The Proteus Cure by F. Paul Wilson, Tracy L. Carbone
Authors: F. Paul Wilson, Tracy L. Carbone
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retroperitoneal space all okay on the scan. Not so sure about the spleen, though. Might have a hematoma.”
“But no rupture?”
“Nope. It’s intact.
She breathed a sigh of relief. No surgery for Coog.
As she glanced at him, Coog’s eyes fluttered open. He looked around, obviously confused. His eyes widened when he recognized his surroundings.
He stiffened. “Wha—?”
Sheila patted his arm. “It’s all right, Coog. You had a little accident.”
“I did?”
“Yep.” She smiled and squeezed his arm. “But you’re going to be fine.”
Now to tell Paul the good news.
PAUL
Paul sat in the waiting room, shaking, feeling as if someone had kicked him in the chest.
Coog … knocked out … broken ribs. Thank God for Sheila. When she’d called to tell him no surgery, he’d almost lost it.
Very lucky, she’d said.
Yeah, right. Some strange kind of luck: First I almost lose him to leukemia, then this. One minute skateboarding, the next smashed on the pavement.
Paul clenched his teeth and balled his hands into fists. The chatty nurses had told him the driver was an investment counselor with a couple of Tethys doctors as clients. If Paul could get hold of that bastard—
“Mr. Rosko, can I talk to you for a minute?”
Paul looked up. A young doctor who looked about twelve was waving him to a curtained area in the hall.
As he followed Doogie Hauser, he could feel his blood pressure rising along with his anxiety. Had something gone wrong?
“Mr. Rosko …” Doogie said, then paused.
“What?” Paul snapped.
He’d kept his temper in check for years. Even when Rose had started screwing around on him, even then he’d kept it together. But now he could feel the rage taking over. He wanted to punch someone. Anyone.
“As you know, your son won’t be needing a transfusion.”
“Yes, thank God.”
He realized he’d said that many times in the last hour.
“I want to keep your blood for other patients who might need it.”
Paul took a breath and smiled. “Great. If Coogan doesn’t need it, go ahead.” Paul felt self-control returning.
“It didn’t match Coogan’s anyway and we don’t want to waste it.”
A ball of ice formed in Paul’s chest.
“Not compatible? You saying he’s not my son?”
Knew it!
“No, no. Nothing like that. Happens more than you expect. Nothing to concern yourself about, really.”
“He’s not my son,” he said in a soft, calm-before-the storm voice.
“I didn’t say that Mister Rosko.”
“I should have known. Doesn’t even look like me. Nothing like me.”
He knew he was muttering like a sidewalk schizo but didn’t care. A red haze filled his vision. Didn’t know how much longer he could keep a lid on this.
Goddamned Rose.
Adrenaline raced through his system. He tried counting backward like he’d learned in anger management.
10 … 9 … 8…
“Hey, there you are.” Sheila was walking toward him with two steaming cups of coffee. “I’ve been looking you.” She frowned. His expression no doubt told her something. “Is everything okay?”
“Ask the boy wonder,” Paul said.
“What is it, Matt?”
He shrugged. “Mister Rosko’s blood isn’t compatible with his son’s. And he just released it to the bank.”
“Great.”
As Matt turned and walked away, Sheila said, “Coog should be ready for visitors in about half an hour.”
Paul took his coffee from Sheila. “He’s not my son.”
“
What
?”
“You heard him. He can’t take my blood. That says it all.”
Sheila put a hand on his arm. “It says nothing of the sort. It’s not uncommon.”
“I wish I could believe that—I
want
to believe that—but …”
“Come by my office tomorrow and I’ll explain it to you. Right now you’re too upset about the accident.”
She went to put her arm on his shoulder but he shrugged her off. He saw her recoil and felt bad right away, but he hated being patronized. That wasn’t what he needed. He needed to beat the shit out of
“But no rupture?”
“Nope. It’s intact.
She breathed a sigh of relief. No surgery for Coog.
As she glanced at him, Coog’s eyes fluttered open. He looked around, obviously confused. His eyes widened when he recognized his surroundings.
He stiffened. “Wha—?”
Sheila patted his arm. “It’s all right, Coog. You had a little accident.”
“I did?”
“Yep.” She smiled and squeezed his arm. “But you’re going to be fine.”
Now to tell Paul the good news.
PAUL
Paul sat in the waiting room, shaking, feeling as if someone had kicked him in the chest.
Coog … knocked out … broken ribs. Thank God for Sheila. When she’d called to tell him no surgery, he’d almost lost it.
Very lucky, she’d said.
Yeah, right. Some strange kind of luck: First I almost lose him to leukemia, then this. One minute skateboarding, the next smashed on the pavement.
Paul clenched his teeth and balled his hands into fists. The chatty nurses had told him the driver was an investment counselor with a couple of Tethys doctors as clients. If Paul could get hold of that bastard—
“Mr. Rosko, can I talk to you for a minute?”
Paul looked up. A young doctor who looked about twelve was waving him to a curtained area in the hall.
As he followed Doogie Hauser, he could feel his blood pressure rising along with his anxiety. Had something gone wrong?
“Mr. Rosko …” Doogie said, then paused.
“What?” Paul snapped.
He’d kept his temper in check for years. Even when Rose had started screwing around on him, even then he’d kept it together. But now he could feel the rage taking over. He wanted to punch someone. Anyone.
“As you know, your son won’t be needing a transfusion.”
“Yes, thank God.”
He realized he’d said that many times in the last hour.
“I want to keep your blood for other patients who might need it.”
Paul took a breath and smiled. “Great. If Coogan doesn’t need it, go ahead.” Paul felt self-control returning.
“It didn’t match Coogan’s anyway and we don’t want to waste it.”
A ball of ice formed in Paul’s chest.
“Not compatible? You saying he’s not my son?”
Knew it!
“No, no. Nothing like that. Happens more than you expect. Nothing to concern yourself about, really.”
“He’s not my son,” he said in a soft, calm-before-the storm voice.
“I didn’t say that Mister Rosko.”
“I should have known. Doesn’t even look like me. Nothing like me.”
He knew he was muttering like a sidewalk schizo but didn’t care. A red haze filled his vision. Didn’t know how much longer he could keep a lid on this.
Goddamned Rose.
Adrenaline raced through his system. He tried counting backward like he’d learned in anger management.
10 … 9 … 8…
“Hey, there you are.” Sheila was walking toward him with two steaming cups of coffee. “I’ve been looking you.” She frowned. His expression no doubt told her something. “Is everything okay?”
“Ask the boy wonder,” Paul said.
“What is it, Matt?”
He shrugged. “Mister Rosko’s blood isn’t compatible with his son’s. And he just released it to the bank.”
“Great.”
As Matt turned and walked away, Sheila said, “Coog should be ready for visitors in about half an hour.”
Paul took his coffee from Sheila. “He’s not my son.”
“
What
?”
“You heard him. He can’t take my blood. That says it all.”
Sheila put a hand on his arm. “It says nothing of the sort. It’s not uncommon.”
“I wish I could believe that—I
want
to believe that—but …”
“Come by my office tomorrow and I’ll explain it to you. Right now you’re too upset about the accident.”
She went to put her arm on his shoulder but he shrugged her off. He saw her recoil and felt bad right away, but he hated being patronized. That wasn’t what he needed. He needed to beat the shit out of
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