As the web-slinger watched from a fire escape, a scraggily figure on the stoop flicked a cigarette lighter in response.
I bet he’s not selling exam answers.
A smaller figure scrabbled out from the trash at the man’s feet—a boy, his raggedy clothes too thin for the weather. When the driver handed the kid a roll of bills, Spider-Man landed on the hood of the Porsche and stomped his feet.
“Don’t you have homework or something?”
Two of the teens chortled. One held up a phone.
“What the…?” Spider-Man began. “You think we’re going to pose for a selfie? Do I have to explain?”
The driver, understanding better than his friends, said, “Sorry, sir!” and hit the gas.
Spider-Man leapt up, letting the Porsche peel out beneath him. The boy with the roll of bills was halfway down the block. But Peter wasn’t interested in catching him. Zipping along the grime-slick building bricks, he grabbed the fleeing dealer by the nape of his jacket and dangled him in the air.
Favoring his hurt ribs, Spider-Man turned his catch around, bringing them nose to nose.
The dealer was roughly Peter’s age, his jacket and clothes far warmer than the boy’s. “You use children to peddle your poison? What was that kid, eight?”
The answer came easily. “He’s hiding from social services while his mom’s in rehab. If you think about it, I’m doing him a favor. It’s not like I adopted him.”
“You miserable…”
Holding on tight, Spider-Man crept backwards up the wall, towing his captive along with him. As the ground receded, the crook kept looking down. Whenever he turned away or closed his eyes, Spider-Man nodded at the ground so he’d look again.
Four stories, five, six…at seven, he asked:
“Where’s Maggia headquarters?”
The dealer grimaced. “No way. Web me up for the cops to find, I’ll be out in a week.”
Spider-Man shook him—just enough to make the seams in his jacket start to tear. The dealer scoffed. “I’m not falling for it. You’re no Punisher. You’re the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”
Peter shook him a little more. This time, the tearing lowered his body a few inches. “Not when I’m dealing with murderous scum.”
The man squirmed, making his jacket rip all the more. In seconds, he was dangling by threads.
“Fine! It’s the Galby building! Right across town. You tell anyone it was me, I’m worse than dead.”
“What do I care? I didn’t adopt you.” Peter gave him a little shove—just enough to drop him into a trash bin thick with kitchen garbage.
The dealer shouted up at him. “Freaking bully! You don’t know how good you got it with that mask covering your face.”
“Hey, you and I are not the same. You’re the bad guy,”
He scuttled down, webbed up the thug, and left him for the police to find. Gagged, the dealer couldn’t speak, but the terror in his eyes made Peter pause. Okay, yes, he was being a bully, sort of. And sure, maybe he’d enjoyed it a little, but only because the guy deserved it, right? Why not let the lowlife spend some time looking over his shoulder for a hitman?
He scowled at himself. “Don’t worry, I’m not in the habit of giving up anyone to crooks, even if they are other crooks. Besides, I couldn’t if I wanted to. I don’t know who you are, either.”
* * *
THE KINGPIN had assured Vanessa that the beach house was safe. It was bought and maintained by a holding company, so it couldn’t possibly be traced back to them. The security system was the best money could buy, the men outside his most trusted.
But every night when he lay in their huge bed, he seemed gripped by the same nightmare. Though the bruises from his battle with Spider-Man had healed, the scars clearly remained. His expressions alternated between terror and rage, his arms and legs flailing hard and fast. At those times, Vanessa had to scramble to get out of his way, for her own safety.
Usually she woke him and tried to calm him. Tonight, though, she let him thrash about, hoping she might come to some decision about him, about them. He had lied to her about Richard, torn open her heart, severed the bond of their trust. She watched him breathe, thinking idly of what might happen if his breathing stopped. The very idea made her hate herself. He’d lost Richard, too, and when he said he was trying protect her, she believed him. Still, she couldn’t help wondering what other horrid truths he might be “protecting” her from.
