IGMS Issue 9 (10 page)

"Kelso's in an emergency board meeting right now. My guess is that they're deciding whether or not to continue our contract negotiations."

"They want to drop me?"

"They're considering it."

"Can you stop them?"

"They won't talk to me. That doesn't bode well. It didn't help matters that I couldn't reach you until now."

"Eric, Paul's in the damned ICU, waiting for a new kidney! What the hell --" He caught a glimpse of the young couple staring at him and lowered his voice. "I can't fly to New York right now. You have to take care of this for me."

"I've done all I can."

Never before in their relationship had Eric sounded so final, so negative -- cold, even. John peered at the monitor, and thought he saw anger in the furrow of his brow and the hard set of his jaw. And he thought he knew why. "Have you . . . have you read the diaries?"

"I looked through some of the entries, yes. I had to know what we were dealing with."

John flushed, feeling violated and ashamed, as if he'd been caught masturbating. "Whatever you've read, you have to know that I think you're a damned fine agent. I owe a great deal of my success to you. If I haven't said that often enough, I'm sorry. I just --"

"John, you may be overly envious of the fact that I'm younger than you, but that's not really the problem."

"Then what is?"

He glanced away. "Have you ever read
Frankenstein
? The original novel, I mean?"

"Once, when I was a kid."

"Do you remember the story?"

"Victor Frankenstein made a monster. Of course I remember it. I think I even referenced it in my diary."

"Yes, you did. But I think your recall of the plot is a little faulty."

"Maybe. What's your point?"

Eric looked into the monitor again. "It always seemed to me that Victor Frankenstein didn't create a monster. Frankenstein
was
the monster."

"I don't understand."

"The thing he made -- it wasn't what he'd hoped it would be. So he abandoned it. He refused to live up to his responsibility for the life he had created. I've always thought he got what he had coming to him."

He stopped, but kept his gaze steady.

John stared back, nonplussed.

"You look terrible, John. You should go home. Try to get some sleep. I'll notify you if I hear anything."

He disconnected. The screen went dark.

October 10, 2039

Dear Paul,

Dr. Stramm says you refuse to see me, so I'm writing you this letter. I'll have a nurse pass the handheld to you. I've disabled the password feature, so you'll have no trouble opening the file. After all that's happened, the security of my diary is no longer an issue, anyway. It seems rather fitting that this should be the last entry.

I beg you to read all of this. I know you won't want to. But please hear me out -- if not for my sake, then out of respect for your mother's memory.

I can't begin to express how glad I am that you have regained consciousness and are recovering. When Dr. Stramm told me the news, a surge of joy, stronger than anything I'd ever experienced, swept me. My relief could not have been greater if it had been my life that had been spared. For the first time in years, I prayed, thanking God for bringing you through.

And then I came here.

I'm at the cemetery now, writing this while seated on a bench across from your brother's grave. It's the first time I've been here since his funeral. I didn't think I'd ever see this place again. The grave site is prettier than I remembered. An old maple tree shades the area. The leaves have turned crimson and yellow, and are just starting to fall. But even this late in the year, the grass is still thick and green. A neat gravel path winds through the graves.

The stone is square and simply engraved:

Steven Timothy Griffin

Beloved Son

January 4, 2016 - April 19, 2023

So simple. So final. So immutable. I didn't think I'd ever have the courage to face it again.

I've spent the past hour weeping -- for Steven, for your mother, and for you. But mostly, I've wept for all the time I've wasted, the damage I've done.

All this time, I've been deluding myself into thinking that I was over Steven's death. I've congratulated myself on the way I rebuilt my life after such a shattering catastrophe. I've prided myself on having the strength to heal. The grief I feel today tells me what a fool I've been.

You and your mother were right, Paul. I wanted you to be Steven reborn. I never accepted you for being different, for being yourself. I spent years casting about for an explanation, certain there had to be something wrong with you. As it turned out, the problem was with me all along.

I'm not telling you any news, I'm sure. I understand now why you hate me so much, why you stole my diary in the first place. I'm sorry I took so long to figure it out. I offer no rationalizations for my stupidity, no excuses but this: living with constant heartache does strange things to your mind.

Since I mentioned the diary, I might as well tell you that Fidelis has decided against a new contract. I'm out. Yes, there will be other publishers down the line, but I'll be starting over. Again. I expect you think I hate you for what you've done. Maybe that's what you wanted.

But I don't hate you. I love you now more than I ever did, if for no other reason than for helping to realize a truth I've been dodging for nearly fifteen years.

