"Date, October thirty-first, two thousand and one."

Middleton spoke slowly and as clearly as possible given his utterly overstrained mind and body, giving slight pause as he considered the strangely appropriate date.

"Detective Ron Middleton, Harbour City Police Department, Second Precinct, presiding officer, ID zero zero one nine four four two, case number three six seven three. Also assisting in the investigation and this questioning are former supers investigator and department-sanctioned outside consultant Mitchell Rockwell, as well as special adviser to the mayor Paul Foster. Gentlemen, please state your names to confirm both your presence and acknowledgment that these proceedings are being taped by both audio and video means."

"Mitchell Rockwell."

"Paul Foster."

"Thank you. There is one man being questioned today in relation to case number three six seven three, and he is advised by his attorney, under the agreement of the Harbour City Police Department. Please identify yourselves and confirm that you are aware that these proceedings are being taped for the Harbour City Police Department's records in order to aid our investigation, and that you have agreed to these conditions."

"Raymundo Zuleta. I agree to everything."

"Clinton Kopatich, private attorney to Raymundo Zuleta. I also agree."

"Thank you, gentlemen. Finally, please confirm that you have agreed to the presence of a reporter from the Harbour City Tribune, by order of the mayor of Harbour City, who will observe but not participate in this session of questioning."

"Yes, that's fine."

"I confirm."

"Thank you once more. Finally, please try to speak loudly and clearly, and feel free to take as much time as you wish in answering any questions. Let it go on record that at this point in the investigation, Mister Zuleta has not been charged with any crime, nor is he a suspect for any crime. Now then, with all that bullshit out of the way, let's get right to it and try to make this as quick as possible," Middleton said with a genuine smile, pushing the piece of paper he had been reading from to a far end of the small table. The formalities had, of course, been settled far before the tapes began rolling, but it was important to get everything on record when dealing with such sensitive interrogations as that of an innocent man who was also the leading candidate for next mayor of the city.

Middleton sat between Rockwell and Foster, who both appeared to be in pleasant temperament but such feelings were only genuine in the latter. Amie Paige sat in pacified silence in a darkened corner of the room, her steno-pad and pen resting in her lap and her eyes and ears glued intently to the five men seated across from each other under the hot, intensely bright spotlight. This interrogation struck her as being far more cinematic than her own from the night before, as the singular spotlight over the table was the only source of illumination in the room, casting dramatic shadows over the faces of the assembled. The three investigators were positioned directly across a faux oak table from the attorney and his client, a phallic-looking microphone protruding from the exact center of the oak surface directly underneath the low-hanging white light, in a room considerably larger than the room Paige herself had been questioned in. Four of the five men's foreheads already glistened under the glare of the lamp. But the fifth man sat coolly, both physically and mentally, the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly in the subtlest of self- confident smirks.

Raymundo Zuleta was never a man to be intimidated.

He was an imposing figure. His face was hardened, chiseled even, with high, sculpted cheekbones, a straight, hawk-like nose, and eyes so intense that if any black eyes could be called fiery, Raymundo Zuleta's could. His high angled, thick eyebrows and stylishly short, yet still long enough to be slicked back, hair were a jet black, the only indication of his Mexican ancestry that the detectives could discern, other than an almost unnoticeably tan complexion. His size betrayed his late-thirties age, standing at a powerful six-foot-four with broad shoulders and more than a little girth. His dark blue Armani suit almost seemed tight around his musculature, but not quite so much as to look undersized. His gold jewelry was worn tastefully yet still commanded attention, particularly the rings he wore on his fingers. His hands themselves were extremely large. In fact, the extremities were on the verge of eliciting a double-take from Middleton when the detective had first shaken the philanthropist's hand.

Zuleta commanded his size with intelligent tact. He seemed to radiate with an aura of power and charisma; every word he spoke or gesture he made was done with an elegant smoothness that both unnerved and reassured simultaneously.

He led without trying to dominate, demanded respect without demanding attentiveness, and always seemed to be smiling. In every public appearance, every photograph, every interview, nothing seemed to unnerve Raymundo Zuleta. He was always comfortable, always in complete control, seemingly of both himself and all that surrounded him. He was, simply put, an undeniable presence.

"Mister Zuleta, where exactly were you last night during the attack on your house?" Middleton began.

"I was sleeping, actually," Zuleta replied to as he crossed his legs and folded his hands gently upon his knee, leaning back in his chair so as to draw his face out of the conical beam of light. The shadows danced gleefully upon his features. "I was awakened by the Spyder and managed to get out of the room when Hammerhand attacked him. My security personnel met me on the stairs."

"And you then left?"

"I instructed them to get me out of the house as quickly as possible. I had assumed that my security force outside would be able to handle the situation until the police arrived. As you no doubt found, however, the Spyder had already taken care of those poor men, God rest their souls." Despite his eloquent words, Zuleta's demeanor remained steadily apathetic, his facial features never changing.

Rockwell and Middleton exchanged subtle glances.

"What was the reason for the large number of security personnel on your property last night?" Rockwell asked, that ape brow of his twisting to let a single eyebrow rise.

