Spiderman 3 Read Online Free PDF Page A

us, Harry. They were jealous and seized with a sick need to destroy us. I was defending myself… defending you. No father could have done less. And Spider-Man sided with our
    enemies, and I died because of him. I died fighting for your future. Are you going to take that lying down?
    "I…"
    Norman drew closer, his voice more intense, his eyes almost hypnotic.
See him in your mind's eye. That smug bastard. He took your girl. Took your father. Took your peace of mind. He keeps taking and taking, and haven't you had enough? For God's sake
, haven't you had enough?
    Harry saw Mary Jane on a field of stars, singing of love… singing to Peter right there in the front row. He felt an acid taste in the back of his throat, and a thudding in his head, and a buzzing in his ears.
    He had thought he could live with it. He had thought he could keep himself from acting upon this terrible knowledge, because the knowledge of what he would have to become to combat it was almost as terrible. But seeing her tonight… seeing him… knowing what they were likely off doing now… Peter enjoying the life that should have been his…
    "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