by Diane Duane
“Oh, great!” William said, sounding relieved. “That’s okay, then. You think we might see him?”
“I haven’t seen his appointments calendar,” Peter said. “No telling. But if I run across him, I’ll tell him you were asking after him.”
“Thanks, Pete! It’d be cool to see him—and he might know something about how Dad is.”
“I hope so. Listen, William, I’m running up the phone bill. Let your mom know about what I’ve been telling you, okay?”
“I will. Where are you going to be?”
“The Miami Hilton, for the first few days at least. But I’ll give her a call when we get in.”
“Okay. Thanks, Peter!”
“Right. You take care.”
Peter hung up and sighed and went off to pack.
TWO
THE trip down was uneventful. After locking up, setting the alarm, and dropping the spare key with the super, Peter caught a cab for Newark and met Vreni at check-in, where they got onto one of the most crowded commuter flights he had ever been on in his life. It took Peter a good five minutes to wrestle the Questar into the overhead baggage compartment, which was already so full that he thought he might have to spend the trip with it in his lap.
Not the best way to begin a working relationship, Peter thought, as he and Vreni wedged themselves into seats so tightly pitched and close together that they might just as well have just given up and tried to sit in each other’s laps.
“They’ve mistaken us for sardines, these people,” Vreni muttered under her breath as the plane taxied away from the gate.
“Yeah. The Bugle paid peanuts for the fare,” Peter said, eyeing the tray that one of the flight attendants carried past, “and it looks like that’s all we’re going to get to eat, too.”
She laughed then. “Wait till we’re up,” she said. For once, it didn’t take long; once the plane was in the air, she reached for the tote bag she had shoved under the seat ahead of them.
Peter watched as she produced from it a package of crackers, several good cheeses from Zahar’s, a couple of small bottles of San Pellegrino mineral water, and plastic cups and knives. “Self-preservation,” she said to Peter, pulling down her tray. “I stopped trusting airline food, or even expecting it, a long time ago. Pellegrino?”
“Thanks,” he said, delighted. She handed him one of the bottles. A short time later they were working their way through an early lunch, and getting annoyed, envious, or just plain hungry looks from all the other passengers in sight.
As they chatted over the next couple of hours, Peter started revising his original opinion of Vreni, although a little reluctantly. Vreni Byrne was quick on the uptake, and very opinionated. Occasionally she could be abrasive. But these traits made a good investigative reporter, and that was how she had gotten her start in journalism. Her talent had taken her a long way. She had been in Rwanda, and in South Africa during the worst of its troubles; she had been in Moscow for the coup that brought down the Soviet Union, in Berlin when the Wall fell, and in Latveria when Victor von Doom was deposed. She had been in the Kurile Islands when Japan and Russia almost went to war over them—a carefully covered-up business, that, and Peter shuddered as she told him more about it, and how close the world had been, once more, to its first real nuclear war. She had investigated Chinese piracy off the Philippines, pollution in Antarctica, and Atlantean attacks of offshore oil rigs. Vreni had been a busy woman.
“After a while, though,” she said, “you get tired of running around foreign places. You want to rake some muck on your own doorstep.” Vreni smiled a little. “The problem is, even a reporter can get typecast. My editors at the Trib liked the work I was doing overseas—liked it too much to let me work at home. So, I gave ’em the slip.”
“What do you make of this story so far?” Peter said.
She shrugged. “Not sure there is one, frankly. It all seems pretty disconnected. Oh, I respect Kate’s judgment, don’t get me wrong. Unquestionably she has an instinct for these things. Nonetheless—” Vreni stretched as well as she could in the cramped space “—we’ll see how fast the story runs away from us when we get down there.”
“From us? Or with us?” Peter said, slightly bewildered.
Vreni shook her head. “From us. I’ve learned this over time: the faster the story runs away from you, the more it avoids you and tries not to be told, the better it is. If we start getting avoidance reactions right away—” there was a slightly feral edge to her smile “—we’ll know we’re onto something hot.”
