"If you're late again, you're going to be fired," the supervisor said uncaringly. The recipient of this warning nodded dutifully, then headed off to work. The threat was not idle. Recently, a coworker that hadn't shown up for a few days had been summarily dismissed. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the still-employed worker's thoughts were far from the job at hand.

It wasn't him…! How could I have been so stupid…? Parker's still alive, and I'll never get another chance that good! Damn it! This is taking too long…. Any one of them could have told plenty of others by now, and those others could talk to others and more and more until everybody knows! God damn it, I have to do more…! They all have to die.

"Excuse me?" the irate voice said again. An elderly lady had obviously been trying to get noticed for some time, and was quickly losing patience. Digressive thoughts quickly snapped back to reality. With a smile, the killer asked what it was that the lady needed.

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Peter Parker stretched, thankful to be free from the hospital bed at last. The sun was up, but it wouldn't be visible from his window until the afternoon. No offense to any of the staff, but Peter was glad he would be gone before then. At least Aunt May had brought in a few things to make the sterile room feel more like home. He was gathering up those pictures and knickknacks when he was surprised to see Mark walk in.

"Hey, Peter…," Mark began awkwardly. He didn't finish, and instead stared down at the floor.

"Hey, Mark!" Peter said with a smile. Jokingly, he added, "No one else wanted to come and see me off?"

"Well, that's kinda why I'm here…," Mark started before trailing off again. Peter could tell that his joke hadn't gone over well; quite the opposite, in fact. "See, the group's breaking up, Peter. We'd been meeting regularly, but some of them… well, a lot of them just didn't trust each other. All these murders… it brings out the best and the worst in people. And we were hitting so many dead ends. Bobby said nobody had gotten into the EMS records of Doc Ock's train attack. We interviewed Rosenbaum, but that attempt on you happened at the same time. Then Marion suggested that there could be more than one killer. She was new to the group, and she gave all of us that "look", you know what I mean? Like, "it could be you". A lot of people left the last meeting saying that they weren't coming back."

"So how can I help?" Peter asked. In an instant, he wished he hadn't. It had been a reflexive response, before his brain could remind him that he didn't want to condone Mark's group taking matters into their own hands.

"I was… I was hoping you could come to the meeting tonight," Mark said. Peter felt torn between guilt and gratitude. "It would mean a lot to everyone. Maybe some people might even change their minds about coming back if they knew you'd be there."

Whether or not he agreed with what they'd decided to do, Peter could tell that Mark needed very much to be a part of something like this. It was probably helping him deal with the trauma of living through that attack on the train. And it was equally likely that there were more people in the group who were getting the same benefit from it. Peter took a deep breath as he considered, or at least pretended to.

"Okay, I'll come," he said, as if his conscience hadn't already made the choice for him.

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Later that evening, the killer paced and glanced repeatedly at the phone.

I've never done anything like this before…. What if their lines are tapped? What if they don't agree to meet me somewhere? Maybe… maybe I could just get their addresses from their numbers… but how will I know if they're home? I could watch them, but I've got to go to work. And if I don't go to work, how will I find the others? I'll just… I'll just concentrate on the list for now…. There's still so many. They all have to die.

A sweaty-palmed hand reached and then recoiled. It wavered in the air uncertainly. Finally, like a cobra striking, it seized the phone.

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Nancy Whitman glumly watched the clock on the wall as she sat on the phone with her little sister, Deb. The girl was a freshman at ESU, and although they had made plans to have lunch together tomorrow, Deb was still talking Nancy's ear off about everything from classes to boys. Mercifully, the call-waiting signal beeped.

"Deb?" Nancy interrupted. "I've got to go. I'm getting another call." With the barest of goodbyes from Deb, Nancy clicked over to the other line. "Hello?"

"Hi… Nancy? This is-" The caller selected another name from the list.

"Oh," replied Nancy, "you sound different on the phone." The caller remained silent. "Well, if you're calling to try to talk me into coming to the meeting, you can forget it."

"Meeting?" asked the person on the other end.

