The Proteus Cure by F. Paul Wilson, Tracy L. Carbone Page A

someone.
    “Paul, calm down.” She didn’t try to touch him again. “This doesn’t mean anything. We can do a paternity test later okay? DNA. I’m sure he’s your son. He probably just looks more like your wife than you.”
    “
Ex
-wife. And you know what? He doesn’t. He doesn’t look anything like Rose. She was a blond—very, almost-white blond hair. Only thing about her that
was
real.”
    Screwing around on him the whole time—even before Coog. He balled his fists, crushing the cup in a blur of anger.
    “Paul?” he heard an alarmed voice say. “Are you okay?”
    Who was that? Focus, Paul. Focus. 10 … 9 … 8 …
    He saw the coffee on the floor. He saw his scalded fingers.
    “Aw, jeez, I’m sorry.”
    He looked around for a paper towel but froze when he saw a man walking down the hall, talking on a cell pone.
    Paul recognized him. The weasel-faced, Hummer-driving, son of a bitch who’d flattened Coog while yakking on the same goddam phone, and here he was strolling along as if he hadn’t nearly destroyed two lives.
    The air around Paul took on a red tinge. With a strangled cry he charged. The guy never saw it coming. Paul shoved him against the wall, then pushed him to the floor. He ripped the cell phone free and poised it over the bastard’s mouth.
    “You like this thing? You like talking when you should be watching out for kids? How about I shove it down your goddamn throat!”
    He raised the phone above the terrified face, winding up to smash in a few of the guy’s pretty caps—
    “Paul, no!” Sheila yelled.
    Paul heard her and stopped. He didn’t know how, but he stopped.
    He felt arms pull him off. Big arms. Security guards surrounded him. Where the hell had they come from?
    They lifted him to his feet.
    “He’s all right,” Sheila said. “His son was just hit by a car. By that driver. He’s not thinking clearly.”
    They let him go.
    He shook himself and looked at the shocked driver still cowering on the floor.
    No blood. Thank God Sheila had stopped him in time.
    He closed his eyes. It had passed. Now he was shaking.
    Sheila guided him to a chair in the waiting room. She wiped the coffee off his hands. He felt numb.
    “Why don’t I get you a tranquilizer? It will help. It’s been a hell of a day for you. Anyone would flip out.” She smiled. “I know you would have stopped before you hurt him. Right?”
    If she only knew.
    He glanced at her. Was that a trace of fear in her eyes? Fear
for
him, or fear
of
him? A world of difference. He liked Sheila—a lot. Looking at her, talking to her … had he just screwed that up?
    “I’m okay now. I really don’t like to take pills.”
    “Okay. You want a new coffee?”
    “No, I’m revved enough. I’m really sorry you had to see me like that.”
    She swatted her hand at the air. “That’s nothing. You think I’ve never seen a parent go nuts? Happens all the time.”
    He hedged but finally admitted, “I’ve had my doubts for a while about Coog being my son.”
    “Do you really think he’s not yours?”
    “He used to look just like me. Same round face, same dark hair. A mini-me. That’s what the old photos show. But nowadays …” He shook his head. “You’ve seen him.”
    “Lots of children change as they mature.”
    “Yeah, well, when he got sick, Rose couldn’t deal with it. She stayed away from the hospital as much as she could. I was all he had. He was all I had. I didn’t realize until then how much he meant to me. I was with him day and night, treatment after treatment. They told me he was going to die and you know what I did?”
    She shook her head.
    “I went out and bought him spelling flashcards. I wasn’t going to let him just lie there and wait for death. It’s like that book,
On the Beach
by Nevil Shute. Ever read that?”
    She shook her head again.
    “All the countries blew each other up and the radiation killed everyone. Except in Australia. It was far enough away so they didn’t get sick for a while.