IGMS Issue 9 (8 page)

Five days later, he finally worked up the courage.

He asked Paul if he'd like dinner. To John's surprise, Paul said yes. John made spaghetti, with both marinara and alfredo sauces -- the former for Paul, the latter for him. Paul was uncharacteristically helpful, tossing salads, toasting garlic bread, setting the table. Twice, John noticed him looking in his direction. Each time, Paul quickly shifted his gaze elsewhere.

Half an hour later, they sat to eat at opposite ends of the little dining room table.

John took a deep breath. "I saw your guidance counselor the other day."

Paul paused with a forkful of spaghetti. "Yeah?"

"He tells me you skipped your last appointment."

"I guess I did." He resumed eating.

"You want to tell me why you did that?"

"He would have wanted to talk about Mom. I didn't feel like it."

The snake tattoo across Paul's face kept distracting John. "I know you miss her," he said. "You might have a hard time believing this, but I miss her, too. I wish she were here."

On another day, Paul might have made a sarcastic rejoinder. Today, he only sipped from his glass of cola.

"She knew you so much better than I do. But she's gone, and it's just the two of us now. We hardly know each other."

Paul wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Yeah. I've been thinking about that a lot lately."

John smiled, slightly amazed. "I'm glad to hear you say that. Do you have any ideas?"

"Keith says I could come live with him."

John set his fork on his plate with a clank. "Pardon me?"

"He says he's going to talk to his parents. He's sure they won't mind. And I can get a job to pay for --"

"You want to move out?"

"Well . . . yeah."

"Paul --"

"Like you said, we don't know each other. Neither one of us wanted this. You spend all day in your office. And I'm always over at Keith's."

"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.

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 clipped 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!