IGMS Issue 9 Page 6

  "Your moving out isn't exactly the solution I had in mind."

  He pushed his plate of food aside and sat back in his chair, arms crossed. "What, then?"

  "Ah . . ." John's hopes of getting Paul to testify dissipated like smoke. "I don't know, exactly. I thought we could maybe spend more time together. Talk more often. Maybe go to a movie now and --"

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "Let's not get into an argument."

  "Fine." He stood and picked up his plate.

  John rose, too. "Where are you going?"

  Wordlessly, he took his plate to the kitchen.

  John followed. "Hey, we're not done talking here, are we?"

  "I am." He dumped the plate, still half full of pasta, into the sink, then shouldered past John and returned to the dining room for his glass.

  John stood in the entryway. "I really think we need to --"

  Paul glared, and the words died in John's mouth. Paul retrieved his glass and headed back toward the kitchen. John stood his ground, blocking Paul's path.

  "Get out of my way," Paul said.

  John took a breath. "You're not going to bait me into a fight. This is too important."

  Paul hurled the glass at him. John ducked; the glass hit the kitchen floor and shattered. Cola and ice cubes splattered across the tile. Slowly, John straightened. He looked from the mess in the kitchen to Paul, standing at the dining room table, flushed and panting.

  "I don't want to be here! Don't you get that? I don't like you, and you don't like me! So why the hell would you want me to stay? Huh? Why?"

  John went cold. He realized that he feared Paul -- feared his own son, and in his own home, no less. "I may not have asked for this, true. But that doesn't mean I don't like you, or that I want you to live somewhere else."

  "You're lying, and I know it."

  "You don't know any such thing."

  "I know it. I can even prove it. You think I'm just a defective clone of your little angel boy, don't you?"

  Muscles in John's chest tightened. "Did . . . did your mother say that to you? Did she tell you that?"

  "She didn't have to. I know it."

  "That is simply not --"

  "Hey, if he was so great, how come he's dead now? Did you ever ask yourself that? Maybe he was just too stupid to know when he should have ducked."

  John closed the distance between them, jabbing a finger at him. "You don't talk to me like that. Not about your dead brother. Not ever."

  A smile played at the corners of Paul's mouth. "He was stupid. He deserved to die."

  John couldn't stop himself; he swung.

  But unlike that awful night eight years past, Paul ducked the blow easily and countered with a fist to the belly. John doubled over and fell backward, his wind gone.

  Paul stood over him, sneering. "See what I mean?" He pursed his lips and spat in John's face.

  He could only watch, gasping for breath, as Paul walked out, slamming the front door behind him.

  IV

  The phone call from St. Joseph's came twenty-six hours later, some fifteen hours after John had notified the police that his son was missing. Bleary-eyed and befuddled from the sedative he had taken to help him sleep, he listened as an anonymous woman on the other end informed him that Paul had been brought into the ER by a friend. She couldn't give him any specifics on his condition, but she advised John to come as quickly as possible, in case he needed to authorize treatment.

  He arrived at the St. Joseph's emergency room twenty-five minutes after getting the call. When he entered through the automatic doors, a uniformed policeman approached him and said, "Mr. Griffin?"

  John hesitated. His heart jogged in his chest. He nodded.

  "Sir, I'm Officer McPherson. The hospital called the police about your son -- standard procedure in cases like this."

  "A case like what? Where's Paul? I have to see him."

  Officer McPherson put up a hand. "He's been badly beaten. He was unconscious when his friend brought him in. He's being treated now. That's all anyone knows at this point."

  John waited, expecting him to continue. The cop regarded him blandly.

  "Beaten," John said through numb lips. "Badly beaten. How badly?"

  "The report indicated contusions and stab wounds. Beyond that, I don't know."

  "Somebody stabbed him? Who? Why?"

  "Again, I really don't know. I'm sorry."

