TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy
Author's Notes
The description of Matt Murdock's brownstone is drawn from Greg Cox, Daredevil, (New York, Penguin Putnam, Inc. 2003), pp.81-85.
"Abandon hope, all ye who enter here." — An inscription at the entrance to hell as described by Dante in The Divine Comedy. E.D. Hirsch, Jr., Joseph F. Kett, and James Trefil (Eds.), The New Dictionary of Cultural Literacy, (3d Edition - New York, Houghton Miflin Co. 2002).
Peter's brief flashback to Harry Osborn's penthouse is taken, almost verbatim, but not quite, from: Peter David, Spider-Man 2 - The Official Novelization of the Film (New York, Random House Publishing Group, 2004), pp. 271-72.
For the benefit of our non-American readers, Sing Sing and Attica are prisons located in Upstate New York.
Disclaimer
This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon: Spider-Man, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; Spider-Man 2, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; Daredevil - Director's Cut, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and Hulk, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.
XIV
JUSTICE AND MERCY
Mary Jane had her man figured out.
"For her own safety," Peter Parker whispered despondently as he stood with Matt Murdock on a ledge in the rapidly fading sunlight, watching the feds haul away the last of the suspected terrorists. Far from basking in the glory of foiling Al Qaeda's latest plot, Peter was in despair over how the ensuing publicity would make it even more dangerous for Mary Jane to be around him.
"Whose safety?" Matt inquired.
"You heard that?"
"There's very little I can't hear, Peter. What's on your mind?" The savvy lawyer figured out that behind Spider-Man's bravado-bolstered wisecracking was a scared young man trying to cope with responsibilities that should never have been his to begin with.
"My girlfriend . . . Mary Jane Watson."
"The woman who was with you behind the billboard the other night?"
A soft smile stretched the fabric of Peter's mask ever so slightly. "You know, you really spooked her, the way you went after those punks."
Matt was able to detect a subtle, yet pronounced change in Peter's heartbeat that signaled euphoria. "I wasn't anticipating an audience. But I imagine she's a very strong young lady."
Peter nodded enthusiastically. He'd only known Matt Murdock for a few hours, but he trusted his instincts enough to confide in the more seasoned urban warrior. "She walked away from her wedding to be with me," he said, his voice subdued.
"And you're afraid she's going to get more than she bargained for?"
"She already did. The guy she jilted was my boss's son."
"The Daily Bugle publisher?"
"Uh huh," Peter answered.
"I could see how that could present a problem."
Really? Peter thought sardonically. That was surely an understatement if he ever heard one. "Jameson's got a lot of clout. He'll use every bit of it to make sure that Mary Jane never finds another acting job again."
"I don't think so."
"How can you be so sure? He's got connections everywhere."
Matt smiled, both amazed and amused at how poetically justice can sometimes be served. How ironic that Peter's girlfriend left Jameson's son to be with the very object of the self-promoting mogul's smear campaign. "If it comes to that, have Mary Jane give us a call. My firm has successfully sued the Daily Bugle twice for libel. I can't imagine that Mr. Jameson would be foolish enough to try for a hat trick."
But Peter did not feel reassured. "There's more to it than that," he said, staring into space. "M.J. and I love each other so much. But I've got enemies. And if I'm ever exposed . . ." His voice trailed off. He didn't even want to think it, let alone say it.
Matt finished the thought for him. "You're afraid that if your secret got out, your enemies would go after Mary Jane," he said flatly. "I can certainly understand that."
"My aunt too," Peter added. "And with all the publicity this terrorist thing is going to generate, I'm really afraid of what could happen."
"May I make a suggestion, Peter?"
"Please."
"Ditch that photographer."
"Which one? There are lots of them."
"The one that's always taking your picture."
"How would you know about that?" Peter asked, astonished. "You don't read newspapers."
"My partner does. I get a running commentary from Foggy on the tabloids all the time." Matt smiled, no longer mystified at why Peter Parker was the only photojournalist in all of New York City who could get Spider-Man's picture. "Publicity doesn't seem to help your cause."
"But it paid the bills." Peter replied, hoping that Matt would spare him the burden of an explanation.
"Can't you find another job?"
"I already did. You think I'm gonna stick around the Bugle after what happened?"
"I would hope not." Matt said, observing that Peter's anxieties had still not subsided. "But Mr. Jameson's not the only thing that's troubling you, is he?"
"Actually, Jameson's the least of my concerns," Peter replied, overtones of worry evident in his voice. "My real problem is Harry Osborn."
Matt was astonished. "The kid who runs Oscorp?"
"Yeah. He knows who I am. He used to be my best friend. But now he hates my guts."