"It was Devil's Night, Mister Rockwell. I am a prominent political figure. That is quite reason enough, wouldn't you say?"

"So you have no relationship, good or bad, with Hammerhand, Mister Zuleta?" Rockwell continued.

"None whatsoever. I was not even aware of his release from prison until after the events of last night," Zuleta responded coolly. "Had I known, I would have contacted my associates in the Ministry of Defense to obtain a tank or two to secure the city at large, as opposed to simply beefing up my personal security personnel."

Zuleta's eyes glimmered as his smile grew wider for a brief moment.

"Thank God for the Spyder, eh, detectives?"

Rockwell became visibly flustered, but stayed composed, resigning himself to a harsh throat clearing.

"I wouldn't go that far," Middleton replied uncomfortably, his eyes averting Zuleta's unfaltering gaze.

"Neither would I, of course. I was being facetious," Zuleta continued, smiling warmly and breaking the slight tension he had quite consciously created. "Nasty business, that Spyder. Supers in general are rather distasteful, especially to an otherwise peaceable city. Pacific City is a prime example. All the so-called heroes and villains nowadays. I hear there is even a super dressed as the current American president. It's ludicrous. They all contribute to civil unrest, of course, whether you'd classify them as a 'hero' or a 'villain'. First the destruction caused by that alleged alien, the Magistrate or some such nonsense, and then the terrorist attack on the Pacific City Tower. Terrible tragedies."

Again, the unsettling apathy in his face.

"Anyways," Middleton interrupted, shaking off the divergent conversation and resuming the string of questions. "What relationship do you have with the Spyder?"

"Again, none, detective. A loathsome individual," Zuleta answered, showing signs of emotion for the first time during the interview. Anger. Something foul seemed to gently bubble up from within him, something which he could suppress. But just barely. "I've really never made his acquaintance. Of course, I was aware of his presence through the media since he originally appeared in Harbour City. But I've never met him, much less had a relationship with him."

"So you have no possible idea as to why the Spyder was apparently trying to kill you?"

"Not apparently, Detective Middleton, he was most certainly trying to kill me, I assure you. But no, to answer your question, I haven't the slightest idea. Possibly acting on orders from an outside party...?" Zuleta commented suggestively.

"Now wait a minute..." Foster began. "Are you accusing-?"

"I am not accusing anyone, Mister Foster. I simply speculate."

"Do you have a relationship, even a casual acquaintance, with any super, Mister Zuleta?" asked Rockwell.

Zuleta paused, leaving the room in complete silence. It seemed, however, that the pause was not for lack of memory. He made no motion to indicate consideration of the supers investigator's question, and in fact, he made no motion at all. Rather, he simply sat, eyeing Rockwell through the entire long moment with that same canny smirk on the corners of his lips as had endured through the entire interview.

"No," he finally replied, his eyes brightening a bit. He slowly turned his head, looking into the corner. Amie Paige was scribbling something into her notebook as silence set in. The attractive reporter glanced up, confused by the sudden lack of voices, and met Zuleta's eerie glare. She jumped a bit as she gazed into those dark eyes, black like long-extinguished embers, marring the cool white upon which they were set.

"It's nice to see you again Miss Paige," Zuleta hissed, his smile growing to expose a mouth full of extremely white yet slightly crooked teeth. Amie Paige was taken aback, visibly confused, and said nothing.

"Of course, Detective," Zuleta replied, his smile clamping shut over his teeth and his eyes finally snapping away from Paige after lingering for a moment. "Proceed."

"Do you, on record, deny any involvement with any super, most specifically the two men who attacked your property last night, October 30th?" Middleton asked professionally.

"That is correct," Zuleta responded, his words moving and sounding like gently flowing wine.

"You have not participated in any activity which could, by your perception, have given the Spyder cause to attack you?"

Again a pause by Zuleta, seemingly more for dramatic effect than for any consideration of the question. He licked his lips.

"Correct," he purred.

"Then I suppose we're through," Middleton sighed, looking to Rockwell, who gave a begrudging nod, and to Foster, who simply sat chewing thoughtfully on his thumbnail. He moved the digit away from his mouth to allow room for his polite nod, at which time Middleton leaned over to turn off the microphone, and then shake hands with Zuleta as they both rose.

"Mister Zuleta, sorry for any inconvenience, and thank you for your time," Middleton said.

"Not at all," Zuleta replied kindly, shaking hands in succession with Rockwell and Foster. He proceeded to the exit without another word or regard to the men, followed closely by his lawyer, his presence lingering in the room like a newly risen fog. He glanced down at Paige with a devilish smirk as he passed her, but said nothing, and glided out the door. It squeaked its way closed slowly behind him, leaving the three investigators rather perturbed at the fruitless session.

"How the hell do you know him?...We didn't even give him your name," Rockwell barked at Paige without turning to face her.

"I...I don't," Paige responded quietly, still earnestly confused. "I've never met him before in my life."

"That went well," Kopatich said quietly as he and Zuleta walked out the front doors of police headquarters. A white limousine awaited them at the bottom of the concrete staircase, door open, engine running, and driver standing alongside.

