Spiderman 3 (22 page)

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.

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.