Worst of all is the knowledge that nothing I can do will bring back that time. Every parent wishes he or she had done things differently, but I have a hell of a lot more to answer for than most. And nothing I do now can make it right.

But maybe --

I picture you lying in that hospital bed, and my eyes tear up again. The thought of you having to spend so much of your future hooked to that damned dialysis machine, hoping for a donor, is more than I can bear. You've had enough pain. If I can do anything to stop it, by God, I will. So I've come to a decision.

I have only one kidney, Paul. But it's yours, if you want it.

Dr. Stramm will object strenuously. I don't care. If anyone has to go on dialysis, if anyone has to spend years on a waiting list, if anyone has to make adjustments and learn to cope, let it be me. I can take it.

Maybe you think I want something in return. Not so. It's a gift, completely free of obligation -- the best gift I can think to give.

Or maybe you think I'm doing this to save my reputation. But I won't have this publicized. The only people who need to know are you, me, and the surgical team that does the work.

Or maybe you think I'm trying to atone for what I've done. You and I both know better: there is no atoning. One kidney can't make up for fourteen years.

If anything, Paul, it's a new beginning.

I'm not asking your forgiveness. I don't have the right. But I am hoping for another chance. I offer you my kidney as a token of goodwill. Please take it, no matter what you decide about me.

And then what?

I honestly don't know. If nothing else, I'll get to see you become a man. I look forward to that, even if you never speak to me again. But first, you have to get well and get home from the hospital. Let me help you with that. Please, Paul. It's the best I can do.

I'm heading back to the hospital now. I'll find a nurse to give you this journal. By the time you read this, I'll be in the waiting room just outside ICU. I'll be there for however long it takes, waiting -- and hoping, and praying -- for your answer.

I love you, son.

Always,

Dad

By the time Cassie was shot, I'd been covering the story of the vigilante killer, Hell's Fury, for a couple of months. I'd gotten the assignment as the Metro beat writer, but the story had become front-page news and they'd kept me on it. Biggest story of my life.

I had interviewed the cop who fired the shots the night of the shooting for an article that ran the next morning. As he told it, he and his partner had been patrolling their usual beat when they heard a girl screaming in the alley. The cop's partner reached the girl first and saw that the guy who had attacked her was already dead. But the guy's killer -- a woman -- was still in the alley. She ran from the partner and straight at the first cop. He shouted for her to stop and when she didn't, the cop fired. He only got off one round before feeling himself flung against the alley wall, but he'd been certain that he hit her. That's what he said at the time, and even when I interviewed him again, giving him every opportunity to change his story, he stuck to it.

Turns out this cop had been talking about Cassie Sloan. Cassie, whom I had worked with and then dated after her husband died. Well, not really dated, so much as slept with one night and then avoided for weeks afterward. Not my finest moment.

Now Cassie was in jail, a convicted killer. And I was here to interview her.

She didn't look the part. If you could have found a person in this country who didn't know who Cassie Sloan was, or what she was said to have done, and you had shown that person a picture of her, he might have guessed she was an actress, or a sports star, or a news anchor. He might even have guessed she was a newspaper reporter, which she was. Anything but a killer. That was part of the fascination. The crimes themselves were enough to feed the headlines for months. Add in her angelic face and the long dark hair and the pale blue eyes, and you had a spectacle.

Staring at her now, through the small glass window in the door, her features framed in one of those diamonds of wire embedded in the glass, I could see lines around her eyes and mouth that hadn't been there before. The last few months had taken their toll on her. People who didn't know her wouldn't have seen it. But I did.

She sat on a metal chair, her hands resting on the wooden table before her, which was bare save for a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. She looked small, solemn. Back when we'd worked together at the paper, before everything happened, she'd always seemed to be smiling. Not friendly, necessarily. More like she was amused by something that the rest of us hadn't heard or wouldn't have understood. Now she looked so serious, though I saw no sign that she was scared, or that she dreaded this conversation as much as I did.

"You ready?" the guard asked me.

I took a breath, nodded.

He unlocked the door and stood back, allowing me to step past him into the room.

Cassie looked up, her eyes widening at the sight of me. "You've got to be kidding me! They sent you?"

"I've been covering it from the start. You know that."

I heard the door close behind me, and for just a minute I started to panic, my heart trip-hammering, my breath catching in my throat. My hands began to tremble and I thrust them into my pockets so she wouldn't see.

Cassie shook her head, her lips pursed. "Fine then," she said at last. "Let's get this over with."

I just stood there, watching her. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail and her lips were dry, cracked. She'd always been pale, and she would have been the first to point out that she hadn't spent much time in the sun recently. But in the flickering glare of the fluorescent lights she looked positively ghostlike.