Martha opened her locker door. “He still in the hospital. Last I heard, he ain’t even waked up yet.”

  “Damn. That’s messed up.” Hector shook his head. “You figure they gonna expel his ass?”

  Shrugging, Martha gathered up her books for the day. “School policy.”

  “Yeah. He been arrested?”

  Frowning, Martha said, “I don’t think so. Rosanna didn’t say nothin’ ’bout that.”

  “That don’t make no sense. He hit Nariz and that fat guard, and Mr. Parker.”

  “Yeah, but I’m feeling a lot better now.”

  Hector turned around to see Mr. Parker. Both he and Martha immediately straightened up. Teachers hated when kids had bad posture, Hector learned that much in the first grade.

  Mr. Parker shook his head. “Why do kids always do that?” He smiled. “Look, as long as you do your homework, I don’t care if you look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Just stand the way you always do.”

  “The whoback of what?” Hector asked. Like most teachers, Mr. Parker didn’t make no sense most of the time.

  “Never mind. Look, I’m sorry, but I heard you two talking, and I think I know why Javier hasn’t been arrested.”

  “Oh yeah?” Hector didn’t see how a science teacher would know about that.

  “I was talking to the doctor at the hospital.”

  That confused Hector at first, but if Mr. Parker was one of the ones who got hit when Javier went all crazy, then he woulda been at the hospital, too.

  Mr. Parker went on: “She said there’s a concern that Javier might get radiation poisoning from the Triple X.”

  “Triple X? What’s that?” Hector asked, hoping he sounded cool.

  “Calm down, Hector, I’m not wearing a wire. Right now, the main thing I’m worried about is this drug. If Javier does get radiation poisoning, then he’s gonna be in the hospital for a long time—which is probably why they didn’t arrest him.”

  Hector exchanged a quick look with Martha, who looked as confused as he felt. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “If Javier’s arrested while he’s checked into Parkway, the NYPD then becomes responsible for his hospital bills. They’re not gonna pay for that, and besides, it’s not like he’s going anywhere. If he’s released, they’ll probably read him his rights on the way out the door.”

  “That’s messed up.” Hector slammed his locker door shut. “Them cops are totally messed up.” Then he looked again at Mr. Parker. “How you be knowin’ all this about policin’?”

  Mr. Parker grinned. “I wasn’t always a teacher, Hector.” Then he got all serious again. “Look, I need to ask you if either of you know where Javier got the Triple X.”

  Hector gave the teacher a nasty look. “Thought you said you weren’t wearin’ a wire, yo.”

  “I’m not. I’m just worried. Nariz and Mr. Lefkowitz and I were lucky that we weren’t hurt too badly. The next person who gets in the way of a Triple X junkie may not be so lucky.”

  “Javier ain’t no junkie,” Martha said.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say he was,” Mr. Parker said. Hector was surprised to realize that it sounded like the teacher actually meant it.

  Still, Hector wasn’t buying Mr. Parker’s act. He figured that the cops set him on the kids ’cause maybe the kids would talk to him. And for a teacher, Mr. Parker was okay. He made stupid jokes a lot, but he also talked to the students like they was people instead of pets like most teachers did.

  But what got Hector going was what Mr. Parker said about why Javier wasn’t arrested.

  “What’ll happen if Javier got radiating poison?”

  “Radiation poison—and if he does have it, his cells will break down, his hair will fall out, he may get cancer. No matter what, he’s pretty likely to die.”

  “I thought radiation give you super powers or whatever.”

  “It can. It can also kill you. Sometimes it does both. And who knows, Javier may be fine. But what about the next kid?”

  Hector thought about what would happen if his hair all fell out and he got all sick. Then he looked up at Mr. Parker. “Look, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ here, a’ight, but—well, if you wasn’t so white, I’d say you might want to check out Long Island City.”

  “I won’t blend in, huh?”

  “Hell, no.” He turned around. “Look, I gotta be gettin’ to class.”

  “Me too,” Martha muttered.

  Both Diazes packed up their books and went to their homeroom, leaving Mr. Parker behind.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Martha got all up in Hector’s face. “What you be tellin’ him that for?”