"At Mark's, tonight," an annoyed Nancy blurted out. "I don't think I could get there from here in twenty minutes, anyway…." It suddenly struck her as odd that the person on the other end of the phone had seemed surprised when she'd mentioned the meeting. Fear knotted in her chest. "Hello…? Who is this, really?"

There was a click, and the line went dead.

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As Mark Greer stood on the stoop outside his apartment building, he was completely unaware of the urgent messages from Nancy that awaited him on his answering machine. He fumbled with his keys, not wanting to set down the paper sack containing the snacks he'd bought for tonight. Slowly, he did become aware of someone climbing the steps behind him.

"Can I get that for you?" asked a friendly voice.

Despite the stranger's tone, Mark found himself on edge. It was late, the sky was dark, and it was almost time for the meeting. Although the person didn't seem threatening, the face was not one that Mark immediately recognized. There were other people passing by on the sidewalk, and that fact helped him to remain calm.

"No thanks, I got it," he said, readjusting his grip on the sack. He pocketed his keys, and was preparing to dart quickly through the unlocked door.

"You're Mark Greer, aren't you?" asked the stranger. It was then that Mark noticed the crumpled list in the stranger's hand. "I called Nancy, and she told me about the meeting tonight…. I'm a friend of Lisa's, the girl who died."

"Oh," said Mark, kicking himself for thinking the worst. He was disarmed by the sadness expressed in the mentioning of Lisa. "I'm sorry…."

The two of them walked together into the building. Mark went to check his mail before making for the stairs. He stayed nervously silent, unsure of how to talk to someone whose friend had just recently died. As he closed the tiny box on the wall, one of the many questions that he had thought up to ask Lisa's friend began to truly bother him.

"So… how did you get her list?" Mark tried to ask casually, though he was gradually feeling less so. The question's recipient fidgeted uncertainly before answering.

"She gave it to me," was the reply, "for safe keeping." The answer was weak, and they both knew it.

Why did I let a stranger into my building? Mark wondered feverishly. I've been meeting so many new people lately…. Damn it, I'm so stupid. Of "fight" or "flight", Mark was the sort of person who would always choose the latter, no matter who the opponent. The question was whether to try to make it up to his apartment or back to the street. Panicking, he dropped his bag and chose the wrong option.

He was tackled as he tried running up the stairs. The fall winded him, and his face hit each stair as he was dragged by his legs back down to the floor. He rolled onto his back just in time to take a knife to the chest. He screamed as he felt another stab. Yet another hit his arms as he threw them up defensively. Then the knife was raised again, but this time it didn't fall.

"What's all that racket down there?" someone called from above. There was the sound of a shutting door and footsteps descending the stairs. How many people were coming and how far away they were was difficult to tell. The face of Mark's attacker disappeared under a quickly-raised sweatshirt hood. The killer risked one more stab at Mark's neck, then turned and fled.

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Peter Parker was enjoying a casual walk through the city at night. He was a little over a block from Mark's, and the meeting was five or ten minutes away from starting. He couldn't remember the last time that, in this persona, he wasn't rushing to be somewhere at a certain time. As Spider-man, he would often have little to do but roam the city while waiting for something to happen or someone to need him. But roaming as Spider-man could never take the form of a quiet stroll such as this.

Suddenly, his spider-sense blared, and he watched as a hooded figure ran out of a building up ahead. It seemed to play out in slow motion as the figure darted as fast as possible across the street then dove into a parked car. Peter sprinted, but by the time he reached the building, the car was squealing out of its space and heading down the road.

His body filled with dread and anger. There was no doubt in his mind that he had just seen the serial killer. He was ready to take to the air in pursuit, heedless of giving away his identity, when something broke through his fury and made him glance inside the open doorway. His eyes grew wide as he spied Mark on the floor with blood pooling around him.

"Help!" Peter screamed hoarsely. People on the street gawked at him. Tears of frustration blurred his vision as he ran and knelt at Mark's side. The bleeding man was barely moving and barely conscious. Peter screamed to anyone who could hear him. "Somebody please help! Call 911!"

