Spiderman 1 (45 page)

Every motion was agony for him. Peter had become so accustomed to moving with agility and grace, but now—wounded and aching—he wondered
that he could move at all. He had managed to swing past the living room window without being seen, had even managed
to gain access to his room through a window with the most
minimal of noise. But then, as he had crawled across the
ceiling, the stab of pain that shot through his left arm was so
fearsome, it caused him to lose his grip, and he thudded to the floor with the grace of an anchor.

He pulled off his mask and examined his injured arm. It
was still bleeding, and swelling slightly. He wondered if that
damned Goblin had treated the razor bat with some sort of
toxin to give it some added bite. He wouldn't put it past him,
because it was becoming clear that the Goblin was ex
tremely creative in his penchant for sadism.

Suddenly he heard a noise, right at his door. It wasn't
locked. Of course it wasn't locked; who locks their room be
hind them on the way out? Maskless, injured, panicked,
Peter still possessed just enough presence of mind to leap
upward. He flattened himself against the ceiling just as the
door opened. Aunt May stepped in, with M. I, Harry, and
Harry's dad standing just behind her. Great. Only everyone
in his life who was important. All any of them had to do was
look up, and he was a squashed spider.

"Pete?" called Harry into what appeared to be an empty

room.

"But . . .
 
there's nobody here," said a puzzled Aunt May.
Peter was sure they could hear the hammering of his

heart. How could they not? It was pounding in his ears,
louder than cannon fire.

Osborn entered, and Peter felt that same vague thrill of
warning from his spider sense that he always did when
Harry's dad was around. Well, hey, no kidding on this one:
danger was just an upward glance away. Norman scowled at
the disarray he found around him.

Then Peter saw, to his horror, a drop of blood oozing from
the cut on his arm, dangling right over the senior Osborn's
head.

"Bit of a slob, isn't he," Norman observed.

Aunt May responded defensively, "All brilliant men are,"
which was kind of sweet of her to say considering the
number of times in his life she'd said, "Peter, clean up this
pigsty!"

Osborn smiled at that and turned to leave as the others
filed out. He was the last one out of the room
 
. . .

 
. . .
 
and the drop of blood fell. It hit the light-colored car
pet, right where he'd been standing.

But it was just a drop of blood. It's wasn't as if he could
hear it. He'd have to have ears that would make a bat deaf by
comparison.

Norman Osborn whirled and stared right where the blood
had dripped.

Peter couldn't believe it. It simply wasn't possible. His
eyes widened as Osborn stalked back to the spot where the drop had fallen. He stared down at the carpet, knelt, and as
the wind blew briskly through the open window, he touched
it and brought his fingers up to his face, rubbing them to
gether. His eyes grew wide and he looked directly over his
head.

Nothing.

Quickly Osborn crossed to the open window and leaned
out, looking right and left, up and down. He could not, of

course, look through the ledge that jutted out beneath the
window
 
. . .
 
which was exceedingly fortunate for Peter, be
cause that's where he was clinging.

He had never moved as quickly in his life as he had to get
out of that room, and part of him still couldn't believe he had
managed it. His arm was practically screaming at him in
protest, and he bit down tightly on his lip to contain the
moan of pain that desperately wanted to escape.

Apparently satisfied—although with what, Peter had no
idea—Osborn pulled back in from the window. Moments
later the door to Peter's room closed with a soft click. It
crossed Peter's mind that it might be some sort of trick, but
he didn't think so; his spider sense wasn't warning him of
any immediate danger.

Minutes later, he had managed to make a perfectly silent reentry into his room, snag some clothes and some towels to
wipe down the wound, get to the roof, change, and make it
back down to the front hallway of the apartment. He had no idea whether he looked as exhausted as he felt, but he had to
do whatever he could to put on a brave front. Only at the last
moment did he remember that he was supposed to bring cranberry sauce.

Fortunately, there was a convenience store downstairs
that was just in the process of closing up: Five minutes of
begging and a five-dollar bribe had convinced the man to
stay open long enough for Peter to fetch what he needed. He could brave fires, floods, famine, and the Green Goblin, but he had no intention of facing down Aunt May without cran
berry sauce.

