by Peter David
She needed closure, as well… perhaps even more than he did.
“I have to tell you something, Aunt May,” he said, forcing the words out as if he were choking on them. “Something you… won’t want to hear. Something I couldn’t tell you until now.” Not couldn’t; didn’t want to. But I’ve no choice now.
“What’s wrong, Peter,” she asked. She’d been stirring her tea, but now she put the spoon down. “Are you in trouble?”
“You could say that,” he admitted. “You see…” He steadied himself, praying that she would understand why he was doing this and appreciate the gesture. “You see… I’m responsible.”
She stared at him blankly. “For what? What are you talking about?”
“For what happened to Uncle Ben.”
Obviously at that point she thought she did understand, because she smiled and shook her head, patting him affectionately on the hand. “Peter, you’re trying to make me feel better,” she said, which was more or less true, as far as it went. The problem was that she couldn’t comprehend just how far that was, as she quickly made clear. “You went to the library. You were doing your homework.”
“I didn’t go to the library.”
“What do you mean?”
Peter’s mind was desperately trying to catch up with his mouth. He sure as hell didn’t want to give her all the gory details, so he tried to edit the story as much as he could while still having it all make sense. “Uncle Ben drove me to the library, but I never went in. He waited for me outside, but I went someplace else. Someplace… to make some money to buy myself a car.”
She looked confused, clearly failing to understand how Peter’s being duplicitous about going to the library could possibly relate to the death of her beloved Ben. Peter rushed ahead, trying to avoid having the words spill all over one another.
“I wanted to impress someone, but I was taken advantage of… and there was a robbery, and I was getting revenge.” Still a blank expression from May. Still she didn’t understand. Hitting each word for emphasis, he said, “I could’ve stopped the thief. But I let him go. I even held the door for him. And Uncle Ben was waiting…”
She didn’t move, not so much as a centimeter, but the pupils in her eyes seemed to dilate, as if some potent narcotic had just hit her system… or her brain had been assaulted by more information than it was prepared to process.
“Then he stole Uncle Ben’s car,” Peter finished, somewhat unnecessarily. “First he… shot him.”
For a long, long time, she said nothing. The only sound in the house was the steady tick of the pendulum in the grandfather’s clock from the living room.
“I’m so sorry,” said Peter, and never before had those words seemed so inadequate, not even when he’d said them to Mary Jane for the umpteenth time. “I couldn’t keep it secret any—”
“No more,” she said abruptly, and she stood.
“Aunt May, I…”
He reached over to take her hand and she yanked it away as if he were a snake about to sink his fangs into it. She got to her feet and warned, “Don’t touch me now.”
Quickly she moved past him to the stairs. He waited for the outburst of emotion, but it didn’t come. Instead, she walked slowly up to the top of the stairs and then disappeared down the short hallway. Peter remained where he was, wondering what to do.
He kept trying to tell himself that he had done the right thing. Aunt May had been hurting, and she had to know.
Then a sound came from the top of the stairs. Sobbing. She was crying bitterly, and Peter was at war with himself whether to go up the stairs or not. Abruptly the decision was taken from his hands as May appeared at the top of the stairs. Her eyes were red, her face wet, but she was completely composed.
“I need to be alone,” she said, reining in whatever was going through her mind.
Peter began, “It was—”
“Go!”
She had never screamed at him like that before. The scream of a broken soul.
He got out, sprinting toward his bike, which was parked in the driveway. He vaulted onto it and started it up. It only took five tries. It coughed somewhat, and then he steered it away, all the time realizing the truth of what had just transpired.
Peter had told himself that he was telling Aunt May what had happened so that she could find closure. But that hadn’t been true at all. Simply knowing that Peter was involved in the events that had led to Ben’s murder wasn’t going to make things better for her. Peter’s actions didn’t change the fact that May had sent Ben Parker out to his fate. She was likely going to continue beating herself up for that.
