Spiderman 1 (47 page)

"He did," Osborn admitted slowly, as if puzzle pieces
were being assembled in his mind.

"Plucked your heartstrings like a master. Connived his
way into your heart, leaving no room for Harry, your true
son and heir . . . "

Of course. Of course! How could he have been so foolish
as to not be able to see it?
"It's true
 
. . .
 
oh, God
 
. . . "

"And now,"
said the Goblin, moving in for the emotional
kill,
"after everything you've done for Peter Parker, after everything you've taught him,
this
is how he repays you? "

Years and years of guilt piled upon Osborn as he cried
out, "What have I done to Harry?! What have I done to my
own son!"

"Betrayal must not be countenanced . . . Parker must
be . . .
 
educated . . ."

Osborn sat partway up, propping himself on his elbow. In
his dementia, he didn't think it remotely odd that he should
be carrying on a chat with a mask. "What do I do?" he asked
firmly.

"Instruct him in the matters of loss and pain. Watch him
suffer, make him wish he were dead. . . ."

"Yes!"

"And then grant his wish!"

"But how?" demanded Osborn.

"The cunning warrior attacks neither body nor mind."

Instantly Osborn was furious. He didn't need cryptic
hints at this point. He needed solid guidance. "Tell me how!"
he fairly bellowed.

The mask was silent for a moment, and when it spoke again, it said,
"The heart, Osborn
 
. . .
 
first . . .
 
we attack his
heart."

Ben Parker's mother had hated her.

That's what I should have said to her,
Aunt May realized
as she readied herself for bed. She did so in the same meticulous manner, with the exact same routine, that she had fol
lowed for more than a half century. It was so drilled into her
that she gave it no conscious consideration, because her
mind was elsewhere, dwelling on the poor, mortified Mary
Jane Watson.

As she fluffed her pillow—three times, not two—and
moved back the sheet the precise length—eighteen inches—
that would allow her to easily climb into bed, she shivered slightly in her flannel pajamas. It was Thursday; Thursday, not Friday, was flannel pajamas. And she recalled a day—
many years gone—when the debonair Benjamin Parker had
brought a scared young woman named May Reilly home to

meet his folks. Ben's father had been indifferent, and his
mother had been positively scathing, critiquing everything
from May's clothing to her hairstyle to her interest in Ben.
May had tried to take it all, but eventually she had suc
cumbed to her misery and bolted from the house, convinced she would never seen Ben Parker again.

Well, obviously it hadn't worked out that way, but she wished that she'd thought to say that to Mary Jane. Granted, tonight had been a disaster, and Osborn's behavior had been
just abominable. But many relationships had hit similar
rocks and managed to keep on sailing, just the same.

Thoughts of Ben affected her in that melancholy way
they always did. She touched a framed photo of him that sat on the bedside table. The telephone answering machine was next to it. His voice was still on the answering machine. All
these months he'd been gone, and she still couldn't find it within herself to change it. Every so often, she would play
the message while staring wistfully at the photograph. "Hi,
we're not around to take your call," his photo would "say,"
and she'd sigh heavily and wish that either he was still
around
 
. . .
 
or that she was with him.

But there was no point dwelling on such things.

The good Lord had decided that she was to remain
around for a while longer, that was all, and if He was inclined to reveal His purpose in these apparently capricious
matters, then He would do so. In the meantime, she would
simply deal with the hand she'd been dealt.

May knelt next to the bed, moaning softly as her knees
creaked beneath her. Blasted arthritis was getting worse. Oh, for the youthful suppleness of the muscles she had once possessed. She had a young mind, she felt. What sort of perver
sity captured such a young mind in such an old and limited
shell?

Well, the kind of perverse mind that would take Ben vio
lently from her in a most untimely manner. Then May de-

cided that further musings along those lines would most
surely be blasphemy, and she didn't pursue them. Instead she
rested her elbow on the bed, folded her hands and closed her
eyes.

"Our Father, who art in heaven," she said with ease
brought by long practice. "Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give
us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into
temptation, but . . . "

At that moment the wall behind her exploded. For a split
second May thought she was back in World War II, back as
a field nurse in that foolhardy, mad endeavor she'd never told
Peter about, lest he consider it carte blanche to do something
stupid himself. She thought that she was being shelled by the
Germans or something. She hit the floor, plaster and glass flying over her head, and then she managed to gather together her scattered wits.

