by Peter David
“Uh-huh.”
Oh, this is so not good.
“Oh, and, Pete… something else before I forget,” Gwen continued, still unaware of the rapidly dropping temperature in the air. “You’re Spider-Man’s personal photographer, right?” Peter was about to say that wasn’t exactly true, but Gwen went right on, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but if you managed to get a shot of our kiss, I’d love it… for my portfolio, of course.” She laughed lightly and said to Mary Jane, “After all, who gets kissed by Spider-Man these days?”
Mary Jane didn’t even glance at Gwen. Instead her gaze was boring through the back of Peter’s head as she said icily, “I can’t imagine.”
The loud, clattering noise in Peter’s head was the sound of the wheels coming completely off the evening.
Gwen threatened to keep talking, but then finally—finally—in the brief silence that followed Mary Jane’s comment, she realized Peter was hugely uncomfortable, and Mary Jane was steaming about something.
Trying damage control, she said with a desperate smile, “I’ll leave you two alone. Loved meeting you.” As she started to leave, she called over her shoulder, “By the way, try the rack of lamb. We just love the rack of lamb here.”
MJ nodded distractedly, her gaze still fixed on Peter. The eyebrow was still raised. Clearly she was waiting for him to say something.
“She’s in my science class. It’s not her best subject.”
Gwen and her parents waved one final time as they headed out the door. Peter threw a fast wave back and returned his attention to Mary Jane. As a result, he didn’t notice that the maître d’ yet again mistook the gesture as the real summons for the champagne.
Mary Jane still studied Peter as if he were a slide on a microscope. “Rack of lamb,” he asked, doing his best to sound casual and failing miserably. “Do we like lamb?”
Still nothing. Not only had the wheels gone off the evening, it was now skidding out of control toward a cliff, apparently without enough webbing in the world to yank it up short. “What?” he finally asked, exasperation rising within him.
“How come you’ve never mentioned her?” MJ demanded, and it all came out in a rush. “She’s your lab partner. You saved her life. She thinks you’re a genius, and she had her polished fingernails all over you, or didn’t you notice? And she gave Spider-Man the key to the city! I’ll never forget that.”
Peter couldn’t believe it. What the hell had gotten into her? Mary Jane was acting insanely jealous. Over a kiss and Gwen being friendly at a restaurant and a meaningless ceremony, for crying out loud? Had Mary Jane’s confidence been that shattered by one lousy review? How in the world was she going to survive as an actress, as a person, if she was that thin-skinned?
And, in truth, Peter was reaching a point where he really, really wasn’t appreciating getting the third degree. He worked to keep an edge out of his voice, not wanting to exacerbate matters, as he said steadily, “She’s a girl… in my class.”
As if he hadn’t spoken (and for all he knew, she hadn’t even heard him), she leaned forward and said, “Let me ask you something: When you kissed her, who was kissing her? Spider-Man or Peter?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. That was our kiss.”
Oh, jeez. What a lunkhead he’d been. It wasn’t so much the kiss as that Mary Jane felt something personal had been displayed in a very public forum. Peter had never given that aspect any thought, and he obviously should have. He tried to explain that he now understood and was deeply apologetic, but Mary Jane wouldn’t let him get a word in. “Why would you do that? You must’ve known how it would make me feel. Do you want to push me away?”
“Why would I push you away? I love you. You’re my girlfriend.” When she continued to stare at him with no further comment, he repeated, “She’s just a girl in my class, Mary Jane.”
“I guess I thought you were going to…”
What? Propose? Apologize? Grow up? Give me thirty seconds and I can do all three.
Instead she rose from her seat. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t feel very well. I have to go. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, wait a minute!” he protested. “Don’t do that!”
Too late. She was already headed away from the table. “Please don’t follow me,” she snapped. The only thing that would have kept Mary Jane there was Peter firing webbing at her feet and gluing her in place—something he was strongly considering.