She laid out her plans briefly for him: “I’ll go down some of the usual channels first. I should be able to make some connections in the Miami police department via my old contacts in Chicago—maybe even over the weekend, if things work out right. Then there’s the initial prelaunch press conference at Kennedy on Monday. We should hear then whether there have been any changes in the Shuttle’s mission to account for these sudden changes in security. You should be there for that; see if you can get some other pictures, too, background Cape stuff. Test out that widget of yours.”
“Definitely,” Peter said. “I’m going to see if I can get some practice with it over the weekend—it’s a little idiosyncratic to work with, but it should produce some terrific results once I can figure out how to use it best.”
“Right. After KSC, we should go out on Tuesday, assuming nothing else comes up, and interview some of the people who’re associated with these weird disappearances and so forth. They’re scattered around the northern part of the Everglades, mostly. We’ll take two days over it, I would imagine, while I start assembling the first draft of the article for Kate. Second draft in on Thursday… and the launch is the Monday after.”
“And then pictures of the launch.”
“Of course. Make sure you pick up the launch passes on Monday—no point in leaving it till the last minute.”
“No question,” Peter said. Whatever else happened, he was excited about the prospect of being at the Shuttle launch; being at it with the Questar as well was the chance of a lifetime. I should be able to show the NASA photographers a thing or three, he thought, if I can get enough use of the ’scope over the week to get used to it. And what practice I don’t get, Spider-Man will.
“And then there’s the Lizard,” Vreni said. “I’ll grant Kate this: his appearances are in the same general area as these weird thefts and disappearances. But there’s no proof that he’s directly involved…” She trailed off, thinking, then shook her head. “We’ll see what happens. If he, like the story, runs away from us…” That smile curved her lips again.
Peter privately considered that it wasn’t the Lizard running away from him that he had in mind, especially when he had his Spider-Man suit on. But as she says, we’ll see what happens.
Two hours later they touched down at Miami International Airport. As Peter and Vreni came out the ramp into the gate area, Peter turned to say something to Vreni, just behind him, and was tackled sideways by something that hit him like a ground-to-air missile—if ground-to-air missiles had flowing red hair. The kiss went on… well, Peter wasn’t actually sure how long it went on. He was faintly aware of the sound of Vreni’s amused chuckle behind him. When he broke the clinch and smiled into MJ’s eyes, she raised her eyebrows at him, a teasing look, and said, “No better than eight point eight, I make that. You’re out of practice already.”
“Hmf.”
“Do you have a lady in every port, Peter,” Vreni said, politely enough, “or is this someone to whom I should be introduced more formally?”
Peter chuckled. “Mary Jane Watson-Parker,” he said, taking a moment to admire MJ’s miniskirt, “Vreni Byrne.”
“Delighted,” Vreni said, as she and MJ shook hands, and certainly she seemed to mean it. “The people at the Bugle all say how lucky Peter is to have caught you.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” said MJ. “‘A guy chases a girl until she catches him,’ as the song says. It was pretty much that way with
us. But—Byrne as in the Chicago Tribune?”
“Why, yes.”
“I thought so. I saw you on their magazine show on cable—”
They all headed down toward the baggage-claim area, chatting all the way. Peter was bemused to discover that Vreni was a fan of Secret Hospital, knew MJ’s acting from her all-too-brief stint on that soap opera, and liked her style. After recovering their bags, the three of them caught a cab to the Hilton, and by the time they got there, MJ and Vreni were gossiping like mad over the antics of some of the other actors in the series. What a relief, Peter thought as they got out. He had been slightly concerned that MJ would be annoyed with him for being in the company of such a good-looking woman. But she’s above that kind of thing.…
“Are you staying here too?” Vreni said to MJ, as she and Peter went in with their bags.
“Not while he’s on a job,” MJ said. “I’m with relatives. We’ll be visiting, though.”
