Chapter 10: Hell in a Handbasket

The next day, Harry admired himself in the full-length mirror. Very dapper, Osborn. Very, very slick. Yet, he had yanked on a handful of strings to get this cathedral, and he had no guests to fill the seats. Even Aunt May, who had pushed them to have a real ceremony, hadn't bothered to show up. The guest list consisted of Lydia Hardy and a handful of friends he and Felicia had made in rehab. Harry would have been depressed if he weren't so elated.

The ceremony began without much ado–there was nobody to cause any–and before he knew it, Felicia had joined him at the altar. Beau was right; this was as close to total peace as he had ever been. A small and unwelcome part of Harry's mind nagged at him that there was no way it could all be true. He ignored it, reflecting that he should have started ignoring it a long time ago.

And then Captain Stacy strode in flanked by two uniformed cops. He had a blonde girl with him; Harry assumed it was Gwen, but when he looked closer, he saw that it was Felicia.

I thought I was done with these hallucinations, Harry thought, more annoyed than anything. But when he looked back at his would-be bride, she was looking frantically at the cops that were now blocking every exit.

Just as Harry was about to demand some answers, the second Felicia reached the altar.

"You stole my face," she said to Harry's bride. "I want it back."

Before anyone could react, the new Felicia carved a chunk out of the other's face with her nails. Harry jumped between them, earning himself a scratch too. The police weren't far behind; two of the uniformed officers grabbed and handcuffed each struggling girl.

"Not good, Miss Hardy," Captain Stacy scolded the interloper Felicia. "I hope you enjoyed yourself, because it'll cost you at trial."

"It was worth it," she hissed, glaring at the other Felicia.

The Captain seemed annoyed and perhaps disappointed, but not very surprised. "Harry, Mrs. Hardy, I'd like the two of you to come to the station with me. It will be easier to explain everything there. It's a long story, I'm afraid."

"You see this too?" Harry asked his future (former?) mother-in-law.

Lydia nodded numbly. Voice shaking, she said, "I wouldn't rule out the possibility that we are having the same nightmare, though."

Captain Stacy ushered them in to his office at One Police Plaza. He had a large tank full of fish that attracted Harry's attention immediately. Harry and Lydia sat on a leather couch, while the captain pulled up a chair.

"This won't be easy, so I'll be direct. We believe that your fiancée, Harry, and the girl who has been living with you, Mrs. Hardy, for the past two months, is not Felicia Hardy."

Lydia tensed. "You believe? And just what is that supposed to mean? What you're saying–well, it's just preposterous!"

"As you saw, the two girls are identical. We are ninety-nine percent certain which girl is the real Felicia, but of course, we'd prefer to be a hundred–"

"What do you need?" Lydia interrupted.

"A DNA sample from both girls, and from you or another family member–" the captain began, but Lydia didn't need any more prompting.

"Consider it done. The sooner this insanity is over with, the better."

"But why?" Harry said blankly. "Why me? Why her? What's the point?"

Captain Stacy kept his tone even and low. "We aren't entirely sure. So far, the impersonator won't tell us anything, including her real name. Harry, do you remember the letter you got from Gwen several weeks ago?"

Harry nodded. It was hard to forget.

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you at the time, but she wrote that letter under duress. Sometime between going out with you and coming home, she was taken. When you came to see me the next morning, the kidnapper had already contacted me…" The captain sighed, and just for a second, his expression betrayed his frustration. "Why don't we call her Jane Doe for now? Ms. Doe wanted you in a rehabilitation facility, and if you hadn't gotten that idea on your own, I was supposed to convince you. I hope you'll understand when I say I chose the lesser of two evils. I had to buy more time to investigate."

Lydia Hardy, who had been frowning intently, chimed in, "And then she told me she thought she needed treatment, just four weeks ago. She wanted to isolate him."

"That's right, very good, Ms. Hardy. Clearly, Ms. Doe wanted both Harry and herself out of sight of anyone they knew. I believe she needed the time to convince you to marry her, Harry. She knew friends or relatives would ask inconvenient questions. Getting rid of Gwendolyn served her two ways: it eliminated her as a romantic rival and it left you vulnerable.