  John glanced around, hoping to get a glimpse of a doctor or nurse. At the registration desk, a clerk took information from a middle-aged woman with disheveled hair and a sleepy little girl in her arms. Beyond the desk, a set of double doors stood shut, bearing a sign that read, Authorized Personnel ONLY. A couple walking past gave John and the policeman a wide berth, stealing surreptitious glances. Neither of them appeared to work for the hospital. He hated them for that.

  "What about this friend who brought him in?" John said. "Big kid, seventeen, lizard tattoo on his face?"

  McPherson nodded. "That's him. He's injured, too, though not as badly. I'll question him when the doctors allow it."

  "Where are his parents?"

  "No one's been able to reach them yet." He produced a notepad and pen. "Mr. Griffin, you had called the police regarding your son, is that correct?"

  "Yes."

  "You said he had run away. What were the circumstances?"

  Speaking in a low voice, John told him about the night Paul disappeared. McPherson listened impassively, taking notes. When John finished, McPherson clapped him on the shoulder and promised him he'd find out what happened as soon as he could. He retreated to the ER entrance and stood to one side with his arms behind his back.

  John took a seat and waited. First Marie, and now Paul. He had seen too much of hospitals lately.

  Half an hour passed before a nurse emerged from the double doors to tell him that Paul was bleeding internally, and had been taken into surgery.

  "Can you tell me how he is? Is his life in danger?"

  "We're doing everything we can for him. We'll update you as soon as we know more."

  She walked away, back through the double doors.

  An hour later, a different nurse emerged and took Officer McPherson back to talk to Keith. McPherson came out after twenty-two minutes. John timed it.

  He stood and intercepted McPherson before he could leave. "What did he tell you? What did he say?"

  McPherson kept moving toward the exit as he talked. "He said they were attacked outside a warren on West Fifty-Seventh."

  "A warren?"

  McPherson sighed and stopped. "It's a kind of secret den, usually hidden in a basement, for crackers and phreakers. Lots of black market hardware and software is traded there. And there are plenty of secure and untraceable Net connections available, in case you want to crack a system, launch an attack on a corporate web site, or introduce a virus. All set to loud music and flashing lights, with plenty of Euphoria tabs to go around, if that's your thing."

  "What were they doing there?"

  "He wouldn't say. But when they left, they ran into a group of Jesus Phreaks." Before John could ask, McPherson said, "A local gang whose members carry Bibles, knives, and saps. Dedicated to ridding the world of unbelievers and other undesirables. They like to break into Jewish and Muslim sites and shut them down." McPherson paused. "They, ah, don't think highly of clones."

  "Son of a bitch."

  "The boys were afraid to go to the hospital, so they went to a friend's apartment. Tried to patch themselves up. When your son lost consciousness, Keith finally brought him in."

  John ran a hand through his hair. "So what's next?"

  "I have to go check out his story and round up some witnesses. And I'll need to talk to your son if he comes around." He handed John a business card. "If you'll excuse me, please." He edged past John and left.

  John sagged against the nearest wall. The business card slipped from his hand. If he comes around, McPherson had said. If.

  The handheld cli
pped to his belt started beeping.

  He pulled it out and opened it. The display indicated an urgent text from Eric. John frowned, wondering why in the world Eric would be awake at such an ungodly hour. It had to be after one in the morning.

  He opened the message. It read, John, have you heard anything about this? Call me as soon as you can. Eric.

  Beneath the message was a link labeled Frankenstein Diaries.

  Maybe you've heard of big-shot, best-selling author John Griffin. Maybe you've even read some of his books. Maybe you think he's terrific. But none of you know him. None of you know what a bastard he really is. Well, that ends today. Now you can read from the diary he's kept for the last fourteen years. Check it out. Click on any of the entries below. Take a look at the way he treated his own wife (April 19, 2026). Find out how he really feels about his cloned son (December 3, 2029). See what he thinks of his agent and his editor (February 8, 2039). And there's lots more.

  See for yourself. Then pass on this link to anyone who might be interested. Have fun!