“Well, I hope to see more of you! I’m going to go up and get settled,” Vreni said to Peter, “and then I’m going to start setting up some of our first interviews. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Breakfast?”
“You’re on,” Peter said.
Vreni headed off, and MJ watched her go. Then, when she was safely in the elevator and its doors shut, she turned to Peter, fisted him lightly in the ribs, and said, “Where did you find her?”
“Oh, MJ, come on—”
She burst out laughing at him. “I’m teasing. I’m in too good a mood to be jealous about anything, even if I didn’t know Kate wished her on you. Come on.”
They walked off through the lobby together, heading for the coffee shop. Peter hugged her to him as they went. “Why the good mood, then? Any luck?” he said.
They went in, waited to be seated. “A nibble,” MJ said, as the waitress led them to a quiet table in the corner.
“A modeling job?”
“No. Television.”
“Here? That’s weird.”
MJ nodded, stretched a little, and smiled. “One of the local afternoon talk shows apparently has a little modeling spot three times a week. Local couture, that kind of thing. They’ve just lost the model who was working for them, and now they need a replacement.”
“You think you can get this job?”
“I have no idea. I think half the people in town must be trying to get it. A lot of competition…” She shrugged. “Can’t do anything but try. And what about you? Where are you going to have to be?” Peter shook his head. “Up and down the coast—depends on what arrangements Vreni makes. There’s going to be a lot of driving, though, between here and the north Everglades. But I’d say we’ll be here for at least a week, until just after the Shuttle launch, and then maybe a little afterwards. Meantime…”
The waitress came. After they both ordered drinks, MJ said, leaning over the table and taking Peter’s hand, “A lot of driving there may be, but none for you just now—or later, either.”
“What exactly do you have in mind?”
“Tiger,” she said softly. The smile spread to a grin. “How long has it been since we last saw each other?”
“Eleven days,” he said. And added, “Fourteen hours… and twenty-three minutes. Mark.” Then he eyed the key card for his room, which he’d dropped to the table. “Never mind the drinks,” he said. “Never mind lunch. Come on.”
“No way!” MJ said. “We have to keep up your strength. But, afterwards…”
Peter grinned back, resigning himself to the delightfully inevitable.
* * *
HE did go out, though, around six that evening. Peter stopped down at the hotel’s car rental desk and took possession of a neat little compact, then drove MJ to Aunt Anna’s. He spent an hour or so there with them, sharing gossip and catching up on family business. Then he left, for there was one visit he needed to make before he and Vreni got started on business the next day.
He drove most of the way. One thing he had learned was that, while Spider-Man had little trouble web-slinging his way around in his home turf in Manhattan, it was sometimes more difficult to make good speed out in open country. For long distances, a car really did work better sometimes, and he was glad enough to have one at his disposal now. Besides, with his spider-sense warning him of any kind of danger, he was probably the safest driver on the road.
He headed up and out of Miami on I-95, not desiring to get caught in the tangle of interchanges around Hialeah and Fort Lauderdale, and soon realized that being the safest driver on the road wasn’t all that much of an accomplishment on the Florida highways. Once he got out of the city limits, though, the driving was a bit more sane; he went straight north along the eastern coast until he hit Route 98 near Palm Beach. There he turned west, heading inland for about thirty miles, toward the southern shores of Lake Okeechobee.
South Bay was a small city at the very southernmost point of the lake, where the North New River Canal flowed into it. The place was very much in the Floridian style of “middle America”: white-shingled houses, neat front yards, palm trees, swimming pools here and there, a busy little complex of main streets in town, and a quiet, flourishing suburb surrounding it all and running up against the lake. Rough spaces of wetland were dotted here and there—a token of the presence of the northernmost part of the Everglades very nearby. Long, quiet, rural roads ran into the city from several sides, and it seemed like every other house Peter passed along these roads had a boat in the driveway—even if it was only a rowboat or an inflatable dinghy.