"Interesting." Matt's eyebrows went up behind his cowl. Like most lawyers in New York City, he'd been closely following the grand jury probe of Oscorp. He did not know Harry Osborn personally, but from everything he'd heard, he got the impression that the guy was a spoiled punk who had everything in life handed to him on a silver platter. As far as Matt was concerned, Osborn owed his position to his father's failure to plan for corporate succession. He was well aware that Pat Hamilton suspected a secret deal between Osborn and Otto Octavius, but couldn't prove it. Or could she? Matt wondered. "Why does Mr. Osborn hate you?"he asked, the lawyer's corner of his brain springing into action.
"He thinks I murdered his father."
"Did you?" Matt asked, knowing the answer before Peter even drew a breath.
"Of course not!" Peter snapped.
"I believe you." Matt said, convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt.
"Damn well you should. I just wish I could make Harry believe me."
"Have you tried?"
"Not yet."
Matt was about to probe Peter further concerning his relationship with Harry Osborn when suddenly, he heard a low humming off in the distance. He jerked his head up, looking in the general direction of Times Square.
"What is it?" Peter asked.
"Helicopter."
"So, what's the big deal? I see them all the time."
"This one's from the Daily Bugle. I can hear the voices in the cockpit." He paused, listening intently to several simultaneous conversations. "They're looking for you, apparently." Sure enough, the Bugle's silver chopper suddenly appeared over the downtown skyline and was rapidly bearing down on them, it's on-board spotlight ready to shine on anything newsworthy, especially a pair of costumed crime fighters. "I can even hear Mr. Jameson's voice coming from their headsets," Matt chuckled.
"What's he saying?" Peter asked nervously.
"He's telling the crew to get footage of that wall-crawling freak leaving the crime scene or they'll be lucky to get jobs driving school buses."
"That's Jonah for you," Peter shouted to Matt in order to make himself heard over the thundering whrrrrr of the fast-approaching helicopter's rotors. "He never stops trying to make me look bad."
"You don't have to yell, Peter. I can hear you just fine. Listen, they haven't spotted us yet. I suggest that we continue this conversation in private. Follow me." Without waiting for a response, he leaped off the ledge and fired his grappling hook.
"No need to tell me twice," Peter said, following suit. As they jumped, the pilot caught a brief glimpse of them, but by the time the cameraman hoisted his videocam into position, they were gone. Matt could faintly hear the cameraman yell, "Aw, nuts," to which the pilot replied. "Just tell the boss we didn't see anything."
A short time later, the twin demons landed on the roof of a weather-beaten brownstone townhouse, deep in the heart of Hell's Kitchen. "This way," Matt directed, leading Peter up a short flight of steps to a solid steel door. Peter looked on in amazement as Matt spun three combination locks simultaneously and stopped every one of them at precisely the right click. The door promptly swung open, revealing shadows that were darker than a midnight sky.
"You should've been a safecracker," Peter quipped.
"Save it Peter," Matt said wearily. "Come on."
As Peter crossed the threshold of Matt's abode, he felt like he was stepping into a tomb. Matt flipped a switch, and instantly the interior of the brownstone was bathed in a dim light. Peter found himself descending a stairway flanked on the right by a large bas relief depicting angels and devils forever locked in frozen battle. The only thing missing was a certain inscription over the door, etched in blood — Abandon hope, all ye who enter here . . .
Matt turned on a few more switches at the bottom of the stairs, flooding the rest of his suite with that same eerie light. Homey is definitely not the word I would use to describe this place, Peter thought ruefully. Edgar Allen Poe would've no doubt loved it here. The walls and appliances all had a dark, metallic decor, and everything was at right angles to everything else. There were no sofas, no pillows, not one soft object in the entire apartment. But he could see from Matt's sigh of relief that, to his host at least, the place was home, a dark, silent, and spotlessly clean haven from a hostile world.
The only visible decorative item was a pair of old, worn boxing gloves mounted on a wall plaque. Hanging from one of the gloves was a delicate metal cartouche on which were inscribed Greek letters and a pattern of dots which Peter recognized as Braille.
Matt reached out and softly touched the gloves. Sensing Peter's curiosity, he remarked, "They belonged to my father. The necklace was given to me by the woman I love."
"What happened to them?" Peter asked quietly as he removed his mask.
"My father was taken from me . . . because he refused to throw a fight. It happened when I was twelve. I was left alone . . . an orphan." Matt fought to keep his emotions in check as memories too painful to deal with welled up from his subconscious.
That terrible revelation brought Peter Parker closer to Matt Murdock than to anyone else on Earth. They were brothers after all, spawned from the blood of their loved ones. Here at last was someone he could truly relate to, someone who could understand him in ways that not even Mary Jane could.
Peter reached out and gently put his hand on Matt's shoulder in an empathetic gesture of solidarity. "My uncle was murdered too," he said softly, "by a carjacker."
