Spiderman 3 (27 page)

And it had never occurred to Peter that it should be otherwise. Was that wrong? A bad thing?

"I thought you'd be…" he began, and then, as much to convince himself as her, he asserted, "He deserved it, didn't he?" hoping that Aunt May would respond in the affirmative, settling the question for him.

May Parker did him no favors in that regard. "I don't think it's our place to decide who deserves to live or die," she said, sounding a bit surprised and even disappointed that Peter would have to ask such a thing.

"Aunt May, he
killed Uncle Ben
."

She nodded. "Ben meant everything to us, but he wouldn't want us living one second of our lives with revenge in our hearts. It's like a poison. A venom. It can take us over. Before you know it, turn us into something ugly."

Peter was stupefied by her reaction and said, "I'm sorry, I guess I…"

In his mind, he saw once again that brief glimpse of a ravening beast reflected in the mirror. Had it been real? In his mind? A glimpse of things to come?

It's like a poison. A venom. It can take us over.

Peter took a deep breath, exhaled. How should he feel? Confused? Ashamed? Grief-stricken? Would he have done things differently if he'd had it to do all over again?

Who knew? That frightened him more than anything else.

He nodded, apparently in agreement and understanding of what she was saying, but his thoughts were in turmoil, harboring the same brooding fury from earlier. Had the suit placed it there, or exacerbated what was already present, or… ?

Peter had no idea, but he knew he had to find out.

Returning to his apartment (and mercifully not encountering Ditkovitch while doing so), Peter again stared at the trunk for a long while, trying to decide the best way to get a sample of this… this whatever it was… off his costume. He couldn't bring himself to do it. He was afraid that, if he opened the trunk, he'd be wearing the costume inside of five minutes. He simply didn't trust himself.
It couldn't have come out of nowhere. It had to be hiding here somewhere.
That thought was daunting, because it ascribed same sentience to whatever had bonded itself to his costume. At the very least an animal-level intelligence, or perhaps even more. He didn't like to consider that possibility, but he had no other options.

Peter crawled on the floor and checked under the bed.

Nothing there but dust bunnies the size of his head. He continued to look around… and then his gaze lit on the closet. Of course. It made perfect sense. He'd even had a strange feeling that the shadows in there had been shifting. It must have been the suit, or the thing on the suit, that had been residing in there, waiting for its opportunity. The more Peter thought of the aspects of intelligence the thing possessed, the more concerned he became.

He went to the closet and opened the door, not sure what he was looking for. If it was some sort of living thing, maybe there would be some sort of secretion or excretion… something that he could gather as a sample. He moved his clothes around, pulled out the shoes that were piled on the floor, and nearly missed what he was looking for. But he noticed it just before he tossed one of his shoes aside. Slowly he turned it over and looked at the sole.

Some sort of black splotch of goo was on it.

If he had given it a casual glance, he would just have thought he'd stepped in some street tar. Because of everything that had happened to him with the suit, he knew better. He tried to remember the last time he had worn the shoes, and it came to him immediately: the opening night of MJ's play.

As he got a scraper and a specimen jar to transfer the goo into, he ran through in his mind everything that had transpired that night. The play, the ride out to the Palisades, hanging in the web hammock with MJ, riding back, Harry's assault…

Once again his concerns returned to Harry. Was it some sort of weapon that Harry had thrown at him?

Something he'd developed in a lab and… ? No. No, it made no sense. Harry was many things, but he simply didn't possess the scientific genius or invention of his father. Still, it could have been something that OsCorp had developed and he'd incorporated into his arsenal. But it didn't seem right. Maybe…

That shooting star?

Could it have… ?

"Aw, c'mon," he muttered as he transferred the inert goo into the jar. He couldn't believe he was entertaining the notion that something from outer space—a meteor or asteroid—had made landfall near him and discharged lame sort of alien lifeform. And that alien lifeform had attached itself to Peter's shoe, come home with him…

Still… he was reminded of Sherlock Holmes's great precept:
Whenever you eliminated the impossible, whatever remains
—
however improbable
—
must be the truth
.

