When Peter finally awoke, he found himself lying in a hospital bed. Beeping and clicking machines surrounded him, monitoring his vitals and helping to make him well. There was a dull ache in his back, though he suspected it would feel much worse if not for the drugs he'd probably been given. Outside the window, the sun was orange and hanging low over the city. Dizzily, he tried to remember how he'd gotten here, but then he realized that he didn't even know if it was dawn or dusk.
He tried to sit up to find the nurse-call button, but immediately regretted it. The dull ache turned into a searing burn that shot through him and made him see stars. With a groan, he collapsed back against the pillow. With nothing to do besides lie there, he decided instead to try dredging up the last memories he had before waking up in this room. There was the burning warehouse, his spider-sense tingling, and then the pain, the stabbing pain in his back.
"You okay over there, sonny?" an unexpected voice asked, startling Peter. The voice sounded elderly, slow and unsteady. From behind a drawn curtain between the two beds, the room's other occupant was calling out. He must have heard Peter's tortured groan when he'd tried to sit up.
"Yeah," Peter replied. "I was just trying to call the nurse."
"I'll buzz her for you," said the old man. "She'll come quicker if I do it 'cause, y'know, she'll probably think I'm dyin' or somethin'." Peter laughed, only a little, because it hurt to do it. His roommate pressed the button repeatedly, not allowing their nurse to call back over the intercom. Shortly, she arrived in the room in person.
"What is it, Mr. Brown?" she asked, trying to smother her irritation.
"The boy in the next bed just woke up. Couldn't find his call button."
"Oh, Mr. Parker!" said the nurse. She came around the curtain and checked Peter's monitors as she spoke. "How are you feeling?"
"It hurts," he said lamely. He felt stupid, stating the obvious and complaining like a little kid, but it really did hurt.
"I'll see if I can get you some more pain meds," she told him. "Dr. Jackson is on the floor right now, doing rounds. I can ask him if it's okay to up your dosage."
"Dr. Carl Jackson?" asked Peter.
"Yes, that's right," said the nurse. "The paramedics who treated you on site said that you were asking for him en route to the hospital. They called him, and he met them here and performed the operation."
Peter vaguely recalled floating in and out of consciousness, staring up at the concerned face of a man in an FDNY uniform. Through the haze and pain, Peter had asked for Dr. Jackson, remembering how he'd helped him with his gunshot wound earlier this year. Some other detail was swimming through Peter's brain, but he couldn't quite grasp it.
"Was he already in to see me before I woke up?" Peter asked. "I… I should thank him. Gosh! I don't even know if it's morning or evening…."
"It's getting toward night time," the nurse told him as she was leaving. "You came in last night, and slept the whole day away. I'll call your Aunt and let her know you're awake." Peter gulped, hoping Aunt May hadn't been too shocked by the news when she'd been notified as his next of kin. It was a relief at the same time, though. At least he hadn't had to be the one to tell her, and she could actually know the truth, because it didn't involve Spider-man for a change.
"Hello, Peter?" said a male voice from the doorway.
"I'm over here, Dr. Jackson," Peter replied as the doctor entered the room. He looked down at his patient and sighed.
"We've got to stop meeting like this, Peter. Seriously."
"I'm sorry," Peter said. It was humiliating, like being scolded by Aunt May.
"Hey, I know you've got to do what you've got to do," the doctor continued. "But here's your reality check: if that blade had gone in a little closer to the spine, you might have been paralyzed. And you're damn lucky that you've still got both kidneys."
"I was just taking shots of a warehouse fire last night. Then all of a sudden, somebody attacked me. I don't even know what happened."
"The papers say it was that serial killer, the one that the Bugle says is Spider-man," Dr. Jackson said, chuckling at the impossibility. "They found another note in the alley where you went down. I just figured you were out chasing the guy. Hey, Peter, if you're trying to get another trip to Florida out of me, this isn't the way to do it."
Peter didn't laugh, but not because it wasn't funny, or would have hurt. The nagging fact that he'd been missing had finally occurred to him. Where was his costume? Nearly speechless and white as a sheet, he stammered out his terrifying question to Dr. Jackson.
"W-wait! What… what happened to… the clothes I was wearing?" Peter said pointedly.
"Relax," said the doctor. "I got the bottoms off of you before surgery. It wasn't easy. Is that stuff, like, spandex or what? Oh, and the paramedic from the ambulance got the rest of the costume. He turned it all over to me, so I'm sure he's cool. I hope you have a spare top, though, because he had to cut it off."
"Well, it already had a big stab wound in it," Pete said with bitter humor.
"Yeah…," said Carl, laughing. "Well, I've got to go finish my rounds. Keep those spirits up and get some rest, you hear me?"
Peter nodded robotically, because his mind was already racing elsewhere. Someone else knew his secret now, while some other sick person was still out killing to protect it. He tried to form a plan of action, but forced immobility and his guilt preoccupied his thoughts.