Matt acknowledged their common bond by reaching up and lightly patting Peter's hand with his own. "On the night my father died, I swore that I would bring his killer to justice. It took me twenty two years . . ."
"Fisk?" Peter asked in a whisper, remembering Ben Urich's Pulitzer Prize piece in the New York Post about Daredevil having a hand in bringing down the Kingpin.
Matt nodded.
"Did he kill your girlfriend too?"
"He tried to. Brought in an assassin from overseas named Bullseye, whose great talent was turning anything he could get his hands on into a weapon. That's how the Kingpin operated. It wasn't enough just to kill you. He wiped out your whole family." Matt clenched both fists, the closure he so desperately sought eluding him once again.
As for Peter, he felt utterly disgusted at both Wilson Fisk's hypocrisy and his own dependency on Fiskcorp's foundations. The generous benefactor who'd helped to nurture his scientific talent had turned out to be a ruthless gang lord who'd snuffed out more than a thousand lives over the course of a criminal career that had apparently lasted for decades. By not giving back his Fiskcorp- funded scholarships, Peter felt as though he had been taking blood money. Where did that money come from? Contract killings? Narcotics? Loan sharking? It didn't matter. Regardless of what he might accomplish, his personal integrity would be stained for the rest of his life.
"I was sure that Bullseye had murdered her," Matt continued. "But after her supposed death, I found this." Matt reverently cradled the cartouche between his gloved fingers as if it were a rosary. "She left it for me as a token of her promise to come back . . .but she never did." Gazing at the necklace, Peter failed to make the connection between Matt Murdock's lover and the leather-clad female ninja he'd brought to the emergency room at Columbia University Hospital over seven months earlier.
Matt grimaced as he took off his jacket and cowl. His appearance shocked Peter. Myriad scars crisscrossed his chest, back, and shoulders, ugly reminders of fights too numerous to count. But it was Matt's battle-worn face, especially his eyes, that really unnerved Peter. They were milky and opaque, horribly scarred by the accident that took his sight away. And there was a cragginess around them that spoke of having dealt with life's darker side far too many times. In Matthew Murdock, Peter Parker suddenly saw what he would have become had Mary Jane listened to him and remained with John Jameson. And that frightened him more than any supervillain or terrorist ever could.
Matt suddenly winced, putting a hand against his back. "Could you excuse me for a few minutes please, Peter?" he gasped through gritted teeth. He was obviously in severe pain, unable to hide it any longer.
"No problem. Take your time." Peter answered, wondering how his new friend managed to survive as long as he had.
Matt pressed a wall panel, and the entire left side of his foyer opened like huge vertical Venetian blinds to reveal another side of the apartment. He disappeared between the blinds. Peter could hear groans coming from the shadows as Matt divested himself of the rest of his costume. He emerged few minutes later, wearing old sweat pants and a Columbia Law t-shirt with faded lettering. He was carrying a vial of Percoset. Peter watched in disbelief as Matt popped four of the prescription-strength painkillers into his mouth all at once, chewing them like candy. For once, Peter Parker didn't take his own regenerative healing powers for granted.
Matt motioned Peter to sit down at the kitchen table. He quickly called his law partner and told him to send the Aziz family home. Then he opened his refrigerator and tossed Peter a bottle of mineral water. Without so much as batting an eyelash, Peter snatched it out of the air in mid-flight.
"Thanks," Peter said as he opened the bottle and took a huge swig. He hadn't had a drink all day. The refreshing water had a hint of lemon, which gave it a pleasant aftertaste.
"Now, tell me about the situation between you and Mr. Osborn." Matt inquired as he sat down next to Peter.
"Is this off the record?"
"You mean is it privileged? Of course. This is a client consultation. Anything we discuss stays in this room."
Matt's promise of confidentiality put Peter at ease right away. "It's kind of complicated," he explained cautiously. "Harry's father died in an accident. When I brought the body home, Harry saw me standing there and somehow got it stamped on his brain that I killed his dad. He's been obsessed with getting revenge on Spider-Man ever since. But the strange thing was that Harry still thought of Peter Parker as his best friend."
"I see," Matt responded impassively, his senses trained on Peter like laser beams. Although Peter felt completely relaxed as he spoke, Matt was able to detect subtle changes in his heartbeat, changes which indicated that Peter was holding something back. But he decided not to confront Peter about it directly, preferring instead to let Peter reveal it when he felt ready. "So, is it safe to say that, ever since his father died, Mr. Osborn loved you and hated you at the same time?" Matt asked wryly.
Peter smiled, marveling at Matt's flawless perception as well as his dry sense of humor. "Essentially."
"How did Osborn find out that you were Spider-Man?"
"I fought Otto Octavius. You know about that, right?"
"Yes."
"After the train battle, Otto knocked me out, wrapped me up in barbed wire, and carried me to Harry's place. I was tied up on a couch and half out of it. Harry was about to stick a knife into me. Then he pulled my mask off . . . "
"Why did Octavius hand you over to Osborn?"
