Seizure Page 12

  Kent slammed his shoulder into the door. It rattled, but held firm. He rammed his shoulder in again, then again, pain lancing down his arm, but he didn't care. He could hear the wood crackling at the hinges, then screeching as they gave way, and Kent was in the room.

  His son sat in front of his computer, facing the screen, trembling and shivering, the air escaping his lungs in a dull whine. His chair bounced on its legs, threatening to fall over, but never quite making it. Troy's skin turned an icy blue that stood out against the white of his shirt, growing deeper with each passing moment. A trickle of saliva ran out of his lips, down his chin.

  Troy faced his computer in the darkness, watching a screen that flashed with brilliant colors like a strobe light, so fast that Kent could barely see them--

  Kent could feel his left hand beginning to tingle. He remembered his research on epilepsy about the "aura," the physical signs that preceded an epileptic attack.

  Kent broke his gaze away from the computer. He ran forward and threw himself at Troy. They collided. Troy went flying out of his chair onto the floor. Kent landed on top of him, trying to press his hands over Troy's eyes to block the light. The room pulsed with light, and Kent could feel the numbness in his hand flowing up his arm, and he knew the seizure was coming.

  It stopped.

  The light turned a solid white. The monitor went back to normal, casting a steady red glow over the room. Kent felt the tingling in his arm fade to normal.

  But his son still jerked in his arms, his eyes rolled up into his head. He was making sucking noises, and Kent realized he wasn't breathing. Troy was bluer than Kent ever thought a human being could get. He was choking to death.

  Kent let go of his son long enough to grab the power cable on the computer, and yank it out. He dug out his cell phone and punched in 911 with a finger that would keep still.

  When someone answered, Kent yelled, "This is Kent Reynolds! My son is having a seizure, he's choking to death! Get an ambulance over here, right now!"

  "Yes, sir," the operator said. "Where are you?"

  Kent managed to fumble out his address, then listened to the operator trying to reassure him that everything would be just fine while his son choked to death on his floor.

  "Okay, sir," the operator continued, "here's what you can do to help us out. Don't restrain your son or put anything in his mouth, and don't move him unless he's in danger of serious injury. If there's any tight clothing around his neck, loosen it, but other than that, don't do anything. Epileptic seizures usually last only a minute or two. If it goes beyond that, we'll be there to take over. Just try to relax."

  "Please hurry," Kent said.

  He watched his son writhing on the floor, an agonized expression frozen on his face. Troy looked so helpless, so alone, so much in pain.

  "I'm sorry," Kent whispered. "I'm so sorry."

  14.

  BY THE time the ambulance came screaming up to Kent's building, Troy had stopped flailing and only lay motionless on his bedroom floor. But his skin retained its dusky blue color, and his chest twitched over and over again.

  The paramedics charged up the stairs, led by Kent, into Troy's bedroom. One of them dropped to his knees beside the boy while the other began setting up a stretcher.

  The paramedic took one look at Troy's skin and nodded. "He's gone cyanotic."

  "What?" Kent asked.

  "He's not breathing," the other paramedic said.

  The first paramedic tilted Troy's head back, opening the jaw, then pressed two fingers to a vein on Troy's neck. "He's in shock."

  The paramedics carefully moved Troy onto the stretcher, then carried it down the stairs to the door. Kent followed them as they slid the stretcher into the back of the ambulance parked outside.

  "I'm his father," Kent said. "I need to be with him, too."

  "Okay, you can ride in the back," one of them said.

  He climbed into the back of the ambulance, where the other paramedic was working on Troy. The back of the vehicle was crammed with medical equipment which the paramedic was attaching to Troy. He had raised Troy's legs on the gurney and covered his chest with a blanket.

  "Is he gonna be okay?" Kent asked.

  The paramedic gave him a strange look as he said, "Yeah, I think so."

  Kent nodded.

