The Select

  True enough: The Grade III arthritis in her hip elicited a bolt of pain whenever she went up or down a stair, and her spine was arthritic enough to cause it to stiffen like a rusty gate whenever she sat or reclined for more than fifteen minutes, which made rising from a chair or getting out of bed each morning an excruciating ordeal; but her symptoms—when adjusted for age—did not code severe enough (you needed Grade V) under the federal guidelines to warrant hip surgery or even one of the newer, more potent anti-inflammatory medications that were in such short supply; she'd have to make do with the older, more tried-and-true (and lower-priced) generics.

  All true enough—when each condition was considered one at a time. If she had been afflicted with just the arthritis, or merely the gallstones, or simply the heart failure, she could have handled it. And she even might have coped fairly well with a combination of any two of them.

  But all three?

  The triple whammy was slowly doing her in, melting her days into exhausted blurs, nibbling away at her quality of life to the point where she'd begun to wonder whether life was worth living any longer.

  Why wasn't there a code for the quality of life? Why couldn't the computers add up a person's Grade II's and Grade III's and send up a red flag that said Help when they reached a certain critical number—regardless of age?

  Was that what it was going to be like? Number-coded doctors treating the number-coded diseases afflicting number-coded patients? There had to be another way.

  But what?

  "Quinn?" It was Tim's voice. "Yo, Quinn. Where are you? Come back to us."

  Quinn shook herself. "I'm, uh, thinking," she said.

  "Good," Tim said. "I thought you were in a trance. Come up with anything?"

  "No," she said. "No solution. Sooner or later the politicians and bureaucrats are going to take over completely. They can control the funds and the distribution of their so-called resources—and they'll consider us 'resources' too—but they can't control the delivery of compassion, can they?"

  Judy groaned but Tim cut her off with a karate-chop wave of his hand.

  Tim nodded. "You said it. The empty suits will try to get into the hospital charts, into the operating rooms, into the office records, even into the examining rooms." He tapped his chest. "They'll even try to get in here, and believe me, plenty of times they'll succeed, but they can't get a piece of that special chemistry that happens between a doctor and a patient unless we let them. And part of that chemistry is compassion. Empathy."

  "The floor's getting gooey with idealism," Judy said. "How about a little realism here?"

  "We're still students," Tim said. "We're not supposed to be realists. That comes later. For the moment let's believe in the healing power of compassion."

  Quinn saw the fire in his eyes, the ferocity in his tight smile, and knew she'd found a kindred spirit. She raised a fist to chin level and responded with a smile of her own.

  "Compassion," she said. "Let 'em find a procedure code for that."

  MONITORING

  "I believe it's time to start the night music," Alston said. "What do you think?"

  Louis Verran concealed his annoyance as Alston stood with his hands behind his back and leaned forward over his shoulder, studying the main console.

  Right, Verran thought. Like he almost knows what he's looking at.

  "You're the boss," he said, not meaning a word of it. In this room Louis Verran was the boss.

  Alston pointed to one of the read-outs. "My goodness, what's going on in room 107."

  Verran glanced up. The mattress weight sensor for bed B had risen into the red.

  "Looks like some extra bodies on the bed. I'd guesstimate about four."

  Alston's eye widened. "Really? What on earth could they be doing?"

  "Probably an orgy," Verran said, keeping his face deadpan. "Don't you wish we had video?"

  "Certainly not. Turn up the audio and let's hear what's going on."

  Verran activated the audio. All of the rooms had been wired with tiny electret microphones. The sound of male voices quizzing each other on hepatic histology swelled through the speakers.

  "Orgy indeed!" Alston said. He pointed to another read-out panel. "Look at room 224. What's—?"

  Verran took a deep puff on his cigar and floated a trio of blue-white smoke rings. He watched with concealed amusement as Alston backed away, waving his hand through the air.

  "Must you, Louis?"

  "If you can't stand the smoke," Verran muttered, "stay away from the console."