"Harry must've made a deal with Otto for tritium."
"Is that the catalyst that Octavius used to fire up his fusion machine?"
"Exactly," Peter said, lightly hitting the table with the side of his hand to make his point.
Matt was on it instantly. "Okay Peter, this is very important. Are you telling me that Octavius did not steal the tritium from Oscorp, but that Mr. Osborn gave it to him?"
"I never actually heard Otto and Harry talk directly," Peter responded. "I was semi-conscious when Otto brought me there."
"That's alright. Just tell me what you did hear."
Peter struggled to recall the hazy details of the brief conversation they had after Harry had yanked off his mask . . .
"Harry, Listen to me! If you have any idea what he wants—"
"All . . . he wanted was the tritium . . ."
"Tritium! Harry! He's making the machine again!"
" . . . and that's all I can remember." Peter said, his heartbeat confirming his veracity.
But it was enough. For nearly a minute, Matt didn't say a word. Finally, he looked up at Peter, his face grim. "I'd say that your friend Mr. Osborn is in very deep trouble."
"For what?" Peter asked, dumbfounded.
Matt ticked off a laundry list of felony counts. "Perjury, attempted murder, kidnaping, conspiracy, theft, breach of corporate fiduciary obligations. Osborn could get up to thirty years if he's convicted on all counts. I should also mention that Osborn was buying up Oscorp shares as the stock price was falling. The SEC could charge him with market manipulation, insider trading, and securities fraud, which could mean another ten years. And if he personally controlled the company at the time he handed the tritium over to Octavius, the damage claims from all the civil suits against Oscorp could wipe it off the map."
"Jesus Christ!" Peter murmured, unable to believe that he and Matt were talking about the same person. The man being targeted by the DA bore no resemblance to the Harry Osborn that Peter had grown up with. "Are they going to charge him with being an accessory to what happened today?"
"No," Matt explained patiently. "The DA knows she'll never be able to make that charge stick. But I'm sure the she'll use Mr. Osborn's failure to put guards around his facility to establish a track record of reckless behavior. Unfortunately, it's the only hook she can hang her hat on."
"Why?"
"Because without you, Peter, the DA has no case. You're the only one who can tie Osborn directly to Octavius's second experiment. That's what the DA needs to win a conviction."
"Matt," Peter said anxiously, "you're not saying that you want me to testify against Harry, are you?"
"Don't worry, "Matt reassured his new companion as he listened to Peter's heartbeat fluttering erratically. "I would never recommend that you testify in open court. All you'd need to do is have your deposition taken in a private law office or some other undisclosed location."
This surprised Peter somewhat. "You mean, I wouldn't have to reveal my identity to get my testimony in?"
"Not at all," Matt replied confidently. "Obtaining evidence from anonymous witnesses is nothing new. It's done all the time. You've heard of the witness protection program, haven't you?"
"Sure."
"Well, that's all it is. It would just be you and your attorney, the prosecutor, and defense counsel. Reporters would be barred. You could even sit behind a screen, have your voice disguised. As long as you can be cross-examined, you'll have no problem maintaining your anonymity. And, you'll ensure that justice is served."
At first, Peter was inclined to agree. But the more he thought about it, the more he began to harbor serious reservations. On the one hand, Harry's selfish, idiotic actions caused nearly a billion dollars worth of property damage and jeopardized millions of lives. Harry's own words proved his complicity. But on the other hand, Harry knew that he was Spider-Man. Without an incentive to keep quiet, there would be nothing to stop Harry from destroying his life and jeopardizing the safety of his loved ones. On top of that, Peter had no desire to see his only true friend put away. He knew that Harry had been a victim of emotional abuse and neglect for years. Harry needed psychiatric care to stop his downward spiral, not incarceration. Peter doubted that Harry would even make it through a trial.
"Matt," he asked tentatively, "can you guarantee that Harry will keep his mouth shut about me?"
Matt knew exactly where Peter was going. "You're afraid that if you turned Mr. Osborn in, you'd be throwing away the only leverage you have to keep him from exposing you."
"You got it, Chief," Peter said firmly. "Mary Jane and Aunt May are all I have in the world. I can't take a chance on anything happening to them."
Matt totally understood Peter's concerns, having had to keep his own secret from his closest friend for exactly the same reason. But he also felt that letting Osborn off the hook would result in a large-scale denial of justice. He placed a comforting hand on Peter's shoulder. "I know how hard this must be for you, Peter," he said gently. "But I have to be honest. I think Harry Osborn ought to be held responsible for what he did. Giving Octavius the tritium, knowing what he was going to do with it, was no different than giving a loaded gun to a convicted murderer. Osborn could well have saved Al Qaeda the trouble."