  The paramedic closed the rear-doors, then banged on the roof of the ambulance with his fist. This was apparently a signal, because the ambulance took off down the street with its siren wailing. Kent watched the paramedic continue working on his son, but felt distanced from it, lost in another world where everything was safe.

  They arrived at the hospital, where a medical team waited outside the doors leading to the emergency room. As soon as Troy's stretcher lifted out of the ambulance, the wheels were dropped. It was whisked into a brightly-lit hallway.

  Kent moved to follow, but one of the paramedics stopped him with a raised hand.

  "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "You can't go in there. There's a waiting room right over there."

  "I have to be there for him," Kent said through clenched teeth.

  "I know how you feel, but we have a lot of work to do."

  Before he could object, Kent found himself led away to a large room where rows of chairs spanned the floor, most of them occupied by nervous people and groaning victims. As he sat, someone gave him a clipboard with papers to fill out. For lack of anything better to do, Kent did.

  An hour later, Kent tried not to conjure up visions of spending the rest of his life without a family when a doctor came into the room.

  "Kent Reynolds?" he called out.

  Kent shot to his feet. "That's me. How's my son?"

  The doctor gave him a cautious look. "He's stabilized. He had a few more seizures, but we've given him some anti-convulsants, and he's under control. We were worried about brain damage from the lack of oxygen, but so far, he seems to be okay."

  Kent closed his eyes, feeling a wash of relief sweep over him.

  "Mister Reynolds, just a few questions. Does your son have a history of epilepsy?"

  "No," Kent said. He started to tell him about the virus when he stopped himself.

  "Can you think of anything that might have happened to bring this on? A blow to the head? A prolonged illness? Any brain injury?"

  Kent shook his head.

  The doctor nodded. "Just checking. Your son should be all right, but we'd like to keep him under observation for a few days."

  "That's fine. Can I see him?"

  "Yes, but only for a little while. The drugs will make him sleepy and he needs the rest."

  "Thank you." Kent shook the doctor's hand before he ran down the hallway to Troy's room.

  Troy lay in a bed of white, his frail body draped in cloth. A tube connected to his nose hissed softly. A longer tube taped to his forearm ran up to an IV bag near his bedside. His skin was pale, but no longer blue.

  Troy opened one eye to look at Kent. "Dad?"

  "Yeah." Kent walked farther into the room. "I'm right here."

  "What happened?" his son croaked.

  Kent took a seat by the bed. The cushions whined as air escaped while he sat down on them. "You had a seizure."

  "A what?"

  "A seizure. An epileptic seizure."

  Troy's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Oh. I feel weird. And my head's killing me."

  Kent laid a hand on Troy's forehead, feeling the coolness of his skin. "Try to relax. Doctors say you're gonna be here for a few days."

  Troy opened one eye to look at him. "It was...that bad?"

  "Yeah. It was bad."

  Troy closed his eye again. His chest rose and fell before he managed to whisper, "I don't...remember...any of it--"

  "Son," Kent whispered, "I need to know what you were doing online a minute ago. Did you get anything offline that might have put a virus on your computer? And from who? Please tell me."

  Air drifted out of Troy's mouth through barely closed lips as he whispered, "P...Pl...Pluto-
-"

  His breathing slowed. He was asleep.

  Kent brushed back a lock of Troy's hair as he whispered, "Don't you worry. I'm gonna get whoever did this to you. I swear I'll get them for this."

  * * *

  It was fairly easy to break into the Reynolds' home. Sonya used a crowbar to break the lock of one of the back windows, then raised it carefully to peer inside.

  Her flashlight came on with a snap, casting its cool glow around the room. It appeared to be a library of some sort. Sonya looked around to make sure no one was there, then listened for any sounds. There were none.

  Sonya was relieved. Weaver had told her Kent would be down at the hospital with his son, but she couldn't be too careful.

  She flashed a thumbs-up to the gray van parked across the street. The headlights flashed once before the van drove off down the block, its tires crunching in the newly-formed snow. They had strict orders to circle the block twice, and come back for her.