Harry had inflicted some sort of self-replicating virus on him during their battle. Impossible.

A creature had hitched a ride on a meteor, fallen to earth, and seized Peter Parker as its host. Impossible.

Peter didn't foresee a shortage of impossible theories; improbable ones. Holding up the jar and staring at the black goo within, Peter hoped that the man to whom he was bringing this sample would be able to point him toward the right impossibility.

Dr. Curtis Connors stared with fascination at the specimen jar, shaking it slightly and watching the goo move around within. Peter stood several feet away, glancing around Connors's office/laboratory, fascinated as always to see what his favorite professor was working on. He noticed a chart on the wall of different types of lizards, and an anatomical model for a lizard nearby. He considered that rather curious, since to the best of his knowledge, Connors wasn't a herpetologist. So what was the sudden interest in lizards?

Connors was careful as he examined the bottle since he had to do it one-handed. Peter glanced at the flapping sleeve where Connors's right arm wasn't and wondered if Connors had taken such an interest in lizards because he was planning to try to regrow his missing arm, just as some types of lizards were capable of doing when losing a limb. Then Peter shook his head and smiled. Creatures from outer space, and now a teacher embarking on a scheme out of a 1950s B movie. That was the problem when one lived a life where one used spider powers to fight guys made out of sand: it was impossible to distinguish between likelihood and absurdity.

"Where'd this come from?" Connors finally asked.

"I don't know." That was certainly true enough. Peter had thoughts, but nothing definite. "It was on my shoe. Would you check it out? I'm curious what it is."

"
Yeah
. I am too. I'll let you know." Connors's gaze shifted to Peter. "By the way, I saw your lab partner in the news the other day. Quite the sensation, our Miss Stacy in a romantic entanglement with Spider-Man."

"I…" Peter shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "I wouldn't call it an entanglement. It was just a kiss…"

"Well, when you do something that publicly, you're asking people to draw their own conclusions."

"Yeah, I… I guess you are," Peter admitted. Certainly Mary Jane had done so, and none of them were to his favor. He wondered, for the first time since his entire world had gone dark, how she was doing.

The Jazz Room was a long-standing establishment down in the Lower East Side. During its heyday, top jazz musicians would stop in unexpectedly and start jamming with whoever was onstage. But that was many years ago, and the Jazz Room wasn't what it used to be.

Then again, I'm not what I used to be either
, thought Mary Jane.

Stepping out into a crisp, bright Manhattan afternoon, Mary Jane squinted and waited for her eyes to adapt. She'd only been in there for fifteen minutes. She wondered what it was going to be like when she was there for a full eight-hour shift. Glancing behind, she saw the sign waitress/ singer wanted that had been hanging in the window being removed by the manager. People were going on about their business, hurrying to jobs or appointments or to spend time with friends or family. Mary Jane watched them go and once again had that orphan-outside-a-banquet feeling. She was, as the Bible said, in the world but not of it. She felt a desperate need to be a part of not only the world, but of something that would take her outside her own worries and frustrations. She walked through the city, seeing couples holding hands, exchanging a kiss or two, making even the simple act of crossing the street seem romantic. Feeling masochistic, she walked past the Broadhurst Theater. It was as if she'd never performed there. She was even beginning to wonder if it had ever happened, or if it had all been some sort of dream that had disappeared all too quickly upon waking.

MJ heard sirens and what she was reasonably sure was a fire truck in the distance. Police cars hurtled past. People watched them go by, talked to each other, speculated about what was happening. She even heard, "Spider-Man?" as couples queried each other as to whether the famed web slinger would be involving himself.

Mary Jane had no idea.

But thinking about him, about the life that had deserted her, prompted Mary Jane to step into a doorway, removing herself from the crowded street. She pulled out her cell phone from her bag and started scrolling down the directory of names. She stopped on Peter's, naturally. Her impulse was to try to reconnect with him, to heal the fractures in their relationship. But in the past days, he had become almost unrecognizable… and now there was this new business with his uncle Ben. How was she supposed to be there for him when he had made it clear he wanted no part of her?