Around dusk, he left the car in a parking lot near a Kmart several miles outside town, and strolled off into an empty lot nearby, a tangle of undergrowth-height live oak and slash pine. It was surprisingly quiet, except for a mockingbird which sat high on a crooked palm and sang skilled and insistent imitations of every bird he knew and many he didn’t.
It squawked, though, a few minutes later, and flew away hurriedly as a jet of webbing shot up into the palm tree’s crown. A moment later Spider-Man swung up into the tree, crouched there among the fronds, and glanced around him, while the mockingbird settled two trees over and sang scandal and outrage at him, flirting its tail and rousing its feathers at him.
“Hey,” Spidey said, “take it easy, Caruso. I’ll be out of your way in a moment.” He looked around and got his bearings. While still driving, earlier that evening, he had picked up a street map of the area, along with several other maps that he needed for research purposes. Now with its help, he picked out a couple of landmarks—a water tower, a radio mast—made sure of the direction in which he was headed—north, toward the lake—and set out.
It was a little less easy not to be seen in this mostly flat landscape than it would have been in Manhattan, but he made the best of his environment, enjoying it as he went. There were still some surprisingly big, surprisingly old cypresses hereabouts, a few of them big enough to be several hundred years old, and there were high-tension towers to use for anchorage (if you were careful about where you put the webbing) and plenty of other masts and poles. Spider-Man webbed his way northward, not rushing it too much, enjoying the balmy evening air, until he found the little suburban development he was after.
It was only a couple of blocks from the lakeshore: a little semicircle of shingled tract houses, one of several nearly identical cul-de-sacs radiating out from a central access road. Spidey perched on a power line tower behind the cul-de-sac and checked out the one house he was interested in. It had a neat woven-wood plank fence surrounding its backyard, which contained a small patio, numerous rosebushes, and a very beat-up lawn surrounding a pole with a basketball hoop. Off to one side was a brick barbecue, with embers still glowing in it. The house had a much-used but serviceable-looking Buick sitting in front of it, and the lawn was slightly overgrown. Off to one side, on a small trailer, sat an aluminum canoe.
Spidey smiled inside his mask—more a sad smile than anything else—looked around him to make sure he could see no one watching, and swung down into the house’s
backyard. There were sliding glass and screen doors opening out onto the small patio. The curtains inside them were open. Through them, Spider-Man could see a living room, and a pair of jeans-wearing legs sticking out in front of a chair. The owner of the legs was slumped or slid so far down in the chair that there was no seeing the rest of him.
Spidey slipped quietly up to the screen door. “William,” he said softly, “you’re going to ruin your back sitting that way, you know that?”
A frozen moment of silence, and then a blond boy leaped out of the chair and came tearing back to the screen door, staring to see out into the fast-falling darkness. “Spider-M—!”
“Sssh,” Spidey said. “Can I come in?”
William slid the screen door aside, beckoned him. “Come on in,” he said, and as Spidey stepped through the door, William pulled the curtain behind him, then went hurriedly to the front of the living room and shut those drapes too.
“Nosy neighbors?” Spidey said, approving.
“Yeah. Wait a minute, I’ll get Mom—” William hurried off, leaving Spidey there for a moment to look around him. The inside of the house matched the outside: small, tidy, understated. Everything looked a little worn, though, a little old. The arms on some of the chairs and the sofa were rubbed almost bare, the upholstery looked slightly faded. But everything was clean. Pictures hung on the walls, some of them Martha’s watercolors—she had a way with the brush. There was a particularly beautiful one of Manhattan at dusk that Spidey had always admired.
“Spider-Man—”
He turned, saw her come in through the kitchen door, drying her hands on a towel. Martha Connors had been always been an extremely attractive woman: red-gold hair, a determined face. Now she was becoming merely striking, but more formidable. Her face showed ample evidence of the pain she had lived through, but there was no surrender in it, and those cool eyes looked at Spider-Man fully expecting that there might be more pain in the offing, and not shying away from it.