Spider-Man

by Peter David

He tried to get out of the way, tried to shut down the turbines, but it was too late. Momentum had taken hold, and the glider slammed into Osborn, the spear punching through him with a hideous splutching sound, like a sword through a watermelon.

  Osborn was lifted off his feet and slammed against the far wall, pinned there literally by the shaft that went through his chest and out his back. His arms flailed about and he pounded on the glider, blood running down the spear, down onto the glider, which only at that point sputtered to a halt.

  Osborn looked up at Peter with, at first, vague accusation … and then almost a sense of relief … before slumping over, the glider crashing onto the floor with him.

  Peter stood there, trembling, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, and settled for both. In the distance, he heard sirens, heading for the hulking ruin of a hospital, and his first inclination was to just get the hell out of there.

  But in his head, he heard the words of Norman Osborn, heard him saying how Peter Parker was the only one he could count on. It was the subterfuge of a madman, a clever dodge, a means of confusing him. He couldn’t help but wonder, though, if that had been some aspect of the real Norman Osborn, making his presence known in his final moments.

  Maybe there had been a germ of truth in what he’d said.

  And he thought of what it would be like for Harry, whose life would be ruined by the revelation of what his father had become.

  Before he had time to think better of it, Peter removed the spear from Osborn’s chest and lifted him up as if he weighed nothing. By the time the police arrived, he was gone … and so was the Green Goblin.

  Harry Osborn wandered aimlessly around the brownstone with a feeling of unease he couldn’t shake. But this time, as he passed the door to his father’s study, he felt a sharp breeze wafting from underneath the door. Perhaps his dad had left unlocked the French doors that opened out onto the balcony on the other side, and they had blown open. That was no good. He knew his dad kept important papers around, which could be scattered all over the place.

  For the first time in ages, things had been going well between him and his father. He didn’t want to risk any backsliding, and he could almost hear his dad’s voice saying, “You knew the French doors were open and you did nothing about it. What, were you afraid to go into my den? What kind of son are you?”

  He threw open the door, walked in, and froze.

  Harry Osborn had never before seen a dead body. But he knew immediately he was looking at one now, and insanely, it took him a few more moments to realize it was his father, because his father was simply bigger than death, and Harry had never attached such a possibility to him.

  Norman Osborn lay on a bed. He was naked, but covered by a blanket that was soaked through with blood. His head was slumped to one side, and one eye was open, as if he was winking.

  Standing two feet away, about to step back out through the French doors, was Spider-Man. His costume was torn, his mask a bit ripped, but it was clearly him.

  “You …” Harry managed to get out.

  Spider-Man raised his hands, taking a step forward, and Harry retreated in fear. “No …” Spider-Man started to say.

  But Harry wasn’t listening. “Murderer!” he screamed, and he lunged for a table nearby where he knew his father kept a gun. He yanked it out of a drawer, swung it around as fast as he could, only to find that Spider-Man was gone, leaving behind curtains blowing in the wind, the corpse of his victim, and the sobbing figure of a son.

  XXVI.

  GOOD-BYES

  Phil Watson opened the door of his home, blinking against the morning sun, to see his daughter, Mary Jane, clad in a simple black dress. She was standing there, just standing there, staring at him. She looked a little sad.

  She didn’t say hello. She just continued to stare. There was a taxi at curbside, which was obviously waiting for her.

  “What, you need money? I hope you’re not here asking for money,” he said.

  “No,” she said, very calmly, as if she were addressing him from a very great height. “No, no money. It’s just that, I’m going to a funeral today, and I thought since I was dressed for the occasion, I’d let you know that your daughter is dead.”

  He blinked at her. “What?”

  “The daughter you knew, yes.” She drew herself up. “The one who could be intimidated by your threats, by your bullying …”

  “Oh, for the love of—”

  Without hesitation, she continued, “The one who you made feel like dirt, so that you could walk all over her. She’s gone. She’s dead. She’s never coming back. Now me … I’ve seen bullies and a face of evil that would chew you up and spit you out before breakfast. I’m the new Mary Jane. I’m a damned interesting person. And if you’re inclined to get to know me at some point, that’s your choice. And if you’re not … that’s your loss. Do we understand each other?”

  He stared at her blankly. “I haven’t understood you in eighteen years; why should I start now? You’re being an idiot.”

  “And you’re pathetic.”

  His temper flared, and he instinctively drew back a hand to slap her.

  Mary Jane’s eyes hardened, and a fiery warning flared in them. Slowly, he lowered his hand without being entirely sure why.

  “Good-bye, Dad,” she said, and without another word she turned and walked away.