  She crawled through the window, grunting to force her wide shoulders through the narrow opening, into the room on the other side. Her feet landed with a thump. Compacted snow trickled from the soles of her boots onto the carpet.

  She closed the window behind her to stop the cold draft, and stood there a moment, brushing snow off her coat. She hated New York, the snow most of all. She couldn't wait to get back to the warmer weather of Los Angeles, where she could work out and get a decent salad on the fly. But she had a job to do first.

  She swept her flashlight's beam around the room one more time before heading for the door. It led to the main lobby, where she climbed the stairs to the second floor. The wood groaned beneath her feet. She walked down the hallway to the bedrooms, and consulted a hastily-drawn map in her pocket. The son's bedroom was on the left. The father's bedroom was on the right.

  She ducked into the kid's bedroom for a moment. The computer was still there. She wondered if Weaver wanted to get rid of the evidence, but decided he hadn't said anything, so she wouldn't touch it. She moved into Kent's bedroom.

  The box of pork-fried rice sat on his bedside table. A glass of red wine stood next to it, right where her men said it would be.

  She flexed her gloved hands before she carefully picked up the glass with just her fingertips. She took care where she placed them to avoid smudging any of Kent's fingerprints. With gentle movements, Sonya placed the glass in the bag strapped to her waist.

  The job done, she ran down the stairs, back to the library, where she jumped out the window. The van was just rolling past when Sonya hurried to the back of it and climbed inside.

  "How'd it go?" Stewart asked.

  "Perfect," Sonya said. "Drive."

  As the van roared away from the house, the wheels crunching through icy slush in the road. Sonya punched the redial button on her cell phone. Her employer answered.

  "It's done," she said.

  "Excellent. Find somewhere to stay for the next few hours. Then I have a target for you to hit."

  "Reynolds?" She already thought of how to do it and make it look like an accident.

  "No," Weaver said. "Someone else. You'll need a small amount of cyanide and a hypodermic needle for the job."

  "No problem," she said.

  "Good. I'll probably be calling you in a few hours. Wait for my signal." He hung up.

  She tucked her cell phone back into her pocket.

  Her men looked back at her.

  "Where to now?" Jason asked.

  "Find a motel," she said. "We can take a break for a few hours."

  The men grinned at each other. Stewart high-fived Jason, laughing as they talked about what they were going to do when they had time to relax. Most of it revolved around eating, sleeping, and watching TV.

  Sonya wasn't concerned with them. She was already trying to plan the job she was going to do. From everything she had learned about the case she was on, Sonya could guess what Weaver planned to do. She couldn't figure out why he didn't just kill Reynolds and get it over with, but that wasn't her business. Her business was to perform whatever task Weaver assigned to her.

  Cyanide. She knew places to get that without too much trouble. And she had a hypo in her luggage, packed away in what she called her "kit," which contained all the tools of assassination she would need. She preferred to use her bare hands, but that was too easy to trace. Sometimes finesse was more effective than brute force. Sometimes.

  As the van drove to the nearest motel, Sonya leaned back against the wall of the rear compartment. She was very tired. She couldn't wait to get back to L.A.

  * * *

  Kent returned home, flinging his coat off to charge up the stairs to Troy's room. He hated to have to invade his son's privacy like this, but he had to work fast.

  He ripped open the drawers of Troy's desk, hurling loose papers and computer manuals across the room. When the drawers were empty, Kent attacked Troy's mattress, ripping it off his bed to hunt underneath it. When that yielded nothing, he yanked open the closet to tear clothes off their racks until the back of the closet was revealed.

  All the boxes for Troy's games rested on the floor in a neat pile. Kent tore into them, hunting until he found the box for Odyssey. He pulled open the top, shaking out the contents onto the floor. As he had expected, a manual for the game dropped out.

  Kent sat down on the bed to flip through the manual. He finally came to a section describing the enemies players would encounter in Odyssey. Beside each entry was a picture of the enemy described.