Peter started to go after her despite her wishes to the contrary, and his path was suddenly blocked by two violinists playing “Falling in Love.” When he had imagined the way he thought this evening was going to go, Mary Jane had heard the tune and promptly burst into song, accompanying them. Instead she looked as if she were about to burst into tears the moment the first notes of the song sounded. She walked faster, so fast that she bumped into a table, staggered, and nearly knocked a tray out of a waiter’s grasp. All eyes in the restaurant turned toward her, and the moment she was out the door, they shifted toward Peter.
The violinists came in on either side of Peter and serenaded him with the song, which he was now quite certain was going to be a tune he would never be able to stand listening to again. He thought he heard a long, high-pitched scream, and he realized that, yes, indeed, that was the sound of the evening clearing the edge of the cliff and hurtling down, down toward its hideous death.
Holding the champagne glasses and oblivious to how badly things had gone, the maître d’ said politely, “May I tell you tonight’s specials?”
Without a word, Peter reached into one of the champagne glasses, removed the ring, picked up a napkin, and carefully wiped it off. Meantime the maître d’ was prattling on. “We have the watercress soup with an accent of tarragon. We have fresh crab in a Marnier sauce, roast beef with a spark of ginger, and the foie gras conception.”
At that moment Peter wanted nothing more than to be invisible to simplify slinking out of here. As the violins continued to play their admittedly beautiful rendition of “Falling in Love,” Peter placed the ring in his pocket, picked up one of the champagne glasses, and tossed back the drink in one gulp. It burned in a pleasant manner as it hurtled down his throat.
It was the only thing about the entire evening that had gone down according to plan.
Peter tried to contact Mary Jane several times upon arriving home and got no answer. He hated having to stand there in the middle of the hallway and use the pay phone, but he had no choice—money was too tight for him to spend it on a private phone, or even a cell. “Hello? Mary Jane? Are you there? It’s me, I want to talk to you. Come on, Mary Jane, pick up.” When he realized she wasn’t going to, he hung up with a heavy sigh. It was too late; she’d probably gone to the theater.
As he turned to head into his apartment, the pay phone suddenly rang. Daring to hope that it was Mary Jane, that maybe the evening could be salvaged, he grabbed it off the hook. He did so with such energy that, had it not been for his adhesive abilities, the receiver would have flown out of his hand. “Hello?” he asked, making no attempt to keep the urgency out of his voice.
“Mr. Parker,” came a gravelly male voice from the other end, and Peter—crestfallen—was certain it was a bill collector. So he was surprised when the voice continued, “This is Detective Neil Garrett, from the Thirty-second Precinct. I’m calling on behalf of Captain Stacy. He’d like you to come down to the station to speak with him.”
Oh my God. He knows. He was able to tell from across the restaurant. I’m dead. I am so dead.
“What’s…” Peter’s voice cracked slightly and he brought it back under control. “What’s it about?”
“We’ve got some new information regarding the homicide of your uncle, Ben Parker.”
Peter had always thought it looked odd or unrealistic in the movies when someone stared at a phone in his or her hand upon the receipt of shocking news. Peter’s real-life reaction, though, was nothing short of Oscar-worthy, as he stared
stupidly at the plastic receiver, his mind reeling, his body paralyzed.
* * *
Chapter Thirteen
TRACKS IN THE SAND
Captain Stacy assured Peter that his aunt May had already been called, and that she would be at the station by eleven. Peter made sure to arrive at exactly the same time and met her at the front by the desk sergeant’s station.
It all seemed so surreal.
Peter had been convinced that the next time he saw May Parker, it was going to be with Mary Jane at his side, and MJ would be showing the ring sparkling on her finger. In that way he’d finally be responsible for bringing some joy into May Parker’s life. Instead old heartaches were being resurrected as Peter and Aunt May were escorted into a small conference room, where Captain Stacy was waiting for them.
