"Yes. I feel much better. Thank you, MJ, you're a sweetheart," Gwen said primly.

"Oh, don't rub it in," Mary Jane grumbled, and she hung up the phone.

Great. A date for Peter.

The phone rang in her hand, and she jumped. "What," she said into it.

"No Bride of Frankenstein. A GOOD date."

"Go away!" Mary Jane yelled, and she disconnected.

She tossed the phone in the hallway, then sat lost in thought. Who on earth might be willing to go on a mercy date with a disturbed loser like Peter Parker. What kind of courage or brain damage would be needed.

Her list was short, but she retrieved the phone and got started calling.