Authors: Peter David
He swung in through the window to cries of "What's he
doing?!" and "He's crazy! He hasn't got a chance!" They
were instantly drowned out by the roar of flames all around
him. His spider sense was screaming at him to just get the
hell out of there, and it was an unusual experience to have to fight to override it. When he'd dealt with a burning building some weeks ago, the fire had been nowhere this intense, and it had just been a matter of hauling people off the roof. Even then he'd gotten good and scalded, and a repeat performance
wasn't his top preference. But he had no choice.
He leapt to one side as a chunk of the ceiling, blazing furiously, fell right where he'd been standing. His leap carried
him near another apartment with the door still closed. Sud
denly he heard crying from within.
He kicked the door open with one booted foot and it splintered like a rifle shot. He ran in and noted with alarm
that smoke was starting to fill the apartment. Dashing past
the kitchen, he yanked his mask off, ran water over it
from the sink, and pulled it back on. The cool wetness gave him a bit more protection against the smoke, and then—low
to the ground—he darted through the apartment until he lo
cated the child in its nursery. It was sobbing piteously, terri
fied.
Peter scooped it up and said, "Hi. My name's Spider-
Man. Maybe you've read about me?"
The baby looked at him with confused, wet, blue eyes.
Suddenly his spider sense urged him into motion. Peter
leapt for the nearest window and, clutching the child to his
chest, spun and smashed through the window backward in
order to protect the infant from the impact. He heard a hor
rendous roar, a crashing of wood, and a fireball the size of a Buick frying the air behind him. His leap carried him a short
distance away from the building, but there was smoke all
around and he was falling blind.
Desperately, praying, unsure of which was up and down, he fired a web line in the direction he thought a building lay.
Please let this work,
he thought, and then he felt the familiar pull of the line as it anchored to something. It snapped
taut and he dropped down, down, holding the child tightly to
him.
Then he was clear of the smoke, and the ground yawned up at him, closer than he'd expected. But he had more than
enough time to react, and he adroitly somersaulted for a per
fect two-point landing on the street below.
From all around people were shouting, "He's alive!" and
"I don't believe it!" and "He's got the kid!"
Then the applause started. Loud, genuine, and not a single person seemed to give a damn at that moment about the
Daily Bugle
or Jameson and his headlines or anything ex
cept for the fact that Spider-Man had put his neck on the line
to save an innocent child.
Overwhelmed by emotion, he still managed to keep his voice steady as the mother ran up to him and he handed the
child over. "Here's your baby," he said.
"Oh, God bless you, Spider-Man," she wailed, clutching
the child to her bosom. "Bless you
. . .
bless you
. . . "
Feeling that something herolike should be said, he turned to the boys, crouched, and said, lowering his voice to sound even more authoritative, "You children be good. Stop play
ing with matches. Don't start something you can't put out."
The boys were shaking their heads, apparently about to deny culpability, when the moment was ruined by a cop
shouting, "Don't let him get away!"
The notion was actually amusing to Peter. As if a woman
with a baby in her arms, or a grateful crowd that had just
witnessed—as far as they were concerned—a miracle,
would try to intervene should he choose to leave.
The cop burst through the crowd, his gun drawn, and he
leveled it at Spider-Man. "Hold it right there! You're wanted
in connection—"
"Heeellllppp! Heeellllllpppp!"
"Look! There's somebody else!" someone in the crowd
shouted. Sure enough, several floors up, an elderly woman with a shawl and loose-fitting dress was standing in a window that already was dancing with flames. Her arms were outstretched and she was truly a pathetic sight, the smoke billowing around her.
Peter and the cop exchanged looks, and then Peter put out
his gloved hands, presenting his wrists, as if inviting the cop
to put cuffs on him.
"I'll be here when you get back," the cop growled, lower
ing his revolver. He had barely finished the sentence when
Peter leapt away.
He skittered up the wall, hoping this was the last person
in the building, because soon there wasn't going to be much
of a building left. The old woman backed away, maybe in
fear or maybe to give him room to gain access. He flipped in
through the window, scanned the smoky room, and immedi
ately spotted the woman, huddled in the corner.
"Everything's going to be okay, ma'am!"
She called out to him, in a wretched, wavering voice,
"Oh, thank you, sonny. You're my hero." And then the voice
dissolved into cackling, high-pitched demented laughter.
And as the old woman stood fully erect, allowing the shawl
to drop to the ground, "she" asked, "What's wrong with
lighting up now and then?"
"Goblin!" shouted Peter. "You started this fire?!"
