Spider-Man

by Stefan Petrucha

  Again his spider-sense fired, and again, he wasn’t fast enough. Silvermane slammed both fists into Spider-Man’s broken ribs. Peter felt the hard knuckles press the bones inward toward his lungs, then thought he heard the ribs crack again as Silvermane withdrew. His whole form flared in anguish.

  He somehow sensed my weak spot. Did something about the way I moved give it away?

  No longer quite so confident, Spider-Man rolled sideways, protecting his ribs. The young Manfredi stepped forward and kicked the burns on his back.

  “I’ve got decades of experience,” Manfredi said. “A thousand brawls to draw on. And I always bring guns to a knife fight!”

  Dizzy, finding it hard to move or think, Spider-Man folded into a fetal ball. Silvermane knelt at his back and pounded his knuckles into the burns.

  “What are you? Just some smart-ass kid? Some freak?”

  Spider-Man tried to rally—but one look into Manfredi’s eyes, brimming over with sadistic pleasure, and he froze. The driving rage Peter had carried since seeing Gwen with Thompson fled, taking its heated energy along with it.

  All that remained was an old, overwhelming sense of helplessness.

  He closed his eyes. Images of high-school bullies, the gloating Flash and his cronies, swirled in his mind. As the mobster continued to pummel him, the sharp sting of his blows mixed with a deep, inky pool of remembered shame. It felt all-encompassing, undefeatable, bottomless.

  He’d been through this many times before: tussling in schoolyards, being attacked by Jameson, combating super villains far stronger than Manfredi— and sometimes, it seemed, fighting the whole of the world. It had all hurt, inside and out.

  Then he realized: It had also never stopped him.

  And I’m not some pitiful school kid anymore.

  The inner dialogue of constant judgment paused, leaving him with only the present moment—the feel of the floor beneath him, the thudding fists at his back. The pain was only physical; the memories, only ghosts.

  He lay still and waited, gathering his strength.

  Silvermane’s blows seemed to grow softer.

  “Why don’t you give up and die?”

  Opening his eyes, Peter saw that the Maggia chief looked like a teenager now. Though fit, his muscles weren’t as fully developed as they’d been even a few minutes ago. He’d reached a point where his youth left him weaker, not stronger.

  More than that, his punches were no longer focused on Spider-Man’s wounds.

  He’s frustrated. The younger he gets, the more impatient he is, too.

  When the time was right, Spider-Man straightened and slammed his shoulders into Silvermane. Manfredi flew back. He rose half the distance to the ceiling, then came crashing down.

  The mobster lay on his back, eyes open, motionless save for a slight shivering in his limbs. He looked even younger now—so much so that, for a scant second, Silvermane reminded Peter of himself before he was Spider-Man. But there was a difference, a predatory gleam in his eyes that banished the thought of any similarity.

  Peter wasn’t a bully. And Silvermane wasn’t a kid.

  He glared at Maggia leader. “Where’s the Connors family?”

  There was no response. Despite his open eyes, Silvio Manfredi seemed unconscious.

  Cradling his rib, Spider-Man headed into a surprisingly empty hallway.

  For that matter, where’s the rest of the Maggia?

  The first few rooms he checked were vacant. In one, he found a landline and used it to place an anonymous call to the police.

  Gunfire pops sent him bolting up the stairs and into a wide-open area that looked like a set from Scarface, complete with gaudy chandelier. At the far end, Maggia soldiers jostled for position, aiming down a corridor.

  “The next one won’t be a warning shot, Connors! No one’s getting into that room until we hear from Silvermane. You’ve got to the count of three to get back here. One…”

  A gooey bit of web slapped the man’s mouth closed. Another web snatched his gun.

  The others, 10 in all, whirled to see Spider-Man suspended from the chandelier. Despite his aches, he was pretty sure he could take them, but not easily—and in the struggle, a stray bullet could strike Dr. Connors.

  If he was still Dr. Connors.