"Don't you think I know that?" Peter shot back, feeling torn between two undesirable courses of action and desperately looking for a third one. "You and the DA have Harry pegged as some kind of criminal mastermind, like the Kingpin. And that just isn't the Harry Osborn that I know." Mentally exhausted, Peter planted his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands. "I really don't know what to do Matt," he sighed, feeling as if the walls were closing in on him. "I just don't know."
Matt was not entirely unsympathetic toward Peter's plight. "Do you think Osborn might be insane?" he inquired thoughtfully. Having raised the insanity defense on behalf of many clients over the years, Matt thought it would be worthwhile to at least consider that possibility.
"I do," Peter affirmed.
"Okay Peter, now listen carefully. In order for Osborn to plead insanity, he would have to show that, at the time he gave Octavius the tritium, his mental capacity was so diminished that he couldn't distinguish right from wrong. Do you think that he can make that kind of showing?"
"Absolutely!"
"All right then. Tell me why."
Peter drew a deep breath. There was no point in hiding it any longer. "Do you remember the Green Goblin?"
"Of course. That was Osborn?"
"No. It was his father."
So, that's what Peter was holding back on, a surprised Matt Murdock thought as he once again detected a change in Peter's heart rhythm. "Well, Peter, that would change the equation quite substantially, in terms of both heredity and behavior."
Peter nodded his head vigorously. "The last time I saw Harry, he was barely hanging on. And if he ever found out the truth about his father, it would unhinge him completely, especially if he's got some sort of predisposition."
Matt agreed, albeit somewhat reluctantly. "All right, Peter. You know Osborn far better than I do, so I'll defer to your judgment. Do what you think is best."
"You won't go to the DA?" Peter asked, unsure of what Matt had just told him.
"If I did, I would be disbarred for breach of ethics." Matt told him firmly. "Let me again assure you that everything we discussed here tonight will remain confidential."
"Thanks," Peter responded, grateful for the vote of confidence that Matt Murdock had given him. "What do I owe you?"
"Your soul," Matt responded with a mockingly menacing smile.
"Not my first born?" Peter retorted with a laugh.
"That too. But seriously, don't worry about it. I'm taking your case pro bono."
"I appreciate it very much, Matt," Peter replied, imagining Aunt May sternly admonishing him not to be a freeloader. "But that's your livelihood. It wouldn't be right."
Matt was impressed by Peter's ironclad sense of ethics. But he still felt uneasy about charging his full fee to the struggling college student. "Okay, Peter, if you feel that strongly about it, we'll work out some sort of arrangement."
"That's fine." He glanced out Matt's window and saw that darkness had fallen. "I have to go. I was supposed to be studying for finals today."
"In what?" Matt asked, genuinely curious.
"Quantum mechanics, microbiology, and biochemistry."
"I apologize for having to pull you away from your studies, Peter, but your testimony in court today was invaluable for our client."
"No problem. Glad to help."
Suddenly a lightbulb went on inside Matt Murdock's head as he showed his guest to his "front" door. "Peter, what do you know about DNA?" he asked as they stepped out onto the roof.
Peter smiled. "Quite a bit actually. I just finished an honors seminar on genetics. I tested out of the basic course."
"That's quite amazing," Matt said admiringly. "Do you know enough to do a forensic DNA analysis?"
"Sure. I know all the basic techniques and most of the advanced ones. The final project in our seminar was to do a simulation. We had to use DNA testing to get a murder conviction overturned. I got the highest grade in the class."
Perfect, Matt thought excitedly. "That's exactly the kind of expertise our firm needs right now. How would you like to work off your fee?"
"How?" It sounded to Peter like another job offer was coming.
Matt quickly explained. "I've got three clients on Sing Sing's death row. They're all innocent, believe me. But their attorneys screwed up, and I'm handling the appeals. All we need to get them off is reliable DNA evidence. I've got hearings coming up. I need someone to review the work that was originally done on the samples taken from the crime scene and testify about the results. Think you can do it?"
"I know I could. But I'm not an expert."
But the sharp lawyer had already done his research. "You mean you don't have the credentials. That won't be a problem, trust me. You make one hell of a witness, Peter. Your experience will establish your expertise."
"So, I can pay my legal fees by helping you get your clients off death row?" Peter asked, excited and intrigued by the possibilities. Opportunities to do public service always appealed to him.
"Only the first one. My law firm will pay you for the other two after we get reimbursed by the state."
"How much?"
"Five thousand dollars per case. Do a good job on these and more cases will follow. Interested?"
"Is the Pope Catholic?" Peter quipped excitedly, his eyes all but popping out of his head. Between this and his work for Connors, he could finally afford a decent place to live and court Mary Jane the way she deserved. He couldn't wait to tell her.
Matt produced a business card and handed it to Peter. "Give me a call when you're finished with school. The first hearing's less than a month away, probably sooner."