  “Look, it’s one thing gettin’ high, but hair fallin’ out? Dyin’ of cancer? No way. Old folks die of cancer. I ain’t seein’ nobody goin’ like that.”

  “He a teacher, Hector. He just tell the cops, you watch. ’Sides, what the hell you care about all this? You ain’t takin’ it, right?”

  “Hell no!” Hector wondered why he did tell the teacher. If Javier got all dead, it wasn’t nothing to him.

  He thought about it all the rest of the day.

  * * *

  THE cacophony of the Daily Bugle City Room assaulted Peter Parker’s senses: the sight of interns dashing back and forth, running errands for the reporters; the sound of reporters talking on their phones and typing on keyboards with rapid-fire clacks; and, of course, the lingering smell of publisher J. Jonah Jameson’s cigars.

  There are times when I’ve really missed this place.

  Peter came here straight from school, the route from Forest Hills to the East Side’s Daily Bugle Building so ingrained in his mind he barely even had to pay attention. This was the first of two Manhattan stops he needed to make this afternoon, especially after what he’d heard from Hector, and after Mary Jane’s voicemail informing him that no one had seen Valerie since she flew through VPC’s roof.

  He navigated unerringly among the desks that were all butted against each other, his spider-sense allowing him to avoid collisions with interns rushing to run errands and reporters rushing to chase stories and editors rushing to berate reporters. He caught sight of several former colleagues and gave them each a polite wave.

  Walking over to Betty Brant’s desk, he saw her talking on the phone and typing on the keyboard of a small laptop that sat amidst the papers and Post-it notes on her desk.

  Betty had dropped out of high school to work as Jameson’s assistant at the Bugle when her mother became too sick to continue in that job. She was also Peter Parker’s first crush—mostly by virtue of being the first woman who ever gave Peter a second look, or even a first one. Sadly, their relationship never really went anywhere romantically.

  She had also been through more than any six people should. Her brother had been killed by Dr. Octopus; her husband, Ned Leeds, was brainwashed by the Hobgoblin and then killed by an assassin known as the Foreigner; and she herself was taken in briefly by a cult.

  Somehow, though, she’d come out the other side of all those traumas stronger than ever. No longer a glorified secretary, she was now an investigative reporter, and a good one. She brought down both the Hobgoblin and the Foreigner with her mightier-than-a-sword pen, had reported stories from as far away as Latveria, and had won a couple of awards to show for it.

  Every time he looked at her, he remembered something she’d said to him shortly after Peter started taking photos for the Bugle. Jonah had been engaged in one of his usual rants, with Peter as the subject. Betty— who, up to that point, was just the person Peter got his pay vouchers from, but not much else—sidled up to him and whispered the words that became imprinted on his brain: “Don’t feel too bad, Peter. I may only be JJ’s secretary, but I think you’re wonderful.”

  Nobody had ever called him wonderful in quite that tone of voice before, and certainly not while wearing lilac perfume. Peter long suspected that the only reason why he had the courage to even talk to the likes of Gwen and Mary Jane was because Betty had expressed interest in him back then.

  She smiled at Peter as he approached and mouthed the words hang on while she listened and typed. “Yeah, Marty. Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Great, thanks for the tip. Yes, you’ll get credit. Yes, that means your name in the paper. I’ll even spell it right. Okay, thanks, Marty. Bye.”

  Hanging up the phone, she immediately stood and wrapped her arms around Peter. “Long time no see, Petey!”

  Returning the hug, Peter said, “Too long, Betts. How goes the reporter’s life?”

  “Busy as always. I’m actually working on a pretty big story right now. How’s that corruption of the youth of America coming?”

  Laughing, Peter said, “Slowly but surely. Actually, the youth that I’m corrupting is why I’m here. I had one of my kids Hulk out after school, and the E.R. doc said he was on a new drug called Triple X. It’s a gamma-hyped ecstasy. One of MJ’s fellow thespians is taking it, too—she knocked a hole in the ceiling of the theatre last night. I was wondering if anybody was covering this for the Bugle or not.”

  Betty grinned. “Trying to bring us a scoop?”

  Returning the grin, Peter said, “Nah, my days in the fourth estate are behind me.”