"Mr. Parker, you have some visitors," said the nurse, sticking her head in. Peter was glad to finally be distracted from thoughts of George and that girl, Lisa, whom he'd been so close to saving. "They say they're… uh… co-workers of yours. I can send them away, if you like. Visiting hours are almost over, and there are four of them. We usually only allow two, if they aren't family."
The nurse sounded almost anxious for Peter to take up her offer. No doubt she felt that four was a lot of people, and she didn't want them keeping the other patients on the floor awake. Of course, Peter wasn't really in the mood to see anyone from the Bugle, least of all Jonah, whom he expected to come barreling in, demanding pictures of Spider-man on the attack.
"Well, you can send half of them in to visit him and the other half to visit me," piped up Mr. Brown. "I'm going to sleep, anyway." Knowing what an inconvenience an irritated Mr. Brown could be, the nurse acquiesced and ushered in Peter's visitors.
Slowly, four people edged into Peter's room, occupying what space they could that didn't encroach upon Mr. Brown's curtained-off area. But, to Peter's surprise, none of them were Robbie, or Betty, or even Jonah. They were all strangers to him, or so he thought at first.
"Um… hi," said the young black man at the front of the group. "You probably don't remember us…. M-my name's Mark. Mark Greer. You… see, you saved us… on the train?"
Peter swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly becoming very dry. His first instinct was to deny, but these people had most likely seen his face. What could he say to that? All he could do was stare at them, feeling more helpless than ever. Mark swallowed just as hard as Peter had, but forced himself to continue.
"We're all here… well, not all of us… but we're here because we wanted to thank you, and… and because we're scared. All these murders… and we know they're all people from the train. See, a lot of us exchanged names and numbers after we saw… what we saw. There's a list…."
"But how did you find me?" asked Peter. A stocky, older man held up today's Bugle, with a menacing picture of Spider-man on the cover. The headline read: Photographer Peter Parker Survives Attack. The paper's owner handed it to Mark, who turned to page nine. The front-page article continued there, with a small picture of Peter in his hospital bed. Appalled by the invasion of his privacy, Peter looked at the photo, credited to a "Lance Bannon", and made a mental note to chew the guy out.
"So, we know that Spider-man isn't killing these people," added a middle-aged blonde woman.
"Thank you," Peter said. "You don't know what it means to me to hear you say that."
"A couple of us thought maybe you faked the attack on yourself," said the cynical-sounding final visitor. The blonde woman, holding a copy of the contact list they'd mentioned, stepped forward and leaned down by the bedside.
"But you've been in the hospital since last night," she said slowly. She pointed to a name on the list, another name among plenty of others that Peter couldn't put a face to. "Just this afternoon… this man was killed."
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"No!"
With a hoarse, angry yell, the reader of the Daily Bugle shoved it violently into the trash. Shame and disappointment welled up to overflowing, and a foot stamped down on the crumpled newspaper, crushing it deeper into the garbage that had preceded it. The front page had said it all. The killer hadn't even bothered to turn inside to read the rest of the article. Another note had been left with Parker, but the papers were barely mentioning the notes, now. And the Bugle was still blaming the murders on Spider-man.
"They aren't getting the message!" went the tortured wail, equal parts rage and despair. Today's death wouldn't make the paper until tomorrow, but it didn't seem to matter how many people died, or how many notes were left. The other people from the train, whether they were on that accursed list or not, still whispered to each other, loudly and carelessly. Riding the train every day had shown the killer that much.
"How could you people be so stupid and make a list?" the killer asked the air. "You're just asking to be found! And when they find you, they'll beat you and torture you, until you tell them what they want to know. Not all of you can be as strong as I am. We all can't keep secrets!" Gloved hands clutched a paper containing hastily scrawled names and phone numbers. It had been crumpled in rage and re-flattened time and again.
"I'll just have to find you first, that's all…. I'll just have to find every last one of you…!"
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At the hospital, the sky outside Peter's window was turning quickly from the deep blue of dusk into the black of night. He knew that he probably didn't have much time to talk with these people, and not just because of expiring visiting hours. But he chose to ignore the other reason, because of its extreme unpleasantness.
They'd only just started brainstorming, throwing their theories around at one another, when a man in an FDNY uniform had joined them in the room. He was young, only a little older than Peter, with sandy-colored hair, and introduced himself as Bobby. Apparently, he was the paramedic who'd gotten quite a shock upon finding the red and blue costume under Peter's street clothes. After being briefly welcomed into the "club", he'd put forth what information he had.
"The fireman who found you got a look at the guy who attacked you," Bobby had said to Peter. "The guy was running away, so all he could tell was that he was short, about 5'6" or 5'8". Other than that, he was all covered up with gloves, a hooded sweatshirt… the whole nine."
