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
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
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