"Extremely well," Zuleta whispered back, nodding a greeting at the driver as he climbed into the car, a sly smile twisted into his hard-edged face, the volume of his voice rising as he entered the limo. "They asked all the questions we were told they would. No surprises. Not that I can't handle surprises, but I always like to be prepared."

Kopatich entered the limousine behind Zuleta and the driver closed the door, securing the men in their privacy.

"Most agreeable. See that the proper person is paid, Clinton," Zuleta remarked. His sinister smile had only grown bigger.

...comeintomyparlor...

THE SPYDER: TANGLED WEB #4
"Halloween"
By Bill Castonzo

...comeintomyparlor...

The Pacific Diner was an ideal place for a quick lunch. Or a late lunch, as the case may be. The restaurant with vintage decor and above average food had fast become a staple in downtown Harbour City since its grand opening in early 2001. It was a late addition by the franchise's Pacific City-based ownership to the reconstruction efforts following Hammerhand's Devil's Night free-for-all in 2000. Harbour City officials had raised skeptical eyebrows at the franchise's rather gutsy expansion, given the somewhat confrontational relationship between Pacific Citiers and Harbourers, as each city's respective inhabitants were known. Harbour City had always had sour feelings for its coastal neighbor because Pacific City infringed on Harbour's otherwise monopolistic control of waterway trade. Pacific City, the so-called 'crown jewel' of Australia, had always reciprocated those sour feelings, thumbing their noses at the decidedly 'dingier' city to the north. Despite this mutual distaste between the two metropolises, the diner had still proven more than lucrative.

"Jeff!"

Harbour City's commissioner of police turned towards the origin of the voice, and was met with the sight of a waving hand and a warm smile. Absently waving off the hostess's offer to seat him, Ross made his way to a booth on the far wall of the restaurant, sitting down across from the notably older man who had called to him.

"Hey Will," Ross smiled warmly, taking the man's outstretched hand in a firm embrace. "You look good!" "Ah, don't patronize me, you sonuvabitch. You might make me feel guilty about telling you how bad you look. Comb your hair, fer Chrissakes. Hell, though, at least you shaved."

"And at least I still HAVE hair," Ross responded with a grin.

"Not for long if you stay with your current job," the other man grinned back, sipping the cup of coffee which he had already ordered for himself. "I should know."

Will Gorman, Harbour City's retired former police commissioner, was becoming more bald and more wrinkled every time Ross saw him. His skin looked ashen, hanging limply from his bones and dotted with various sorts of unsightly spots. Age was catching up with him.

Gorman sniffled quickly a few times, rubbing at the tip of his nose and squinting. He broke into a few short coughs.

"Walking pneumonia," Gorman shrugged. "But hey, thanks for meeting me. After the night you had I figured you could use a little time off and a good meal. And I said to myself, why not help a fellow out?"

"Ah, you've been more than enough help just by being an open ear all night, Will. I didn't keep you up too late, did I?"

"Nah, us old guys don't really sleep much anyways. I miss the job sometimes, like hearing about what's going on."

"Yeah, well, it's good for me to have somebody to relate to, get things off my chest. Shit, this job sucks your soul sometimes."

"Don't I know it," Gorman responded gravely, sipping again at the coffee. "So, how'd the questioning go with Zuleta? You find anything out from him? You sounded pretty excited about the prospect when I talked to you earlier."

"Heh...That was because I had just fucking told off Briggs. But no, they're in session now. Figure I'll hear about everything when I get back. Shit I'm starving. Can we not talk about work?"

"Yeah," Gorman responded through another sniffle, picking up a menu as Ross flipped through his own. "Yeah, I guess we've talked about it enough."

* * * *

"For a half?! Fuck you, man, you sellin' me weed o' you robbin' my ass?!"

The jittery black man with the ping pong ball eyes scowled disbelievingly at the dealer in the puffy leather jacket, a black man himself, with a red winter hat pulled down so low that his top eyelids disappeared.

"That's the price, son, take it or leave it," the dealer answered, his low guttural voice ringing in sharp contrast with his client's high-pitched squawks.

The two men regarded each other for a moment, the buyer's wide eyes bulging forth even farther under an indignant brow. His lower lip pouted in an overly animated gesture of displeasure, but he finally shoved his hand into the pocket of his puffy vinyl vest, muttering curses. He produced a crumpled wad of cash.

"Fuckin' takin' advantage o' my ghetto-fabolous ass," the buyer muttered as he snatched the plastic bag full of crushed green leaves out of the dealer's hand. He clumsily fumbled with the top of the zip-loc, finally opening it and sniffing the contents.

"It's dank, T, don' worry about it," the dealer sighed as he pocketed his payment.

"Yeah, whatever," the man known as T scoffed back. Ron Middleton's street informant had always found time for a few recreational activities while on the job. "What the fuck's with the inflation anyways, dog?"

"Gotta make a buck somewhere. People backin' off the hard shit, the expensive shit. Snow, smack...'S'not sellin'. Folks is scared, dog. Been hearin' somebody's tryin' to consolidate the coke business 'round here."