"Thanks, Matt," Peter said. "I appreciate the opportunity."
"I'm the one who should be thanking you," Matt responded as they shook hands on the roof. "And don't forget to dump that photographer."
"I won't," Peter responded as he donned his mask, smiling at the prospect of firing himself. "I'll do it first thing in the morning."
As Matt retreated into his sepulcher-like home, Peter fired his webline and took off, grateful for the continuing upswing in his personal fortunes. It was nice to know that he would not have to battle the bad guys by himself anymore. But his session with Harry could no longer be put off. He just hoped that he wasn't too late.
XXXXXXXXXX
It was nearly eleven o'clock by the time Peter arrived at the Osborn family residence in the upper East Side, the most exclusive and expensive part of Manhattan. The lights were on in the penthouse and the french doors leading to the terrace garden were still open. Peter hoped that Edmund Bernard, the family retainer, had gone home for the evening, so that there wouldn't be any witnesses.
Peter still felt deeply conflicted. Matt Murdock was absolutely right that Harry ought to be held responsible for all the damage he caused, and for Mary Jane almost losing her life. But at the same time, he realized that Harry couldn't be culpable if he was incapable of understanding the consequences of his actions. Peter really needed time alone with Harry to sort things out. Maybe Harry could be persuaded to settle the matter and avoid a trial altogether, he hoped.
Peter landed as silently as a prowling tiger on the terrace, quickly changed into his street clothes, and made his way toward the french doors, his heart in his mouth. He prayed that Harry would be awake, sober, and rational enough to hear him out.
Getting as close as he could to the doors without being seen from inside, Peter almost gasped when he saw a life-sized portrait of Mary Jane hanging near the fireplace. He had never noticed the picture before. M.J. was sitting in a chair, wearing the same black dress she wore on that dreadful Thanksgiving day back in the loft. He must've had it commissioned when they were still dating, Peter thought. Although she looked incredibly beautiful in that painting, he found it oddly disturbing that Harry hadn't bothered to take the picture down after they broke up. Oh, man, he's still got feelings for her, Peter grimly realized.
Looking around the enormous living room,he saw Norman Osborn's big desk , still on a forty-five degree angle to the fireplace. The back of the chair was facing the desk. Everything else was exactly where it had been the last time he was here.
Even though this place was a luxury penthouse, Peter thought that it was much more of a dungeon than Matt Murdock's brownstone. An air of total desolation permeated the place. He suddenly recoiled as he caught the powerful smell of ammonia wafting through the french doors. It was an unmistakable sign that someone had vomited on the carpeted floor. He heard the sound of a swivel chair turning, and looked up to see his one-time best friend sitting behind the desk. Peter's jaw fell and he let out a quick gasp.
Harry looked as if he hadn't slept for days. All but gone was his more-than-passing resemblance to James Dean. He was completely disheveled, his suit rumpled and wrinkled, his hair matted and unkempt, and his face covered with thickening stubble. He'd obviously been drinking heavily, judging from the presence of empty liquor bottles scattered on the floor around his desk. His eyes were sunken and hollow, and his skin was very pale. He was holding the Green Goblin's mask in one hand, staring at it and babbling incoherently, like some drunken Hamlet. Oh my God! Peter exclaimed to himself, He knows. But that was not what caused his spider-sense to go off. In his other hand, Harry was holding a pistol and raising it to his forehead, his shaking finger just microseconds away from squeezing the trigger.
Peter reacted instantly, his life-saving instincts honed by two years worth of lightning-fast reflex actions. He fired a precisely-aimed web ball that knocked the pistol out of Harry's hand and sent it flying with a clang into the brick facade of the fireplace. Harry cried out in surprise. But he was too inebriated to feel any pain.
"That isn't the answer, Harry." Peter said gently, slowly walking in through the french doors.
With obvious effort, Harry struggled to focus on Peter. For a few seconds, his eyes wandered independently of each other before settling in on their target. "What the fuck are you doing here!" he shouted in a drunken slur. "Get the hell away from me! I have nothing left any more! Let me go to my father."
Peter felt heartsick at seeing Harry in such a state of torment. Harry must've watched the newscasts and found out that Al Qaeda terrorists had set up shop in one of his buildings. And that, together with the fact that his best friend was his arch-enemy, must-ve pushed him dangerously close to the edge. Peter was not a psychiatrist, but he knew that Harry's suicide attempt and expressions of hopelessness were signs of severe depression. That alone was enough to resolve Peter's moral dilemma about testifying, and confirm that Harry needed psychiatric intervention, and needed it fast.
"Take my word for it,you really don't want to be where your father is now," Peter said soothingly. "Harry, you need help. You're still my best friend . . ."