  John had once thought that Steven's death would be forever marked in his mind as the single worst day in his life. As he sat in the emergency room, living every parent's worst nightmare for the second time in his life, scrolling through screen after screen full of dated entries, he concluded that he may have been premature in that judgment.

  The entries were all genuine, copied verbatim from his diary.

  His journal had been password-protected since the day he had bought it. He changed the password every sixty days, and always made sure to use random letters and numbers, not recognizable words. He didn't write the password anywhere; he used mnemonics to memorize it.

  None of which had posed much of an obstacle to Paul, it seemed.

  The latest entry was from September thirtieth, only a week previous. Paul must have copied the files sometime before their argument -- a little ace in the hole for him, in case John didn't agree to let him move out.

  I can even prove it, Paul had said that night.

  The emergency room, tomb-quiet at that hour, faded to insignificance. John looked through the entries -- and at the hate-filled diatribe that introduced them -- with a kind of detached fascination. He would have to call Eric soon, to find out what kind of damage had been done. Just as soon as he worked up the energy to explain all that had happened.

  As if from a great distance, John heard the opening of the double doors and looked up. A doctor in scrubs had emerged. She called his name and asked him to follow her.

  The surgeon's name was Dr. Stramm. She showed him to an office -- wood-grain desk, two chairs, and a small couch upholstered in leather. Stramm ushered him in and shut the door behind him. She closed the window blinds as he sat. He wondered vaguely how many times he had sat in various offices through the years, listening as some functionary or another told him what was wrong with his son.

  He became aware that he was holding his breath. His mouth had gone dry.

  The surgeon -- stocky, middle-aged, dark hair shot with gray -- sat on the arm of the leather couch. She inhaled deeply and said, "Mr. Griffin, Paul has suffered very serious injuries, but I believe he will recover."

  He exhaled in a long, shuddery breath. A fit of trembling seized him. All thought of his pirated diaries fled his mind. He could only think of Marie. At that moment, he realized how terrified he had been of letting her down, of betraying her trust . . . of validating her doubt of him.

  "However, I need to make clear that we're not out of the woods yet," Dr. Stramm said. "The surgery to repair his internal injuries was as successful as I could hope, but he's lost a great deal of blood. He's still unconscious, and in critical condition. We've moved him to intensive care, and we'll keep a close watch on him, but we've done everything we can. Now it's up to Paul. In twenty-four hours, we'll know more."

  She cleared her throat. "Paul's gravest injury was to his kidneys. He took stab wounds in both of them. He has suffered a complete loss of kidney function -- acute renal failure, to put it in medical terms. In Paul's case, I'm afraid, the damage cannot be repaired."

  John stopped nodding. "Cannot be . . . but . . . how --"

  "He's on dialysis. That will hold him for as long as necessary."

  "Dialysis." He stared past her.

  "Ideally, that will only be a temporary solution. He needs a kidney transplant."

  "Do you have a donor?"

  "Not yet, no. To minimize the chances of tissue rejection, a close relative would be best." She stopped, fixing her gaze on him.

  His shell-shocked mind took several moments to catch her meaning. "I'm the closest relative he has."

  "Mr. Griffin, the risk to you would be minimal. You can lead a normal life with --"

  "I only have one kidney. I was born that way."

  Her mouth tightened. "I see."

  He slumped, shaking his head. "God, I can remember being so worried when Steven was born, that he might be the same way. My wife and I were so relieved that he was normal."

  "You have another son?"

  "He died many years ago. Paul was cloned from his cells."

  "Ah. I noticed the tattoo."

  They sat in silence for long moments.

  Dr. Stramm said, "We can put Paul on a waiting list, if we must. Those lists tend to be long, though. He could be waiting for years."

  "What about stem cells? Can't you grow him a new kidney?"

