Quinn repressed a shudder and willed her body to remain limp as his fingers moved to her throat and began unbuttoning her blouse.
"You're too fine to waste without a little taste. Ol' Kurt's gonna get some of you before you become a french fry."
He opened her blouse and pushed up her bra. Quinn locked a scream in her throat as his rough palm cupped over her left breast and squeezed.
"Mmmm, they ain't big but any more than a handful's wasted, right? C'mon, honey. Wake up. Ol' Kurt wants you to know what's happening. He ain't into humping corpses."
He leaned over her and began nuzzling her neck as he unbuckled the belt on her slacks.
"Wish the hell you were wearing a dress," he mumbled against the flesh of her throat.
Quinn couldn't take any more. She came unglued. She opened her eyes and saw his ear an inch away from her lips.
In a panic, she bit it.
She more than bit it. She locked her teeth onto the earlobe and ground down with every ounce of strength in her jaws. She grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt and held on, rising off the couch with him as he reared up, howling in pain, trying to beat her off. Despite the pounding impacts of the blows, Quinn held on. Her rage and terror were in control now and refused to allow her to let go. Finally, with a violent shove, he broke her grasp and sent her sprawling against the console.
He leaned against the wall, groaning in pain, blood running down his cheek and neck from under the hand he had clasped over the side of his head.
"My ear! You bitch! You bit my fucking ear!"
Quinn felt something soft in her mouth. She spit, and gagged when she saw a bloody earlobe splat on the counter. Thoughts of AIDS skittered fearfully across the surface of her mind, but vanished in the urgent need to get out of this place and away from this beast.
Quinn tried to dart past Kurt but she wasn't quick enough. His hand caught her arm and he whipped her around, sending her sprawling back onto the couch. He came toward her with his right fist balled, his arm cocked, and murder in his eyes.
"You just made the biggest fucking mistake of your goddamn life!"
Quinn screamed and raised her arms to protect herself, then gasped in shock as a familiar face appeared over Kurt's shoulder.
*
Tim was pushing his legs as fast as he thought they'd safely carry him—he couldn't afford to fall now—but when he heard a faint, high-pitched scream that sounded like Quinn's voice, he ditched all caution and broke into a tottering jog.
He reached a door marked ELECTRONICS, threw it open, and saw Kurt, the big blond son of a bitch who'd punched him in the nose. His back was to Tim, but there was no mistaking him. He was leaning over a woman on the couch. Her blouse was pulled open, one breast was exposed, her mouth was all bloody, and she was screaming.
Quinn!
Tim almost lost it then. Any other time he would have leaped on Kurt's back and begun flailing away at him, but he knew he hadn't the strength to do much more than annoy him. Restraining himself, he uncapped one of the syringes in his hands and slipped up behind Kurt. As he raised it over the exposed back, he prayed this dose worked a little faster than the one he'd emptied into Doris's pleural cavity. With a grunt of effort, he drove it into Kurt's chest and pressed the plunger almost immediately.
But the needle struck a rib and bent, jamming the plunger. Kurt let out a howl and straightened up. He whipped his right arm around as he turned, leading with his elbow. Tim tried to duck but his reflexes weren't up to it yet. The flying elbow caught him on the side of the head, sending him sprawling against one of the consoles. The remaining syringes slipped from his grasp as the room dimmed and wobbled.
"Well, I'll be damned!" Kurt said. "Look who it is: the asshole from Ward C."
With the whiteness of his rage-contorted face accentuated by the glistening crimson smear painting his left ear and side of his neck, Kurt was a fearsome sight as he closed in on Tim.
"You've got no idea how much I'm going to love kicking your trouble-making ass!"
Tim looked around for the syringes and spotted them on the floor by his feet. If he could get to one, maybe he could inject Kurt in the belly. But as he reached down, Kurt's right fist caught him with solid uppercut to the face that knocked him to the floor. His vision swam and he lost sight of the syringes, of Quinn, of everything but the berserk monster looming over him.