She slipped on a robe and stepped out on the bedroom balcony—as much to escape his pained moans as to watch the ocean. The sky was clear, the night almost warm. Having been kept up every night by Wilson’s kicks and flails, her nerves were frayed. The experience, though, had accustomed her to sudden surprises. So when she saw the figure standing in the shadows a few yards away, staring at her, she barely gasped at all.
“Come here,” it whispered.
She wanted to scream, to let Wilson know his nightmares were real. But something held her back, and she let herself be led away, where her husband could not hear.
* * *
FOR HOURS, Silvio Manfredi watched his captured chemist work. He needed a nap, but feared something more than sleep was waiting—that if he closed his eyes for an instant, he’d never open them again. His failing body felt distant, as if he weren’t crumpled in the extra chair Marko had brought to the lab. Instead, he felt halfway around the world, in a place he’d never been, sitting cross-legged on a rocky throne. Below, along a green slope, younger male primates picked their teeth with blades of grass, waiting for him to die.
The clink of a glass stirring rod made him flick his eyes upward. Dr. Connors faced him, a beaker in hand. The liquid in it was so clear it looked like water—except for the sparkling silvery mist hovering over its surface like steam over a warm bath.
Or was his eyesight failing, too?
He reached for it, but it was farther than he thought. “Bring it closer. Give it to me.”
“It could kill you.”
The fear in the man’s voice was of no interest. “So? You’re a doctor, you must’ve figured out by now that I’m dead anyway.”
Marko’s bark was so deep he felt it in his bones. “Mr. Silvermane, don’t. We don’t know what those chemicals are. What if it’s a trick? What if he poisons you?”
The stupid, loyal dog. Better to keep it happy a little longer, in case he still needed its protection. “No, Marko. I might have expected that from Wesley, but Dr. Connors has his family at stake. We can trust his fear for them.”
The beaker was still out of reach. Silvermane forced himself to his feet. He wrapped his fingers around the glass and tugged, but the doctor did not let go.
“Don’t test me,” Silvermane said. “To get what I want, I’d eat my own children.”
“I believe you,” Connors said, relinquishing his grip.
Silvermane tilted his head and downed the nectar. It went down like tepid water. Exhaling, he thought he saw that diamond fog emerge from his mouth like vapor in winter. There was a wet sensation at the base of his gut, the same feeling he always had when he was parched and took a drink. But the feeling didn’t stop in his stomach. It kept going down, all the way to his feet, then back up into his head.
Manfredi felt himself straighten, as if he were growing taller. Then, all of a sudden, he was outside his body, floating in the lab, watching his hands grasp the sides of his head. He didn’t feel any pain, but he heard himself scream, saw himself fall.
Marko cried out: “You killed him! You thought it would save you, did you?”
Connors shouted back: “Don’t push me! You don’t know what you’re dealing with!”
Then they were gone. Silvio Manfredi was back on that verdant slope. Every male gorilla below him lifted its head, each thinking its time had arrived at last.
But it hadn’t. Not yet.
THIRTEEN
HOWLING, the man mountain turned on a pale and rattled Curt Connors. “You killed him! You killed the boss!
And now you’re gonna die!”
A single stride put his long arms in reach of their target. Trying to avoid them, Connors lurched back and tripped. Before he could hit the ground, Marko caught his lab coat and held him. Suspended above the tiled floor, Connors thrashed. His panicked eyes danced wildly. All at once, he grew rigid.
“Let go of me—while you still can…”
Not understanding or caring what he meant, Marko pulled back, ready to smash the scientist’s head into the tiles.
A harsh voice cried out, “Stop!”
As if responding to a Pavlovian bell, Marko obeyed instantly. The voice was familiar—but too deep, too full-throated.
“Mr. Silvermane?”
Marko shook his head, then gasped at what he saw.
A 50-year-old man stood in the center of the lab. He was wearing the same tailored clothes as the boss, but his hair wasn’t white. It was gray, and his wrinkles had nearly disappeared.
“It’s some kind of trick! You…you can’t be him.”
Marko tried to look behind the man, to the spot on the floor where Mr. Silvermane’s body should have been.