Peter screamed again and again. He knew the killer was getting farther away with each passing second, but he couldn't leave Mark. He was Spider-man, a super-hero, but he didn't know what else to do but hold Mark's hand and cry for help. Peter was startled as the hand he held broke free. He felt it reach inside his jacket, grasping at something red within. It was Spider-man's mask. Peter clenched his teeth. Shaking with rage, he wiped the tears off his face and donned the mask.

"I'll get him," said Spider-man. Mark replied with a rasping word that sounded like "go", then slipped into unconsciousness.

Spider-man's spider-sense told him that people were cautiously making their way up the steps to the building, but it also told him that he'd be able to slip unnoticed into the shadows of the stairwell. They'd be too distracted by the sight of Mark, and that was good, because then he might get help.

Looking up through the winding staircase, Spider-man saw a skylight in the roof. He snagged it with a webline and launched himself upward, flying through the thin space between the flights of stairs like thread through a needle's eye. On the roof, glass shattered as he punched through into open air.

He rolled in midair, removing his pants and shoes. As he began to freefall, he tore off his jacket and shirt, grabbing his costume's boots and gloves from inner pockets, but letting the rest fall to the roof below. He finished dressing in the free-flying time between swings as he took off in the direction he'd last seen the killer's car headed. It didn't take long to spot the car far up ahead, speeding fast and weaving in and out of traffic. It also didn't take long for Spider-man's back to complain about the exertion.

Driven by wrath and undeterred by pain, Spider-man slowly closed the distance between himself and the car. It was a beat-up old four-door from the seventies or eighties, and it reminded him of Uncle Ben's car. The memory made him more determined than ever to not let the killer escape. But, just as he was preparing to make a leap for his quarry, the killer's car took a sharp turn and Spider-man had to correct his swing. His back felt like it was on fire.

And the pain was affecting his aim. Weblines were hitting wrong, sending him swinging at the wrong angles. Swinging from his right arm was making him see stars, and he feared blacking out. Doing so even for a second could prove fatal. He had to think of something else before he was forced to stop the pursuit.

Instead of swinging again, he let go of his last webline and managed to alight on top of an overhanging streetlight. Aiming carefully, he shot web from both arms and completely ensnared the car's bumper. He braced himself to stop the car, but was warned too late by his spider-sense of the true outcome. The stress broke the bumper free of the car, and Spider-man was sent falling backward onto the street. For a moment, he did black out.

When the moment was gone, he stood immediately and found that the car was gone too. People on the street were clustered around him, staring. Most backed away fearfully when he rose. Sirens could be heard in the distance, but they came from behind him, in the vicinity of Mark's building. Ahead lay only the lights of the city.

"Where did the car go?" Spider-man screamed at the onlookers. None spoke, too frightened by the web-slinger's outburst. He hefted the bumper that lay in the road and brought it crashing down into a newspaper vending machine with a guttural yell. "Where is that God-damned car?"

Those who hadn't already fled in terror did so. Spider-man watched them go, then looked with amazement at the destruction he'd wrought. The broken machine's newspapers were strewn about, fluttering their corners in the evening breeze. The bumper had round impressions in it from his fingers because he'd grabbed it so hard. He also noticed something else it had. Under the webbing, he could just make out a New York license plate. Under his mask, he was too tired to smile.

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Alicia Martinez guided her police cruiser swiftly but carefully through traffic, not wanting to turn on the siren and announce her approach to her quarry. Her partner, Arthur O'Keefe, bit his lip and watched her as she drove. He feared that if he watched the road, he might become ill. He also wanted to talk to Alicia about what they were doing, but he didn't want to distract her while she was driving.

Arthur had always been content occupying his niche in the NYPD. He went in, did his job, and then went home to his wife and kids. The routine had served him well for plenty of years as he plodded slowly toward retirement. In contrast, Alicia was young and fiercely ambitious. Being a Latin woman on the Force put her at an immediate disadvantage in the eyes of many of her co-workers. But she always proved them wrong. Sometimes, Arthur knew, she went dangerously out of her way to do it.