"So, you think the killer could be someone from the list?" Peter asked after Bobby's arrival, getting them all back on the subject.
"Well, everyone who's been killed was on the list," pointed out the blonde woman.
"Except for that Joe guy," said the stocky man, "but he was in the paper."
"There were four other people from the list who didn't answer or said no, when I called about coming over here," added Mark. "I guess… I guess they were still scared, maybe."
"Or had something to hide," said the cynic.
"But if someone was trying to protect my secret, why would they attack me?" asked Peter.
"Well…," Mark said thoughtfully, "maybe the killer never got a good look at you. Your name was in the paper with Joe's, but there was no picture."
"So maybe someone from the Bugle is the killer," said the cynical man, "not somebody from the list. Maybe somebody who works there just got so pissed off over what the boss is always printing about Spidey, that he gets this whacked idea in his head to "help" when Joe goes there to shoot his mouth off. That George guy went there next… and maybe that Lisa girl had an interview lined up, too. And then Pete, here, was off on assignment… if the killer worked at the paper, he'd have known where to find you."
"I guess…," said Peter, not wanting to suspect anyone from the Bugle. But, then again, he didn't know everyone who worked there.
"Well," said the blonde woman, "what if the "secret" the notes keep mentioning isn't Peter's? The killer's motives might go deeper than just protecting his identity."
"So, that way, it could be someone from the list, or not!" the cynical man replied. "If the secret were something else, and he's not protecting Spidey, it wouldn't matter to the killer if he went after Peter knowing his secret or not."
"What?" asked the stocky man.
"Yeah, I didn't follow that," added the blonde. Peter himself was barely able to follow the disorganized discourse, especially with Mr. Brown's diesel-engine snoring chiming in repeatedly. But he was still hoping that a real lead might come from all this.
"Hey!" said Mark, sounding less than meek for the very first time. "I don't think all this talking is getting us anywhere. We need to do something!"
The assembly nodded and gave affirmative grunts, agreeing for the first time.
"I was thinking that maybe the killer was finding you through the EMS reports about the train accident," said Bobby. "That is, until I heard about your list. But I can still check and see if anyone has been asking about it that shouldn't have, or if the files are missing or something."
"Good!" said Mark. "That's good! And the rest of us can follow up on the people from the list that didn't show tonight. We can see if they have alibis for the murders…."
"Whoa!" said Peter. "Hold on! This is too dangerous for you people to be doing on your own! You should… I don't know… leave the city until it's safe. Let the police handle it. Let me handle it!"
But the blonde woman was already assigning people from the list for the others to follow up. Maybe they were doing it because they felt they owed it to Peter, or maybe they were eager to be the ones catch the killer, or perhaps they just didn't want to feel helpless, at the mercy of some lunatic with a knife. Regardless of their motivations, they were all determined.
"Please don't!" Peter begged as they began to leave. "If something happens, to any of you…."
"Then that's our choice," said Mark. "We've got to do this, for you and for ourselves."
Peter was torn, not wanting to condone their actions, but also unable to stop them.
"Joe's old Super," Peter heard himself saying. "Leonard Rosenbaum was his name, I found out. He was at the Bugle looking for Joe the day of his murder. He's the one that found the body. He was in the same day George was killed, too…. I just… I guess I thought you should know…."
"Thanks," said Mark. "And don't worry, okay? You're secret's safe with us." He and Bobby were the last ones to leave.
After they were gone, Peter wondered why he'd told Mark about Joe's Super. He hadn't meant to encourage them. Without his "blessing", maybe they would have given up searching, stopped putting themselves in danger. But he would have felt wrong somehow, not giving them at least a small token of thanks.
"Um… hey, kid," came the elderly voice from beyond the curtain. "All those people trampin' outta here woke me up."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Brown," Peter apologized sheepishly.
"Oh, I didn't mean to give you no grief about that," continued Mr. Brown. "But… uh… I heard what that doctor said, 'bout your "costume"… and you chasin' down some guy. Then, I heard that black kid talkin' about keepin' your secret…."
Oh great, thought Peter, now someone else knows!
"I just wanted to tell you not to be ashamed."
"Ashamed?" asked Peter.
"Yeah… I mean… there's nothing wrong with bein' gay. You're here, you're queer, I'm used to it. The guy who cuts my hair, he's gay. Big guy, too…. So, come out of the closet, already, kid. This is New York City, for cryin' out loud!"
Mr. Brown was snoring loudly again only seconds later. And while his misconception had amused Peter at first, it began to dawn on him that Mr. Brown may have given him a solution to the current problem. If Peter revealed his identity as Spider-man to the world, the killer would have no reason to continue. But beyond that immediate end, the ramifications were too numerous to comprehend, tonight at least. Exhausted, Peter slipped into a sleep haunted by guilt and indecision.