'Max, you want to stay with your grandpa a while?'
He leaned over and gave Max a bite of the tofu burger. Max gave it a chew, then spit it out. He liked meat, too. Jean Prescott leaned over and kissed Andy on the cheek then walked over to the counter where the strawberry cake sat.
'Max, are you ready for cake and ice cream?'
Max jumped up and barked a Yes! Yes, I am! He bounded over to the counter, and Andy's father said, 'You dating anyone?'
'Curtis and Dave. Tres is taken.'
'There's someone out there for you, Andy,' his mother said from across the kitchen. 'One day, you'll turn around and she'll be standing right there.'
'Sure, Mom.'
His mother was an artist. A hopeless romantic. Which was probably why she had ended up with two hopeless losers. Andy thought of his life with his father. Paul Prescott wasn't rich but it had never been about the money; for him, it had always been about the music. One day Andy's children-if he ever got married and had children-would listen to their grandpa's music, and they'd be proud. Andy fought the tears again.
He would give anything to save his father's life.
He had tried to give his own liver to his father-a 'live donor' transplant. The liver is the only human organ capable of regeneration; if Andy gave half his liver to his father, within two months each half would grow to a whole liver again, like something out of a sci-fi movie. But Andy had Type A blood; his father had Type B. His father's body would reject Andy's liver.
There was nothing more Andy Prescott could do to save his father's life.
Inside a $20-million Mediterranean-style mansion overlooking that portion of the Colorado River known as Lake Austin, Russell Reeves sat in a gaming chair facing a video screen that almost covered one wall; his seven- year-old
son sat next to him. They were playing Guitar Hero III.
Zach was taking it easy on his father.
Zach's bedroom suite felt like a sauna-the boy was always cold. An orange-and-white Longhorns knit cap covered his bald head. Oxygen tubes wound over his ears and under his nose; the chemo shunt in his chest was concealed by his Dallas Cowboys jersey. He loved sports, but he had never played sports. He had never been just a kid. He had always been a sick kid.
Because of Russell Reeves.
He was a carrier of the mutated gene that had caused his son's rare cancer. The gene had not given the cancer to Russell, but he had given the gene to Zach-and the gene had given his son cancer. The man who loved this boy more than life itself had sentenced him to death.
Russell Reeves had killed his own son.
Zach had spent more of his life in the hospital than at home; he had been in and out of the children's cancer ward at Austin General Hospital so many times that Russell now kept the hospital's penthouse reserved year-round. When Zach stayed at the hospital, they stayed at the hospital.
And when Zach was at home, it was as if he were still at the hospital. His bed was a hospital bed; medical equipment lined the wall behind the bed; a nurse sat beside the bed, twenty-four/seven. And there was even the hospital smell: the inescapable scent of death.
The door opened, and Kathryn walked in. She was only thirty-eight, but the last six years had aged her. She had been a beauty queen at UT and had looked the part when they had married fourteen years ago; now she looked like a woman about to lose her only child. But she never let on to Zach. Russell glanced away from the video screen just in time to catch her putting on her happy face.
'Zach!'
She came over and kissed her son.
'Are you winning, honey?'
Zach nodded without looking away from the screen. Kathryn checked his chart: pulse, blood pressure, temperature. Every thirty minutes. Zach's fingers were working the guitar-shaped controller expertly when he abruptly leaned over and vomited. He had had chemo that morning.
Russell grabbed a towel and wiped his son's mouth. He checked Zach's clothes; they were still clean. He removed the oxygen tubes and lifted his frail son-he felt like skin and bones in Russell's arms-then carried Zach to the bathroom to rinse his mouth and brush his teeth. He then carried him over to the bed and gently set him down. Zach lay back on the bed. The nurse replaced the oxygen tubes then took his pulse, blood pressure, and temperature while Kathryn called the maids.
'You okay, son?'
'I'm just tired.'
'Okay, buddy, get some rest. We'll finish the game later.'
He kissed his son's forehead. Zach closed his eyes. He was so pale that when he closed his eyes, Russell knew he was looking at his son at the moment of death.
That moment was not far off.
The nurse returned to her chair, Russell dimmed the lights, and he and Kathryn walked out of their son's bedroom. Russell shut the door behind them. His wife faced him.
'He doesn't have a year, Russell.'
'I know.'
'We have fifteen billion dollars, but we can't save our own son.'
She began crying. Again. She cried constantly now. She paced the house all day and night. He often woke and found her gone. He would always find her in Zach's room, kneeling next to his bed while he slept, praying to God to spare her child. It scared him. Zach's doctor had recommended a psychiatrist. She had refused. He was losing them both.
'Kathryn, I've worked around the clock for six years now to save Zach. I've spent five billion dollars on the lab and the scientists and the research. I've-'
'Failed him.'
'No, Kathryn, I haven't failed him, and I won't fail him. I won't let him die. I promise you. I promise him.'
He took her by the shoulders; all he felt were bones. She had all but stopped eating. It was as if she were dying with Zach; as if the family were dying with him.
'I swear to God, Kathryn-I will save him.'
She wandered down the hallway; he walked to his office at the rear of the house. The back wall of the office was a bank of windows that offered a stunning view of the lake below and the hills beyond. White sails dotted the blue surface of Lake Austin. He could imagine the people on the sailboats looking up at this mansion and thinking that the people who lived there must have a perfect life. They would be wrong. Russell Reeves had everything money could buy, but his life wasn't perfect. Because his only child was dying. Would die.
Unless his father saved him.
He sat behind his desk and opened the newspaper to the obituaries. It had become a daily ritual. Or an obsession. He read: 'Kenny Johnson, age seven, went to the Lord after a brave battle with cancer. Survived by his parents…'
How does a parent survive the death of his child? Her child? Their child? He looked at the young faces, and he read of their short lives. After the children's obituaries, he turned to the obits for adults that read: 'Preceded in death by his son, Henry…' or 'by her daughter, Janice…' And he always wondered how they had gone on with their lives after the death of their children. Or had they?
And he saw his own son's obituary as clearly as if printed in the paper: 'Zachary Reeves, age seven, is survived by his parents, Russell and Kathryn Reeves…'
Would he survive the death of his son? Would Kathryn?
He had maintained a steadfast public persona, the billionaire philanthropist helping others while his son inched closer and closer to death. But his public life belied his private torture. His personal hell. His life that was now consumed by a single objective: finding a cure for his son. He had devoted the last six years of his life to saving his son; he would spend every dollar of his fortune and devote every day of the rest of his life to save his son… or