"Most people fall hard on the rebound, of course, but you were never supposed to get over it. Kidnapping Gwen, manipulating you, impersonating Felicia–she's much too smart to think she could get away with any of that for very long. Her plan must have been short-term. Although I can't be sure until we have more evidence, I think she intended to kill you after your wedding."

Harry frowned at the fish tank. "She could have made me drink some booze, and then pushed me off the balcony, and called it an accident," he said, the mental image flashing bright and vivid as he described it. "And I would have done it, if she said to." As an afterthought, he added, "That's really stupid, isn't it?"

"No, Harry, it isn't. She put you in a suggestible state, like brainwashing. I wouldn't be surprised if she used some kind of drug to further weaken your defenses."

Lydia set her hand on Harry's free one. "Do you remember that breakfast?" she asked, looking as stunned as he felt. "Felicia–well, whatever her name is–she said you looked terrible that morning, and you did. But after the meal, you were quite charming. Just a bit jumpy."

Harry just stared, seeing her point but not wanting to admit it.

"And whats-her-name, she was gone for a rather long time just before the food arrived," Lydia continued. "Good lord, she could have done anything to either of us!"

Captain Stacy said, "Whatever she was up to, it was almost certainly personal. But it was also planned to the smallest detail. She wouldn't have harmed either of you until the time was just right. Fortunately, Spider-Man happened to find Felicia and Gwendolyn in time."

"Spider-Man," Harry mumbled. That word always commanded his attention. But he found that he had no hate for Spider-Man at the moment, nor even for Ms. Whats-Her-Name who plotted to kill him. He was numb, just numb. He agreed to let the police lab take a blood sample, and barely even felt the jab in his arm. It was as though his nerves had resigned in protest.

When they were finished taking the sample, Harry went back to the captain's office. It wasn't so much that he wanted to see the captain as he didn't want to go home to an empty house. He sat down and stared at the fish tank, letting his mind go blank.

He didn't know how long he had been watching the fish when Gwen appeared. He hadn't noticed the door opening.

"Harry, oh my God," she was saying, "are you all right?"

"Fine," he lied. He could tell she wasn't convinced.

She reached out to touch him, and he drew back.

Surprised, she asked, "Did daddy tell you about the letter?"

He nodded.

"Are you still mad at me?"

He shook his head.

Her shoulders slumped. "You should know, I didn't have a choice. They had a gun to my head."

"I understand." Harry took another look at Gwen. She looked worried, her usual serenity rubbed raw. It hurt him to see her that way, more so because he felt responsible. "I'm sorry, Gwen. So sorry."

Her expression smoothed out to neutral. She considered him for a moment. "You wanna meet the boys?"

"I'm not really up for that right now–"

She smiled at that, and almost all of the old pixie dust was back. "I mean them." She pointed at the fish tank. "I notice you can't keep your eyes off them."

He fidgeted. He had forgotten how observant she was.

Gwen got up and moved over to the tank. "This is Frankie. That one is Dean. This is Bogie. The black one is Sammy. The one with the red patch is Shirley. And that one at the bottom is Fluffy."

Harry furrowed his brow.

"Fluffy's mine." Gwen smiled affectionately at the little orange fish, which was snuffling up the colored pebbles that lined the floor of the aquarium.

"Why would you call a fish Fluffy?"

"Because I don't believe in fate."

"I don't get it."

She might as well have been speaking Klingon for all the sense she was making. She looked disappointed, but there was nothing he could do about it. "I'm going home," he said abruptly.

"Do you want any company?" she asked.

Harry shook his head and left her standing there. He felt bad about it, but he thought he could make it up to her. On his way out of the station house, he called up his lawyer to set up a meeting. Tomorrow, Gwen Stacy would be the brand-new majority shareholder of OsCorp.

Meanwhile, the soon-to-be heiress was looking for her father. She found him standing outside a holding cell, watching a detective interrogate the girl who was not Felicia Hardy.

"How's it going?" she asked, though she could guess from the girl's silence and the cop's expression that it wasn't going well.

George Stacy sighed. "We've got enough evidence for an indictment, but I don't know about a conviction. Juries don't like to hear that there was no motive."

"Motive? Wasn't she after his money?"

Captain Stacy turned to look at his daughter. "Do you believe that?"

Gwen shook her head. "No," she admitted. "Back in that apartment, Felicia asked her a question just to get on her nerves. But she answered it. That's when she told us about how she fed Harry drugs. She must have really wanted to talk."