"Con-what my date?"

"Consolidate you dumb mother fucker. You know, take over. Shit, if that's true, you better believe things 'round here are gonna get real bloody real quick. This shit's free enterprise, man, lotta people's livelihoods...We don' like no fuckin' monopolies."

T stared at him with humoring indulgence. Once he was sure the tirade was finished, he changed the subject.

"Hey, man, you hear anything 'bout the Spyder lately? I been hearin' some shit..."

"What? The Spyder? That psycho fucker in the trenchcoat? Naw, man, he hasn't been 'round in like two years. Gotta be dead or some shit," the dealer replied with little interest. "Yo, I'm out, man, got other deals goin' down tonight. Peace."

"Yeah peace," T called out as the dealer turned his back and walked out the mouth of the long, dark alleyway. The squirrelly informant continued under his breath as he pocketed the pot and turned the other way down the alley. "You rip-off mother fucker. I'll fuckin' start lookin' for a new dealer, I don't need this shit..."

T could not even finish his muttered complaints before he went suddenly dizzy, feeling a sharp, stabbing pain at the base of his neck. Suddenly, the world seemed to ripple, fading in and out of an opaque blackness as the pavement began to churn like distant seas. The waters of the asphalt ocean inexplicably began to rise, and he abruptly realized that the ground was rushing up to meet him. He had the sensation of flight, but his vision told him he was falling. His stomach turned upside down and he squeezed his eyes shut.

When he reopened them, he was somewhere else entirely. His entire body ached, his head throbbing and warm blood still moistening the hair on the back of his head. He shook off his delirium, focusing his eyes. Something was amiss. He looked out over the city rooftops, the sun having fallen below his eye level but still lingering on the edges of Harbour's skyscrapers, giving them an eerie self-contained contrast of light and dark. He heard the bustle of the early evening streets oddly muted, but to his right was the ocean, and on all other sides, the buildings, giving him pause to consider where exactly he was if the city bordered him to all sides yet for some reason, he felt oddly removed. It was only at this moment, after he had taken time to examine the circumstances of his situation, that he realized he was on the roof of a building in the North Docks.

And he was not alone.

"You've been looking for me," a harsh voice stated from behind. T jumped, skittering across the rooftop away from the source of the voice, before turning to see who it was that had taken him, against his will, several stories above the ghetto streets. Those bug eyes widened again, not in anger this time, but in unmistakable fear. His brows furrowed in childlike terror and his lower lip quivered as he cast his gaze over the dark form of the deadliest of Harbour City's nightstalkers. A horrible obsidian ghoul apparently risen from a lonely grave. A cold wind blew, snapping the demon's wings - no, not wings, coat tails - into the night like ravenous dogs tethered to his body. Even through the opaque black mask, T could see, could feel, the Spyder's viscous leer.

"Most unwise," the specter continued, slicing through the darkness of the roof with such liquid gait that he was on top of the young black man's quivering form before T had even time to register what was happening.

"N-Naw, man...I don'...Aaaaww, maaan..." T choked out, shaking uncontrollably in his nervous, drug-enhanced fervor. "Don't kill me man, it's just weed man, you can take it..."

"I'm not going to kill you," the Spyder growled, bending over T and staring into him from behind that horrible giant spider that had attached itself to his face. T closed his watering eyes. "And your drugs don't concern me. I know you work for Ron Middleton. I know you're looking for me at his behest."

"Y-yeah, man, that's all...I ain't lookin' fo' trouble dog, just don't...Shit, man, I just need some answers..."

"But you're asking all the wrong questions," the Spyder continued, the strength of his voice feeding off of T's fear. "Neither you nor Middleton understand the circumstances of the present situation. You do seek answers, but you are unaware of which answers you truly seek."

"Yeah, whatever you say," T balled, shrinking away from the dark, murderous figure and his enigmatic words.

"Who is Raymundo Zuleta?"

"Wh-what, man?" T asked through heavy sobs.

"You want to know, who is Raymundo Zuleta!" the Spyder bellowed, thrusting his head forward to mere inches from T's tear-streaked face. T snapped his eyes shut, cringing away and screaming like a frightened infant.

"Alright, man! Alright!" he shouted, his voice echoing for a long moment through the concrete canyons of Harbour City's waterfront.

Silence.

He opened his eyes again. The Spyder was gone.

* * * *

"A fake ID."

In the dark office, Mitchell Rockwell slowly turned the worn manila envelope over and over in his fingers, as if its hypnotic revolution would entice a sudden epiphany. It did not. He bore into the file with faraway eyes, feeling so many conflicting emotions he could do no more than to suppress them, manifesting a vacant, distant gaze. He stared. He simply stared long and hard at absolutely nothing, save for the languidly revolving shadow of the file as it rolled beneath the desk lamp. So many questions. So many frighteningly heavy questions. The crinkle of the paper as it waltzed through Mitch's hands was slow and steady, and so very audible. The silence in the room was maddening.