Stacy made no mention of encountering Peter at the restaurant the night before, and for that Peter was incredibly grateful. May wasn’t stupid: she’d have figured out why Peter had taken MJ to such a fancy place, and she’d be asking all about it. Fortunately enough, the tale of that little fiasco would wait for another time, or better yet, never.
“Originally we thought that this man”—Stacy slid a mug shot across the table—“Dennis Caradine, was your husband’s killer. We were wrong.”
“What?” said May, not understanding.
Nor did Peter comprehend. He peered over at the photograph and recognized him instantly as the man whom he had originally let past him at the wrestling arena… the man he’d confronted at the warehouse. It was the right man.
Was it that he was using an alias? That his name wasn’t really Dennis Caradine? But so what if that was the case? Who cared? Uncle Ben’s murderer had met his final justice, and surely that was all that was important.
“It turns out that Caradine was only the accomplice,” Captain Stacy told them. “The actual killer is still at large.”
What?! This was making less and less sense to Peter the longer it went on. “What are you talking about?” he demanded, and promptly tried to rein himself in, not wanting to sound too aggressive.
“This”—Stacy pulled out a second picture—“is the man who killed your husband.”
He placed it between Peter and Aunt May, and Peter fully expected it to be the face of a total stranger.
Instead, the Sandman stared out at him.
“The name is Flint Marko,” Stacy said. “He’s a smalltime crook who’s been in and out of prison.”
Slowly Peter shook his head. “You’ve got it wrong,” he whispered, barely able to grasp the enormity of what he was being told.
“Two days ago, he escaped. Evidently he confessed his guilt to a cellmate. And,” Stacy continued before Peter could offer up another protest, “we have two witnesses who will corroborate his story. It all fits with our original suspicions. We’ve never been able to prove it until now.”
Peter was rocked back in his chair. A deep pounding pulsed in his temples, and he didn’t even hear Aunt May asking, “Would you mind taking these photographs away please?” Instead his mind was whirling with this new information that knocked the props out from under his entire belief system.
For so long… for so much time… I’ve been beating myself up. telling myself that I could have stopped the criminal who killed Uncle Ben. That if I had, Uncle Ben might still be alive. And instead…
He conjured up a mental picture of Flint Marko walking up to Uncle Ben and ruthlessly blowing him away. Whatever had happened to Marko to transform him into Sandman, it must have been since that night. Recently, in fact, otherwise they’d never have been able to hold him in the first place.
On some level, there should have been relief—a massive burden of guilt should have been lifted. He’d never encountered Flint Marko before and thus couldn’t possibly have caused Uncle Ben’s death, through inaction or any other action.
Instead… instead a deep, dark ball of fury began to build within Peter.
Uncle Ben was doomed from the start? Nothing I could have done that evening would have had the slightest impact on how things turned out?
At least when he had believed himself directly responsible, he felt—strangely enough—as if he had some control over his life. But now he was learning that he’d never had any control at all.
Uncle Ben never had a chance.
Everything that Peter had done in the past two years to atone for his great sin was simply an endless pursuit in the face of an existence that had suddenly become terribly, even blindingly unfair.
Useless… all of it useless… bad enough I can never bring Uncle Ben back no matter how much I do, but now I could never have saved him in the first place! With great power comes great responsibility? And what if I had no power, huh? That evening, despite all my abilities, I couldn’t have done a thing to prevent Ben’s being shot and killed. So with no power comes… what? No responsibility ? I should be able to do whatever I want…
And right then, what Peter Parker wanted more than anything was to get his hands around Flint Marko’s throat. Flesh and blood, sand, it made no difference. He wanted to find him and kill him with his bare hands, no matter what it took.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Parker,” Captain Stacy was saying, removing the photographs. “I know this isn’t easy, but please be patient. We’re doing our job. We’ll catch him.”
Peter, seething with barely contained rage, said between clenched teeth, “I don’t think you’re doing your job. I watched my uncle die, and we went after the wrong man. And now you’re saying”—his voice began to rise in pitch and volume—“you had suspicions for two years? Witnesses? Why weren’t we told about that?”
