She was silent for a moment before she said, "If I could do more, I would, but in case no one has told you, remember this: You have a good heart, Peter. You've grown into a man to be admired. I am more proud of you than I can possibly describe— as Ben would be. You have always faced the true test—the times when you are alone, and when it seems that everything is as bad as it possibly could be. That's the moment of truth, Peter. There, in the darkest hours, not in whatever comes after. Because it is there that you choose between music and silence. Between hope and despair."
I sat with my head bowed, listening to her voice. I could smell her perfume in the room around me—the scent of safety and of love and of home. I hoped the phone was waterproof.
"You have only to remember this, Peter: No matter how dark the night, you are not alone. There are those who see your heart and love you. That love is a power more potent than any number of radioactive spiders."
I couldn't say anything for a minute. Then I whispered, "I'll remember, Aunt May."
"Listen to your heart," she said, her tone firm and quiet, "and never surrender. Even if you are not victorious, Peter Parker, no force in creation can defeat a heart like yours."
What can you say, faced with a love, a faith like that, warm as sunshine, solid as bedrock?
"Thank you," I whispered.
"Of course," she said, and I heard her smiling. A bell rang somewhere in her background. "Well. It is time for me to go to supper and wait for the floor show. I'll leave you to your work."
"I love you, Aunt May."
"I love you."
We hung up together.
Neither of us said good-bye.
My peace was gone, shattered by the conversation. Hope can be painful that way, and part of me longed for the return of peace and quiet. That peace, though, is not for the living—and I was alive.
And I intended to stay that way.
So long as there was a breath left in my body, the fight was not over and the darkness was not complete. I had faced and overcome things as deadly and dangerous as Mortia and her kin, and I'd be a monkey's uncle before I accepted defeat. I was rested. I was smart. I had the kind of home and life and happiness a lot of people can only dream about.
I refused to let Mortia take that from me. I refused to allow my fear to make me lie down and die.
I rose from where I sat on the bed and felt suddenly clear, focused, and strong. Nothing had changed. I still had no idea how I was going to get myself out of this one. But I would. I would find a way. I suddenly felt as certain of that as I was that the sun would rise in the morning. I always felt that my powers came to me for a reason, and while I did not know what that reason might be, with God as my witness, it had not been to feed some psychotic monster-wench and her kin.
I would beat these things. I would find a way.
The phone in my hands suddenly let out a series of chiming notes, the theme from
Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
I don't know why Mary Jane used them as her ring tone. She said it just made her happy.
I flipped the phone open and said, "Hello?"
"It's me," Felicia said, her voice cool and professional. "We found Dex."
Chapter 20
Mary Jane appeared at the door, eyebrows lifted in inquiry.
"Felicia," I reported, handing back the phone. "Oliver, her guy at the company, found Dex."
MJ nodded, frowning. "What are you going to do?"
"They're bringing him here," I said quietly. "I'm going to go talk to him."
Her mouth quirked at one corner. "Aren't you getting a little old to be throwing parties when Aunt May is out of town?"
"We'll party tonight and clean it up tomorrow," I responded. "What could possibly go wrong?"
She put her hand over my mouth and said, "If you don't shut up, you're going to bring on a montage."
"Is that some kind of seizure?"
"Actually," Mary Jane said after a moment of thought, "that's not a bad description." The whimsy faded out of her face. "Seriously. Up here?"
"They're bringing a car. I'm going to go talk to him."
"I see," Mary Jane said. She glanced from me to the recumbent Rhino. "And I stay here?"
"I think you'll be all right. I'll be on the street right outside the building," I said. "I put Felicia's cell number on your speed dial. If you even think there might be a problem, you hit that, and I'll be up here inside of fifteen seconds."
Mary Jane considered that for a moment, and then nodded. "I suppose I'll make some coffee, then. Stay alert."
"Keep the lights dim," I said, "and stay away from the windows."
Mary Jane's eyes glittered. "I'll keep an eye on our guest. If he gives me any trouble, I'll subvert him with cheesecake."
"There's cheesecake?" I said. "I didn't see any cheesecake. Why didn't I get cheesecake?"
"Because I haven't made it yet."
I considered that for a moment. "I suppose I'll accept that explanation."
"You're a reasonable man," MJ said. Then she stepped close to me and pressed herself against me. I held her quietly, eyes closed, until her phone beepbeep-beep-BOOP-booped. She flipped it open and checked the screen. "Felicia." Rather pointedly, she did not answer the phone.
I released her reluctantly, walked to the window, and looked down. A white van that looked like an unmarked bakery truck pulled up on the street outside. A pair of professionally unremarkable cars pulled out from spaces they'd somehow secured, making room for the van, which slid up to the curb and came to a halt.
I gave MJ a quick kiss, hit the fire escape, flipped myself across the street so that I wouldn't be approaching the van from the direction of Aunt May's place, and moseyed on down, landing on the van's roof. Then I stuck my head down in front of the driver's face and said, "I hope you guys take credit cards, 'cause I can't find my checkbook and the only cash I have is a bucket of pennies."
Felicia looked back at me without any amusement whatsoever in her expression. She shook her head, then turned and vanished into the back of the van. The side door whispered open, and I crawled on in.
The inside of the van looked like a cramped office. There were several low seats and an abbreviated desk, complete with a clamped-down computer and monitor. There were several people in there. Felicia, dressed in her bodysuit and leather jacket, sat behind the desk, her legs crossed, her eyes cool.
A small man hovered next to the desk, and he was the only one there short enough to stand up. He was a dapper little guy in a casual suit of excellent cut. He had sparse, grizzled hair, spectacles, an opaque expression, and unreadable blue eyes.
"Spidey," Felicia said. "This is Oliver."
I folded my legs, Indian style, only I sat on the ceiling. It's a rare man who can honestly say that his butt has a superpower. " 'Sup, Oliver?"
His eyebrows lifted. He didn't say anything. He looked like the kind of man who was used to patiently suffering while other, more intellectually limited people tried to catch up with him.
Sitting across from the desk were three men. Two of them were bruisers—though older and more solid than most of the thugs I've tussled with. They also had suits and wedding rings. Law-abiding bruisers, then, I supposed. Security personnel.
"Mister Walowski," Felicia supplied. "Mister Gruber."
"Howdy," I said to them. Then I tilted my head toward the last man, who sat between them, his shoulders hunched defensively. He was as skinny as I remembered, almost famished-looking. His hair was a mess, his eyes sunken and lined with what almost looked like bruises rather than bags. He hadn't shaved in a few days. He was dressed plainly, in jeans, a T-shirt, and a blue apron bearing the words, "Sooper-Mart!"
His eyes, though, were dark, intent, calculating. He reminded me of a trapped rat, spiteful and stubborn, holding still in hopes that the predator might simply leave, but ready to fight with berserk desperation if pushed too far.