Outside, Harbour City was slowly falling. Swirling, stumbling, crying out despondently for a nameless savior which the sunlight, no matter how hard it tried, could never deliver. The last desperate, tensile vestiges of daylight clung precariously to the tallest of the city's edifices, wrapping themselves around Harbour in a longing, loving farewell, weeping for the impending loss of the beautiful city, but at the same time tenaciously embracing it, trying so hard to protect it from the coming darkness.

But the relentless madness could not be resisted. Ultimately, the comforting cradle of the light slipped away into the all-consuming void, and night fell over the city like a great black shroud. From all corners of the world the screams seemed to blossom, blooming into the atrocities which the darkness so deviously concealed, ravenously consuming both the victims and the killers into its mysterious icy maw. The cackle of devils swelled on the cold ocean winds, and the twinkle of the stars seemed so very far away. Slowly, but yet all too suddenly, the hapless city would surrender itself to the hungry nightfall.

But, for the first time in two long years, a different breed of predator stalked the streets of Harbour. A predator whose unholy (or perhaps holy?) presence made the very night itself quake and shudder and pray for a mercy it would never receive.

The Spyder stalked the city's streets.

And in a fifth story office, three tired men considered this phantom, and his mission, with aching intensity.

"Raymundo Zuleta is a fake ID," Rockwell repeated, his face the portrait of a broken man who longed for something far away. "Raymundo Zuleta is the Spyder's fake ID."

"Was," Ron Middleton corrected. Middleton sat behind his desk, his back to the long, windowed wall of the office, the door slightly offset to his left on the wall he faced. Foster was seated directly in his line of sight to the office door, wearing an overwhelmed expression and sitting in the left of the two visitors' chairs in front of Middleton's desk. Just beyond the right-hand chair, Middleton had a clear view of Rockwell, still absently manipulating the manila envelope the Spyder had given to them while seated at a small, second desk. Against the short wall to Middleton's right, his television was turned off atop the taller of two file cabinets. To his immediate left, three adjacent file cabinets formed a quasi-cubicle, while the windowed short wall to that side stood some two meters further away. Ron Middleton had always liked to have things in an arm's reach. He never needed the extra space his rectangular corner office allowed him. That space did prove useful, however, in providing the maximum distance between Rockwell and Amie Paige, who was seated in a beat- up leather chair, the only sparse furnishing Middleton afforded the far side of his office. She sat in the corner, near the door, and just beside the window that the Spyder had entered and exited through that same day. She waited in the office with a quiet trepidation, unsure if she could leave, or if she even wanted to. The night was still young. And there was much to be discussed.

"Raymundo Zuleta was a fake ID of the Spyder's."

"Or so he claims," Foster replied to Rockwell's musings. "One of the two men, the Spyder or the man we know as Zuleta, is lying about his identity, that much we can be sure of."

"So who do we trust?" Middleton sighed gravely, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair.

"If Zuleta is lying about who he is, then we can be sure that he lied to us to some degree this afternoon," said Foster, his arm draped over the back of his chair and his eyes thoughtfully glazed over.

"Okay, let's look at this from both angles," Middleton began, swiveling in his chair and gesticulating thoughtfully. "If the Spyder's lying and Zuleta's telling the truth, then what does that mean? That means we have absolutely no leads. We're back to where we were last night, that the Spyder is attacking a seemingly good man for no discernible reason. Which means the best we can really do is just wait and react. I doubt there's much more for us to go on if this is the case, so fuck, we'd just have to wait and try to stop whatever from happening AS it's happening."

"And if last night was any indication, that's not the best order of business with this particular perp."

"Perp?" Middleton repeated quizzically, looking at Foster queerly.

"Paul, I appreciate your input and the fact that you're finally getting involved in this case, but nobody in the police department actually fuckin' refers to suspects and criminals as perps."

"Sorry," Foster replied meekly.

"It's alright. Anyways, given our options, I'd like to approach things from the other angle. The Spyder's telling us the truth. First question, though, is why should we believe that? Why should we believe that bastard isn't lying to us?"

"He's a good guy."

Foster and Middleton looked to the corner. Even Rockwell let his eyes refocus and drift to the other side of the room. Paige visibly shrunk under the three sets of eyes, but pressed on.

"Look, I know he's a killer, I know that. But the Grim Knight, he was-"

"The Grim Knight was nowhere near the Spyder's level," Rockwell interrupted, still distant. The friction between he and Paige had all but disappeared from the burly man's demeanor, along with any other intense emotion he might have otherwise displayed.

"Amie, the Grim Knight never used guns, and while he may have fucked people up really, and I mean really, bad, he never killed indiscriminately," Middleton explained, rebutting the comparison which Paige was surely about to draw. "He almost always let the law take care of his victims. Shit, they mighta shown up in court without the use of arms, legs, or parts of their brains, but at least they were there. But he never worked like the Spyder, never just killed, no matter if you were blowing up buildings, robbing them, or vandalizing them."

"Okay, so maybe they're not on the exact same level here, but the concept is the same," Paige responded with conviction. "Eye for an eye justice, Middleton. You all know the Spyder is a vigilante. He may be a murderer, but he doesn't kill indiscriminately either. He kills lowlifes, creeps..."