Things had started innocently enough. Alicia's boyfriend, Bobby, had called her up. He was an FDNY paramedic, and he knew how to get through to her while she was on patrol. But it was highly unusual for him to call her at work, made even odder by his unorthodox request. He'd asked her to run a license plate through the computer.

She was still reeling from surprise when word came in on another radio band that the "Spider-man killer" had struck again. It didn't take Alicia more than a second to realize why Bobby was asking. Swift interrogation, as only a significant other can conduct, quickly yielded the whole story from Bobby. Spider-man himself had somehow gotten in touch with Bobby through the "Spider-man Anti-defamation League" he had been meeting. The super-hero had torn off the bumper of the killer's car during a botched pursuit and gotten the plate along with it.

True to form, Alicia ran the plate, hung up on Bobby, and then steered the cruiser in the direction of the address she'd gotten. She and Arthur made the trip in silence, each knowing that she had omitted a crucial step. Finally, they came to a quiet halt outside an apartment building.

"Martinez, we are calling for backup now!" Arthur demanded through clenched teeth. She out-ranked him after her latest promotion, but he hoped that his insubordination would make it even more obvious to her that she was taking a tremendous risk by breaking procedure.

"Fine," she agreed. "You call them… I'm going in."

"Hey," he argued, "we don't even know if he's here or not. We should wait."

"Oh, he's here," she said. She exited the car, gesturing at the bumper-less sedan parked on the street near them. In another second, she was climbing the building's steps to the door.

"Oh, crap!" said Arthur. He was radioing Dispatch as he got out to follow Alicia.

They buzzed the manager and waited anxiously. It took agonizing seconds for him to arrive, let them in, and then point them to the stairwell. As the two officers began climbing the steps to their destination on the fifth floor, they both cautiously drew their sidearms. Seeing this, the manager headed straight back from where he'd come.

"So, it was the train engineer, huh?" Arthur asked as they ascended. He knew the case, and the list of suspects. Alicia nodded with a smile.

"Reading over my shoulder again, Artie?" she asked. Then she shook her head in disappointment. "We should have known…! He was on the train when Octavius attacked it, and, if the rumors are true, he saw Spider-man's face. But more importantly, he probably saw all the other victims' faces. The PATH pin that the investigators found at the third murder should have clinched it, but he had some flimsy alibi for one of the other ones, and the profiler said he didn't fit. Now we have his car at the scene of another attack!"

On the fifth floor landing, they peaked warily into the hallway to find it deserted. The carpet was stained in places, burnt in others. Two of the lights were out and a third was broken. Someone's music was thumping loudly from behind one of the doors. Arthur and Alicia crept quietly along the wall until they reached apartment 5D.

"Mr. O'Shea?" Alicia asked, knocking loudly. She and her partner had taken up positions safely on either side of the doorway. "Mr. O'Shea…? Open up! This is the police!"

Before Arthur could stop her, Alicia kicked the door in. The first thing to assault them was a rancorous odor permeating the residence. They'd caught a hint of it in the hall, but dismissed it due to the building's poor condition. Suppressing the urge to vomit, Alicia went first into the darkened apartment, leading with her gun. She motioned for Arthur to check the kitchen that adjoined the entry-hall as she proceeded down it toward the living-room.

"Mr. O'Shea?" she called again.

The gun's safety was off, and it was taking all her will to steady her hand. Her training was at war with her primal instincts, which were screaming at her to run away. She surveyed the living-room from an angle that left the hall to the bedroom hidden from her, but also kept her hidden from anyone who might be there.

She swung quickly around to face the bedroom, finding an empty hall and two closed doors. One door was partway down and the other lay at the hall's far end. The bathroom and bedroom respectively, she surmised. She heard Arthur's footsteps behind her, coming into the living room from the kitchen entrance that adjoined it.

"All clear," he whispered. "The kitchen is a mess, and the fridge was left open, accounting for the smell, I'll bet you."