She turned toward the source of the crazed entrance, and
was stunned. Floating a short distance away, the sound of his
turbine engines roaring, was that ghastly creature the news
papers had dubbed the Green Goblin. She pulled bits of broken glass out of her hair as she gaped in confusion, watching
as the costumed madman peered in through the hole he'd
just created.

Green vapor was spewing out of his glider, filling the
room. Then his face suddenly seemed to widen and widen, until it became impossibly distorted and filled the room,
reaching from one side to the other. Those yellow eyes of his
were glowing in the relative dimness of the bedroom. He let
out one loud, demented laugh, and Aunt May tried to flee.
Instead she fell to the ground, putting up her hands, trying to
ward him off as she stammered, "But . . .
 
but . . .
 
but . . . "
over and over again.

"Finish it! Finish it!"
howled the Green Goblin.

She clutched at her chest, unsure of what "it" the Goblin
meant, unless the monster was referring to her time on earth.
But then she understood, and she cried out in terror, ".. .
de
liver us from evil!"
and suddenly there was a feeling like a
massive vise across her chest, knocking the breath, the very
life from her. Her back arched, tensed, and then she went
limp as a sack of rice. Her eyes closed, her head slumping to
one side, and the last thing she heard as the darkness
claimed her was,
"Amen, sister!"
accompanied by a lunatic
and very self-satisfied chortling.

XXIV.

THE YELLOW EYES

Peter sprinted down the hospital corridor, out of his mind with worry. Nurses and orderlies scrambled to get out of his
way. He almost collided with an old man just emerging from
his room, pulling an IV on a rolling stand. But Peter darted
around him with ease, so quickly that the elderly patient wasn't quite sure whether someone had just gone past him
or not.

He reached the last room on the right, ducked inside, and
stopped in his tracks. Despite the fact that he was in a hospital room, despite the fact that trained medical personnel
were working with the frenzy of worker bees hauling ass to
please the queen, still all he could do was flash back to that
horrible moment that was Uncle Ben's last.

God, don't let her die . . .
 
it would be like being orphaned
twice . . .

If God was operating through the hands of the doctors,
then He was working overtime. May Parker lay in a hospital
bed, hooked up to so many machines that she looked as if
she was ready to be fired into orbit. Her face was ashen, and
although her eyes were wide open, it was unclear to Peter whether she was even capable of communicating.
A major shock . . .
 
triggered an episode,
he'd been told. But the cir
cumstances of May's collapse were maddeningly vague, and
it was that lack of information that was threatening to drive
him over the edge.

"Aunt May!" Peter called.

At first he didn't think she was going to respond. But then
her eyes focused on him, and he was so overjoyed that his
heart skipped a beat, figuratively speaking. Unfortunately
Aunt May's heart also skipped a beat, but it was rather more
literal, and she started to twitch in great agitation.

"What happened?! Is she going to be okay?!" Peter cried

out.

"Sir, please!" said one of the nurses with a commanding
voice. "Let the doctors work!"

Peter started to head toward his aunt, but the nurse—a stout woman who was to bedside warmth what wind shear was to airplane safety records—hooked an arm around his
elbow and propelled him toward the door. Naturally, Peter
could have lifted her over his head, slam-dunked her, used
her as beach ball if he was so inclined. Instead, his attention
fixed upon Aunt May's face, Peter allowed himself to be led
out of the room, frantically looking over his shoulder re
peatedly for a last glimpse of her. And that was when he
heard her cry out, "Those eyes
 
. . .
 
those
horrible yellow

eyes!"

Those words meant nothing to the doctors and nurses
who were attending her, trying to calm her. They undoubtedly figured she was experiencing some sort of delusion, a fevered and terrifying nightmare.

But for Peter . . .

At first his mind just locked up, hearing those words
without fully grasping them.

And then he saw the face of the Green Goblin.

In his imagining, the Goblin's face
—
with those blazing yellow orbs filled with hatred
—
was on an upright domino.
The domino was wavering slightly, and then it fell over . . .
and struck another domino with Aunt May's face on it, which
struck a final domino that had Peter's face on it. But it had
Spider-Man's face as well. It was split right down the mid-