George nodded. "I think she still does. You have good instincts, Peaches. I'd like to get Harry in here to talk to her soon, maybe tomorrow. If this was a personal vendetta, he's our best bet."

Back at home after meeting with his lawyer and making the necessary changes to his will, Harry felt better. More settled somehow. He had thought things through, and he was sure he was doing the right thing. Not only would he solve his own problems, he could help out the people he loved at the same time. Peter and Aunt May would never have to worry about money again. No more crummy diners for MJ. Gwendy would get to do anything she wanted at OsCorp–knowing her, a little of everything. Bernard could retire. It was a win-win scenario.

Harry took the handgun out of its drawer in the study and raised it to his temple. Cheers, he thought.

Bam!

The gun flew out of Harry's hand and skittered across the floor. For a second, Harry didn't understand, didn't know whether he was dead or alive. Then he saw his father, and he was really confused.

"Dammit, Harry, do I have to babysit you every minute of the day?" Norman snapped.

This will all be over soon, Harry reassured himself, moving to retrieve the gun. "Everything will be better this way," he murmured aloud. "Gwen will take care of OsCorp. Don't worry."

"The cop's girl? I don't think so." Norman grabbed Harry by the wrist and yanked him toward the balcony door.

"You're hurting me," Harry said.

"You're annoying me," Norman retorted coolly.

The glider was waiting on the balcony. Norman pulled Harry onto it.

"Where are we going?" Harry demanded, struggling against his father's iron grip.

"What's it to you? You were just going to kill yourself, weren't you?"

Harry didn't answer.

"You're coming with me. I need you alive."

"Oh my God." Mary Jane Watson sat at a computer in the public library, frozen. With stiff fingers, she hit the print screen button. Gathering the papers, she rushed out to call Peter. She could only hope he was at her place–otherwise, she didn't know how she could get to him in time. She plugged the phone, dialed…no dice. On the spur of the moment, she left a message on her own machine. Then she hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of Beau Hollingsworth's estate. It was probably a stupid move, but Mary Jane Watson had never been much one for reflection. Her only worry was that she wouldn't make it in time.

May Parker was unusually quiet during dinner. As far as she knew, Harry's wedding was still a couple days away, and Peter was doing fine. She wasn't worried about them, or at least not any more than usual. She was worried about herself. Beau had been very open about his ex-wives, but try as she might to tell herself that the past was past, she couldn't get over the feeling that he intended to make her wife number six.

Every time a waiter appeared, she expected a ring to come with him. Yet, there was nothing all the way through dinner, dessert, and coffee. After a couple of turns on the dance floor, May was starting to hope he'd hurry up and pop the question so she could refuse and get on with her life.

Finally, he invited her back to his mansion. May wasn't keen on that at all, but she agreed against her better judgement. They strolled through his French-style garden, May trying not to let the heavy perfume of honeysuckle and dogwood cloud her mind.

When they reached the center, Beau had champagne ready on ice. A mite presumptuous, thought May. They sat.

"May, I must say that being with you these last few weeks has been a singular pleasure. When you're with me, I can't help but dream that time would just stop. That we had a whole lifetime to share together."

He reached into an inside pocket in his jacket. May was all set to protest, but then he withdrew a flask. She fell silent. What on earth was this about?

"I've felt the hand of time heavy on my shoulder, May. Old age is but the cruelest joke of an otherwise unfeeling god. I swore long ago that I would have the last laugh–and so I will."

"I don't understand," May frowned. "Is it poison?"

Beau laughed. "Quite the opposite. It's the fountain of youth."

Peter entered Mary Jane's apartment using his key, humming a little ditty he called "I've Got a Key." He called to her, but she wasn't there. In the dark, he could see the light on the answering machine blinking. He hit the button.

"Oh my God, Peter," came Mary Jane's breathless voice, "It's him–Beau Hollingsworth. He owns Multivex. He's the one who's been shipping in all that medical equipment. He's the owner of that property where you found all the bodies. He's out with Aunt May tonight. There's no time, I'm going to go."

The recording ended.

Panic playing xylophone on his spine, Peter pulled off his street clothes and tore out of the apartment.