“Look at me, Marko! Study my face. It’s the same, only younger. Listen to me! Isn’t this the voice of your master? This is the tablet’s secret: eternal youth. With it, I’ll run this town for another 60 years!”
Marko felt hypnotized. He was only vaguely aware of Connors scrambling along the floor toward the door.
“You tell me what happened to Mr. Silvermane, Doc, or I’ll take you apart!”
Ignoring them both, the man in Silvio Manfredi’s clothes stretched his arms, his muscles pressing against the fabric of the shirt. “Sixty years? Ha! With that nectar, I’ll be around forever!”
* * *
FRESHLY showered and dressed, Caesar Cicero rushed from his quarters to find the source of the ungodly shrieks. He hoped it was Silvermane. He hoped Silvermane was dying, or, with any luck, already dead. Halfway to the lab, he nearly banged into the fleeing Connors. The doctor shoved him aside without a word and kept going.
“What the…?”
Cicero thought of following, but he’d never been much of a runner. His men were with the family, anyway, so the doc wouldn’t get far.
Besides, if that nutty formula poisoned Manfredi, then Connors did me a huge favor.
He trotted up to the lab, stopping short at the open door.
Holy…!
Someone who could’ve been Silvermane’s kid was in the science-geek paradise, wearing Silvio’s outfit. He was barking orders at Man Mountain as if he was Silvermane. The resemblance was crazy—so perfect that Cicero must’ve gasped without realizing it, because whoever the hell it was turned his way.
“Come in, Caesar! Been waiting for you, just like you’ve been waiting for me to die!”
Poser or not, the man’s eyes burned with Manfredi’s predatory sheen.
Marko stepped up to explain. “He got younger, Big C, on accounta the tablet!”
Despite the shock, Cicero’s mind went to work, calculating his best move. Okay, so I don’t know for sure what the hell happened here—but, bottom line, do I care? If that is Silvermane, he’s going to kill me. If it’s not, Marko should be killing him. Get them to turn on each other, and I kill two birds without even throwing a stone.
“Marko, you stupid lug, it’s a trick! That can’t be Silvermane. He must be a plant, in league with the cops! They’re trying to trap us, make us tip our hand.”
“That’s what I thought, but he said—”
“And you believed him? It’s not like he’s going to confess! Get him, before it’s too late!”
Marko’s brow twisted so hard, it hurt just to see. He’d have to decide one way or another fast, if only to ease the tension. And he did.
“Don’t worry, Big C. I’ll take care of him!”
Looking proud that he hadn’t been fooled, Marko pivoted and punched.
Yes! Just one shot should do it!
But the fist didn’t connect. Instead of ducking, whoever-it-was pushed past Man Mountain’s long arms and clocked Marko in the jaw.
“You brainless mongrel! I beat my way to the top of the Maggia decades before you were born. You think you’re going to stop me now?”
The arrogant self-aggrandizing was so familiar, it made Cicero’s eye twitch. Maybe this was Silvermane. Silvermane on steroids.
Marko tried the same move again, only to walk his jaw into another blow.
“Ha! You’re a good dog, Marko, but you don’t know many tricks.”
Man Mountain paused. His eyes widened.
“The way you use your fists…it’s like the stories they used to tell.”
Marko went limp, letting his attacker grab his head and lift it so they were face to face. “Speak! Tell me you know who I am.”
“Yeah. It’s gotta be you, only younger. I see it in your eyes. It was the stuff you drank…and it’s still doing it. Your hair, it ain’t gray no more. You look younger than me!”
What?
It was true. The salt and pepper was gone, leaving a lustrous brown. As Cicero watched, Silvermane’s hair thickened, and more wrinkles vanished. His muscles grew lithe, losing some of their bulk, the shirt and jacket loosening around him. Silvermane—and yes, somehow it was Silvermane—changed from a man in his 50s to one in his 40s.
Any hope Cicero had of turning Marko against his boss was gone. Even the best attorney in the world couldn’t have convinced Marko that what he saw and heard wasn’t true.