No, the truth was, he’d been seeking absolution. He’d told Aunt May information that could not possibly have done her any good, and had done it in an act of unbridled selfishness. He’d told her what had transpired—as much as he could, without letting her know of his double existence, however passé that was—because he’d wanted her to tell him that it was all right. That she still loved him despite his horrific mistake. He’d wanted her to pat him on the head, tell him she still loved him, that it was going to be all right. That he should go and sin no more.
Instead, this debacle had ensued, because he’d been selfish.
Thank God he wasn’t a hero anymore.
Betty Brant, executive secretary to J. Jonah Jameson, stared at the costume without comprehending at first.
The bum was holding it half out of the Bloomingdale’s shopping bag that he’d stuffed it in. His face was somewhat triangular, and his eyebrows were thick and upswept. His long hair obscured his ears and he had a shapeless brown hat drawn down over his head. People were coming and going in the building lobby, oblivious to what was transpiring, as Betty continued to look at it. She started to reach for it, but the man snatched it away from her, shoving it back into the bag.
The stocky building guard said tentatively, “You see why I called you down here, Miss Brant. I mean, every day of the week, I give guys like this the bum’s rush. No offense,” he assured the bum.
“None taken,” he said.
The guard continued, “Thing is, Mr. Homeless American brings this thing in, and, well… I know the thing Mr. Jameson has for…” He lowered his voice and glanced around. “You know who. And I’m figuring, if this is the genuine article, he’d wanna know about it.”
“Let me see it again,” Betty said.
“Cost ya five bucks for a look.”
“Take a hike,” said Betty, and she turned to leave.
“Awright, awright!” snapped the homeless man, and he pulled it out again for her to study.
She looked at it closely, studying it. She’d seen the cheap Halloween costume knockoffs that had been manufactured in China. But she’d also seen countless, close-up photographs cross her desk, thanks to Peter Parker. By this point she felt she knew Spider-Man’s costume better than she did most of her own outfits, and this thing…
It looked real. Seemed real. She stared very closely at it again, and again, and sure enough—very faintly, but still there—she saw what appeared to be bloodstains. The costume had been washed repeatedly and the stains had faded, but there was still the slightest hint of them, if one was looking for them. Whoever had worn this costume had been in a fight, or more than one.
The bum pulled it back into the bag and then looked at her expectantly. As if anticipating her question, he said, “It’s real, all right. Found it in a garbage can. See these bruises?” and he pointed to swelling under his right eye and at his left temple. “Got it from fighting two guys who were bigger’n me, ’cause they tried to take it away. Guy like me doesn’t get into a scrape over a fake Spider-Man costume. Wandered around for two days with it, wonderin’ what the best way was to make a score off it. Tried the TV news people, but I couldn’t get past the reception desk. Wouldn’t give me the time o’ day. Finally figured you guys were the best way to go. So did I figure right?” he asked challengingly.
She turned to the guard. “Give him a visitor’s p
ass.”
“Want me to come up with you?” asked the guard.
“No,” she said automatically, but then looked at the leering homeless man and said, “Yes.”
She found she had to hold her breath on the ride up in the elevator. She tried to be sympathetic to the plight of this poor, destitute individual, but finally Betty decided she was more concerned with not losing her lunch. She’d never been so grateful for the opening of a set of elevator doors as she was when they arrived on the thirty-fifth floor. Reporters looked at her in confusion and even backed away as she walked briskly with the bum in tow, while he clutched his Bloomie’s bag and looked suspiciously around.
As she approached Jameson’s office, she saw that Hoffman and Robbie were already in there, trying to get Jameson’s attention, and extract a decision about something or other. She wondered why they even had their own offices, considering the amount of time they spent in Jonah’s.
Jameson himself was on the phone, and probably was annoyed that he’d had to answer it himself, since Betty was away from her desk. She’d likely have to endure another five-minute rant from him over the evils of voice mail.