*
For a few heartbeats, Quinn couldn't move. One moment she'd been cowering on the couch, waiting to be bludgeoned by Kurt's fists, the next Kurt was turning away from her, and battering Tim.
Tim! He was down now, huddled against the wall, virtually defenseless as Kurt began kicking him. She had to do something.
As she rose from the couch, she automatically tugged her bra down over her breasts, but she left her blouse unbuttoned. She needed a weapon, something she could use as a club—or a knife. She noticed a syringe dangling from the back of Kurt's shirt. As she watched, it slipped from the fabric and fell to the floor.
Quinn spotted a number of other syringes scattered on the floor and her mind began to race. Obviously Tim had brought them. He'd tried to inject Kurt with one. What was in them? A sedative? A poison? Or...
...9574?
Of course!
She snatched a pair off the floor, uncapped both, dropped into a crouch, and crept up behind Kurt where he was viciously driving those big boots into Tim's slumped, defenseless body.
"Stop it!" she screamed as she plunged one of the needles to the hub into the back of his thigh and emptied it.
It wasn't an intravenous injection, but if nothing else it would stop him from kicking Tim.
Kurt grunted and lurched around, clutching at the back of his thigh. Quinn tried to jab him with the other needle but he took an off-balance swing at her and she had to duck away.
And then she saw that the door was wide open and the path to it was clear.
She ran.
"I'm going for help, Tim!" she shouted as she passed him.
Tim lay slumped on the floor, a still, bloodied form. She didn't know if he heard her or not, wasn't sure he was still conscious—or even alive. A sick, cold anger added its own power to the terror already fueling her feet. Kurt had hurt Tim. She'd get him for that.
Heavy, pounding footsteps behind her shattered her little fantasy and yanked her back into horrific reality. She had a good lead on Kurt but she didn't know where she was going. The elevator was out of the question.
The stairs! Where are the stairs?
She lost a few steps as she slowed, reading the signs on all the doors. And then she saw the EXIT sign. She lost more ground pulling open the door, ground that Kurt did not lose because he caught the door before it closed—
—and he grabbed Quinn as she reached the first landing.
He snagged her ankle and wrenched it back and up, trying to topple her. Quinn clung to the railing with her free hand and twisted around to look down at him. With the blood oozing along the side of his neck and soaking into his collar, and with a grin as triumphant as it was ferocious, Kurt looked like an escaped lunatic. He had her now. He'd won. And there was no hint of mercy or compassion to be found in the glacial blue of his eyes. She was going to pay dearly for what she'd done to his ear.
"No!" Quinn shouted and defended herself with the only weapon she had. She stabbed at him with the syringe, backhanded, blindly, squeezing the plunger as she struck. It sank deep into his right eye socket.
Two things happened immediately:
Quinn released the barrel and recoiled in horror at the sight of the syringe jutting from Kurt's stunned, horrified, agonized face.
Kurt released her ankle and his hands darted toward his face.
They never made it. Both hands stopped within inches of his face and remained there, fingers splayed, trembling. His expression was a mixture of shock and dismay. The tremor spread to the rest of his body as it shuddered and shook like a fish on a hook. And then his body stiffened. Slowly he teetered backwar
d like a felled redwood and landed head first on the steps behind and below him. With a sickening snap, his head bent on his shoulders to very nearly a right angle. His body shuddered once, then lay still.
Quinn stood trembling on the landing, unsure of which way to turn, torn between running back to see if Tim was all right and climbing the rest of the stairs to the lobby to find Deputy Southworth.
She chose the latter. The only way to save herself and Tim was to break through the Ingraham's iron shell of security and drag in the outside world.
She just hoped the deputy was still there.
*
Louis Verran was actually allowing himself to relax. The subdued lighting of the lobby—they cut half the switches after Science closed down for the day—lent it a quiet, peaceful atmosphere. Almost like church.
Cleary's friend, Crawford, didn't really know that much. He'd only heard snatches of Cleary's end of the conversation on his car phone. And Verran had to hand it to Doc Alston—he handled Southworth beautifully.
A bad moment came when Dr. Emerson walked through the front doors. He looked dazed, like a guy in shock. Almost looked as if he'd been crying.