  He glanced at Alston and was startled by the fury that flashed across his features. It showed only for an instant, then was gone as if it had never been, and the prissy, supercilious expression was back in control. But Verran realized his remark had caused the mask to slip and allowed a darker side of Dr. Arthur Alston to peek through.

  Verran glanced at Kurt and Elliot. Both of his assistants were busy at their own consoles, checking the mattress sensors to see who was in bed and who wasn't. They gave no indication that they had heard or seen anything. Good. They'd learned quickly to act oblivious to the squabbles between their boss and Dr. Alston. Verran had known them both when he'd been with the CIA. He'd hired them away from the Company when he'd landed this job.

  Elliot and Kurt—the tortoise and the hare.

  Elliot was careful, meticulous, one of the best electronic surveillance jockeys in the business. He could bug a room six ways from Sunday with no one the wiser. But he'd been stopped on the street in Costa Rica one night and couldn't explain all the electronic junk in his trunk. Spent one very rough week in an Alajuela jail before the Company could extricate him. Elliot never spoke of that week, but even now he got quiet and twitchy whenever anyone mentioned jail. After the Costa Rica incident, he refused any and all foreign assignments. Which meant his career was dead in the water.

  Kurt was fast on his feet but a little flaky. He had gained a reputation around the Company as something of a loose cannon and had been passed over a number of times when promotions came around. It was obvious he wasn't going to move any farther up the ladder.

  Neither had hesitated when Verran offered them jobs at the Ingraham. He'd never regretted it, and neither had they.

  But he did regret having to deal with Alston. Even so, Verran wouldn't have made that kind of crack if Alston were his direct superior. But after seeing Alston's ferocious reaction, Verran was suddenly very glad that he didn't have to answer to the man. He had a feeling life could be pretty shitty for an underling who got on the good doctor's bad side. Fortunately, security had its own responsibilities, separate from Alston's education bailiwick. They both answered to the Foundation, however. And the Foundation, of course, answered to Mr. Kleederman.

  Verran had never met Mr. Kleederman and had not the slightest desire to do so.

  "I assure you, Louis," Alston said levelly, "I wouldn't be here if I didn't have to be. I don't enjoy your smoky presence any more than you enjoy mine."

  Verran put his cigar in the ashtray—he would let it sit there and go out as a peace-making gesture. Besides, he needed peace to function in this job.

  Maybe he'd been letting Alston get too far under his skin. The creep was a long-term irritation, like his ulcer, and he'd have to learn to live with him, just like he'd learned to live with the gnawing hunger-like pain in his gut. But if the undercurrent of hostility between them broke out into the open, it could impinge on Verran's concentration. And he couldn't allow that. Security at The Ingraham was a seven-days-a-week, around-the-clock process that ruled his life ten months a year. And he was good at his job. Damn good. There'd been a few glitches over the years, and a couple of close calls, but he and Alston had been able to keep them nice and quiet, with no one—except the Foundation—the wiser.

  So, like it or not, he and Alston had to work together, or their heads could wind up on the chopping block.

  "I've got nothing against you, Doc. It's just that we're dealing with delicate equipment here. State-of-t
he-art sensors and pick-ups. Very temperamental. I get nervous when anybody but me or Kurt of Elliot gets near it. This stuff is my baby and I'm a protective daddy. So don't take it personal."

  Alston accepted the truce with a slight nod of his head. "I understand. No offense taken. It's forgotten."

  Right, Verran thought. Tightasses never forget.

  "So," Alston said, clearing his throat with a sound like a record needle skipping to another track, "it seems to me that we've given them enough time to acclimate to their new surroundings. A few weeks should suffice for anyone. All the equipment is in a state of readiness, I assume?"

  "The SLI units are ready and waiting. Every room in the dorm is on line and working like a dream."

  "Excellent. And our new charges, are they all behaving themselves? No bad apples in the bunch?"

  "All but one: the Brown kid."

  "Timothy Brown? The high-IQ boy from New Hampshire? What's he been up to?"

  Alston's ability to recognize each student's face and reel off their vital statistics never failed to amaze Verran. It was the one thing about Alston he envied.