  A line of expensive cars was parked along the narrow, winding road. Peter walked a very quiet Harry Osborn over toward the Bentley, trying to ignore his imagination that had cackling laughter floating out of the grave, even after Norman had been lowered into it and dirt had been thrown upon the coffin.

  Aunt May and Mary Jane were standing a distance away, talking quietly to each other.

  “I’m so sorry, Harry,” Peter said. “I know what it’s like to lose a father.”

  “I didn’t lose him,” Harry corrected him firmly. “He was stolen from me. And one day, Spider-Man will pay.” He stopped, turned, and faced Peter. “I swear, on my father’s grave, Spider-Man will pay.”

  Peter had no idea what to say … and so said nothing.

  They reached the Bentley, and the chauffeur opened the door for Harry to step in. Harry paused before doing so and said, “Look … about M. J… . I was just trying to please my dad.” He spoke as if admitting to a major felony. “I thought he’d be impressed … me with such a beautiful woman. I know she was never right for me. I wanted to make him proud, that’s all. Now I’ll never be able to.” He clutched Peter’s hand, shook it firmly. “Thank God for you, my friend. You’re all the family I have left.” He pulled Peter toward him, embraced him once, then climbed into the car.

  The chauffeur closed the door behind him, gave Peter a vaguely disdainful glance, then climbed into the front and drove off.

  Peter turned and looked toward M. J. and Aunt May on the hill by Norman’s gravesite. She turned toward him and smiled.

  No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, the ones I love are always the ones who pay.

  He turned away and walked toward another tombstone, the gravesite of his Uncle Ben. BEN PARKER, BELOVED HUSBAND AND UNCLE, it read. As if half a dozen words could come close to summing him up.

  He stood there, hands folded, head lowered, and drew his coat closer around him as a chill breeze cut through him. “Hey.” Mary Jane’s voice came from behind him. He didn’t turn to look at her, and in a lowered voice she said, “Your aunt thought I’d find you here.”

  “M. J.’s here, Uncle Ben,” he said to the tombstone.

  She moved closer to him, putting her arm around his elbow. “You must miss him so much.”

  “He was a beautiful guy.”

  They stood there for a short time, and then she tugged gently on his arm, indicating with a nod of her head that it was time to leave. He wanted to protest but instead allowed himself to be pulled along.

  Abruptly, she stopped.

  “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you,” she said. “I heard the mes
sage you left on my answering machine.”

  He tried to remember exactly what he’d said. He’d been so caught up in the panic of the moment—trying to warn her without tipping his identity—that the words were a blur to him. “Uh, yeah … I uh …”

  “You didn’t finish, but I know what you were going to say, and I want to say it first. When I was up there, and I was sure I was going to die, there was only one person I was thinking of, and it wasn’t who I thought it would be.

  “It was you.” Peter started to tremble inwardly as she continued. “I kept thinking, I hope I make it through this, so I can see Peter Parker’s face one more time.”

  “My face … ?” Meaning . . . with no mask . . . ? Did she know . . . ? She had to. That had to be what she was dancing around . . . wasn’t it?

  “Sometimes,” she said softly, “what you want … you have to go to the edge of your life to find out it was right next door. I’ve been so stupid for so long. There’s only one man who was ever there for me, who has always been there for me. Who makes me believe that I’m … more than I ever thought I was. That I’m just me … and it’s okay. The truth is … I love you. I really love you, Peter.”

  And he could hear Spider-Man’s voice in his head, shouting at him, Tell her you love her . . . tell her who you are . . .

  She knew …

  She had to know …

  But maybe she didn’t … and if she didn’t, it might send her running in fright at the risks he had taken, and would continue to take … maybe … maybe … so many maybes …

  When he was in the middle of a fight, he knew what to do, immediately, instinctively. Faced with one young woman, he was stymied.

  “I … can’t …” he said.

  “You can’t what?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Tell you everything,” and quickly he added, “I mean … there’s so much to tell.”

  “Yes. So much to tell …”

  “To tell the girl next door …”

  “But isn’t that all I am?” she asked.

  “Oh, no, no,” and he started to laugh, “you’re the amazing girl next door. Mary Jane, the amazing, amazing girl, and I want you to know that I will always be there for you, I will always be there to take care of you. I promise you that. I wish I could give you more than that, but you must know … that you will always be safe.”

  She moved toward him, embraced him, and then kissed him gently on the lips. Something seemed to build within him, and he murmured “… can’t …” even as she drew him close once more. And this time when she kissed him, it was like that other time, when he’d been upside down and only the lower half of his face was visible. A kiss filled with passion and intensity and heat that he felt through every nerve ending in his body. When their lips parted he could still feel hers on his, like a man who’s lost an arm can feel the limb as if it were still attached.