"Walter," Alston said. "What on earth are you doing here at this hour?"
But Emerson said nothing. He walked past like a zombie, eyes straight ahead, on a beeline for the elevators. Verran held his breath. Emerson was one of the faculty members who knew the score at The Ingraham, but he was a bit too unpredictable for Verran's liking.
But Emerson kept his mouth shut. He stepped into the elevator and went up to Fifth.
And Verran vented another sigh of relief.
"You see?" Alston said to Southworth as the elevator doors closed behind Emerson. "I'm not the only faculty member here at this hour.
"Fine," Southworth said, "but let me get this straight: Mr. Verran called you in because Timothy Brown had reappeared?"
"Not quite," Alston said with exaggerated patience. "Louis does not 'call me in,' as it were. He called to inform me that Mr. Brown had returned. I decided to come in to see Mr. Brown for myself. As Director of Medical Education, I thought it my duty to question him about his missed tests and classes and to warn him of his imminent risk of failure. He wanted to hear none of it. All he wanted was to collect Ms. Cleary and take her skiing."
"I don't believe any of this," Crawford said.
Alston shrugged dramatically. "I don't know what else I can tell you, young man. Mr. Brown returned, picked up Ms. Cleary, and the two of them drove off together. I certainly disapproved, but I had no power to stop them."
"Just when did Brown show up?" Southworth asked.
"Just before midnight, Ted," Verran said, jumping in. "I called Dr. Alston right away."
"And that would explain that fragment you heard from your friend," Alston told Crawford. "About Tim being here. That was what she meant. Your mutual friend had returned."
"No," Crawford said, shaking his head. "That doesn't hang together. Quinn said—"
Alston raised his hand. "None of us can be sure what Ms. Cleary said. You were tired, she was tired and overwhelmed by her friend's return. I suggest we all get a good night's sleep and discuss this further in the morning."
Southworth looked at Crawford. The deputy had been pretty quiet, soaking up everything in his usual low-key way. No telling for sure what Southworth was thinking. Ever.
He said, "I think Dr. Alston's got a point there. I'll put out a bulletin on Brown's car and we'll wait and see if they're picked up. Meanwhile, if you want to do anything, try hanging around the airport and see if they show up there."
Verran loved the idea but Crawford didn't look too happy with it. Finally he gave a reluctant shrug.
"All right. I'll try that. None of this makes any sense, but if they're not here, I guess they're not here."
Alston stepped forward and put a hand on Crawford's shoulder, guiding him toward the doors as he spoke.
"Don't you worry, young man. We'll find them. The Frederick County Sheriff's Department is second to none in its dedication and expertise. If your friends are still in Maryland, they'll locate them. And if they contact The Ingraham, I promise, you'll be the first to know."
That's it, Doc, Verran thought. Lay it on thick. Say whatever you have to say, just get them the hell out of here.
And then, behind him, through the door to the basement stairs, Louis Verran thought he heard a female voice shout No! But it was so faint he couldn't be sure he'd actually heard it.
No matter. Southworth and Crawford hadn't heard it. They were almost to the doors.
Keep going. Keep going.
A dozen or so feet and they'd be gone.
Half a dozen feet...
They were at the doors, passing through...
A sound behind him. A door opening. Verran turned and thought his heart was going to stop as his worst nightmare became real: The Cleary broad, her shirt flapping open, blood smeared around her mouth, bursting into the lobby. Verran made a grab for her but he was far too slow. And he was too stunned by the sight of her. Had that jerk Kurt tried something on her? And if so, where the hell was he? What had happened downstairs?
Not that it mattered. The end of his cushy job at The Ingraham, and no doubt the end of his life as a free man, was sprinting across the floor toward Southworth and Crawford, screaming at the top of her lungs.
"Matt! Oh, God, Matt! Matt, Matt, Maaaaaaatt!"
She leapt into Crawford's arm's and they hugged like a long-lost sister and brother while she babbled a mile a minute.