His voice easily carried to her as she approached. “We agreed to put on a wedding, not go into bankruptcy!” he shouted. “Caviar? Are we inviting the Czar? Get some cheese and crackers and maybe some of those cocktail weenies.” Then he paused, listening again. “Flowers? How much? Spend any more on this thing, you can pick the daisies off my grave! Get plastic!”
“J.J.,” Betty said, sticking her head in, “there’s a man here. He says he has something you might want.”
Jameson looked past his secretary at the man standing behind her, and for once he actually appeared puzzled. But then it obviously occurred to both him and Robertson that if Betty was bringing this man to his attention, there had to be some legitimate reason, unfathomable though it might be. Cautiously, Jonah waved him in. The bum displayed his bag and Jameson said with trepidation, “I hope you don’t have the head of an extraterrestrial in there. Because if you do, you’re the third guy this week.”
“No, sir,” the homeless man said proudly.
“What’s your story?”
The bum pulled the costume out of the bag and placed it in a rumpled heap on the desk. Jameson couldn’t take his eyes off it. “Where the hell did you get that?” he asked. His voice sounded strange, and Betty realized he wasn’t breathing.
“I found it in the trash.”
Jameson held the costume up, shook it out by the shoulders. He turned it side to side, and Betty knew he was giving it the same meticulous inspection she had. And if there was one person who had stared at pictures of the genuine costume more than Betty, it was Jameson. He’d actually encountered the webslinger in person during that messy Green Goblin business.
She watched as the skepticism in Jonah’s eyes gave way to mounting disbelief that he could possibly be holding such an object in his hands. And this, in turn, melded into such excitement that his mouth moved several times before he could manage to form any words.
“He’s out,” whispered Jonah, which was a first as far as Betty could recall, since Jonah Jameson never, ever spoke below a bellow in his office. And then his voice began to escalate in volume until every pair of eyes in the newsroom was fixed upon him. “He’s given up! Thrown in the towel! Abandoned his sad masquerade!” He whirled the costume around in an approximation of a tango driven from pure joy, and suddenly he stopped in mid-motion.
“Just like that lowlife to quit on me!” he snapped angrily, staring at the costume with the fury of an abandoned lover. “He was the best damn newspaper-selling lunatic this city ever had!”
“Uh, mister,” said the homeless man tentatively, “I’m awful hungry, mister.”
“I’ll give you fifty bucks,” said Jameson.
Betty couldn’t believe it. It was worth thousands. Hell, tens of thousands, if he could get it authenticated somehow and put it up for auction.
“I figured a hundred,” replied the homeless man, which only astounded Betty more.
And Jameson, the millionaire publisher, countered with, “Seventy-five.” Immediately the homeless man bobbed his head in acceptance. Betty wanted to thwap him on the side of the head in order to smack some sense into him, but Jameson was already saying, “Miss Brant. Give this man his money. And throw in a bar of soap.”
“Soap. Got it, J.J.,” said Betty. She gestured for the homeless man to follow her, and he did so obediently. Out at her desk, she wrote out a cash voucher and handed it to the homeless man. “Take the gentleman to payroll,” she told the guard, “and cash this in for him.”
The homeless man looked at the voucher and blinked. “Lady… you wrote an extra zero.”
She stared at him, her eyes level, and said, “I doubt that. I’d never make a mistake like that,” in a very flat tone. She made no effort to take the voucher back, though.
A slow smile spread over the face of the guard and then he harrumphed and said to the indigent, “You heard Miss Brant. She’d never make a mistake writing down a number. Let’s go cash this in.”
At last the homeless man got the message. To Betty’s surprise, he bowed in a courtly manner. “Thank you,” he said, and then he leaned forward and said very intently, “I used to be someone, you know. I just can’t remember who.”
“Maybe you were Santa Claus. Or the king of Atlantis,” suggested the guard.
