The Select

  "Who are you?" said the heavy one. "And what are you doing here? Do you realize how you're endangering these patients?"

  Quinn was tongue tied for an instant. She'd had a story set to use had she been intercepted before she reached Ward C, but nothing for why she was actually in the ward. She realized that they didn't know who she was. Why should they? The only times she'd ever been on Five Science were in the afternoon. She could be anybody. So she blurted the first thing that came to mind.

  "I thought they might be lonely," she said as lamely as she could. She tried to look dazed, out of it as she shuffled toward the nurses...toward the door. "But no one will talk to me."

  The nurses glanced at each other, then the heavy one spoke again. She seemed to be the head nurse for the two-woman shift.

  "You could have brought an infection in here."

  "Oh, no," Quinn said with intense sincerity as she continued her approach. "I wash my hands every day. But they still wouldn't talk to me. Will you talk to me?"

  Another glance flashed between the nurses, then the thin one spoke.

  "Of course we'll talk to you." She pulled open the door to the nursing station. "Come on out here. We've got coffee and donuts and we'll talk as long as you like."

  Quinn gave a sleepy smile as she walked between them and out the door...and kept walking. She turned to her right toward the hallway.

  Someone grabbed her shoulder. "Not that way." It was the heavy nurse. "The lounge is over here."

  "That's okay," Quinn said, shrugging off the hand. "I don't feel like talking anymore."

  "Wait—!"

  Quinn pulled away and began running down the hall, ignoring the shouts behind her as she headed for the exit stairs. She could see the door was still propped open by her coat and she complimented herself on her foresight. She was scared, but her adrenalin was flowing now and she knew she could outdistance either of the nurses here in the hall. Before they could phone the lobby and get security moving, she ought to be down the stairs, out into the snow, and pelting across campus toward the dorm. Once back in her room, she'd barricade the door and call the sheriff's office. She'd blow the lid off Ward C and expose everybody involved in this horror and then Tim would be free and they'd be together once more and she wouldn't care if she never saw The Ingraham again.

  She was half way there when the door opened the rest of the way and a blond man stepped over her coat and into the hall. Quinn recognized him immediately as someone from campus security—the one she and Tim had seen in the parking lot before leaving for Atlantic City last month.

  His sudden grin had a nasty twist to it. "Well, well, well. I've been looking for you, sweetheart."

  Quinn's sneakers squeaked as she skidded into a turn and ran the other way. The heavyset nurse had been close behind her but Quinn's sudden change in direction took her by surprise and she slipped and fell. Quinn dodged around her and headed back the way she had come.

  Panic was beginning to crowd her now, nipping at her heels. She wouldn't make it into the stairwell at the other end of the hall. She'd have to use her card to unlock it and the blond guy would be all over her while she was trying to get it into the slot. Maybe the lab—

  As she passed Ward C again she spotted the little lounge behind the nurses station. Maybe she could lock herself in there, and if they had a phone...

  But the thin, dark-haired nurse was at the station, on the phone, undoubtedly to security. When she saw Quinn coming, she dropped the receiver and moved to intercept her. Quinn didn't think she could duck around the nurse so she barreled right into her, sending her flying backward into the meds cart, knocking it over. She had a brief glimpse of the bottles and syringes flying off the top, smashing on the floor, the drawers below falling open, spilling their contents, adding more liquid and broken glass to the mess, then she ducked into the lounge, slammed the door behind her, and locked it.

  She whirled, found the phone, lifted the receiver, hit 9, then dialed 4-1-1. If only she'd thought to memorize the number of the sheriff's office.

  She got a busy signal. How could Information be busy at this hour?

  As fists began pounding on the door, she hung up and tried again, only this time she listened after she hit the 9 for an outside line: busy signal. Someone in security had blocked phone access to the outside.

  A heavy weight slammed against the door. The molding by the doorknob cracked.

  Quinn began to shake. Her stomach hurt. She was trapped. And she was going to end up like Tim, she knew it.

