Chapter Six: At the End of the Day
Spider-Man raised his hands hopelessly, and let them drop. Desperately, he scanned the streets from the roof of Collins Towers for some sign of the thin assassin who called himself Cheap Shot. Late afternoon sunlight fell in mellow rays and a cool breeze swept over him. It would be a beautiful winter day, if his best friend hadn't become a killer's next target.
He had crept after Cheap Shot as he left the conference room, but the man had headed calmly to the elevators like any other businessman. Spider-Man could just slip through the doors after him unnoticed, make it down to the lobby and past the oblivious security guards, then follow him unseen out of the huge glass doors to the street—Right. I may be the luckiest guy in the world, but all my luck is bad. Time for Plan B. Turning, he had shot for the stairway as the elevator started down, slamming through the fire door. Ignoring both the stairs and the startled shouts coming from the hall he'd left behind, he leaped from rail to rail and slid between the zigzag flights as he headed straight up. It wasn't far; Fisk had the penthouse suite and the only thing above was a service cubbyhole and the access door. Alarms went off as he forced it open and bounced in one swift move from the entrance to a crouch on the edge of the roof. Guy wearing gold, right? Easy to spot. But the cheery sunshine refused to cooperate by glinting off a hood and cape.
By the time heavy footsteps sounded on the roof—about half a minute later—the web-slinger was long gone, scurrying across the walls around the skyscraper and flipping to neighboring buildings as he checked the surroundings. Convinced that Cheap Shot was nowhere in sight, he curled under an overhanging ledge across the street from the Towers to watch the front entrance, in case the man was taking his time coming out. He waited nearly an hour while the sun set and the streetlights came on, occasionally checking the service door, before giving up. It occurred to him that the assassin had the same advantage he did; take off the costume, and what was left to recognize? Several people had passed in and out of the building during his vigil, and any one of them might be hiding an eerie voice and a murderous heart.
Fisk, the Kingpin of crime, was thoroughly disturbed by the unexplained intruder, judging by the security guards still wandering the roof of the Towers trying to look effective. It made Spider-Man uneasy, but he'd left no definite signs there, like a web, and no one had seen him. There would be no 'Spider-Man Robs Executive Suite' headline in the papers tomorrow. More importantly, however alarmed Fisk might be, a cool-headed crime lord was unlikely to call off a hit because he'd been spooked. Harry was in danger.
Ten minutes later, Spider-Man landed gently on the balcony outside Norman Osborn's study. He still didn't think of it as Harry's study and doubted he ever would. Quietly, thankful for the gothic architecture which left dark shadows close to the french doors, Spider-Man leaned forward to peer into the lighted room. Dark green walls decorated with exotic tribal masks dominated the enormous space and reminded him instantly of the fractured, evil soul that had once lived here. A trace of fear slid through him until he spotted Harry, breathing regularly, but looking small and out-of-place sitting behind his father's desk. File folders and something that looked like newspaper clippings were scattered over the top, along with an empty cut-crystal glass. Still alive, thank God.
OK, now what? He could stay here and watch, but for how long? He had no idea how much time Cheap Shot needed to make his plans and go into action. Spider-Man was reasonably sure his spider-sense would give him enough time to rescue Harry from any booby-trap or sneak attack as long as he was nearby, but his gifts didn't include endless endurance or the ability to be in two places at once. Besides, spying on his best friend was on the creepy side of things.
Of course, Harry was wealthy enough to afford round-the-clock protection, if he knew he needed it. Whatever his reaction to Fisk's mysterious proposal had been, had he realized that he was placing himself in danger? Probably not. Maybe he could go in and restrain Harry, make him listen, get past his father issues long enough to warn him. About as likely as the lead singer from Nickleback having a healthy relationship. Strike that. C'mon, he told himself, you're supposed to be smart. Think of something...
As Spider-Man hovered indecisively on the balcony, the desk phone rang shrilly, making him jump. Harry picked it up and leaned back in his chair, bringing him within a few feet of his position. His voice was clear, although muted by the windowpanes. "Oh, hi MJ."
