by IGMS
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?"
"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 t
he 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
Cassie's Story
by David B. Coe
Artwork by Anselmo Alliegro
* * *
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.
"Well?" she said, impatient, seeming to read my thoughts.
I forced myself into motion, crossing to the chair opposite hers, willing myself to inhale, exhale. As I sat, I pulled a digital recorder from my jacket pocket.
"You mind?" I asked. "I've always been terrible with notes."
At first Cassie just shrugged, but then a subtle change came over her, as if she had decided something. "Sure," she said. "Go ahead."
I switched the recorder on and placed it on the table.
"Thursday, September fourteenth." I glanced at my watch. "Nine forty a.m. I'm with Cassidy Sloan at the Fuller Correctional Facility. Cassie, why don't you --"
"I don't think it's working." She stared at the recorder. "Shouldn't there be a light or something?"
I leaned closer, checked the LED. She was right. Nothing was happening.
"Damn it." I picked it up, moved the switch to "off", then back to "record." Nothing. I took out the batteries and put them back, though they were already loaded correctly.
"Looks like you're stuck taking notes. Just as well. They say writing things down helps you remember them better."
Our eyes met for an instant. There was something in her expression . . . a hint of amusement.
"All right." I put the recorder back in my pocket and pulled out a pad and pencil. I jotted down the date, time, and location before looking up at her again. "Why don't you start with your husband?"
A reflexive grin touched her face and then vanished as quickly as it had come. "I did."
I shuddered, and she grinned again.
"Why do you
think everyone's so fascinated by this, Eric? Is it me? Is it the way I look?" She paused. "Is it the way I did it?"
"How did you do it?"
She eyed me briefly. After a moment she reached for the cigarettes. "I'd ask if this was going to bother you, but I don't really care. It's pretty much the only vice I'm allowed." She lit up and took a long, deep pull, closing her eyes. After what seemed a long time, she exhaled through her nose, a billowing cloud of blue-grey smoke enveloping us both like a mist.
"My husband." She opened her eyes. "You met him, didn't you?"
I nodded. "At one of the office parties, I think."
"That sounds right. It would have been several years ago. He stopped coming after my promotion." She took another pull, rested her elbow on the table so that the hand holding her cigarette hovered just beside her head. "Kenny was . . ." She shrugged. "I think I was drawn to him because we were so different. I wasn't looking for cerebral; I got enough of that at work. I liked him because he was physical -- muscular, broad, like an action movie hero."
I jotted down notes, avoiding eye contact, feeling weak and small.
"The first time he hit me, I was . . . shocked, you know? But I figured it must have been my fault."
"When was that?" I asked.
"April 22, five years ago."
I frowned and looked up.
"It was our anniversary." She smiled faintly. "A girl remembers. We'd just finished dinner and were . . . well, the evening was moving along as you'd expect. And then I said something. I don't even remember what it was, but it made him angry and before I knew it we were arguing. Finally, he got so mad that he hit me. His hand was open. It didn't even hurt that much. But it was . . . We crossed a line, you know? I knew it immediately, though I didn't admit it to myself.
"Kenny said he was sorry about twenty times. He got real tender. We went to bed a little while later and he was so gentle -- more than he'd ever been. I tried to put it out of my mind, but the whole time we were making love, I kept thinking to myself, 'He hit me. Kenny hit me.'"
"How long was it before he hit you again?"
Cassie took another drag. "Not long. A couple of months maybe. Another argument. We were at home again. We were always at home when it happened. This time he hit me hard, with his fist." She pointed to a spot high on her cheek. "Right here. Really rattled me. For a couple of minutes I could barely see, like I'd been staring into the sun too long. You might remember the bruise. I said I'd gotten it rollerblading; that Kenny and I had been trying some silly trick and we bumped heads."