  Another slam against the door, a bigger crack in the molding. Desperate now, ready to try anything, she jumped up, twisted the lock switch in the doorknob to the off position, turned the knob ever so slightly to free the latch, then stepped aside, flattening herself against the wall just to the right of the knob.

  The door slammed open with a violence that almost ripped it off its hinges as the blond man hurtled into the room, out of control, stumbling wildly.

  Quinn was on her way out the door immediately. She didn't see him land, but heard the crash of tumbling furniture, then groans and angry curses behind her as she dashed once more into the hall. The two nurses were there, blocking her way, their eyes wide with surprise at the sight of her. They clutched at her arms but she shook them off and darted behind the station counter, taking the longer, flanking route to the hall. She would have made it, too, if her sneaker hadn't slipped on the wet floor. She prevented a fall by grabbing the counter, but the delay gave the heavy nurse a chance to reach the other end of the station and cut her off.

  As Quinn straightened she noticed three fist-sized multi-dose bottles of a clear liquid near her right hand. She grabbed one and flung it at the big nurse. It struck her in the shoulder, bounced off, and smashed. Quinn grabbed another, spun, and winged it at the thin nurse who deflected it with her hands. That too smashed. Quinn turned again and threw the last at the heavy nurse who ducked. It sailed over her head and shattered against the far wall. Before the nurse could straighten, Quinn was past her and again sprinting down the hall.

  This time she made it to the stairwell. She grabbed her coat as she passed, pulled it on and fumbled her pass card from the pocket as she bounded down the steps. She ignored her drying boots as she burst from the stairwell onto the first floor. She jammed the card into the emergency door slot and ran out into the icy air.

  At first she ran through the snow without a destination— down the hill toward the campus buildings, anywhere as long as she was putting distance between herself and Science. Then she heard the exit alarm sound from the Science building—someone had come through without using a card. She turned and saw the long trail she'd left in the snow and the big blond guy from security running down the hill, following it. She might be able to outrun him, but she'd never lose him, not in this snow.

  She heard a whimper of fear and realized it had come from her.

  Ahead lay the faculty office building. One of the windows was lit. Dr. Emerson's?

  "Oh, God, please, God!" she said softly, pushing her speed to the red line.

  She skidded into the entry door, yanked on the handle—it opened. She ran inside, locked it behind her, then kicked off her sneakers. Wet footprints were as easy to follow as a trail in the snow. She padded down the hall in her socks toward Dr. Emerson's door. She burst into his office without knocking and slammed the door behind her.

  Dr. Emerson jumped in his seat and looked up at her.

  "Oh, Dr. Emerson, thank God you're here!"

  "Quinn!" he said, pulling off his glasses. "What on earth's wrong?"

  "You've got to hide me! Security's after me! You've got to call the Sheriff's Department!"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Tim Brown! He didn't run off to Vegas. He's still here, in Ward C!"

  "Preposterous! Who told you such a thing?"

  "I saw him, Dr. Emerson. I just came from Ward C and Tim Brown is there!"

  Shock and confusion warred across Dr. Emerson's featur
es.

  "But why—?"

  "I don't understand why. None of this makes any sense. I just know he's there and Dr. Alston's using your compound to keep him there and we've got to get him out." She was starting to cry. She didn't want to, but she was so afraid and the sobs seemed to have a will of their own. "So please, please call the sheriff!"

  Dr. Emerson closed his eyes and shook his head, as if trying to shut out something he didn't want to hear.

  "This is terrible," he muttered. "This is awful." He looked heartbroken.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. This just confirms my worst fears." He rubbed a hand over his eyes, then straightened in his chair. "Very well. Hide in that closet over there if you wish. I still can't believe this, but I'll make the call. But I won't tell the authorities a thing. I'll try to get someone from the sheriff's office here and you can tell him yourself. Is that fair enough?"

  "Yes! Oh, yes! Thank you!"

  Quinn hurried over to the closet, stepped inside, and closed the door behind her. On the far side of the door she heard Dr. Emerson pick up the phone and dial. She listened as he spoke.