Preparing to back up and let Harry have his conversation in private, Spider-Man froze. MJ? I didn't know they were still speaking to each other.
"No, I haven't seen him today," Harry went on. "No, I don't...what's the..." He paused and listened. "How bad is she? Do you know what's wrong yet?" Harry sat up abruptly, and Spider-Man pressed closer to the window, trying to hear. "Well, if I see him I'll let him know, of course. Is she in the same hospital as last time?" Aunt May.
"If there's anything I can do to help..." Harry paused. "Do you want me to come there?" Apparently the answer was yes, since Harry began stacking the papers on his desk and headed from the room as soon as the conversation ended. Before he reached the door, Spider-Man had crossed over the gabled roof of the mansion and was web-slinging his way across town. Aunt May.
Joshua Young paused at the door of the low-rent apartment, reaching beneath his cape to find his key. The hall smelled like cat and stale food, and the neighbors were noisy, but he was content. The body was unimportant; money was better spent on higher matters than material comfort.
The cloak, for instance, had been expensive. Young's lip curled as he stepped into his room and hung it carefully by the door. After the services he had rendered the shadier organizations in Virginia, during his years in Washington, he might have expected more generous cooperation. Instead, he'd been forced to offer a great deal of money as well as apply judicious pressure. So many people's private lives were worth investigation...and his costly toys were certainly worth the aggravation of obtaining them.
Today, for instance. If Young allowed it, Fisk would have him followed, investigated. He knew Fisk didn't trust him any more than he trusted Fisk. The cloak, its metallic threads interwoven with tiny microprocessors, fiber optics, and sensors, was the cutting edge of military technology. On its most basic level it concealed his well-known face and gave him an imposing persona when dealing with those impressionable thugs. Fisk was stupidly unaware of its other function.
After the meeting at Collins Towers today, Young had simply waited until he was out of sight of any of Fisk's cameras or guards and activated the network woven into the cloth before walking out. The cloak picked up light from all around him, refracting and reflecting it at the viewer, matching the color and form of his surroundings. The camouflage was nearly perfect, a thing of great beauty. Sudden movement could give him away, and an observer who knew what he was looking for might be able to spot the tell-tale blurring around his shape. Young was careful to keep his toys from being known or closely examined. Information was power.
Sitting down at the computer desk shoved into a corner of the threadbare room, Young turned on the power and prepared to search for information on Harry Osborn. The former senator was still musing over the classified technology being held by misguided military personnel. Combining computer technology with cloth, for instance, meant that doctors could give outpatients shirts capable of monitoring their vital signs and continuously transmitting the data to medical personnel. The elderly and the frail could have emergency help the instant it was needed without picking up a phone, without losing their privacy or dignity in their daily lives. Yet this technology was withheld for no better reason than military greed and paranoia.
Young's fingers tapped rapidly as he accessed files, both public and governmental, on Harold N. Osborn, and began to read, plans already spinning through his mind. In his heart, Young actually believed that his enthusiasm for the kill came from his righteous mission. He had tried, for long years of his life, to change the world by all the approved means. Winning votes, making speeches, drafting legislation. And still, the country floundered in dealing with poverty, inequity, racism, crime, religious strife, environmental damage. No, the good fight was a waste of time. Now, every blow he struck would be below the belt. Cheap shots, indeed. Forget Washington; it was time to take the only practical approach, to unite the hearts and minds of the American people to guide the country truly.
People like Osborn, Councilor Huey, those obstructive idiots at the school—they stood in the way. Like enemy soldiers, they had to be cut down. Osborn was despicable; a useless, idle inheritor of wealth produced by others. Pity it was too risky to walk up and stab him in the back. As a politician, Young had always wanted to try the literal version of that time-honored strategy. Smiling, Young brought a small, heavy iron box out from under his bed and worked the combination on the lock. Inside, several devices lay neatly in foam, waiting for him to choose. Running his fingers lovingly over each toy, Young discarded the one that sent out an electric impulse, instantly disrupting heart function and brain waves. He'd tested that at the school. Perhaps this one. Oh, yes.
