IGMS Issue 9 (9 page)

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 condition 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.

Keith went on, heedless: "If it hadn't been for him, they might have killed me. I think he saved my life." His voice cracked as he spoke; he looked away.

John settled a hand on his shoulder, squeezed. "I'll tell him."

Keith muttered his thanks and wheeled himself back the way he came. Halfway down the hall, he stopped and turned to John. "Did you know he designed that tattoo himself?"

"The snake, you mean?"

"Yeah. He drew it and brought it with him to the tattoo parlor. He draws a lot."

"No, I didn't know that."

Keith gave a strained smile and wheeled away.

John returned to the waiting room, powered up his handheld for video, and dialed Eric's number. He guessed that he looked a fright -- unwashed, unshaven, short of sleep -- but he needed the face-to-face contact.

The connection took only seconds. Eric must have been waiting for the call. The image coalesced; his ever-youthful face looked haggard and drained of color.

"John," he said. "Where are you? At home?"

"I'm at the hospital." He spent the next few minutes giving Eric a précis of the last forty-eight hours. Eric listened without interrupting, impassive, nodding slowly.

When John finished, Eric said, "Paul. I should have figured. Kelso was worried it had been someone who worked for him. He's had the police in his office, conducting interrogations of his entire editorial staff."

"Not taking it well, is he?"

"Given the circumstances, who would?"

"How bad is it?"

Eric cocked his head. "Oh. I guess you've been out of touch."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"We should probably talk about this later. Your son's in the hospital."

"Eric, what's going on? Talk to me."

"I don't know how. It seems you have a new best seller on your hands."

John glanced around the waiting room to make sure he was still alone. "Would you care to repeat that, please?"

"'Best seller' is actually the wrong way to put it, since nobody's selling anything. But
The Frankenstein Diaries
have hit every major server, search engine, and ISP on the Net. It's causing congestion and network overloads in New York, L.A., London, Tokyo -- everywhere. Now the news services are involved. This thing has become a phenomenon."

"What can be done about it?"

"The lawyers at Fidelis advise --"

"The
lawyers
are involved? Already?"

"They tell us we can get an injunction. But that'll take another day or so. By then --" Eric shrugged.

"By then, there'll be no stopping it, injunction or not."

"Basically. I've tried getting Kelso to look at the bright side. I told him there's no such thing as bad publicity. But you know Fidelis. It's a very conservative house. They have a lot of pride in their reputation as a literary publisher."

A family of four -- a young couple and two small, fussy children -- came into the waiting room, the first visitors of the day. The parents held hands as they tried to quiet their bickering kids.

John pulled the earpiece from the handheld's casing, plugged it in, and set the receiver in his ear as he removed himself to a far corner. "What are you telling me?"