Spiderman 3 (5 page)

"More than enough," grated Harry.

That's my boy.

Norman Osborn embraced him. He had no substance at all. Harry didn't care. He hugged him as hard as he'd always wished he had in life.

Then Harry rose from his chair, guided by his father. He headed for the entrance to the lair hidden by a full-length mirror that Harry had once shattered, then quickly replaced once he'd realized what was concealed behind there.

He pushed the mirror aside and stepped through.

The equipment beckoned to him, and he would heed the call, for the son could do no less for the father than he, the father, had done for him.

Flint Marko, aka William Marko, aka William Baker, pressed himself flat against the alleyway nearby a row of rundown apartment houses. A police car was cruising by, and although Marko had fairly unremarkable features—light brown hair, a square jaw—the prison garb he was wearing would have been a dead giveaway.

He was having trouble catching his breath and wondered not for the first time if he was having a heart attack. Curiously, the thought of dropping dead in the alleyway wasn't all that disturbing to him. Flint Marko had lived his life in a way that didn't engender much love for his own existence or much care as to whether he lived or died. A guy like Marko knew that when your number was up, there was no use whining about it.

He remembered once, when he was young, seeing a big hourglass in a pawnshop. He had turned it over, watched the steady stream of sand as it filtered to the bottom, then reversed it just before the sand had completely run through. Then he'd watched as it fell through the other way, then again and again, turning it over and over until his mother was done hocking her wedding jewelry and informed her son that it was time to leave. He had found it frustrating because he'd felt as if he were in competition with the sand, and if the sand made it all through to the other side, he was going to lose. Defiantly, he'd laid the hourglass on its side in hopes of thwarting the sand.

The hourglass had rolled off the table and crashed to the ground, spreading sand everywhere. The angry shopkeeper had demanded compensation, taking back just about all the money he'd given to Flint's mother, and young Flint had gotten an earful and a good beating when he got home.

It had been a hard-learned lesson: the sand always wins. Because the sand represents time, and nothing can stop time from passing.

But he'd be damned if he was going to spend any more of his passing time in the custody of New York State, that was for sure.

He was clutching a stack of letters to his chest, held together by a rubber band. The edges of some of the envelopes were battered, and the ink was smeared on a few of them. Closer inspection would have revealed the words DELIVERY REFUSED: RETURN TO SENDER Stamped On the front of every single envelope.

Marko hugged the shadows, not wanting to make the slightest move until he was certain the police car was long gone. Once he was satisfied that—for the moment—he was safe, he made his way over to a familiar fire escape. The ladder was above his reach. He glanced around and found a length of frayed, discarded rope nearby amidst the rest of the garbage in the alley. It wasn't much, but it would serve his purposes. He tied the end of the rope around the packet of letters, then tossed the letters upward. He missed the first time, but the second time, the packet swung up and over the lower rung and dropped halfway down again. Marko reached up, now able to grip both ends of the rope, and pulled down as hard as he could. The ladder resisted at first, then gave up and slid noisily down toward him.

The racket caused Marko to step back into the shadows to wait for a reaction from anyone. But there was nothing. No response at all from any of the windows above. He supposed that shouldn't have been a surprise. This was New York, the city where, years ago, several buildings' worth of people had turned away and done nothing—not even call the cops—while a young woman was brutally murdered, screaming for help the entire time. If cries for succor weren't sufficient to get neighbors interested, certainly the creaking of a fire escape ladder wasn't going to prompt any involvement.

He scrambled up the ladder like a monkey on a mission and, moments later, was clambering up the fire escape. He was doing so as quietly as he could; no use tempting fate by counting too heavily on the perceived apathy of New Yorkers.