  "Sheriff's office? Yes, this is Dr. Emerson at The Ingraham. I have a very frightened young woman in my office who feels she is in some danger. Could you send a car over immediately? Yes, I'm in room 107 in the faculty building. Thank you." He hung up and said, "They'll be here shortly."

  Quinn breathed a deep sigh of relief and slid to a sitting position on the floor of the closet. She hadn't been sure she could trust anyone connected with The Ingraham, including Dr. Emerson. Now she chided herself for doubting him, even for an instant.

  It's almost over.

  All she had to do now was sit tight here until the sheriff or a deputy came, then lead them up to Ward C and show them the missing Timothy Brown. And then heads would roll.

  Maybe she'd learn what this nightmare was all about. Because that was exactly what this was like—bizarre, scary as hell, surreal, and it made no sense at all.

  Outside in the office, a door opened.

  "Where is she?" a voice said.

  Dr. Emerson, sounding very old and very tired, replied: "In the closet."

  Quinn was rising to a standing position when the closet door was flung open. She screamed when she saw the blond security guard standing there, smiling at her.

  No! It can't be! Can't BE!

  She tried to dart past him but he grabbed her arm and squeezed her biceps. Quinn winced with the pain.

  "Don't hurt her," Dr. Emerson said.

  "Are you kidding?" the guard said. "After all the shit she's put me through tonight. Thought I busted my arm up there on Five Science. All because of her."

  As she was dragged past his desk toward the hall, Quinn stared at Dr. Emerson in shock and disbelief.

  "You? You too?"

  He wouldn't meet her gaze. He stared instead at his desk top. His betrayal was a knife through her heart. Her terror receded and the hurt poured out of her.

  "How could you? I thought you were a decent man, a great man! I thought you were my friend!"

  Finally he looked up at her. His face was stricken, filled with grief. There were tears in his eyes.

  "So did I. But there are some processes that cannot be stopped once they are set in motion."

  Quinn's hurt suddenly turned to fury. It flared up, fueled by the growing fear for her life, and suddenly she was shoving the security man, wrenching her arm from his grasp with a sudden burst of strength that took her as much by surprise as it did him.

  She was free, and she was running again, but with nowhere to go.

  Quinn glanced over her shoulder and saw the guard racing after her, arms and legs pumping, teeth bared, face a mask of rage. She screamed and stretched her legs to their limit but her socks gave her little traction on the polished floor. He gained quickly this time and tackled her just as she was banking into a turn in the hall.

  His weight slammed her to the floor, knocking the air out of her as they slid into a wall. He lurched to his knees and hovered over her, panting, murder ablaze in his eyes as she struggled to breath.

  He grabbed the front of her hair. "I've had enough shit from you for one night!" he said.

  Quinn felt her scalp burn as he yanked her head up. Before she could reach up to grab his arms, he slammed her head down against the floor. Jagged bolts of white light arced from the back of her skull along both sides of her brain and met in the space behind her eyes, then plunged into darkness, dragging Quinn with them.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Finally!

  Matt felt the crushing fatigue begin to lift as he turned off the road and up the drive toward The Ingraham's gates. It had stopped snowing, and there were only six inches or so on the ground here. The going became much faster and easier once he'd crossed into Maryland and pushed south of Emmitsburg. The roads from there on had been plowed sporadically, but at least none of them was blocked by four-foot drifts like a few up in Pennsylvania.

  The guard in the gatehouse looked at him suspiciously as he pulled up to the brightly lit entrance. He seemed reluctant to open the window to his heated cocoon.

  "Help you?"

  "Yeah. I'm here to visit a first-year student named Cleary."

  "They've all gone home for Christmas break."

  "She's still here. She's expecting me."

  "I wouldn't know about that. I'm afraid I can't let you on campus at this hour."

  "I've come all the way from Connecticut. I would've been here hours ago if I hadn't got stuck in the storm. Please give her room a call. Two-fifty-two."

  The guard shrugged, slid his window closed, and dialed his phone. And waited. And waited. Finally he shook his head and hung up. He opened the window again.