Mary Jane stared in despair at the enormous estate. How would she find Beau and Aunt May in this place? They could be anywhere…unless. Unless Beau was still playing Casanova. If so, he would take her to the most romantic place he owned. Mary Jane skirted the house and entered the enormous garden in the back.

The plants were tall. The garden looked wild and overgrown, but artfully so–as if someone had spent a lot of time to look like they hadn't spent a lot of time. Mary Jane knew that look well, but she didn't dwell on it. She had to find Aunt May.

Fortunately, she was getting close enough that she could hear Beau's rolling bass. She followed the sound and found the two of them in an atrium-like clearing. He was explaining how the flask he was holding could turn back the clock on aging, maybe permanently.

"Oh yeah?" Mary Jane said, stepping out dramatically. "Why don't you tell her how you found the fountain of youth, huh?" She was trying to sound confident, playing a role; she was secretly petrified.

But Beau just blinked. "I don't know what you're talking about, young lady."

"You stole corpses to experiment on. What, there weren't enough to go around or something?"

"No, there are not. Especially fresh ones. It's a perennial problem in the medical field," Beau said calmly. His eyes flashed. "As a matter of fact, it was my partner who wanted the cold bodies. You probably didn't find anything at the library tying me to a sudden exodus of homeless and other undesirables, however."

"Beau, what are you saying?" May gasped.

"Yeah, what?" Mary Jane echoed, confused.

"I have in my hand the power to stop time. To cheat death. Now, isn't that worth skimming the slime off the gene pool?"

"You experimented on living people?"

"Think about it, young lady. With all the time you, Peter and Harry spent looking through newspapers, searching for clues, you never even thought about the reports of whores and drunks going missing. Did you? Of course not. You don't care because they don't matter."

Seeing the appalled looks on their faces, he sighed. "I was afraid it would come to this." He turned sadly to May. "You're just like the rest of them. No vision at all."

On cue, two large men moved out from hidden positions and grabbed May and MJ. MJ struggled, but she was no match for the muscled thug who held her.

"What are you going to do to us?" she cried.

"I'm going to give you both a gift, my dears. You'll be the first witnesses to my genius." His eyes turned cold and hard. "Then you'll die, knowing it could have been yours."

Across town, Harry was also facing death, though of a different nature. His father had apparently brought him here. Then again, he'd had that dream before.

"You're taking this better than I thought you would," Norman commented. He cocked his head to one side like some weird species of bird. "You think it's another hallucination, right?"

"That's the logical conclusion, right?"

"Think whatever you want. All I need out of you is a steady heartbeat."

"Why?" Harry scoffed. "You never did before."

"You wanna know?" Norman smiled, all teeth. "I don't think you do."

"Try me."

"Because you're my heir, of course. As long as you're alive and kicking–or alive, at any rate–I have access to all my properties." He snorted. "I knew I could count on you not to get rid of a damn thing that belonged to me. Pathetic, but useful."

Stung, Harry fired back, "What do you even need it for? Did you figure out how to take it with you?"

Norman smiled wider than Harry had even seen him smile. "Sure did."

"What about the money?"

"The money you've been spending like it was going out of style, that money? Don't need it. I had my representative enter a business partnership on my behalf while I was…incapacitated. I believe you know Beau Hollingsworth. I provided the space, and he provided the cash flow. We shared data. Our goals weren't so far apart."

He stripped off the Goblin armor and the black shirt he was wearing underneath, exposing his chest. His lower abdomen was a hideous mass of twisted flesh, one huge, roiling scar. "One of the twin fruits of our labor. Code-named Lazarus. Cures any kind of injury, dismemberment, and death."

"That's disgusting," Harry told him, staring at the scar.

"It's not perfect. The success rate isn't as high as I could hope, and the corpses have to be fresh like sushi. I had mine frozen, see. Anyway, that's why I need to do more testing before I put it on the market. No one can find out about these labs I've set up here until I'm ready for the grand unveiling."

Harry stared at his father. "Market? Are you nuts? Do you know what a thing like that would do to people?"

"Of course! It would make them climb all over each other to give me anything I want, that's what." Norman threw back his head and laughed hysterically.

"You're sick," Harry protested over the laughter. "If you're my future, then no thanks, I'd rather be dead–"

"Uh oh."

Against his better judgement, Harry asked, "What?"

"Gate crasher."