  “Listen up!” Spider-Man called. “You gave the doc a chance, so let me return the favor. Your creepy boss is upstairs sleeping like a…well, let’s just say he’s out cold. I’m not sure if he’s going to jail or reform school, but the police are on their way, and the exit’s behind me. Run for it, and maybe I’ll be too focused on freeing your captives to pay much attention. Start shooting, and—well, how many of you want a new attempted murder charge added to your rap street?”

  Two raised their weapons to fire, but when his webs snagged them before they could squeeze off a shot, the rest raced for the door.

  Spider-Man was headed for the corridor when he spotted Caesar Cicero crawling out from behind the enormous desk, trying to join the stampede. Using a web to snag his ankle, Spider-Man tugged. Cicero’s leg flew out from under him. He landed flat on his face, inches from the door.

  “Sorry, this offer does not apply to management.”

  “Let me go! I gotta get out of here. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Nah. I don’t see what could be worth more than watching you squirm, given all the lives you helped the Maggia ruin.”

  He left Cicero and kept moving. In a room at the corridor’s end, he found them: Dr. Connors sitting on the floor, his single arm wrapped around Martha and Billy. All four of theirs were wrapped around him.

  “Doc, are you…okay? Got things, you know, under control?”

  Connors looked up, nodded briefly, and then went back to hugging his family. Their sobs soon mixed with muffled sirens.

  Feeling a bit as if he were intruding on the reunion, Spider-Man took a few steps back. “So… that’ll be the police. You should be fine until they get up here, but if you like, I can hang around…”

  An anguished, high-pitched wail rose. It sounded like some sort of small animal was being tortured on the floor below.

  Then he realized it was human.

  Silvermane?

  Spider-Man sprinted back through the office. Cicero was gone, one polished shoe and silk sock still held fast by the web. Spidey figured he’d run off with the others until he found the Maggia attorney in the lower hallway. He was limping toward the lab, wincing at the cold floor against his bare foot.

  “Senile idiota! You and that rock have destroyed us! If that elixir hasn’t killed you, I’ll put a bullet—”

  His threat was cut short when what appeared to be Silvio Manfredi’s suit, crumpled into a disheveled mass, flew out of the lab and knocked an astonished Cicero out of the way. Huffing and puffing, the bundle threw itself into the nearest empty room, slammed the door, and locked it.

  Dumbfounded, Cicero leaned into the wall and slid to the ground. As Spider-Man webbed up his ankles and shoulders, he asked, “Is there any other way out of there?”

  Cicero numbly shook his head.

  Spider-Man grabbed the knob and twisted. The lock broke; the door creaked open.

  Somewhere within, a childlike voice warned, “Stay back! I’ll kill you! I’ll tear out your heart with my freaking fingernails!”

  City light stretched in from the windows, but not far enough to eliminate every shadow. In the darkest corner of the room, Silvermane’s clothes lay in a bundle, quivering. As Spider-Man cautiously approached, the over-the-top threats gave way to infantile wailing.

  An baby’s pink, oversized head peeked from the folds of the finely tailored suit. As Peter watched, Silvermane shrank, growing smaller and smaller, newer and newer. But with every step back along life’s path, his eyes retained that terrible gleam.

  It’s like part of him refuses to change, no matter how old—or young—he gets.

  It might have been a trick of the scant light skimming a diamond cufflink, but even when S
ilvio Manfredi finally disappeared, the gleam remained.

  So, in a way, he got what he wanted.

  FOURTEEN

  THE FURNISHINGS in the Long Island beach manor were adequate, the ocean view breathtaking. The open floor plan gave even a large man plenty of room to pace.

  But it wasn’t home.

  Without Hell’s Kitchen to remind Wilson Fisk how far he’d risen, he felt like a king in exile. Until today. He was never hopeless, but for the first time since they’d gone into hiding, the news was good—so good that despite their strained relations, he was eager to share it with Vanessa.

  She stood in the center of a long row of windows, looking dully at the water. He strode back and forth behind her, occasionally clenching his fists in triumph.

  “Some details are missing, others subject to rumor, but the most important facts are crystal clear. Silvermane is gone, presumed dead. The Maggia’s lauded attorney is awaiting trial. Our enemies have defeated themselves! Perhaps I should locate Wesley. No doubt he already has ideas on who the traitor is.”