"Not entirely, Miss Paige," Rockwell growled, his emotional switch suddenly turned on by Paige's callous generalization of the Spyder's victims. He leered at the reporter. "Not entirely. For as much as you may think you know from all your...EXPERIENCE...with supers, don't presume to tell us how great of a fucking guy the Spyder is."

Paige blushed, realizing that she had no answer for his statement. For a moment, there was silence.

"Hmm...Alright, so the vigilante angle is flimsy, but we'll take it for now," Middleton said, purposely trying to push the tension entirely aside. "So, the Spyder's a good guy, supposedly. That's how we'll look at it right now. So we trust him. What does that mean? Raymundo Zuleta is someone he created, a false identity. And according to what he told me and Rock this afternoon, Zuleta's not just some fallback ID. There was a purpose to it, part of one of his missions, or cases, or whatever the fuck it is that he does."

"And so it stands to reason that our Raymundo Zuleta is somehow connected to that specific case. Hence the adoption of that specific name," Foster continued.

"Exactly. And we've already agreed that we can assume that our Zuleta is also the reason the Spyder's unexpected return."

"So then, Zuleta is the antagonist here," Foster slowly said, a certain sense of self-pride ringing in his serendipitous revelation. "Whoever it is that our Zuleta really is, it's someone who's connected to the Spyder. Someone who deliberately took the identity of Raymundo Zuleta with the knowledge that it would provoke the Spyder."

"So then we're looking at what? Two conflicting ploys for revenge? Zuleta, whoever he is, uses the name 'Raymundo Zuleta' to draw the Spyder out, because he knows that the Spyder WILL reappear...To take revenge on whoever this Zuleta is. But at the same time, Zuleta WANTS the Spyder back out of hiding...To take revenge on HIM," Middleton stated slowly, trying to keep things straight in his mind as his hands acted out the complex connections.

"This is like a game of chess," Foster commented absently.

"Wait wait, this fits," Middleton said softly, still lost in his own mind. "Zuleta would have to have government contacts to know of the Spyder's existence. And he could use those government contacts to get a certain super released from Enhanced Crim as part of his revenge ploy...He KNEW the Spyder would hit his house, which explains the guards, AND why Hammerhand so luckily appeared out of fuckin' nowhere just in time to inadvertently save Harbour's favorite son!"

"This is big," Foster said in hushed awe at the scope of the situation, and stating the painfully obvious. "But it's just speculation, Ron. We have no way to confirm this one way or the other."

"But it feels right, Paul, it feels right. It makes sense, no matter how much anyone doesn't want it to. Shit, we need to talk to Hammerhand," said Middleton, jumping up from his chair and marching to the coat rack next to the door. He pulled off his tan trenchcoat and slung it over his shoulders. Paige and Foster watched him for a moment before wordlessly following suit, both excited at the apparent break in the case.

Paige stuffed her notebook into her jacket pocket, reaching for the cellphone clipped to her belt with her opposite hand before the jacket was even securely settled upon her figure. She felt something clamp down around her elbow before she had unhooked the small phone. Middleton jerked her harshly around by the arm, bringing her eye-to-eye with him.

"No calls," he told her severely.

"You can't touch me like that!" Paige protested, pulling her arm from his grasp. "I'll sue."

"Just no calls," Middleton responded. "None of this is leaked until we have some solid facts. As long as you're here, Briggs is happy, so from then on in, it's my rules. So again, no calls. Got it?"

"Fine," Paige responded, moving her hand away from her belt and indignantly pulling her coat tight around her shapely form. Middleton nodded agreeably. He turned to leave, before catching something out of the corner of his eye.

Rockwell had remained seated, still fumbling with the manila envelope and boring holes into the wall with blank eyes.

"Rock?" Middleton said softly, approaching his friend as Foster moved to open the door.

No response.

"Rock?" he repeated, louder this time.

"Huh? Yeah? Yeah, what, what?" Rockwell replied, shaking his head as if awaking from a trance. He looked to Middleton's concerned face.

"You coming?"

"What? Where? Oh, yeah, yeah, never mind, yeah. Course I'm coming," Rockwell stammered off, his eyes dropping from their lock with Middleton's as he rose and pushed past the black man to grab his coat. "Yeah, yeah let's go."

Middleton shook his head, but said nothing. He turned and reached past the awaiting Foster to jerk open the office door. He led the party out the door, his eyes staying trained on the floor as he did so, as Rockwell fumbled with his jacket. Paige filed in quickly behind Middleton, but Foster lingered for a moment.

"Are you alright, Mitch?" the mayoral liaison asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry about it," Mitch reassured, shrugging his jacket up over his shoulders and shooting the Aborigine a nod of affirmation. Foster tightened his lips and nodded back, turning out the door while Rockwell buttoned up his leather. As Foster made his way down the dark hall, Rock stood frozen for a moment, his hand dropping slowly to his pocket. He fingered the glossy papers held within for a conflicted moment, before pulling them out. His eyes dropped. Beth. The Spyder's pictures of Beth. "I'm fine," Rockwell whispered again, this time to reassure himself, though he barely believed the words. "Fine."He bit back his tears, deftly stuffed the pictures of his sister back into his pants pocket, and hurried out the door.