"Best friend!" Harry screamed, his words tripping over one another as they fought their way out of his mouth. "You screw up my life every way you can and you still talk about us being best friends? You took my father! You took my girlfriend . . . And now, let me guess. You're gonna take my company away from me too, right?"
"Harry, you're barely making any sense."
"Don't play dumb with me, you fucking hypocrite!" he shrieked. "I know all about the goddamn grand jury! I know that those fucking terrorists got into my warehouse! So who winds up being the fucking hero again! Always saving someone, aren't you, huh? You and that other creep who got dredged up from the sewers . . ." Harry couldn't even think straight. Desperate for another drink, he reached for a bottle of Cutty Sark that was sitting on the desk, but it was empty. He tried to throw the bottle at Peter, but all he managed to do was to knock it over.
"Harry, you're drunk. You really need to lay off that stuff."
Harry went on, oblivious. "And guess what? You're the only one who can nail me. All you have to do is show up at that courthouse and tell them about me and Octavius, and they'll take me to the cleaners. Send me right to fucking Attica! Right?"
"It's not that simple, Harry. I . . ."
"RIGHT?" he yelled.
"I don't want to do it," Peter said quietly, doing his best to remain calm. "I'm not going to testify."
For a brief moment, it looked as though Peter might have actually gotten through. Harry looked as if he wanted to take Peter at his word. But all of a sudden, he glanced toward the sofa on Peter's left, as if someone was sitting there, giving cues. Following Harry's eyes, Peter involuntarily turned to look in that direction, and saw no one. But Harry obviously did.
"Bullshit! You think I'm an idiot?" Harry laughed contemptuously at Peter, his voice oozing black, slimy venom. "That's exactly what my father says you'll do. Peter Parker, the self-righteous slime ball. He'll always do the right thing, no matter who he fucks over in the process. Boy was I stupid not to see it."
His father? Is that who he sees on the sofa? Peter thought, his mind racing as the severity of Harry's condition became apparent. He knew now that Harry was in no shape to stand trial, not if he was psychotic.
"Harry, I want to make a deal with you." he said softly, trying to get through to his friend before he lost it completely. "We both know each other's secrets. If you keep silent about me, I promise I won't go to the grand jury."
Harry stared blankly at him.
Peter laid it on the line, hoping for a breakthrough. "You dated M.J. once, and you obviously still care about her," he pleaded, nodding briefly toward Mary Jane's portrait. "You don't really want to see her get hurt, do you? Because that's exactly what will happen if you expose me. M.J. will become a target for Al Qaeda and everyone else who's got it in for me."
Harry looked momentarily confused. He glanced back toward the sofa, like an actor who had forgotten his lines and was looking for stage directions. Then he broke out in an evil, Goblin-like laugh. "What's the matter Pete?" he sneered with bitter sarcasm. "Afraid you won't get any more blow jobs?"
Peter now realized that it wasn't Harry who was trying to provoke him with such vile utterances about the woman he loved. But all the same, he had to fight the urge to kick in Harry's teeth. He took a few deep breaths to dissipate the anger that was rapidly building up inside him. "Don't listen to him, Harry," he urged. "He isn't real. You don't want to be like him. You've got to get rid of him before it's too late."
"I don't know what you're talking about, you asshole!" Harry hissed. But then he said something that gave Peter a tiny sliver of hope that a little of his personality might still be left. "This may seem hard for you to believe, but I still care about Mary Jane too. I still cherish her friendship. As far as I'm concerned, M.J. is off limits. For better or for worse . . . no, for worse, since she's made her decision. But that's okay, because very soon she'll wake up and find that she's a beautiful young widow. And I'll be there for her."
Peter ignored Harry's less-than-subtle threats. "Harry, you have to understand something," he said, still wanting more than anything to set things right between them. "I promised your dad just before he died that I would never tell you about the Green Goblin, but you've obviously discovered that for yourself. So there's no longer any reason to keep it from you. Please, let me just tell you the truth about what happened, and maybe, just maybe, we could get back to where we were before this whole Spider-Man thing got started."
"Get back to where we were?" Harry yelled. "There's nothing left to go back to! You should've thought of that before you killed my father!"
"I didn't kill your father," Peter responded calmly. "And you know it."
"That's not true!" Harry shouted like a hyper-petulant toddler, apparently being urged on by the unseen presence on the sofa. "I saw you standing there with my father's body! Right here! Right here in this room!"
"Harry," Peter said slowly, realizing with dawning horror that he was once again battling the Green Goblin. "He did it to himself. He tried to run me through with his glider, the night he kidnaped Mary Jane and threw her off the 59th Street Bridge. All I did was get out of the way."
"I don't wanna hear any more of this bullshit, you fucking liar!" Harry screamed even louder. To drown out Peter's voice, he squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears with his hands.