Suddenly Southworth was no longer low key. He grabbed Alston by the shoulder, turned him around, and shoved him back toward the security desk. Verran felt his stomach acid explode and wanted a place to hide.
"Seems we've got a little bit of a discrepancy here, Verran," Southworth said as he and the others reached the desk. He stood two feet back from the counter with his hand resting on the grip of his pistol—still in its holster, but the meaning of the gesture was not lost on Verran. "This young lady says she's Quinn Cleary—and Crawford here confirms that—and she says Tim Brown is being held downstairs as a prisoner. What the hell do you have to say about that?"
"Somebody call an ambulance," Cleary was saying as she buttoned the front of her shirt. "Tim's hurt. He needs help."
"Show me where," Crawford was saying. "Maybe we can—"
"Everybody stay put!" Southworth said. "I want some answers here."
The deputy was reaching for the radio remote on his left hip when Verran heard that sound again—the stairway door opening. Who was it going to be now? Brown himself? This was turning into a goddamn circus.
No. It was Elliot. And oh shit, he had a gun. He raised it in a professional two-handed grip and aimed it at the deputy. But Verran saw the way the barrel wavered and knew Elliot was on the edge of panic.
"Your gun, Southworth," Elliot said. "Take it out and put it on the counter."
Southworth remained cool, didn't move. "This isn't going to help," he said softly.
"Do it!" Elliot's voice cracked on the first word.
Southworth's face looked more annoyed than anything else as he removed his revolver from the holster and placed it on the counter.
"Take it, Chief," Elliot said, then he glanced at Alston. "And now I want to know what's gone down here. When I went up to Fifth a little while ago, everything was under control. I come back down and there's a dead guy in Monitoring"—Cleary moaned and began to cry on Crawford's shoulder—"and I find Kurt on the stairs with a chewed up ear and a broken neck. What the fuck's happening?" He glanced back at Verran again, then at Southworth's .38, still on the counter. "Go ahead, Chief. Take the gun."
"I don't want it." As Elliot stared at him wide eyed, Verran said, "It's over, Elliot."
"No way!" he said, shaking his head violently. "I'm not going back inside! We can..."
And then he ran out of words as he finally realized what Verran had known the instant he'd seen Quinn Cleary dash into the lob
by.
"No," Verran said softly. "We can't."
Alston was moving. He reached around Verran and picked up the .38 by the barrel.
"Louis is right, Elliot," Alston said. "The dominoes have begun to fall." He turned to Southworth and lifted the gun. "I'm going to borrow this, deputy. You may have it back in a few minutes."
He strolled to the stairway door and made his exit.
Fright and confusion swirled across Elliot's face.
"What's he—?"
Verran jumped as a single gunshot from the other side of the stairway door answered his question.
"Oh, shit!" Elliot said.
And then he was running for the front doors.
Before Elliot was through them, Southworth had his radio in hand and was calling for back-up, emergency medical assistance, and putting out an APB on Elliot. As he returned the remote to his belt, he jabbed an index finger at Verran.
"Stay put."
Verran could only nod. His whole world was falling apart. He wished he had the guts to end it like Alston, but knew he'd never be able to pull that trigger.
Strangely enough, his stomach didn't feel so bad right now.
*
With Matt at her side, Quinn crowded close behind Deputy Southworth as he headed for the stairwell.
"We've got to get to Tim," she said.
He couldn't be dead. She didn't care what Elliot had said, Tim was alive. He was alive.
She kept repeating the phrase, hoping that would make it true.
The deputy opened the door, looked into the stairwell, then closed it again. His face was a shade paler as he turned to them.
"We'd better take the elevator."
Quinn clung to Matt as the deputy used her security card to take them down to the basement. A residue of the overwhelming joy she'd felt upon finding a familiar face in the Science Center lobby still trickled through her anguish for Tim. She couldn't get over Matt's being here. How had he managed to come so quickly? Not important now. She'd find out later. Right now she had to get to Tim.
"How was he when you left him?" Matt said.
"He...he wasn't moving."
Deputy Southworth's expression was grim as the car stopped and the doors began to slide open.