  Hoping she’d respond, he paused. She had the sliding glass door open a crack; the salt-tinged breeze swept her gown. She looked regal, as always. A queen. His queen. But a sad and mourning queen.

  “Do you understand, my love? We can go home.”

  She said nothing.

  “I know I’ve been difficult, fighting phantoms, dreaming of being trapped in jail while you were in danger. You saw how I thrashed in my sleep. You know how strong I am—I only asked you to stay in a separate bed for your protection. But that’s over now.”

  She pulled open the door farther. A briny gust hit his face. The distant winter was already in the air. “It’s not that, Wilson. It’s never been that.”

  He grimaced. “You rescued me from the street. You refused to abandon me completely, but your heart remains out of reach. Are we to stay in this purgatory, then? Together, but apart? I knew how hard you’d take Richard’s death. I realize now that my fruitless lies only deepened that pain. But so long as you refuse to speak of it, to show it to me, that depth remains unfathomable.”

  He reached out, daring to touch her shoulder. She trembled so fiercely that he expected her to be in tears when she turned.

  But she was laughing.

  “Vanessa, are you all right? Should I get you one of your pills?”

  She pushed his hand away.

  He held his ground. “Tell me what you’re feeling! I’d prefer that you raged at me, beat me. Whatever it is, let it out. If not to free us both, then at least to free yourself.”

  She shook her head. “I still love you too much to do that, but I’m not going to protect you from the truth anymore, either.”

  “The truth? What truth?”

  Ever alert to threats, his eyes caught an odd movement on the beach. The sand on what appeared to be a dune shivered as if hit by a strong wind. As the vibrations continued, an ebon vehicle shed its camouflage.

  A hooded man stepped out.

  The Kingpin stiffened. “Who is that? How did he get past our security?”

  Vanessa’s hand on his chest kept him briefly still. “I invited him. It was time you heard him out.”

  His eyes shot between his wife’s face and the approaching figure. “Invited him? Invited who? Is that the traitor? The Schemer?”

  The hope that had filled him with purpose fled.

  “Vanessa, have you betrayed me? Waited all this time to drive the knife into my heart yourself? All you had to do was ask. I would have died for you willingly.”

  She petted his cheek, as she always did when trying to calm him. “No, no. No matter what you’ve done, my love, I could not betray you. You have betrayed yourself.”

  “What are you saying? What do you mean?”

  The figure reached the porch. In seconds, he’d be at the door. Vanessa tried to keep herself between them, but Fisk thrust her aside.

  “I will not let him in our home!” Heedless of the doorframe’s narrow width, he charged at the intruder on the other side. His shoulders tore the doors from the guide rail as if they were air.

  The roar of the surf was loud. The Kingpin raised his voice to make certain he was heard. “You and I have accounts to settle.”

  The Schemer nodded. “We do.”

  Without another word, Fisk punched the intruder. The Schemer folded in on himself, his hood covering even more of his face.

  Vanessa screamed.

  The Kingpin growled. “Your muscle is the sort achieved in a gym, but you’re clearly no fighter. A second blow is all it will take to kill you. But I don’t intend to let your secrets die with you.”

  Fisk slapped the Schemer with the back of his hand, letting his ring scratch the skin along the man’s cheek. He yanked him closer. “Talk! How did you learn so much about me?”

  “I’ll tell you.”

  He slapped him again. “Why did you challenge my leadership?”

  “I’ll tell you.”

  And again. “What is there between you and my wife?”

  “Wilson!” Vanessa cried. “Hear him out.”

  “I’ll tell you everything. And then you can kill me if you like.”

  He pushed the Schemer toward the glass wall, standing close enough to ensure he couldn’t run. “Make it fast.”

  The hooded figure panted, keeping his head down. “Some sons might fear living in the shadow of a powerful father, but I only wanted to be more like him—until I learned how bloody his shadow was. I was so disgusted, so ashamed, I planned to throw myself off the highest cliff I could find. But I lived through my suicide attempt. I even lived through an avalanche.”

  Fisk threw him up against the glass. “An avalanche? Do you think I’m a fool? You read about Richard in my stolen files!”