  She pressed her body against his, wanted more …

  … more than he was willing to give. More than he dared, for fear of what happened, could happen, to his loved ones.

  He pulled away from her. Her eyes went wide. Slowly he shook his head. The wind was kicking up, and he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, drawing it closely around him, and walked away as quickly as he could, leaving M. J. standing by the gravesite.

  Because he knew it was the right thing to do.

  And he couldn’t afford to stop doing the right thing … ever again.

  Several days later, J. Jonah Jameson sat in his office, chomping on his ever-present cigar, looking out the window at the people moving through the streets far below. Robbie was leaning against the doorway.

  “Spider-Man. I don’t get it,” Jameson said in frustration. “First the town thinks he’s trash, and now he’s a glamour boy.”

  “He’s a hero, J. J.,” said Robbie, as if it should have been self-evident.

  “Don’t give me that line again,” Jameson said, stabbing a finger at him. “I don’t trust heroes. They’re nothing but criminals in disguise. Hoffman!” he shouted as Hoffman went past the door, and the nervous little man stopped in his tracks. “Where’s Parker? I want some pictures.”

  “He just left,” said Hoffman.

  “Left? He’s always leaving.”

  “He went to cover the hostage story.”

  Jameson stalked his office, waving his arms in the air as if the world existed just to be a gross inconvenience to him. “Sure! Another hostage story! But where is he when the Green Goblin busted through my window? The Goblin and Spider-Man in front of our noses! A golden opportunity, and the photographer went to lunch!” He squinted at an office boy heading in the other direction, holding an odd bundle. “And what’s that?”

  The office boy turned, held up a pair of trousers. “Peter Parker’s pants.”

  “What?”

  “They were in the closet.”

  “Parker’s pants?” Jameson said slowly, trying to make sure he’d heard this right.

  “With his shirt and tie and shoes and socks,” the office boy said cheerfully.

  “What’s going on here?!” demanded an increasingly befuddled Jameson. “Who’s he think he is: Tarzan? Where is he, running around the town naked? Or does he think our storage closet is his own personal armoire? And who put flowers on my desk?!”

  Betty Brant stuck her head in. “I did, sir. It is your birthday.”

  “What’re you looking for, a raise? I don’t want flowers, I want Peter Parker. Not his pants!” He grabbed the bouquet and threw it in the trash. “I want pictures! I want to sell papers! I want Spider-Man!” He thumped repeatedly on his desktop, sending everyone scattering until he was alone in his office.

  Alone.

  And he knew that somewhere out there, Spider-Man was likely speeding to help hostages. To help people.

  Helping people. That’s what he did.

  Jameson glanced at the motto of the Bugle, situated in block lettering beneath the masthead, just as it had been for decades: THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER, was what it said.

  He stared out at the skyline and, as if Spider-Man could hear him, said softly, “That is what you do … isn’t it. Help them. Unselfishly. With no thought of compensation. You’re everything I can never be. And if someone like you is considered a hero … what does that make me?

  “You’re everything I aspired to be … and never can be … because I’m too damned weak. And my greatest weakness … is that I’m going to continue to try and drag you down, because … God help me … I’m jealous of you.”

  At least he, Jameson, knew the truth.

  Even if it never saw print … ethics were satisfied.

  Dear Mom and Dad:

  Had a busy few hours.

  I swung by the cemetery late this evening to visit with Uncle Ben, and found some punks trying to trash the place. I scared the hell out of them, then I just hung out and talked with Uncle Ben until the sun came up.

  Oh . . . I saw Mary Jane the other day. I know she was hurt a little by what happened after Norman Osborn’s funeral. She thinks I rejected her. Or maybe she knows the truth about me, and is willing to wait until I’m ready to tell her . . . if ever. Man, I’d trade all these powers for the ability to read minds.

  You know . . . last night . . . when I was at the cemetery . . . I told Uncle Ben everything that was going on with me. The whole story. I mean, I’ve been writing to you guys, so you’ve stayed in the loop, but Uncle Ben . . . well, I figured he deserved to know. So I brought him up to speed.

  Wasn’t an easy thing to do. And no one can say I didn’t warn him. The story of my life isn’t for the faint of heart. Like the man said, it’s hard to be a saint in the city. And whatever life holds in store for me, I now accept: I will never forget these words again . . .

  “With great power comes great responsibility.”

  This is my gift. It’s my curse.

  Who am I?

  I’m Spider-Man.

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  A Ballantine Book

  Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2002 Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Spider-Man®, the character, ®2002 Marvel Characters, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

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  eISBN: 978-0-345-45505-5

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