Norman moved over to the door quickly, unbelievably fast. In one motion, he reached the door and yanked it open, scooping up Gwen Stacy as she fell forward.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Gwen mumbled, staring at Norman. "It really is you."

For the first time since Norman's death, Harry saw his father and believed absolutely that it really was him. "Dad?" he whispered.

"It ain't Johnny Carson," the Green Goblin answered wryly.

Spider-Man swung over the vast Hollingsworth estate, hoping he could spot Beau and Aunt May outside. If not, he would have to search the palatial mansion…but no, there they were. Aunt May and MJ were being held by two beefy thugs, but that was good–it meant they were okay for now.

Taking careful aim, Spider-Man concentrated his webbing into two baseball-sized lumps and pitched them at the thugs. Bullseye! He got both men right in the melon, knocking them out cold.

As Spider-Man dropped to the ground, some guy laughed. The women seemed riveted by him. "You're too late," he drawled. "Once people see what my youth formula does, they won't care how I made it."

"Youth formula…?" And all at once, Peter saw it. The blue eyes were clearer, the hair thick and blonde, but this guy was definitely Beau Hollingsworth. He looked forty years younger and at least an inch taller.

He threw a punch that Spider-Man just barely dodged–apparently, he wasn't just younger, but better. They danced around for a bit, neither really gaining ground on the other. Then Spider-Man got cocky and Beau landed a hit.

At first, Spider-Man was confused. Could he be pulling his punches? "Come on, that was a love tap," he taunted. He almost wanted Beau to hit him again, just out of curiosity's sake. But Beau seemed to be slowing down and could not land another.

"No," Beau grunted. "This is impossible." As they watched, tumors erupted underneath his skin. His muscles twisted and writhed. He was being eaten from the inside.

Spider-Man hurried Mary Jane and Aunt May away from the gruesome scene, but he returned in time to hear Beau Hollingsworth's last words: "The formula was perfect. We tested everything!"

The Goblin lifted Gwen clean off her feet and carried her to a window.

"Dad, no!" Harry cried.

"She has to go. She knows too much. Man up, will you?"

He was right, Harry realized. This was going to take courage. He picked up the nearest lethal object he saw, a large surgical knife…and held it to his own throat. "If she dies, I die–and then your precious property goes to fifty different charities in three states."

It was a Hail Mary play, but the Goblin apparently wasn't willing to gamble on losing control of his property. He hissed like a snake and dropped Gwen.

"All right, forget the girl. She won't matter anyway once you hear what I have to say. Once-in-a-lifetime offer here. I have a special formula, one that will make you an even match against Spider-Man. Makes you smart, makes you strong, what a deal. All you have to do is handle the bug while I'm doing my work."

Harry looked over at the chemicals racked on the wall. He recognized the Goblin formula from his research. "What, that one? The one that turned you into a homicidal maniac?" He shook his head. "Never."

"I was the one who was murdered–by Spider-Man! Don't you want revenge? Weren't you going to take his life as he took mine?"

Harry wavered. The corners of the Goblin's mouth pulled back a little, revealing more teeth.

"Don't you want to make me proud?"

"Wait a minute," said Gwen Stacy. "How could Spider-Man control that thing?" She pointed at the Goblin's glider.

"Shut up," said the Goblin.

"That's the murder weapon, it has to be. The police never found it–"

The Goblin flew at her, screaming. Harry had only a split second to act. He jumped between Gwen and the Goblin and drove the knife into the madman's neck. The Goblin tried to speak, but all that came out was thick black blood. He fell to the floor.

Harry dropped to his knees beside the corpse, dazed.

Gwen kneeled next to Harry. "My father worked the Norman Osborn case. I saw the autopsy photos. I'm sure about the weapon."

"I know. He was going to kill you. I couldn't let that happen."

They sat there for a moment. Suddenly, Gwen shook Harry's shoulder. "Harry, look! His wound–is it healing?"

"The Lazarus formula. We have to destroy the body."

Harry scanned the room for the means to start a fire. Gwen looked at the chemicals.

"Harry, I think this will work. Start with this one, then add this bottle here, and the body should dissolve."

Gwen held his hand as he moved to take the bottles.

"Wait–are you sure? He's still your father."

Harry shook his head. "This thing isn't my dad. Not anymore."