  "All-nighters," Verran said.

  "We certainly don't discourage studying, Louis."

  "No. I mean out all night. Off campus."

  "Really?" Alston frowned with concern. "That's not good. Where?"

  "Baltimore, I think."

  "How often?"

  "Twice, so far."

  "Weekday nights?"

  "Let me check." Verran swiveled to his computer keyboard and punched in Brown's room number. His data file scrolled down the screen. "One Tuesday into Wednesday, and one Saturday into Sunday."

  "Hmmm. I don't like that mid-week absence. Let's hope he doesn't make a habit of it. We'll have to come down on him if he does, but we'll let it go for now. I don't particularly care about the weekends. Any night music they hear on weekends is a lagniappe anyway. But do keep a close watch on young Mister Brown. I do not want another fiasco like two years ago."

  Verran's stomach burned at the memory. Neither did he. One of those was enough for a lifetime.

  "Will do," he said. "You're the boss."

  Alston smiled and it looked almost genuine. "You sound so convincing when you say that, Louis."

  "Well, you are the DME, after all."

  "Yes. The maestro, as it were. Very well, strike up the band and let The Ingraham's nocturnal concert series begin."

  He turned and headed for the door, humming a tune Verran recognized from The Phantom of the Opera..."The Music of the Night."

  OCTOBER

  Carbenamycin (Carbocin - Kleederman Plarm.), the new macrolide released just two years ago, has become the number-one-selling antibiotic in the world.

  P.M.A. News

  CHAPTER TEN

  A warm day for October, with a high, bright sun cooking the asphalt of the parking lot like summer. Good driving weather.

  "Are you sure you don't want some company?" Tim said, leaning against the driver's door of his car and speaking through the open window. "I'll even do the driving."

  "Any other time and I'd say yes," Quinn said as she adjusted the seat belt. "But this is personal."

  He reached through the window and gripped her shoulder. His voice rose in a panicky quaver.

  "Oh, no, Quinn! Not another abortion. This makes three this year! I told you I'd stand by you!"

  A fellow student who had a seat near hers in histology lab was passing nearby. His head whipped in their direction and he almost tripped on the curb, but he recovered and hurried past.

  Quinn fixed her eyes straight ahead as she felt her cheeks go crimson. She tried to keep her voice level.

  "I hate you, Timothy Brown. It's as simple as that. Even if you lend me this car every day for the next four years, I will still hate you forever."

  He flashed his boyish smile and slapped the roof.

  "Take good care of Griffin for me, drive carefully, and wear shorts more often—you've got dynamite legs."

  Her cheeks didn't cool until she reached the highway, then she smiled and shook her head. My third abortion? How did he come up with things like that?

  She checked the gas gauge and saw that it read full. He was a clown, but a considerate clown.

  She found Route 70 and followed it east. Company would have been nice, but how could she explain to Tim this need to learn about their cadaver?

  She took the inner loop on 695 to York Road in Towson and followed that south. She almost cruised past the Towson Library without seeing it. Not because it was small. It was huge, but it looked like the town had used the same architect as the Berlin Wall. With all that bare, exposed concrete it looked about as warm and inviting as a bomb shelter.

  Inside wasn't much better, but the friendliness of the librarians went a long way toward countering the bunker decor. They gave her a stack of back issues of the Towson Times, the local weekly, and she began to search through the obits. There weren't many. Quinn was beginning to worry that the Times might print only select obituaries when she spotted the heading:

  Dorothy Havers, long time

  Towson resident. Age 82

  Dorothy O'Boyle Havers, the only daughter of Francis and Catherine O'Boyle, both Irish immigrants, died on July 12 of natural causes at the Laurel Hills Medical Center. Prior to that she had been a resident of the Towson Nursing Center for seven years. Mrs. Havers was predeceased by her husband, Earl, and by her two daughters, Catherine and Francine. No plans for viewing or burial were announced.

  Ireland...Dorothy came over from Ireland...just like her mother. And she'd died right next door to The Ingraham.