* * * *

* * * *

The machinery hummed unsteadily, its soft, monotonous tone growing loud and then soft in irregular rhythm. No, not machinery. It was breathing. The breathing of a cybernetically enhanced giant.

Large steel bands locked securely around Hammerhand's forehead, throat, chest, and waist. His mask was removed, revealing the shaved head of a white man with a stubby, almost pug-like nose, long cheeks, and eyes rimmed grotesquely by minute machinery where he should have had eyelids. His legs were held down also, but split askew in an awkward position meant to minimize the efficiency of his strength. Metal bands crossed each of his thighs, knees, shins, and ankles. His arms were raised, stretched and suspended above his head by countless cables attached to complex machines on both the wall behind him and the ceiling, some of which resembling standard hospital life support, others looking like small generators, and most appearing almost alien in their complexity. His gauntlets were gone. From his upper forearm forward, his massive arms were horribly mutilated. Flesh and sinew mingled with silicon and wire in an impressionist's vision of a cyborg, all remains of muscle so horribly damaged that they looked to be little more than tenderized flecks of meat which barely hung on to the bloodstained spots of exposed bone. His hands disappeared into the tangled labyrinth of multi-sized wires, which all seemed to wind from the machines, around his wrists, and then directly into the exposed flesh of the remaining whole portions of his arm.

"Takes a lot to keep me running without my batteries," Hammerhand sneered over the thick metal restraint which was held tight around his massive neck. He was propped up on some sort of table on an uncomfortable-looking angle somewhere in between standing and lying down, though this position was sustained entirely by his restraints. "And of course, they have to keep me running."

His voice was unsettling. Like a throat cancer patient speaking through an artificial voicebox, only emanating directly from his mouth.

"You know that, detectives?" Hammerhand smiled. "They can't shut me down. They can't do anything which could impede my life functions. I have committed no crime...In fact, as far as the courts are concerned, I'm a victim. A victim of the Spyder's brutality. And these doctors can't figure me out for the life of them, anyhow. They've had a few scientists in here, figured out how to maintain most of the functions which my gauntlets provided, but they don't know which wire's vital, which one isn't, what's connected to where. I think they may be bringing in some specialists from Melbourne, but I'm state of the art. And, even if they figure me out, it's not like they can just shut me down. I haven't done anything wrong, haven't broken any laws. What are they gonna do, turn off my life functions and send me to E.C.P.O. for knocking down a tree?"

"And trespassing," Middleton smiled, not bothered by looking the gargantuan in his digitally disfigured eyes. His irises were an unsettling gray, like steel in a bright sunlight, giving his eyes an inhuman coldness.

"Right," Hammerhand scoffed. "You know I'm not going to tell you anything, don't you, detective?"

"Is there anything to tell?" Middleton inquired smartly, eyebrows raised.

"You tell me," Hammerhand replied with a subtle smirk.

"I asked you first," Middleton retorted.

"This is pointless, Ron," Foster whispered as he leaned in to his partner's ear, intensely careful not to let his eyes meet Hammerhand's own. Hammerhand smiled at the comment, having heard it clearly through mechanically sensitive ears. Middleton looked from Foster, to Hammerhand's malicious grin, to Rockwell's stern gaze. Paige stood at the door, out of the giant's immediate sight, looking decidedly pissed at her relegation to the role of outsider, despite orders that she be included in the investigation. Middleton sighed.

"You're going back to E.C.P.O., one way or another, you have my word on that," Middleton said, pointing directly into Hammerhand's face, and punctuating his words with a contemptuous scowl. He turned to leave the modified hospital room, having said all he cared to.

"Detective," Hammerhand's voice called playfully. "Don't you wish the Grim Knight was still around?"

Hammerhand smiled broadly, an evil, knowing smile. Middleton halted at the comment, but refused to let the super provoke him.

"You know, to carry through on those kind of large threats that you people like to make," Hammerhand continued. Middleton shook his head, and continued out the door. Foster followed anxiously, but Rockwell stayed for a moment, studying the behemoth. They locked eyes, and stared at each other silently for a brief moment, before Rockwell made his way out the door.

"Now what?" Paige asked spitefully as Middleton brushed past her. She followed at his heels, unrelenting. If they were going to treat her like an out of line puppy, she was going to make damn sure they had a reason to. "What do we do now, Middleton?"

"What now? Now nothing," Middleton responded, settling in a huff into one of the chairs in the intensive care floor lobby to allow himself a moment's rest. "Now fucking nothing. Now we wait around like the god damn invalids sitting in their beds in this god damn hospital. Shit, we know nothing! Fuck we're at square one, here. We don't know who's telling the truth, we don't know who the fuck Raymundo Zuleta really is anymore, but the one thing we know for damn certain is there's a god damn homicidal genius out on the streets looking to knock off the guy who we, for all intents and purposes, know to be the good guy. And you can be damn sure he's not gonna do anything quite as rash as the last time either. No busting into Zuleta's house, guns drawn. Fuck, he's planning something, I know he is. The goddamn Spyder is planning something, and we don't have the first clue. Not the first cl-!"