Neither of them was paying attention to him. Cicero backed toward the exit and sprinted down the hall, pressing his short legs to the max. The last thing he heard from the lab was Marko saying, “It’s like magic. Like watching a clock move backwards.”
As it turned out, Cicero was a pretty good runner after all.
* * *
SPIDER-MAN didn’t have to check the address. Even from blocks away, the 14-story Galby building, with its tan brick façade and clock-tower top, looked as if it had materialized right out of the roaring ’20s, back in the days of the mob.
And those tall narrow windows, bless ’em, make it easy to see inside.
He’d planned to start at the top and work his way down, but along the way a fancy lab behind some frosted glass caught his eye—mostly because of the two figures within.
The extra-large Frankenstein type looks like a man mountain to me! As far as the other one, the Bugle photo was black and white, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t look like Silvermane.
Spider-Man burst in through the window. As soon as he landed between them, his bruised body reminded him how unhappy it was.
Ow. Gotta make this fast, focus on what’s important, even if it means leaving the tablet behind for now.
“All right, kiddies. I’m here for Dr. Connors and his family. So if you’ll just tell me where…?”
He blinked at his first clear view of the man he’d thought was Silvermane.
“Wait,” Spider-Man said. “Whoa. What?”
This guy’s way too young. Is this some lower-echelon captain?
The man crossed his arms. “Time to prove your loyalty, Marko. Sic him!”
Either that, or Marko’s trainer.
“I was hoping you’d ask, Mr. Silvermane.”
The aptly nicknamed Man Mountain stomped toward the hero.
Spider-Man was waiting. “Silvermane? He looks Crypt-Keeper-old in the photos. Do cameras really age you that much?”
Marko looked stronger than the Kingpin, but he wasn’t nearly as fast. A simple straddle jump took Peter out of reach with time to spare. Missing, Man Mountain’s leaden fist shattered the console of what looked like a very expensive 3D-scanning system.
Guess what they say about big ships turning slowly is true. Broken ribs or not, this part should be easy.
Taking to the ceiling, Spider-Man grabbed Marko’s wide collar and pulled him into the air.
This is making my bruises hurt like hell, but no reason to tell
him that.
Spider-Man let go. The man mountain let out a yelp. The drop was only 10 feet, but Marko’s broad back hit the tiles hard, his legs smashing into a beaker-filled table. Long before he could recover, Spider-Man was on him, fist raised for a knockout blow. But a triumphant, rough-throated shout made them both turn toward the man in the suit.
“I’m still getting younger, more powerful! I feel like I’m in my 20s!”
Spider-Man had to look twice before realizing it was the same man. His clothes were looser, his face that of someone in their prime. Obvious as the conclusion might be, it wasn’t easy to accept.
“That…that is Silvermane?” Spider-Man asked.
Marko nodded. “It was the drink they made from that tablet.”
Spider-Man’s fist was still poised for the punch. He slammed it into Marko, and the large body went limp. “Thanks.”
Silvermane tossed off his jacket and loosened his tie, as if he were getting ready for a street brawl. “Not even you can oppose me now.”
“If you say so, Peter Pan. But as much as I’d like to oppose you, I’ve got places to be, hostages to rescue.” He bounded for the door. “If you want to wait a bit, I’ll be happy to come back and oppose you in a few…”
His spider-sense pulled him back. A beaker smashed into the spot where he would have landed. Splashing acid bubbled through the paint and seared his costume, burning bits of skin on his already pained back. Writhing, he dropped to the floor.
The Maggia leader rolled up his sleeves. “I’m going to make an example of you. Once words hits the streets that I beat Spider-Man, all of New York will fall in line.”
Is it the pain, or is his voice getting higher? Younger?
His spider-sense warned him again, but the agony made him sluggish. He felt Silvermane grab his head, then shove a knee into his chin. The force sent him sprawling backwards.
Ow. Okay, sure, he’s pretty strong—but he’s still human. Once I shake off this excruciating pain, I can—
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