  "That's an option, yes, but you would need donor eggs. Those are harder to come by than kidneys. Many people have a moral objection to them. The waiting list for stem cells is even longer than for organs. Paul will have to remain on dialysis until a donation becomes available. We have kits -- expensive ones, mind you -- that would enable him to do it at home. Three times a week. The process usually takes three to four hours."

  "My God."

  "It can be hard. But there are many good support groups available for dialysis patients."

  John wondered how long Paul would last in a support group. About five minutes, maybe.

  "But we're getting ahead of ourselves," Dr. Stramm said. "First, we have to get through the next twenty-four hours. We can worry about finding a donor later." She leaned over to place one hand over his. "When was the last time you slept?"

  "I don't remember."

  "You should go home, get some rest."

  "I want to stay here. Just in case. Is that all right?"

  "Hospital policy is --" She waved off the demurral. "Sure," she said, and stood. "I'll show you to the ICU waiting room. And I'll have an orderly get you a pillow and blanket."

  "May I . . . see Paul?"

  "He's still out from the anesthesia. He'll probably sleep through the night. But you can stop by for a few minutes, if you like."

  She took him to ICU. Paul's bed stood in the center of an imposing hodgepodge of EEG and EKG monitors, IV stands, a tangle of equipment he didn't recognize -- the hemodialysis machine, he guessed. He had to turn sideways to edge up to the bed.

  The sheets covered most of the damage, but Paul's face was horribly visible. The skin around both eyes was purplish-black and swollen. Multiple contusions marred his cheeks. Tubes ran from his nose and mouth.

  John preferred the tattoo.

  He stared at Paul's unconscious form for several minutes. He thought he should probably be crying, but it seemed the place inside him that housed his sorrow had gone empty, drained. After a while, he left the ICU and went to the waiting room. The promised pillow and blanket lay on a couch.

  A wall clock displayed the time -- just after four a.m. The after-hours hospital quiet unnerved him. Most of the overhead lights had been darkened. A passing nurse stopped in and asked him if he wouldn't rather go home. He would have, actually, but he couldn't. Marie wouldn't have.

  He managed about four hours of fitful sleep on the waiting room couch, and awoke sore and scratchy-eyed. Activity on the floor had picked up, many comings and goings in the ICU. A nurse at the station desk told him that Paul's cond
ition had not changed.

  He was heading back to the waiting room when he saw Keith, wheelchair bound, guiding himself down the corridor. Keith stopped when he saw John and glanced to either side, as if debating whether he should turn around or not. He held his ground as John approached.

  Bandaged from the eyebrows up, Keith bore bruises and contusions similar to Paul's, though less severe. A long red slash, stitched shut, marked his jaw line and cut through the tail of his lizard tattoo. He wore a gray hospital gown.

  He said, "I, ah, was coming to see Paul."

  "He's doing all right for now, they tell me. But he hasn't woken up yet."

  "Oh."

  They faced each other in the middle of the corridor. Passersby flowed around them.

  "That's a nasty scar," John said.

  "One of them got me with a switchblade. And my head hurts. Concussion." He tapped the arms of his wheelchair. "They want me to use this, in case I get dizzy or something."

  "Did the doctors say when you can go home?"

  "Around noon. I wanted to check on Paul before I left."

  "You can wait for him, if you like." John extended a hand in the direction of the waiting room.

  "Ah . . ." Keith's brow wrinkled. "I can maybe check back in a few hours."

  "All right." John stepped past him.

  Keith reached out to touch his arm. "Mr. Griffin, it wasn't my idea to go there. It was Paul's. And like I told that cop, I don't know what he uploaded. He wouldn't say."

  Still bleary, John had forgotten all about Paul's little stunt. Eric was no doubt waiting for a phone call. "All right, Keith. I understand."

  "Listen, if you talk to him . . . tell him I said thanks."

  "For what?"

  "When those Jesus Phreaks jumped us, it was mostly me they were after. I've tangled with some of them before. They tried to shove Paul away, but he kept coming at them. He just went nuts, like he had a death wish or something."

  John grimaced.