"Shit," Rockwell murmured, interrupting the rant as he clumsily pushed his way past Middleton, Foster, and Paige. His eyes were trained disbelievingly on something in the far corner of the hospital lobby.

"Rock, what the hell?"

"Look..."

His three companions followed Mitchell Rockwell's limply outstretched index finger as he moved forward. All four sets of eyes settled on the muted television which graced a small table in the lobby's corner. Rockwell absently reached for the volume, his eyes never leaving the screen's astounding imagery.

"Holy shit," Middleton muttered, stepping alongside his dumbfounded partner.

"...footage was delivered anonymously to KGHC Channel Two barely an hour ago. We repeat, ladies and gentlemen, that this footage was on a video cassette and shows no indication of alteration or forgery. These pictures are genuine, and the footage is unmistakable. While edited by KGHC for content, one can still clearly discern the features of Samuel Swenton, Harbour City's local Parliament representative, snorting a large quantity of what appears to be cocaine off of the body of an unidentified female."

Between the young girl's pixellized, naked breasts, a long white line of cocaine disappeared into the nose of a considerably disheveled but inarguably euphoric Sam Swenton. Nearby, two bongs, a still-smoking pipe, and a considerable amount of liquor lay strewn across a glass table. It was already the third time since Mitch had first noticed that the footage was being replayed. Each time, the world became more and more surreal.

"Just earlier today Swenton made a widely broadcast public address expressing his support and concern for Harbour City's leading mayoral candidate and generous philanthropist Raymundo Zuleta, in regards to the deadly attack of Zuleta's property last night by the vigilante known as the Spyder. Mister Zuleta and Mister Swenton have been seen in public together quite a bit over the last few months, and Mister Swenton has made no secret of his strong support for Mister Zuleta in the mayoral race. This footage of course begs the loaded question: exactly how deep do the ties between Zuleta and Swenton run?

"Remember ladies and gentlemen, you saw it first on KGHC, exclusive hidden camera footage of Samuel Swenton, member of Parliament and a vocal supporter of Raymundo Zuleta's winning campaign for mayor, engaged in acts of drug use and debauchery. For more on this story as it develops, stay tuned to KGHC. We now return you to your regularly scheduled..."

The ringing of Middleton's cell phone went unheeded for a moment as the detective, and his partners, tried to digest what they had just witnessed.

"Excuse me, sir, you'll have to turn that off. This-" an elderly nurse began as she approached from the nurse's station behind them, her voice shaking Middleton from his entranced stupefaction.

"No, no, I'm a cop," he stammered incoherently, not really addressing the nurse's concerns nor caring to. He whipped the phone from his pocket, flipping it open. "Hello?" he nearly shouted.

"Mid! Mid, 's T, man!" the high-pitched voice on the other end spouted out.

"T? Yeah, yeah, man, what's up?"

"Shit, son, you ain't gonna beLIEVE this shit! Check it, I talked to the fuckin' Spyder earlier today."

"You talked to the Spyder?!"

"Who?!" Rockwell demanded, leaning in over Middleton's shoulder. Foster, Paige, and the nurse exchanged frantically confused looks.

"T is Middleton's underworld informant," Foster whispered, waiting for Middleton to speak again.

"Mid, man, he told me you was confused or something. Said I was askin' the wrong questions. Told me to find out who Raymundo Zuleta really is. Sounded weird as fuck but I wasn't about to fuck with that sonuvabitch. I been askin' around, man. Found a dude with some really interesting shit to say. Mid, you ain't gonna believe this."

"What's going on?" Foster questioned as Mitch listened intently over his partner's shoulder, their heads almost touching as both tried to listen to the voice on the other end of the line. Middleton waved off the mayor's liaison, shushing him with a frantic gesture and almost panicked glare.

"T, tell me, who is Raymundo Zuleta?" Middleton asked, his voice becoming hoarse with a stifling anticipation, the sweat beading on his forehead like that last, long moment before an orgasm. He bit his lower lip.

"Raymundo Zuleta is also called Rey Zuleta, or King Z. He wasn't widely known on the streets as anyone other than the rich fucker, but this King Z...They say he died two years ago, but word is he was a coke dealer, Mid. And it gets better...King Z was the guy who muscled in on Red Jester turf. He started that gang war, dog. That shit where the Grim Knight disappeared, and then the Spyder turned himself in. It was Zuleta."

Middleton's mouth fell agape.

"Shit..." Rockwell began, having heard the entire story. "That fits with the Swenton tape. That fits with this news story."

"And I'll give you one guess as to who the anonymous donor of that tape was," Middleton said, slipping his phone back into his pocket without even saying thank you to his informant. "Shit, we have to get to Raymundo Zuleta and we have to get to him now."

"What the hell is going on here?" Paige demanded.

"This shit's about to blow up in our faces," Middleton responded gravely. "Let's go."

The quartet sprinted for the stairs, forsaking the convenience of the elevators for expedience as a thousand different possibilities rolled through their collective minds. The situation had hit the boiling point.

* * * *