  “Really?” Betty gave him a dubious look.

  “Yes, really.”

  Shaking her head, Betty said, “I don’t buy it. You’ll be back to taking pictures eventually. It’s in your blood. You forget, I knew you when you started as a shooter.”

  Peter shrugged. “Maybe someday, but today isn’t that day. Right now, I’m just looking to find out more about this. I get the feeling this kid isn’t the only one at Midtown High trying it out, and I’m worried.”

  Sitting back down at her desk and offering her guest chair to Peter, Betty picked up a pen off her desk and started tapping her cheek with it. After Peter sat in the guest chair, she said, “Actually—that’s the story I’m working on.” She pointed at the phone. “Marty there is a nurse at St. Luke’s uptown. They’ve gotten a few cases up there—in fact, the first one was in a housing project up on Amsterdam in the 90s.”

  That explains a lot, Peter thought. The 24th Precinct was located on West 100th Street, so if they’d caught the first case of Triple X, it made sense that the task force would have been formed there.

  “Do you know who’s dumping this crap on the street?”

  Betty snorted. “I wish. If I had the supplier, I’d have the story of a lifetime—and a way to get at the creep. Whoever it is, they’re making a mint. From what I’ve been able to find out, the dealers slinging this stuff are raking in three times their usual take. They can probably carry some heavy weight if they keep this up. Unfortunately, all I know is that it’s been showing up more and more and people really like it. And who can blame them, really? I mean, it not only gives you the same high you get from X, you’ve got the high and the super powers. Every day, you hear about the latest super hero fight. They’re all over the place, especially in this town, and—our publisher’s preferences notwithstanding—they’re mostly glamorized.” She chuckled. “You know that, since he was revived, Captain America’s been on the cover of Time and Newsweek more than the sitting president?”

  “Doesn’t surprise me.” Peter tried not to sound bitter, but he himself rarely got that kind of publicity. The Avengers and the Fantastic Four were major celebrities, true, and other heroes tended to get lavish news coverage right alongside the actors and the sports stars. Spider-Man, though, had never had that kind of luck.

  “So if you’re the type of person who fits the profile for taking drugs— down on your luck, crappy home life, not much hope of improvement—” Betty hesitated.

  Peter felt a pang of sympathy—Betty could very well be describing her own life before she got it together.

  She shook it off. “You’re that type of person, and you see the super heroes getting all the ink and news coverage, and you think, I wanna be that. Triple X gives you that chance. Not surprising that it’s the hottest new drug.”

  “Yeah, right up until it kills you from radiation poisoning.”

  Betty nodded. “But that doesn’t really make it any different from any other drug. They all kill you in the end, it’s just a question of how.” She leaned forward. “Anyhow, that’s all I’ve really got so far. I don’t know how it’ll help your student or Mary Jane’s friend, though.”

  Grinning, Peter said, “Well, like I keep telling my kids, knowledge is power. Thanks, Betts.”

  “Parker! What the hell’re you doing here?”

  Peter looked up to see the ever-scowling face of J. Jonah Jameson, framed by his flattop haircut and highlighted by his trademark Charlie Chaplin mustache. Wearing his usual white shirt and suit pants—rumpled from a day of ranting and raving—with his omnipresent cigar between the first two fingers of his right hand, the lanky Jonah stood over Betty’s desk.

  “Just dropping by for a visit, Jonah.”

  “This is the City Room, Parker, not a Starbucks. Last time I checked, you didn’t work here anymore, and that makes you a trespasser in my newspaper office.”

  “Actually,” Betty said before Peter could respond, “Peter’s a source on my Triple X story. He was just telling me about two more cases.”

  “Really?” Jonah’s eyes lit up. He popped the cigar in his mouth, puffed, and blew out a cloud of acrid smoke. “Don’t suppose you have pictures?”

  “’Fraid not, Jonah. I’m just an ordinary citizen talking to a reporter.”

  “Bah! You were never ‘ordinary,’ Parker, that much I’ll swear to. Well, all right, Brant, keep this ingrate around—let him sit there and pretend that I never brought him up from nothing and made a celebrity of him, only to have him turn his back on me. But when he’s done, he’s gone, got it?”