  “No. If you were only a fool, I wouldn’t still wish I were dead. As it was, the only way to live with myself was to try to turn my shame into a fury like your own. I dedicated myself to one goal—destroying what had once comforted me: your damned, bloody shadow. Your arrogance made that easy. The only surprise was how hard it was for my own mother to recognize me, how hard it still is for you to recognize your son.”

  Fisk back-handed him once more. “Liar! You’re just some Maggia lackey, not fit to mention my son’s name!”

  The Schemer collapsed. Before Fisk could strike him again, Vanessa knelt by him, caressing their enemy’s torn cheek the same way she’d caressed her husband moments ago.

  After casting a warning glance at Wilson Fisk, she lowered the Schemer’s hood. The face was bruised, twisted into a whimpering rage, the ginger hair freckled with sand—but the sun clearly showed the features of Richard Fisk.

  “It is him, Wilson,” Vanessa said. “He approached me days ago. I had it confirmed. So I suppose we’ve committed the same sin against each other. You couldn’t bear to tell me he was dead. I couldn’t bear to tell you he was alive.”

  Staring at his son, Fisk fell back into a patio chair. “You hate me.”

  Richard wiped blood from his lip. “No. I love you, even though I wish with every fiber of my being that you were not my father.”

  “You hate me,” Fisk repeated once more. Then he fell silent. The horrid sensation from his nightmares consumed him, but this time, distant though his body felt, he was not asleep.

  He heard voices. His wife, his son.

  “Is he dead?”

  “He’s not moving!”

  They sounded afraid, panicked. Briefly, Wilson Fisk considered doing something about it. But then, all at once, he no longer felt any need to protect them.

  He no longer felt anything at all.

  “Richard, call a doctor!”

  The voices of those he loved faded. Soon, even the steady sound of the surf was gone.

  * * *

  THE DINGY window of Peter’s Parker’s bedroom filtered the late-morning sun. Flipping through the Bugle while lying in bed, rather than hanging from a flagpole, felt very different. Kind of nice, actuall
y. While that corner of his heart reserved for Gwen still hurt, the repose did wonders for the rest of his pains.

  Wasn’t it only a little while ago the bad guys would just go to jail? Now the Kingpin’s in some kind of weird coma, and Silvermane, well…don’t really want to think about that. Sure, some new foe will turn up eventually. But with Connors and his family back home, the city’s biggest crime organizations in meltdown, and the tablet in some kind of super-secret police custody, a hardworking costumed do-gooder such as myself can actually afford to put his feet up.

  A hearty banging at the apartment door carried through to Peter’s bedroom.

  Or not.

  He lifted his head, listening while Harry answered. “He’s in his room. Pete?”

  Determined to maintain the rare sense of peace, he called back. “No, I’m not! Whoever it is, tell them I’m busy!”

  “Not too busy for what I have to tell you.”

  Recognizing the voice, but wishing he was somehow mistaken, he dropped the paper and sprang from bed. He reached the living room just as Flash Thompson entered.

  Part of Peter was embarrassed by how quickly his temper rose, but he couldn’t help himself. “You’ve got some nerve showing your face here.”

  “At ease, Junior. I just want to talk to you.” Thompson’s hat was in his hand, too, no doubt because the military had taught him it was the polite thing to do. Shame they hadn’t taught him to stay away from someone else’s girl.

  Peter came at him. “Talk? The only talking you’re going to do is with my fist!”

  This time I’m going to hit him. Not hard enough to put him in the hospital—just enough so he’ll remember it.

  Harry intervened. “Pete, c’mon! Simmer down.”

  “Oh, let him go. It’s about time puny Parker showed some backbone.”

  Harry again tried to get in front of Flash. “Look, he just wants to explain about…”

  But Peter was already lunging. “Nope. He’s not talking his way out of this one.”

  As his right arm pulled back, his left slammed the soldier into the wall, and held him in place for the punch.

  Peter paused, but only to make his reasons clear. “I saw you with Gwen when she said she was too busy for me. I’ll show you exactly how much backbone I’ve got.”