Marko drew close to a familiar window and briefly considered the possibility that the people supposedly living within had moved. Why not? He'd have no way of knowing. No one ever came to visit him in prison, and with his letters returned, who was to say that they weren't currently residing in New Jersey or Connecticut or Outer Mongolia. Peering into the darkened room, he saw someone asleep in the bed, and for a moment his worst fears were realized. It wasn't Penny. It couldn't be. Penny was much smaller than this child…

But then he recognized the array of medicines upon her night table, and the snow globe he'd gotten her for her fifth birthday, and his concerns were eased. He even took a moment to appreciate the humor of the situation: that he had been thrown off by the simple fact that Penny had grown. Well, of course—he'd been in jail for eighteen months.

Flint slid open the window and eased himself into the room. He almost tripped over a doll she'd left on the floor. Cautiously he picked it up, praying it wouldn't make any noise, and placed it on a chair. Marko moved like a thief in the night, except he was dropping off rather than taking away.

It was a reckless indulgence, but he leaned down and kissed his sleeping daughter anyway on the top of her brunette head. She didn't stir. A bit more boldly, but still being careful, he eased the stack of letters under her pillow. There. That way Penny would be sure to see them in the morning, provided "other people" didn't stumble over them first.

He paused by the snow globe and picked it up. He recalled when he'd first found it in a curio shop, with its tiny castle surrounded by swirling snow. He remembered imagining Penny's delighted reaction and hadn't been disappointed. She had clapped her hands with glee and thanked her father profusely. Even Emma had smiled, and that wasn't something she did easily in those days… and, admittedly, probably even less these days.

Marko made his way carefully out into the living room. His old trunk was there, right where he'd left it. He opened it slowly so as not to cause the hinges to creak.

Just as he'd figured: all his clothes had been stuffed into it. Emma had cleared out his closet and his drawers. He supposed that shouldn't have been too much of a surprise. Perhaps he should have been relieved she hadn't donated them all to Goodwill.

Quickly he doffed the clothes he'd been wearing and pulled on a pair of dark trousers and a black-and-green-striped sweater. He kept the shoes he'd been wearing. Then he moved quickly to the kitchen, desperate to fulfill the craving for food at the pit of his stomach.

He felt like a trapped animal, and every bit the loser that his wife had pronounced him to be. Emma had made it clear that she wanted Flint out of her and Penny's lives. But how could she say that? Didn't she understand what he was capable of doing to help? Some freaking compassion was all he was looking for, some acknowledgment that he was just doing the best he could to help. Doing the best one could had to count for something. Why couldn't she just—

The kitchen light snapped on.

Flint turned and froze, as if the beam of light had lanced through him. The bread was still in his mouth as he found himself staring into the startled face of Emma Marko. Then that expression of surprise faded, replaced by a total lack of surprise, as if she'd expected that—sooner or later—he'd show up at their apartment, desperate and on the run like an idiot.

Being a well-meaning idiot didn't earn him a lot of cred from her these days.

He opened his mouth slightly and allowed the bread to drop into his open hand. Flint both looked and felt foolish. The weight of their mutual history settled between them like a vast invisible barrier.

Without the slightest indication that she was at all curious how he'd managed to break out—perhaps she'd read about Marko having slipped away when a fight had broken out among fellow convicts during an enforced outing to clean up local highways—or what it was he wanted or hoped to achieve in having come here, Emma brusquely said, "You can't hide here, Flint."

Her hair prematurely graying, her face careworn (both of which Marko blamed himself for), Emma drew her ratty pink bathrobe more tightly around herself, as if that would protect her should he choose to attack her.

Ultimately Flint Marko decided that, despite the dire situation, he need not forsake at least the slightest indication of respect and even—dare he say it?—affection. Pulling together what little charm he had left, Marko forced a smile and asked, "How are ya, Emma?"

She looked as if she wanted to laugh at the question. Obviously she considered it ludicrous. "How's it look how Emma is?" she demanded. She gestured broadly, trying to encompass the entirety of her miserable life. "She's on welfare and got no insurance. And we have this beautiful furniture," she added sarcastically. She shook her head and, in a fairly decent impression of his deep, growling voice, mimicked," 'How are ya, Emma?'"