The homeless man pulled at his thick beard thoughtfully. “King of Atlantis. Sounds good. I like that.” And he allowed the guard to lead him away.
Betty was ready to defend her “mistake” to Jonah Jameson, but as it turned out, he didn’t notice it. In fact, he was in an insanely good mood for the rest of the day, and well into the evening.
However, as good a mood as he was in, Betty couldn’t take seriously the night-shift personnel who claimed that J. Jonah Jameson had—with his blinds closed and convinced that no one was paying attention—slipped on the Spider-Man suit and cavorted around his office, striking heroic poses. Why, Betty knew that it was just preposterous. Jameson may have been many things, but that much of a lunatic?
No. There was only so much that even Betty Brant would believe of her boss… although she did wonder the next day why there were footprints on the top of Jonah’s desk and strings of paper clips hanging from the office lamp, looking for all the world like metal strands of webbing.
XVIII
Doc Ock kept his coat drawn tightly around himself as he approached the newsstand from where he obtained most of his sustenance lately. He was keeping a low profile these days, taking no chances of someone finding him out. He’d been fortunate to discover this particular newsstand, only a few blocks from the pier. It was as seedy as the general area, and the guy who ran it was about eighty percent blind. Plus policemen rarely drove through on patrol, the neighborhood was so shabby.
Since the newsstand owner’s vision was so poor, he couldn’t really see much of Ock, which suited the doctor just fine. For his part, Ock was practically living on the assortment of corn chips and candy bars the newsstand had to offer. It reminded him of his college days, when such diets were the norm. Considering that he developed his first, greatest ideas back then, perhaps there was something to his collegiate food selection.
Normally he barely glanced at the newspapers when he carried out one of his food runs, but this particular dreary day, his gaze was swiftly captured by the Daily Bugle headline blaring at him from the front page: Spider-Man No More!
One of his metal arms instinctively stirred under his coat, trying to reach for a copy, but Ock batted it away and took the paper himself. He bought it with his other purchases and scanned the story on the way back to the pier.
By the time he had reached the warehouse, he decided he wasn’t satisfied with the story. Not at all.
In the first place, it had eclipsed his own press. The headline reading Manhunt Continues for Tentacled Terrorist took a distant backseat to this lates
t development with Spider-Man.
In the second place, Doc Ock didn’t trust it.
As he returned to work on his project, his tentacles maneuvering the fourth and final crescent into place, he had to think that if there wasn’t a body, there was no proof. This entire story appeared to hinge on the Bugle having acquired a Spider-Man costume alleged to be the genuine article. But without a dead Spider-Man inside the costume to provide some manner of verification, all the paper really had was the publisher’s conviction that the costume wasn’t a hoax. In time, thought Ock, this costume might be relegated to the same historic dustbin that held Piltdown Man and the Hitler diaries.
Interestingly, according to the article, the District Attorney’s Office was trying to gain possession of the costume so they could practically tear the thing apart in a detailed forensic search. Jameson wouldn’t hear of it, though, and his attorneys were fighting the attempts with every tooth in their sharklike mouths. Ultimately, Doc Ock didn’t really care what Spider-Man’s status was. If he was still a threat, Ock would dispose of him. If he wasn’t, then of what consequence was he?
No, the only thing that truly mattered was the fusion reactor. The tentacle arms twisted and curled around Ock as he stepped back to survey the progress.
Is it there yet, Father?
He chuckled at that. How like children to ask such questions. No concept of patience. “Yes, almost complete,” he said aloud to the voice in his head. “And what we need now is the tritium that will enable the core. Only Osborn, that little jellyfish, knows where it is.”
He cannot stand before us, Father. He is a weakling.
“Yes,” Ock said, smiling. “He’s a weakling. And there are ways to deal with weaklings.”
Harry Osborn stood near an open window in his Manhattan town house, a drink in his hand. He heard an exceedingly annoying voice floating up from the street, singing an equally annoying song.