She needed to be with someone she felt needed her in return, and from whom she could find mutual support.

She continued to scroll down, then back, looking for a name to leap out at her. Finally, one did.

Why hadn't she thought of him sooner?

She hesitated only a moment before clicking the dial button, then waited for the connection to be made. It rang twice, three times, four, and she prepared herself to be connected to voice mail… when she was startled by a sudden pickup.

"Hello, Harry? It's Mary Jane. Would you… like some company?"

Harry Osborn tucked the tail end of his shirt into his pants, having sprinted from the bathroom to grab the phone. Nearby in the great room, a small easel had been set up. On
it
was a reasonably professional looking depiction of the view of Manhattan through Harry's window. It had been ages since Harry had painted; he'd forgotten how much it relaxed him. Of course, his father had never thought much of it.

"You and Peter?" he asked, cheered at the prospect. "Just me," came Mary Jane's voice over the phone. Harry paused, taking in that little fact and its implications, then said, "You kidding? Sure. C'mon over." "You sure I wouldn't be intruding?" "No, you're not intruding." He laughed, considering the thought absurd. "I'm just hanging out. Come over." "Okay then. See ya."

He hung up the phone, then called, "Bernard!" He moved toward the door and shouted, louder this time, "
Berrnaaaard
!" As if he'd materialized out of nowhere, Bernard appeared at the doorway. "Yes, Harry?" Upon the passing of Norman Osborn, Bernard's inclination had been to address him as "Mr. Osborn," but Harry had quickly put a stop to that. As far as Harry was concerned, Mr. Osborn was his father… and the associations that implied were more than he cared to consider.

"We're having a guest. We need…" Harry thought fast and seized upon the obvious. "Food."

"Right away, sir."

Harry nodded in approval, confident that Bernard had everything in hand, and stepped back into the great room. As Harry moved back to his cityscape, his gaze rested upon his father's portrait looming above.

Then, for some reason, he glanced toward the chaise lounge in the corner of the room.

Norman Osborn was lying on it.

Harry gasped.

His father was there on the chaise, and he was clearly dead, a vicious wound evident on his chest through the huge red splotch discoloring his shirt. And Spider-Man was there, laying him out, neatly arranging the corpse…

Harry staggered back, holding his head. He slammed shut his eyes, and when he dared to open them again, the chaise was vacant. Terrified that some other vision would reoccupy it, he turned away and found himself staring at the large mirror hanging on the wall.

Something was drawing him to it. Something that was there but not there, something that he felt he should know, but didn't.

"You've taken your eye off the ball."

The voice, soft and disturbing, was spoken from just behind his ear. It was his father's voice, and a disoriented Harry stumbled forward toward the mirror. Unable to stop himself, he fell against it, putting his hands against the glass at the last second.

A circuit connected… a dizzying array of images flashed through Harry's mind. He cried out, remembering, not wanting to, needing the information, fearing it, and there was Spider-Man lying bound and helpless, his unmasked face gazing up plaintively at Harry, and it was Peter's face, and his father's body, and Harry standing in a large capsule, wallowing in green gas, and in combat with Peter, hurtling through dizzying heights, trying to kill him, and being slammed backward off his Sky Stick, and Peter looking down at him with all manner of mock sympathy, and Harry heard his own voice asking, "My dad. He died, didn't he?" and Peter was just nodding sympathetically, the bastard, he knew,
he knew, he had done it, he
—

Harry sank to his knees, sobbing, except the sobs were intermingled with choked laughter, and once again his father's voice came to him: "
Where've you been
?" With tremendous effort, Harry raised his head and saw Norman Osborn, likewise on his knees, staring back at him from the mirror.

"Remember me?" his father purred.

"Yes, Father," Harry said with the voice of the damned. "I remember everything."

"You haven't killed Peter Parker."

Never in his life had Harry stood up to his father. Never. But Norman was no longer in his life, and Harry defiantly told him, "Things are different now. Peter and Mary Jane are my friends."