She was trying to put him on the defensive. She was lashing out, and he had to keep reminding himself not to react in anger. In truth, she had every reason to be pissed off at him. He d brought all or this down on them. Granted, he had just been trying to help. In the end, though, what difference did that make? He was still a lousy con on the run, Penny was still sick, and Emma's life was still in the toilet. Intentions didn't mean a damn. Only results mattered.

"I'm just here to see my daughter," he said, forcing himself to keep his voice calm and even.

"You're an escaped convict," she snapped. "The cops are looking for ya. You're not getting near her. You're nothing but a common thief, and you maybe even killed a man."

"No, I—!" Marko could feel his self-control slipping. Emma sensed it and, perhaps worried that she'd pushed him too far, took a defensive step back. He took in a deep breath, let it out, regained control. "It wasn't like that. I had good reason for what I was doing, and that's the truth." He knew it was futile. She didn't care about the truth. She didn't care about him.

"You and the truth sitting in prison having three meals a day," she sneered. Her face was so twisted in fury, it was hard for Marko to believe that she had ever loved him. How was it possible for someone to change that much? "You wanta talk truth? I live in the presence of great truth. That's the truth you left behind." She pointed toward Penny's door. "Right there in that bedroom."

Flint reflexively looked in the direction that Emma was pointing and was startled to see Penny's limpid eyes peering at him from the narrow opening in the doorframe. He could see that she was clutching the packet of letters to her chest. He could see the recognition dawning in her eyes, and the indisputable look of pleasure upon seeing him.

Let Emma scream at me. Let her vent. Let her blame me for everything. Ain't nothing she can say that one smile from fenny can't turn right around.

Emma was still yelling at him, but now Flint was ignoring her. Instead he took a step toward the bedroom. Tossing aside hesitation, Penny threw wide the door and her smile broadened. At first Emma didn't see her, because Marko had stepped into her line of vision as he faced his daughter. Then he knelt down in front of her, like a humble supplicant, and whispered, "Your mother's got me all wrong. I
do
care about you."

Penny's smile was incandescent, and Flint felt her press something small into his palm. He looked down at it and was surprised to see a small locket. He was so taken by the gesture that he actually forgot that Emma was in the room, but was reminded harshly enough when she shrieked in fury and came right at him. She was acting as if he were some sort of monster or child molester or anything but what he truly was: a loving father stealing a few seconds of affection from his daughter.

"You get outta here!" Emma bellowed, and she shoved Flint, hard. Because he was crouched and she was standing over him, she came close to knocking him to the floor. Flint stopped his fall with an outstretched hand and clambered to his feet. Emma aimed a kick at him and missed. Penny looked terrified. The irony was not lost on Marko; here Emma thought she was protecting her daughter and all she was really accomplishing was scaring the crap out of her. "Out of my life, outta my daughter's life! Always hiding, climbing in 'n' out of windows! Look at you, never having the pleasure of knocking on a front door. Now get out!"

For a fleeting moment, he considered punching her in the face, breaking her teeth. At least that would get her to shut up for a short time so he could have a few seconds to think. But it went against the grain, and besides, it would just alarm Penny. Plus Emma would use that as an example for the rest of Penny's life as to why her dad was a bad, evil man.

Then the entire matter of staying became moot when Marko heard the distant sound of a siren. It might not have anything to do with him. Might be a fire or some police activity nearby. On the other hand, it might also be that a neighbor had spotted him and called the cops. He couldn't take the chance.

Quickly he headed for the window. He put one leg over the sill, turned, and said in a final endeavor to gain sympathy, "I'm not a bad guy. I just had bad luck."

Emma displayed about as much compassion as he had expected—none. "There you go," she remarked, as if everything she'd just said was supported by his exit. "Out another window."

"Pray for me!" he called as he exited the apartment.

He stood on the fire escape, out of sight of the apartment's interior. From within, he could hear Emma attempting to console Penny… except, curiously, Penny didn't sound at all upset. Emma was the one who sounded as if she needed consoling. There was none of the furious bravado or anger that had been present when she'd been talking to him. Instead she just sounded… sad.