"You're pathetically predictable," the Goblin snarled, his
masked face etched in a permanent leer. "Like a moth to a
flame. Perhaps you should change your name from Spider-
Man to Moth Man." He giggled, chortled at his own clever
ness, and then suddenly grew serious. "What about my
generous proposal? Are you in or are you out?"
"It's you who's out, Gobby," and despite the flames licking the room around them eagerly, he assumed a fighting
stance. "Out for good!"
The Green Goblin didn't seem the least bit impressed.
Without hesitation he reached into his belt and hurled what
appeared to be a small plastic bat. Peter swatted it aside with
his left arm and then let out a yell of pain. Stunned, he
looked down at the red and blue sleeve of his costume and saw a deep gash, oozing blood. The damned bat had been razor sharp.
The Goblin advanced on him, and Peter didn't hesitate. He fired a web line, snagging a beam above the Goblin's
head, and pulling as hard as he could. Debris rained down and the Goblin vanished under the debris.
Immediately Peter turned and made for the window. He glanced behind, saw a trail of blood he was leaving as he scampered out the window and down the side of the wall. Behind him he could hear the Goblin howling, "I don't forgive and I don't forget! It breaks my heart! We could have
been so good together!"
Okay. We've officially gotten into a weird area,
he
thought, but at that moment he didn't care about much beyond two things: Attending to the throbbing wound in his arm, and not dying before Thanksgiving supper, just so he could see how things turned out with Mary Jane.
XXIII.
THE LAST SUPPER
She was wearing the black dress. It didn't seem to help.
Harry still was as nervous as a cat at a vacuum cleaner convention, and Mary Jane had come to realize there was nothing that she, or May Parker, or anyone could do that would
calm him down. The only thing that would help would be if
Norman Osborn walked in, took one look at her, threw his
arms around her, and claimed her as the daughter he'd never
had. Somehow she didn't think that was going to happen.
Aunt May, with long-practiced expertise, removed the
browning turkey from the oven and placed it on the stovetop,
motioning Mary Jane to keep her distance lest she get
burned. M. J. nodded and put the finishing touches on set
ting the table while May used a fork to satisfy herself that
the bird was sufficiently cooked. Harry busied himself
checking the living room, plumping pillows, and straightening chairs. M.J.'s heart went out to him. There were men on
death row who weren't this edgy.
The doorbell rang and Harry let out a yelp. Trying to compose himself, he said, "Okay
. . .
he's here." Mary Jane emerged from the kitchen, removing her apron, and Harry
looked her up and down with the scrutiny of a drill instruc
tor. "You look great," he said, an efficient if perfunctory as
sessment that sounded as if he were complimenting her for
having her Ml6 properly slung.
Harry walked over to the door, swung it open.
He doesn't
have horns,
Mary Jane thought with amusement as Norman
Osborn stood in the doorway, attired in a very nice suit. She
wondered if he was feeling well, though, because he was dabbing sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. Mary Jane had thought the place was, in fact, kind of chilly. Os
born was carrying a small pastry box tied with a ribbon.
"Sorry I'm late," Osborn said. "Work was murder." Then
he smiled, as if this was funny to him for some reason. Well,
it was nice to see a workaholic with a sense of humor. "Here's a fruitcake." He passed the box to Harry, then
glanced at Mary Jane and asked a question to which he very
likely already knew the answer: "Who's this young lady?"
"M. 1," Harry said, trying his best to sound calm, "I'd like you to meet my father, Norman Osborn. Dad, I'd like you to
meet Mary Jane Watson
. . .
M. J."
This was it. Set phasers on Charm.
Mary Jane flashed her most radiant smile, one that could
have melted the hearts of the entire offensive line at Mid-town High. Osborn stepped closer, holding out a hand to
shake hers but also, unmistakably, narrowing his eyes. She
felt as if he was mentally dissecting her. She tried to tell her
self that there were worse things men could do with her mentally, but she still felt uneasy.
"How do you do?" said Osborn with the air of someone
trying to force informality. "I've been looking forward to
meeting you."
"Happy Thanksgiving, sir," she said evenly.
At that moment May Parker stepped forward, and if there was any reason to think that something was off with Harry's
dad, she certainly didn't give a hint of it. "Hello, Norman.
We're so pleased you're here." She turned to Harry.
"Where's Peter? He'd better have remembered the cranberry
sauce."
Suddenly a loud thud came from the direction of Peter's bedroom. The four of them looked at each other in confu
sion. "That's weird," said Harry. "I didn't know he was here."
"Peter?" Aunt May called. The only response they got
was a thud so loud that they all jumped slightly. "My good
ness," said May, looking at Harry. "Harry, dear, by any
chance
. . .
did Peter take up anvil collecting
. . .
?"