  “Absolutely, Jonah.”

  “Hmph.” Jonah took another puff. “You used to call me ‘Mr. Jameson.’”

  Betty smiled sweetly. “I used to be your secretary. All the other reporters call you Jonah.”

  “Yeah, that was my first mistake.” Something caught his eye. “Snow! What the hell are you doing here? Why aren’t you out covering that damn press conference?”

  Jonah stalked off to yell at Charley Snow. Once he was out of earshot, both Betty and Peter burst out laughing.

  “Sorry about that, Peter.”

  Waving her off, Peter said, “Don’t worry about it. Honestly, it was kind of refreshing.”

  Looking at him like he was crazy, Betty said, “You’re kidding.”

  “No. It’s kinda nice. It brings stability to my world to know that, no matter what else might happen, Jonah’s still a cantankerous old coot.”

  Again, Betty laughed. “That’s for sure. Look, I’d better type up these notes I got from Marty—hey, since I already told Jonah you were a source, can you give me specifics on your kid? Or Mary Jane’s friend?”

  Peter hesitated. He didn’t want to make Eileen Velasquez’s life any more difficult. “I’d rather not give a name.”

  “I’ll be vague—a high school student in Queens and a theatrical actress in Manhattan?”

  “That’s fine,” Peter said with a nod. “The kid turned into a mini-Hulk, and the actress turned into a green harpy.”

  Betty typed all that into her computer. “Great. I may call you later, run the text by you?”

  “Thanks, Betts, I appreciate that.”

  “And if I learn anything that can help your student or Mary Jane’s friend, I’ll try to pass it on.”

  Putting a hand on Betty’s hand, he said in a quiet voice, “Thanks again.”

  “Hey—always willing to help out a friend, Petey. And you’ve always been one of the best.”

  FIVE

  “AND then she asks me why the DNA tests ain’t done yet.”

  Jack Larsen, the desk sergeant at the 24th Precinct, was only half-listening to Detective Christopher Carter. Most of his energy was focused on filing the day’s run-sheets. Inspector Garcia was on a paperwork kick ever since he got reamed at the last ComStat meeting for the Two-Four’s crappy paperwork, so of course the inspector was taking it out on Larsen.

  But the desk sergeant was always willing to let Carter go off on one of his rants, mainly because Larsen knew that the short, bald, pudgy detective had worn down the patience of the other occupants of the precinct house. It didn’t bother Larsen any, and it kept Carter out of the other detectives’ hair. Usually, Larsen was able to use this service as currency to actually get the damn run-sheets in on time. It mostly worked—he’d gotten everyone’s but O’Leary’s today, and O’Leary was working on hers right now.

  “So I tell her, I says, ‘Look, lady, we only got the soda can yesterday. It’ll be weeks before we get the results.’ And she just looks at me, and she says, ‘But on CSI they do DNA tests in a couple of hours!’ Can you believe that crap?”

  Having caught the interrogative, Larsen quickly said, “Yeah, it’s nuts.” Then he went back to searching for Detective Wheeler’s run-sheet. It was here a minute ago.

  “I dunno what’s worse, TV or the damn costumes.” Carter shook his head. “Nah, it’s the TV. Costumes at least sometimes help out, y’know? But TV don’t do nothin’ but spread misinformation to an already sad and pathetic general populace.”

  Larsen took Carter’s brief pause for breath as an opportunity to make an incoherent grunt, thus creating the illusion of paying attention. Right now, he was running his hands through what was left of his red hair and getting seriously concerned about Wheeler’s run-sheet. The detective had brought it by, talked for a few minutes about his latest conquest—a student at the Fashion Institute of Technology with what Wheeler called the hottest lips he’d ever kissed on a woman—and then gone to check on something for the Triple X Task Force.

  “CSI’s the worst. Like anybody’d let some crime scene geek near a suspect. Or give ’em a weapon. Hey, can you imagine Gardner with a nine in his pants?”

  “No, I can’t.” In that, Larsen was honest. Steve Gardner, the head of the Crime Scene Unit, wouldn’t know what to do with a nine-millimeter pistol that he wasn’t bagging for evidence.