Maybe, thought Alicia.

She indicated to Arthur that she'd take the far door, while he checks out the nearer. She slunk along the hall to the bedroom, and then slowly reached out for the doorknob. She winced, her hand jerking back, as she heard Arthur open the bathroom door far too loudly. She shot an angry glance behind her, frowning at his apologetic face.

Turning back to her own door, she gripped the knob and turned it slowly, hoping no one who might be behind the door would notice. Once it was unlatched, she flung it wide, listening in case she caught anyone hiding behind it, while scanning the rest of the room with her eyes and gun.

She couldn't hold in a gasp as she saw the engineer seated across the room, facing away from her. He couldn't have missed hearing the sound of her entry, but he just sat impassively, in front of a small desk. Alicia aimed her gun at the back of his head and moved closer. With her left hand, she reached out and spun the chair around.

"No!" she screamed, and Arthur came running.

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In his apartment, Peter Parker stared out the window at the moon with tired, red eyes. Minutes turned to hours. He couldn't bear looking at the phone, remembering what Aunt May had always said about a watched pot. It was well past midnight before he got the call he'd been waiting for. The phone's base fell off the table from the frenzy with which the handset was gripped.

"Hello, Bobby?" he said before the other party could speak.

"Yeah, Pete, it's me," said the sad voice on the line.

"What took you so long?" Peter asked as calmly as he could, which wasn't very. "Wouldn't your girlfriend to run the plate for me?"

"It's not that…," Bobby began guiltily, "…I… I told her what it was, and where you got it." He could sense Peter growing angrier from his heavy breathing. "Face it, Peter. This is work for the cops, okay? Like they say on the job, "you're too emotionally involved". And you are. I couldn't get that plate run for you and then let you go and take on this wacko by yourself. You just got out of the hospital, man."

"I could've helped!" Peter yelled. "If any cops got hurt taking this guy down, it's on you, Bobby!" He regretted it as soon as he said it. Bobby didn't deserve that, and no amount of anxiety or fatigue could excuse it. "Hey, wait… I'm sorry…."

"Yeah," Bobby said, still a bit shaken. "Well… they didn't get the killer. The car belonged to the train engineer, the one who saw your face. The police found the car outside his apartment, but when they went in…. He was already dead, Peter. It looked like he had been for a couple of days. His bosses said he'd been let go for missing work. Cold bastards never told anybody…. I'm sorry, too, I guess."

Bobby hung up without saying goodbye. Peter just dropped the phone, and then sat on his bed with his face in his hands.

It wasn't over.

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It's over! the killer thought. I failed. I tried so hard, but… Damn it! Parker lived, and now the papers say Greer is going to make it. Greer saw my face! It's only a matter of time before they find me. I can't go in to work today. Maybe… maybe I can find one last chance… to do some good.

The misery, the feeling of failure, was like a hot towel that couldn't be taken off. Sweat poured down the killer's face. Hands were clenched and unclenched as the gravity of the situation set in. It was all over. And no one was safe… not even Spider-man. The bathroom mirror cracked and broke as it was punched. The killer looked down at bloodied fingers.

"What was that scream?" asked someone through the door.

"Nothing," replied the bathroom's occupant, not even remembering having screamed.

The killer quickly exited the gas-station bathroom, and then spent the rest of the morning driving aimlessly through the city, considering all the viable options. By noon, options once thought unviable were being considered. There were the two boys… there were always the two boys.

Their mother knew about the killings. She also knew that her boys were on the train when Doctor Octopus had attacked all those months ago. But necessities of life outweighed the need for caution. Taking the train was the only way she could get her kids from school, then to their Grandmother's, and then get to work at her second-shift job on time. The children were never considered a threat by the killer, because they were only children, so they'd ridden every weekday without incident.

No… they're just kids… I can't….

But an idea began to form. If the opportunity wasn't taken quickly, it would be lost. Everything would be lost soon enough…. Desperation pushed whatever warped morality that stood between the killer and the children aside. A turn of the wheel, and the car was headed in the direction of the school.