“Settle down, son.”
Peter stood, bubbling over with fury. “I’ve no intention of settling down! This man”—he pointed at the back of the photo—“killed my uncle, and he’s still out there!”
He headed for the door, ignoring Aunt May’s cry of “Peter!” and Captain Stacy’s plea to calm down and take a seat. The only thing he was hearing was the pounding in his head that urged him to get out there, to find Flint Marko, to avenge the death of his uncle.
A vengeance that had waited far too long.
As night fell, a sand cloud drifted through the canyon of skyscrapers and toward a medical research facility on Twenty-seventh and Park Avenue. Sandman had gotten the hang of moving without attracting undue attention, keeping the grains of his body far enough apart that—even if people looked straight at him—they would see no more than a faint discoloration in the air.
He sought and found a ventilation duct on the side of the building and seeped into it. He still had no clear idea of how his mind was truly functioning when he was in this form, other than to think that every single grain of sand contained a part of his consciousness. Once inside, he consolidated his body so that it continued to flow as one steady stream of sand.
He moved quickly through the ventilation shaft and found a place where it opened out into a men’s restroom. He ran the grains through the duct, pulled himself together until he looked relatively normal, then stepped outside and glanced around for a directory. Not seeing one anywhere, he asked a passing technician—with as polite and harmless-looking an expression as he could muster—where one might find Dr. Ralph Wallace.
“One flight up, room AF15,” the technician said. He started to walk away, then turned around. “But he doesn’t like to be disturbed during—”
There was no sign of the man to whom he’d just spoken.
As the technician shrugged it off and decided that maybe he’d been working too hard, Sandman eased his way down the ventilation shaft, went straight up, then over, and continued to make his way around until he finally found room AF15. He moved in through the shaft toward the inside of the room… and the air duct was shut tight. Apparently Dr. Ralph Wallace wasn’t big on air-conditioning. Or maybe he was a germophobe, convinced that viruses floating around from another part of the facility might work their way through the air and infect him.
Sandman was momentarily annoyed, then decided it was another of life’s little challenges to overcome. Moving in a different direction, he found a small separation in a connection point and eased his sandy body through it. He discovered that he was inside the wall, moving past electrical wiring that naturally had no effect on him. He found an electrical outlet and seeped through it into the room. As he did so, he managed to short out power—the lights flickered out before coming back on courtesy of emergency backup.
Dr. Wallace, meantime, had clearly heard Sandman’s passing through the vent system, but had no clue what it was. Perhaps mice or something equally charming? He followed the noise to the end of the wall, then said softly, “Is someone there?”
Sandman collected the grains of his body, reconstituted them, and came into existence behind Wallace. The good doctor didn’t hear a thing and, after apparently satisfying himself that it was probably nothing, turned around and emitted a somewhat girlish shriek of surprise. “Who are you?!” he demanded, clutching his lab coat as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. “How did you get in here?”
“It’s all right,” Sandman said, holding his hands up. “It’s me. Flint Marko.” He waited for Wallace to react to the name, and the doctor did, looking both surprised and alarmed… but also curious. “I wrote you from prison about my daughter, Penny. She still needs your help.”
Wallace looked worried that, if he didn’t say the right thing, Marko might destroy him. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and said, “I can’t help you. I wrote you back. I tried to explain in the letter… I didn’t have the funding to finish the research… the little money you did send barely bought test tubes.”
“Well, try this,” said Sandman.
He reached down and picked up a bag of money stolen from the armored car. It hadn’t been easy getting it in here. Basically, Marko had had to concentrate and absorb the money into his own sandy body, breaking it down molecule by molecule. It was the only way to smuggle it in. The first several bags he’d tried it with, his attempts to reconstitute the cash had resulted in the bills falling apart in his hands. He’d finally managed through practice to make it work. The amount of money lost in the process was incredibly frustrating, but at least he still had an impressive amount.