"Peter!" Mary Jane stood up from beside the hospital bed and hugged him, hard. Taking only a moment to return the embrace, Peter moved over to Aunt May. Despite her welcoming smile, grief rose up from somewhere inside and stole the strength from his muscles to create a tight knot in his throat. He sank down weakly in the chair MJ had left empty.
"I only heard...what happened? Are you...how do you feel?" he asked numbly, reaching out to cover her hand with his own, careful to avoid the IV needle.
"Now don't fret so much, Peter," Aunt May said in a low whisper. Her skin was yellowish and the wrinkles on her face, crossed by an oxygen tube, were deeper and sharper than he thought they should be. Her hand felt very frail as she curled her fingers loosely around his. "I'm going to be fine." She closed her eyes, struggling to breathe, those few words visibly exhausting her.
Mary Jane had come up behind him, laying her hand on his shoulder. "She will, Peter. The doctor who was here earlier said she's just going to need time to recover, they're going to keep her under observation here for a few days." MJ's voice was soft and reassuring.
"But what happened?"
MJ squeezed his shoulder gently. "I went over to her house to say hi, and found her on the floor. I guess she...the doctor said something about...she didn't really have a heart attack, but a kind of seizure. Something about the reflexes that make your heart pump harder when you stand up slowing down as you get older? Anyway, she was sitting at the dining room table and stood up too quickly, and fainted because her heart wasn't getting enough blood to her brain. Or I think that's what he said." Her voice shook on the last few words.
Looking away from Aunt May, who still had her eyes closed, Peter realized how frightened and tired MJ was. She had been here for hours, taking care of Aunt May, unable to reach anyone to help her, dealing with all the questions and paperwork and uncertainty alone. Wordlessly, Peter stood up again and put his arms around her and held her for several endless moments. Stiff at first, she finally relaxed against him, slipping her hands around his waist and resting her face on his shoulder. He stroked her hair gently until she pulled away, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand and ducking her head, embarrassed.
As they broke apart, Peter looked back down at his aunt, who had opened her eyes a fraction and was smiling at them again. Still shocked by how brittle and old she appeared, he tried to take in what MJ had said. She didn't look all right; she looked worse than when the Green Goblin had attacked. Adrenalin filled his blood, fear for her making his hands tremble slightly, needing to do something, anything, to help her, to make her better. But he hadn't even been there to take her to the hospital, take care of her. And there was no enemy here to fight except time and age. Peter wasn't used to feeling so helpless, not anymore.
There was a soft knock at the door. Harry leaned into the room, looking concerned. "Hi. Oh, you got ahold of Peter, good...how is she?"
"Doing OK," MJ said. "We probably should let her rest..." Peter felt another wave of guilt hit him. Fat lot of use he was, arriving just in time to spend a minute or two saying hello, after the crisis was under control. He moved out with Harry and MJ, and the three young people stood uncomfortably in the corridor.
"Well, I...I should be getting, um, I called in to work but it's late..." MJ trailed off and Peter reached out and hugged her again.
"Go home. Thank you so much, I don't know how to thank you for being there for her..." Peter backed off and stuck his hands in his back pockets, suddenly shy, and added, "You, you've done so much. Go home, I'll call you."
"Yeah, OK. Call me, tiger," MJ looked embarrassed but pleased. Nodding a little to Harry, she walked off down the long white corridor, both boys watching her go. Peter was still staring when his friend spoke and he jumped.