When Harry opened the front door, Peter had his broadest smile fixed firmly in place. "Hey, everyone," he said
cheerily. He kissed Aunt May on the cheek. "Sorry I took so
long. It's a jungle out there. I had to hit an old lady with a
stick to get these cranberries."

"Oh, Peter!" Aunt Mary scolded him, slapping him

lightly on the shoulder as if he was an obnoxious five-year-
old. Then, all business, she said, "Come on, everyone. Let's
sit down and say a prayer."

They all moved for the table. Norman reached for the jellied cranberry log and, just to show she played no favorites,
Aunt May slapped his hand. Osborn glanced at her, and a look flashed across his face, but then it was gone and he
smiled gamely at the rebuke.

"And Norman," she said, indicating the turkey and the
carving knife that sat near it, "will you do the honors?"

But as Norman Osborn moved to pick up the knife, Peter noticed that Aunt May was staring at him and had suddenly
gone pale. He followed her gaze, and gasped.

His left shirtsleeve had a huge bloodstain on it, and it was
growing. He cursed to himself. He'd thought he had the
damned thing under control.

"Peter, you're bleeding!" Aunt May gasped.

Trying to sound as indifferent about it as possible, Peter said, "Yeah. I stepped off a curb and got clipped by one of
those bike messengers." He wondered if that sounded as pa
thetic to her as it did to him.

She didn't seem to be paying much attention to the ex
cuse anyway. "Let me see that," she said, rolling his sleeve
up, revealing the distinctive X-shaped slashes that the
whirring razor bat had left upon him.
"What in the name of
heavenly glory!"
she cried out.

His
spider sense . . .

"Everyone sit down, I'll go and get the first-aid kit."

. . .
tingling . . . growing more intense . . . practically
howling in alarm . . .

" . . .
 
and then we'll say grace
 
. . .
 
this is the boys' first
Thanksgiving in this apartment . . . "

 
. . .
 
drowning out everything that Aunt May was saying,
pushing it far into the background, there was danger, danger
in such thick waves that he was suffocating in it . . .

" . . .
 
and we're going to do things properly
 
. . . "
And when Norman Osborn spoke, it was with a voice that
bore only a passing resemblance to his normal tone. "How
did you say that happened?" he asked. His eyes were focus
ing like laser beams on Peter's arm, as if he recognized the
cuts, as if he expected Peter's answer to be a lie, because he
already knew the truth
 
. . .

" . . .
 
Bike messenger
 
. . . " Peter said tonelessly.

 
. . .
 
and his spider sense was at Defcon 5, as the world
around him slowed to a crawl, each face he looked at frozen,
each face the face of a friend, not an enemy, there couldn't
be an enemy right here, at his apartment, at his table . . .

He snapped out of it, or snapped himself out of it, and now
his forehead was beaded with perspiration. " . . .
 
knocked me
down," he managed to finish.

Danger, right in front of you, somewhere here, right here,
not just to you, to everyone, find it you idiot, find it . . .

Mary Jane looked from Norman to Peter and back again.
She couldn't understand what was transpiring. It was as
if the two of them were eating a different meal entirely. That
there was some sort of weird dynamic going on between them, at which the others could only guess.

And then, just like that, as Peter sat there and sweated as
if he were in a sauna, Norman Osborn rose to his feet.
"You'll have to excuse me. I'm afraid I've got to go."

Clearly Harry was dumbfounded. "What? Why?"

"Something
 
. . .
 
has come to my attention," he said, look-
ing pointedly at Peter again.
What the hell was going on be-
tween those two?

"Are you all right?" Harry asked. He was standing, tug
ging nervously at the neatly knotted necktie he was wearing.

"Fine, I'm fine. Thank you. Mrs. Parker. Everyone."

Even Aunt May was flummoxed. "What happened?" she
asked. But she had no more luck deciphering Osborn's odd

behavior than anyone else, for without responding to her question, Norman Osborn headed for the door. He stopped
only to take a last look back at Peter, and then he was in the
hallway. He didn't get far, though, because Harry was right
behind him, and their voices carried.

"What are you doing?" Harry demanded. At least he was
standing up to his father. M. J. had to give him credit for that.
"I planned this whole thing so you could meet M. 1, and you
barely even looked at her!"

"I've got to go," Norman said curtly.

But Harry clearly wasn't going to let it end there. "Hey!
I
like
this girl! This is important to me!"