Authors: Peter David
He ripped off the Goblin's mask, and the battered face of Norman Osborn looked up at him and whispered, from be
tween swelling lips, "Peter . . . "
Spider-Man's fist remained cocked, but this wasn't the
Goblin. This was Norman Osborn. It was
. . .
it was some sort of trick, that had to be it. The Goblin had hypnotized him or
. . .
or Spider-Man was hallucinating, that was it. Or
it was a trick of light, or an android, or a clone
. . .
something
. . .
it couldn't be
. . .
The fury within him ebbed as disbelief pushed it aside.
Spider-Man pulled away his own tattered mask to make sure
he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. He released Osborn, who slumped to the floor, looking up pathetically.
"Peter
. . .
thank God for you," Osborn said, as if waking from a dream.
Still trembling with rage, shaken by the overwhelming
desire to inflict violence upon the man he saw before him,
Peter said, "Can't be
. . .
you're a monster
. . . "
"Please
. . .
Peter
. . .
don't let it take me back," Osborn begged him. "I need your help. I'm not a monster."
"You killed those people on the balcony," Peter reminded
him sharply. "You could have killed your son. . . . "
Osborn was shaking his head furiously. "It killed. The
Goblin killed. I had nothing to do with it.
. . .
Please . . .
don't let it have me again. Protect me, I beg you. Talk to me
about this. . . . "
Peter could barely comprehend. Protect Osborn
. . .
from
himself?
Madness!
But . . .
wasn't the Goblin mad? That
certainly wasn't news. Maybe he really was the victim here.
Maybe . . .
Then Peter's heart hardened. "You tried to kill Aunt May.
You wanted to kill Mary Jane."
"But not you." Osborn was shaking his head desperately. "I would never hurt you. I knew from the beginning, if any
thing happened to me, you were the one I could count on.
You, Peter Parker, would save me, and so you have. Thank
God for you."
He had pulled himself to his feet. With his back against the wall, he held out a hand in pathetic supplication.
"Give me your hand. Believe in me, as I believed in you.
I was like a father to you. Be a son to me now."
"I had a father," Peter said tightly. "His name was Ben
Parker."
And then . . .
Osborn began to laugh. It was the most
bizarre thing Peter had ever seen, as the tortured face of Nor-
man Osborn seemed to transform itself, and even though the
tattered mask was on the floor, his face twisted into a sem
blance of the madness that the mask reflected.
"Godspeed, Spider-Man," he said.
That was when Peter realized that Osborn was manipu
lating, ever so subtly, an electronic pad on his wrist. He
knew in a flash that Osborn had been doing it the entire time, and then his spider sense kicked in, seeing all around him si
multaneously. And behind him was the Goblin glider, mak
ing absolutely no noise at all. It had risen up and was coming
straight toward his back. As it did so, a spear snapped into
place.
Peter hurled himself to one side, twisting and bending,
and the glider's turbines kicked in for extra speed just as he leapt completely clear. It screamed through the air and ter
ror suddenly creased Osborn's face.
He tried to get out of the way, tried to shut down the tur
bines, 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 accusa
tion
. . .
and then almost a sense of relief . . .
before slump
ing 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 brown-stone 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 be
tween him and his father. He didn't want to risk any back
sliding, 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 bul
lying
. . . "
"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 Nor
man 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.