It had taken a while for it to sink in, but now Chuck straightened in his chair. "But you said nothing could go wrong," he protested. "When I agreed to put Jeff into the program, you promised me-"
"I didn't promise you," Ames interjected. "I told you we were ninety-nine percent certain we had the compound perfected, but that there was always the chance there might be some side effects. And you understood that there were still some"-he hesitated, casting around for the right words- "some, shall we say, experimental aspects to the treatment."
Chuck rested his head in his hands. It was true, of course. He could remember the day three years ago when he'd first talked to Ames, and Ames had told him there was a good chance that Jeff could overcome the congenital deficiency that had plagued him almost from birth. It wasn't that Jeff was small-his size was perfectly normal, and always had been. But there was a brittleness to his bones that came close to turning him into an invalid, and almost from the day he'd learned to walk-and broke a leg in his very first tumble-he had been wearing a cast on one or another part of his body practically every day of his life. None of the doctors theLaConners had taken him to held out any hope at all. So when Jerry Harris had told him about Ames's program-a new process of combining vitamins with a hormone that could stimulate calcium production, Chuck had instantly agreed to try it. The worst that could happen would be that it would fail.
But it hadn't failed. Within a month Jeff's bones had almost miraculously begun strengthening. He'd shot up that summer when he was fourteen, and even during the awkward period while he was adjusting to his full stature, he'd broken no bones. Indeed, his skeleton-always looking so frail in the X rays Chuck had been shown from the very beginning-had taken on a solid look, the long bones thickening visibly, giving Jeff added weight and a degree of toughness he'd never before possessed. His shoulders, always so narrow when he was a little boy, had broadened, and along with the vitamin/hormone program, Ames had put him on an exercise regimen.
Until a few weeks ago there had been no reason to suspect that the treatment was anything but totally successful. But now…
Chuck rose to his feet, struggling to control his emotions. "Can I see him?" he asked.
Ames hesitated for a moment, then he, too, stood up. "Of course,*' he said. "But I want you to prepare yourself. He's under sedation right now and probably won't be conscious. Even if he is, he might not recognize you."
As they moved through the maze of corridors that made up the sports center, Chuck tried to prepare himself. But when at last they entered the clinic and Marty Ames opened the door to the room in which Jeff was still lying strapped to the metal table, Chuck felt a wave of nausea rise up in him.
His son was naked, his arms and legs still strapped tightly to the table. Every part of his body seemed to have sprouted wires, and there were I.V. tubes in both his forearms. But it wasn't the mass of equipment, nor even the straps securing him to the table, that staggered ChuckLaConner.
It was Jeff himself.
He'd changed in the past hours, changed so much that Chuck hardly recognized him.
His hands appeared to have grown.
His fingers were longer, and his knuckles stood out like twisted knots of wood. Even in sleep Jeff's hands were working spasmodically, as if trying to free themselves from the bonds that held them.
His face, too, had changed. His eyes had sunk deeper into their sockets and his brow jutted out sharply, giving him a faintly simian look. His jaw, always strong, seemed to be too big for his face, and now it hung slack, exposing his teeth and tongue.
His breathing was coming in strange rasps.
"My God," Chuckbreamed. "What's happening to him?"
"His bones are growing again," Ames said. "Only this time it seems to be out of control. It's starting with his extremities-his fingers and toes, and his jaw. If we can't get it under control, it will spread to the rest of his body."
ChuckLaConner stared at the doctor, fear naked in his eyes. "And then what will happen to him?" he asked.
Ames fell silent for a moment, then decided there was no point in keeping the truth from Jeff's father. When he spoke, his voice was clinically cool.
"And then he'll die."
A silence fell in the room, disturbed only by the dank rasping of Jeff's labored breath. As Chuck stared hopelessly down at his son's distorted face, Jeff's eyes suddenly opened.
They were wild eyes, the eyes of an animal.
And they glinted with a rage ChuckLaConner had never seen before. His face ashen, his whole body suddenly seized by an icy chill, ChuckLaConner shrank away from his own son.
Chapter Thirteen
Mark Tanner's eyes flickered, then came open. For a moment he wasn't certain where he was. Sunlight was pouring in a window, and he instinctively raised his right hand to shield his eyes from the glare.
A spasm of pain wracked his body, and he dropped his hand back to the bed, closing his eyes once more. Slowly, his mind began to clear, and in bits and pieces the events of the previous night came back to him.
He was in the hospital. He remembered it now-remembered the fight with Jeff that really hadn't been a fight at all. Remembered the ride in the ambulance with his mother crouched on the floor next to him, acting like he was going to die or something.
Remembered the doctor-what was his name? Mac…MacSomething, working on his face. He winced at the memory of the sharp pain when the needle pierced his skin. Then they'd X-rayed him, and finally, mercifully, he'd been put to bed and allowed to go to sleep.
His eyes still closed against the brilliance of the sun, he began experimentally moving his limbs. It wasn't too bad, really. His chest hurt whenever he moved his arms, but not too badly, and if he was careful not to take really deep breaths, he could hardly feel his cracked ribs at all.
His jaw was sore, and he touched it gingerly, then moved it. That, too, wasn't so bad. Just sort of like a toothache. Finally, steeling himself against the pain in his ribcage, he raised his hand once more and brushed his fingers over the bandage on his forehead. Then, at last, he opened his eyes again.
Or, anyway, he opened his left eye. His right eye would hardly open at all, and when he saw nothing but a red haze through it, he let it close again. Finally he turned his head and looked around.
His mother, her head nodding on her chest, was slumped in a chair next to his bed, but even in her sleep she seemed to feel his eyes on her. Abruptly, she came awake and quickly straightened up.
"You're awake," she declared in a surprised voice that made Mark wonder if she hadn't expected him ever to wake up at all.
"I guess I am," he admitted. "You been here all night?"
She nodded. "I didn't want you to wake up and be frightened."
Mark groaned inwardly. Did she think he was still a baby? He tried to raise himself up, but fell back as a sharp pain shot through his chest.
"Try this," Sharon said, handing him the controls for the bed.
Mark experimented for a moment, then the head of the bed rose slowly until he was half sitting up. The pain in his chest eased and he managed a weak grin. "I guess I didn't come off very well last night, did I?"
"Don't you worry about that," she told him. "And if JeffLaConner thinks he's going to get away with this-" She broke off her sentence as the door opened. MacMacCallum strode in, picked up the chart suspended from the end of Mark's bed, scanned it quickly, then shifted his attention to the boy himself.
"How are you doing this morning?" he asked as he picked up Mark's wrist and took his pulse. "Sleep okay?"