  He stared at the picture he had known he would find. It was drawn by hand, but it was exactly the same three-headed wolf he had seen on Janet's computer and in the game, Odyssey. The entry beside the picture even had the creature's name.

  Cerberus. That was the word Morgan had been trying to say. Not "Sayer-brus." Cerberus.

  Troy's computer still waited in the background. Kent had to use it. He had to know where Troy had gotten the virus. He sat down and plugged it in. When the Windows logo appeared, he flinched, but nothing happened. When the desktop came on normally, he sighed with relief and opened the web browser. It showed the last website his son had been to, a video gaming forum where people talked about the latest games. He created a new topic. It read:

  SUBJECT: Cerberus

  MESSAGE: This is the man from New York. I know you're out there. I want to talk to you about my son and our three-headed friend. Meet me on Orion tonight.

  Kent checked Troy's bookmarks. There were several gaming websites on the list, and he went through them one by one. Every time he found a forum on a website, he posted the same message onto it.

  He logged off and posted the message in every game-related website he could get find, as well as some virus discussion forums that he thought Pluto might visit. When he finished, he leaned back in his chair. It was done. All he could do was wait, and hope Pluto was out there somewhere to read the message and respond.

  If a new message came to Troy's IM, it would give off a sound, so Kent would know. Instead of waiting in front of the computer, he went down the hallway to his den, where his own computer waited. Kent went to Wikipedia, and typed in "Cerberus."

  The beginning of the entry read:

  Cerberus (sur'-bur-uhs)

  A mythical creature in Greek mythology believed to guard the entrance to Hades, the underworld residence of the dead. Cerberus was described as a three-headed dog with the tail of a snake. He could only be controlled by his master, Hades, the ruler of the underworld. Hercules was given the task of capturing Cerberus during his twelve labors.

  Kent leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. That explained what Cerberus was. The question of why someone had chosen to use it to represent a computer virus that caused epileptic seizures was still a mystery to him, but it was a start.

  It also led him down another line of thought that he had neglected before. The Cerberus virus used a graphic from Odyssey, which was a game about Greek mythology. There had to be a connection, although he wasn't sure what. That w
as more Janet's department.

  Kent read the entry on Cerberus again, noting the underlined words. That was a sign that the encyclopedia held entries on both of the subjects highlighted. Kent clicked his mouse's pointer on the word "Hercules." It led him to an entry on the mythical character of Hercules, who sounded like the great-grandfather of Conan the Barbarian. It wasn't very helpful to him. On a whim, Kent clicked on the word "Hades," which led him to another entry.

  Hades (hay'-deez)

  The mythical residence of the dead in Greek mythology.

  Two characters guarded the way into Hades; Charon, who ferried new arrivals across the river Styx, and Cerberus, a multi-headed dog who guarded the entrance.

  Hades is also the name of the Greek god of the underworld, who ruled with his wife, Persephone. He was also known by his Roman name, Pluto.

  Kent stared at the last word. Pluto. The god of the underworld, the only man who could control Cerberus. Pluto. The mystery man responsible for creating a deadly virus that destroyed thousands of computers years ago, and now responsible for creating another virus that had almost killed his son.

  Kent closed his eyes tighter and tighter until it hurt. He would find Pluto, and he would make him pay.

  He switched off the computer. He headed back into Troy's room, where the Orion IM menu was still up and waiting. No response yet. All he could do was wait.

  For the first time, he became aware of the mess he had made of Troy's room. He couldn't let his son come home to this. Kent began to clean it up.

  He turned the mattress over, back onto the bed, then smoothed out the blankets. After replacing and fluffing the pillow, Kent moved on to the floor. It was carpeted with papers and junk from Troy's desk. He felt a rush of shame at his invasion of his son's privacy. But he needed to do it.

  Most of it consisted of computer manuals and test papers heavily marked in red. As he was lifting a stack of note cards, Kent stumbled across something that froze him like stone.