  "No answer. Like I told you: They've all gone home for the break. Won't be back till after the first of the year."

  An uneasy feeling began to worm through Matt. Even through the static Quinn had sounded frightened. And why not? The things she'd been saying...

  Matt had spent the hours since their abortive phone call trying to piece together the fragments he'd heard. The more he'd thought about them, the more unsettling they became.

  It's Tim! I think he's here!...I don't think he ever went away...I think they're hiding him here...

  They were enough to shake up anybody.

  "I know she's here. I spoke to her a couple of hours ago. Call her again."

  He shook his head. "I already let it ring a dozen times. If she was in that room, she would've picked up."

  "Then maybe something's happened to her. Maybe—"

  "The only thing that's happened to her is she's gone home for a couple of weeks."

  "But she could be hurt. Let me go up and check on her."

  The guard shook his head with deliberate slowness. "Nobody goes wandering around this campus without an escort, and there's nobody to spare for an escort at this hour. You come back after eight when the day shift's on and they can help you out. Right now, I suggest you turn around and take the road two miles further west to the Quality Inn and spend what's left of the night there."

  "But—"

  The guard shut his window.

  Matt stared at him, then glanced at the red-and-white striped gate a few feet ahead. He was tempted to slam the Cherokee into gear and drive right through that slim, brittle-looking two-by-four. But what would that do? He'd get kicked off the campus before he learned anything, and probably be banned from ever entering again. He did not need that.

  Maybe the Quality Inn was a good idea. But before he headed down the road again, there was one more thing he had to do.

  Hoping the local cellular transmitter was working, he picked up the car phone and dialed Quinn's number. He counted a dozen rings, then let it go on ringing after that. Finally, when he couldn't stand the sound any longer, he hung up. But her words from hours ago echoed and reechoed through the canyons of his brain.

  It's Tim! I think he's here!...I don't think he ever wen
t away...I think they're hiding him here...

  Either Quinn had gone paranoid, and that seemed unlikely— about as unlikely as Tim dropping out and flying to Las Vegas—or there was something nasty going on at The Ingraham.

  Matt rubbed his eyes.

  God, I'm tired.

  He was too exhausted to think straight right now. Maybe it would all make sense in the morning. It sure as hell didn't now. But he'd be back at eight on the dot to find Quinn and straighten out this whole mess.

  He was shifting into reverse when he heard the vibrato thrum of a helicopter. He looked up and saw the lights descending toward the helipad behind the medical center. When he'd been here last year he'd seen ex-senator Whitney land in one. Matt doubted he'd be coming to The Ingraham at this hour. Probably a MedEvac shipping in an emergency case.

  Great things, helicopters. Snow-choked roads didn't slow them down a bit.

  Matt turned the Cherokee around and went in search of the Quality Inn.

  *

  Tim lay on his right side in an agony of suspense. He'd seen Quinn leave the ward flanked by the two nurses, flash past the hall window with a nurse in pursuit, run back the other way chased by the blond bastard who'd punched him in the face that night ages ago when he was strapped in the chair talking to Dr. Alston.

  Nothing had happened for a few minutes. He'd heard heavy banging vibrating through the walls, then the faint sound of glass breaking, then he'd seen Quinn run by the window again. Soon after, but not too close behind, the blond security goon had followed.

  That was the last he'd seen of Quinn.

  She got away.

  Tim had been repeating that over and over, making a litany of it. She had to have got away. She couldn't have expended all that courage, braved all those risks, just to be caught and dragged downstairs to face Alston in Verran's little hidey hole. That would be too cruel, too unfair.

  No, she got away, and the cops would be here soon.

  But just in case Quinn had been caught, Tim was doing his damnedest to get his arms and legs working. His 2:00 a.m. dose of 9574 was late. Had to be. How else to explain the gnawing pain in his left thigh where Alston had burned and grafted him? Pain. When had Tim last experienced an iota of physical discomfort? And how else to explain this sudden ability to flex his elbows, shrug his shoulders, bend his knees? The joints were stiff and painful, but they did move. The daily physical therapy had kept them limber.