  Quinn reread the obit and was swept by a wave of sadness. Of course no plans for viewing or burial were announced. There was nobody to view her remains, nobody left to mourn at her grave side. Husband dead, children dead, seven years in a nursing home, probably without a single visitor, completely forgotten, no one caring if she lived or died. So she'd willed her body to The Ingraham.

  Poor woman.

  But what had she died of? That might be interesting to know during the dissection. She wondered if they'd know at the Towson Nursing Center. How far could it be?

  Quinn xeroxed off a copy of the obituary, then went looking for a phone.

  *

  "Dorothy Havers?" said Virginia Bennett, R.N., head nurse at the Towson Nursing Center. "I remember that name. You say you're releated to her?"

  "Her great niece," Quinn said.

  She'd discovered the Towson Nursing Center was a couple of miles from the library, so she'd stopped in to learn what she could. The one-story dark brick building seemed about as pleasant as something called a nursing home could be. Elderly men and women sat in wheelchairs around the foyer while others inched by with the aid of four-footed canes. A vague odor of urine suffused the air, like olfactory muzak.

  "Well, I'll be." Nurse Bennett scratched the side of her neck with short, scarlet fingernails. She had ebony skin, gray hair, and a bulldog face, but seemed pleasant enough. "We searched high and low for a next of kin last year when we were getting ready to transfer her to the medical center. Couldn't find anybody. Fig ured she was alone in the world."

  "We have a common relative in Ireland," Quinn said, amazed at how easily the lies tripped off her tongue. She'd figured no one would tell her a thing about Dorothy unless they thought she was related. "I just happened to come across her name while I was researching the family's medical history. Was she very sick?"

  "Just a little heart failure, if I remember. But Dr. Clifton—he's one of our doctors—is very conservative. He refers patients to the medical center at the first sign of trouble. But he's top notch. A graduate of the Ingraham, you know."

  "Really? That's good to know."

  "But what sort of family history were you looking for?"

  "There's ovarian cancer in one of my aunts and I was wondering..."

  "Very important," Nurse Bennett said, jabbing a finger at Quinn. "But I don't know a thing about Mr
s. Havens, so I can't—" She glanced past Quinn. "Wait. There's Dr. Clifton now. Maybe he can help you. Dr. Clifton? Could we see you a minute?"

  Quinn turned and saw a young, dark-haired doctor, surely not much older than thirty, entering through a rear door, dressed in a sport coat and carrying a black bag.

  "Dr. Clifton," Nurse Bennett said as he approached the desk. "You remember Dorothy Havers, don't you? This is her great niece."

  It almost looked to Quinn as if Dr. Clifton stumbled a step. He blinked twice, then smiled.

  "I didn't know Dotty had a great niece, or any kind of relative at all."

  Quinn repeated her story about the Ireland link, and about researching the family medical history. The lies came easier the second time around.

  "No," Dr. Clifton said. "Dotty had no history of cancer of any sort. Her main problem was arteriosclerosis—coronary and cerebral. We were sorry to lose her this summer. She was a nice lady."

  "I wish I'd known her," Quinn said, and that wasn't a lie. "Was she in bad heart failure when you transferred her to the medical center?"

  "Bad enough in my clinical opinion to need more intense care than a nursing home could provide," he said stiffly. "Is there a point to these questions, Miss...?"

  "Sheedy," Quinn said, barely missing a beat. "No. Just curious."

  "Well, then, as much as I'd like to satisfy your curiosity, Miss Sheedy, I have rounds to make. Excuse me."

  "Not much of a bedside manner," Quinn said after he'd hurried off.

  "Must have had a bad day," Nurse Bennett said. "Usually he's very easy going."

  Not today, Quinn thought. Today he's downright defensive.

  As she left the Towson Nursing Center, she noticed the small print on the entry plaque: Owned and operated by Kleederman Medical Industries.

  KMI is everywhere, she thought. I guess I'll be pretty well connected after I graduate.

  She wondered why she took no comfort in that.

  She pulled the folded copy of Dorothy Havers' obituary from her pocket and reread it.