"Peter, I want you to listen to me. You're not going back to that god-awful dump tonight. You're staying with me, you're going to have one of my cars to get where you need to be, some decent food and a decent place to sleep. Got it?" Harry's expression left no room for argument. Not that Peter was about to offer one. He'd forgotten all about Harry's situation this past hour. As they went in to tell Aunt May they were leaving and gave contact information to the nurses' desk, he decided this was the best solution for now—he would have a better chance of stopping any attack if he was actually in the house. Not to mention that having someone else to take care of the little details of life, like shopping for food and doing the laundry, really would make things easier for now. As he climbed into Harry's chauffer-driven car, he felt more tired than he'd thought possible.
Just when you think things can't get worse...Lamont lit a cigarette. He'd spent the afternoon filling out paperwork, talking to bereaved relatives of the victims, many of whom had gotten past 'denial' and moved right into the 'anger' part of the grieving process, and trying to find a minute or two to sort through reports and background checks while organizing the investigation with the help of the two officers that NYPD decided were enough to handle a piddling little killing spree.
Now he was sitting on his butt outside his divisional chief's door until Spence decided to notice he was here. Lamont had no idea why he'd been called in, but it couldn't be good. Talking to the boss was never good. When you weren't getting chewed out, you were getting all kinds of crap shoved at you by clueless mooks who spent their days behind a desk. He stubbed out the cigarette.
"Detective Lamont, sorry to keep you waiting," Divisional Chief Spence said, holding the door to his office open. He was a black man with a quiet, friendly voice, some inches shorter than the grey-haired veteran detective. Nodding to the chair in front of his desk, he sat down and tapped the folder in front of him. "Is there any information on cause of death for the victims at P.S. 134?" Lamont shook his head, and Spence went on. "I see you've requested assignment to the Huey case. What grounds do you have to connect it to the school killings?"
Lamont went over the possible connection, keeping it short and professional. With some hesitation, he added that an informant had tipped him off to further evidence linking the PTA group at P.S. 134 and the Councilman. Spence frowned.
"It sounds...flimsy, detective. You are creating a case involving a highly political issue—the new school curriculum—and one of New York's most influential citizens, Wilson Fisk. And," he coughed politely, "I can't see that there's enough evidence to justify the kind of uproar this could cause." Lamont kept his expression stony and blank, refusing to start defending his investigation. After a pause, Spence continued. "Who is the informant? How reliable has he proved in the past?"
I knew I should've kept my mouth shut. "Spider-Man," he said shortly, feeling ridiculous.
Spence's eyebrows rose. "I see." There was another disapproving pause. "You've been covering the various...spider sightings over the past six months as well, haven't you?" His voice still friendly, he said, "Wouldn't you consider it unethical, perhaps, to take the suspect from one investigation into your confidence on another?"
Sanctimonious little... "Sir, no information was given to him."
Spence folded his hands neatly across the front of his suit. "Hmm." Lamont consciously kept from fidgeting, and wished he could go home. Wonder what Mindy made for dinner. "Detective Lamont, your case-closure rate is outstanding, although your personnel record is, shall we say, uneven." He smiled. "Apparently, you don't tolerate fools gladly."
Growing serious again, he went on, "Over the past few months, the NYPD has been considering implementation of a new program, one aimed at meeting the challenges presented by non-human perpetrators such as Spider-Man and the Green Goblin. I have brought your record to the committee's attention, and it has been decided that you will be transferred to head the new Paranormal Division, along with what supporting personnel can be spared. You appear to be able to deal with the unknown without becoming intimidated and your record fully justifies your appointment as a Divisional Head, although you will still be reporting to me."
Lamont was speechless. You have got to be kidding me. "Sir, I..."
"The Huey case will be assigned to you, as requested. Be aware that your performance in your new position will be closely monitored, at first, and that publicly and politically embarrassing the department would be, well, frowned on." Spence smiled. "And apprehension of Spider-Man, despite his supporters, would be a great boost for our public relations."
Assigning me to deal with the wackos permanently. Please, let this be a nightmare.
"Thank you for coming in, detective. Why don't you go home and let your wife know about your promotion," Spence rose to shake hands, still friendly.
Lamont left in a daze.