Peter was down to his last arrow. "The balcony, Harry," he said gently, but unwaveringly. "Remember the balcony, when the Goblin took out the Oscorp Board? He knew that you were up there when he destroyed that balcony. He tried to kill you along with the Board members. They were useless to him . . . just as you were." Peter's voice took on a tone of desperate urgency. "Think about it Harry. Your father didn't even think twice about killing his own son."
The conviction in Peter's words struck Harry with the force of a cannon ball, breaking his father's tight grip, if only for a moment. The fear and rage drained out of Harry's eyes, leaving them lucid once more. "Help me Pete!" Harry whispered frantically in a final, desperate plea. "He's taking over! I can't keep him away anymore." He picked up the Goblin's mask and tried to smash it against the desk, but couldn't even dent it.
But Harry's distress signal had reached its intended destination. Peter knew exactly what Harry wanted him to do. "It's okay buddy— I'm here— just hang in there," he tried to reassure his friend as he threw the mask on the floor and brought his fist down on top of it with all his might. Unable to withstand the massive pressure, the mask crumpled, its yellow eyepieces shattering. Peter kept pounding it until there was nothing left but a clump of green metal.
Unfortunately, both Peter and Harry had underestimated the violent tenacity of Norman Osborn's ghost. Harry's mental state had been so weakened by the boundary issues he had with his father that, without his delusional belief that Peter was responsible for Norman's death, there was nothing left to hold his tortured mind together. "No, No, NO! Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!" Harry screamed, foaming at the mouth as Norman refused to let go. Before Peter's eyes, Harry was regressing, going back to a child-like existence. He curled up into a fetal pose, covering his face and ears with his hands and tucking his chin into his chest. Peter felt utterly helpless as he watched Harry enter the final stages of a complete mental and emotional breakdown. Harry's eyes rolled up inside his head, and he pitched forward out of the chair, crashing face first on the floor. The exorcism had failed.
"Oh, Christ, no!" Peter muttered as he laid Harry out and checked to make sure he was still breathing. It was decision time. He had to get Harry to a hospital, preferably one with a psychiatric ward. Bellevue was too far, but Lenox Hill was on 77th Street, only a few blocks away. Once back in uniform, he threw Harry's unconscious form over his shoulder. Because of the way he was carrying Harry, he could not use his webbing to swing between buildings, so he had to settle for leaping between rooftops, a.k.a. Daredevil.
As the hospital came within sight, Peter's Spider-sense went off. An instant later, he heard a gurgling sound. He knew what was coming, but there was no way he could avoid it. Harry's body was reacting as anyone's would to massive consumption of eighty-proof blended scotch whiskey. Still unconscious, Harry threw up all over Peter's shoulder and back. Peter wrinkled his nose in disgust at the appalling stench of alcohol mixed with stomach acids.
Wasting no time, Peter landed in front of the emergency room entrance and carried Harry in through the double-doors. "I found this man unconscious in his apartment nearby," he said to the on-duty receiving nurse, who quickly ordered a stretcher.
Several more attendants materialized, and in no time, they strapped Harry down and wheeled him into the emergency room.
"Thank you Spider-Man," the nurse said, keeping her distance for obvious reasons. "We'll take it from here." But he was gone by the time she finished.
And I'll bet you're thinking, "Why the hell don't you take a shower," Peter said to himself as he leaped skyward once again, his costume stained with vomit. Don't worry, That's exactly what I'm going to do.
Peter made his way back to his apartment, longing for the security of his own bed so that he could put this awful day behind him. His worst fears about his friend had been realized. Harry was much too fragile to handle the truth about his father. Seeing Harry reduced to a shell of his former self was more than Peter could bear. It left him feeling absolutely devastated, his guilt at precipitating Harry's sharp decline swamping whatever pride he might have felt about his heroism that day. Harry's right about one thing, he thought bitterly, Every time I try to do the right thing, someone I care about always gets hurt. It never fails.
Physically tired and emotionally drained, Peter arrived home, slipping in through his open balcony windows in order to avoid his annoying landlord. He swiftly changed out of his costume and put it in a plastic garbage bag. He threw on his ratty old bathrobe and showered up, grateful that Ditkovitch wasn't awake. As long as he kept up his rent, that ex-commissar wouldn't hound him. He couldn't wait until finals were over and he could start looking for a new place. He lathered himself up thoroughly to make sure that the odor of Harry's puke was completely gone. Once he finished toweling off, he rushed down to the laundromat and washed his costume twice. It took nearly an hour to remove the awful aroma, but at least the problem had been solved. While he was waiting, he reviewed his notes in preparation for his upcoming finals. When his costume was finally dry, he trudged back upstairs, and got into bed, knowing that he had to get up in two hours for more cramming.
"I love you Mary Jane," he whispered softly, breathing a sigh of relief as he finally turned out the lights on one of the most bizarre days of his young life.