The Select (46 page)

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.

The important thing was he
could
move
them.
On his own. And he kept moving every joint he could, repeatedly
flexing and extending, back and forth. But he had to be careful.
They'd left the lights on, so any movement could be seen. He saw
some of the other patients moving, twitching, jerking, like B-movie
mummies in the earliest stages of reanimation. But none seemed to
have anywhere near his degree of mobility. So as he worked his
limbs Tim kept his eyes trained on the window and the door. He
couldn't let the nurses catch him moving. They'd dose him right
back into flaccidity.

Quinn's escape must have
upset the dosage schedule—must have upset a
lot
of things out there. She'd
probably thrown their whole routine into chaos.

What a gal.
Tim grinned—yes, grinned. He could feel his
facial muscles move, feel his cheeks crease with the smile.
Can I pick 'em, or what?

He wiped the grin and froze his limbs
as he saw a head appear in the door window. The door opened and
Doris, the shift's head nurse, walked in. She strode directly to
Tim's bed. She frowned as she looked down at him.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble
your girlfriend caused up here tonight?"

Not entirely, but I hope
it's a lot.
He felt the muscles in his
hands begin to fasciculate. He was glad they were hidden under the
sheet.

"Is that graft on your leg hurting
you? Feel it? It's only a fraction of what your fellow patients are
going to be feeling soon. And it's all your girlfriend's
fault."

What was she talking about?

"She went crazy out there.
Broke near every vial of injectable we have.
Threw
them at us."

Good for her.

"So as a result we have none of the
special neuromuscular agent we've been using left on the
floor."

No 9574!
Tim restrained himself from pumping a defiant
fist in her face.
Yes!

"But not to worry. There'll be more
along as soon as Dr. Alston opens up the third floor for us. And
then you'll get your dose, Number Eight. A little late, but better
late than never, ay?" She smiled sourly. "And who knows? Maybe your
girlfriend will be up here by then, and she'll be getting her own
dose of it."

Tim squeezed his eyes shut, and fought
his hands from creeping up and covering his ears.

Oh, no. Not Quinn. Not
here.

"Well, you didn't really think she got
away, did you? Not a chance. Kurt caught up to her, but I doubt
that's the last we've seen of her." She sighed. "Why couldn't the
two of you have just let things be? Why'd you have to go snooping
about? It puts us all in a terrible position. Believe me, nobody's
happy with this situation. This is not what we're
about."

She turned and walked among the other
patients, reassuring them, checking their IVs and their dressings.
Suddenly the room began to vibrate. It took Tim a moment to
recognize the sound: a helicopter. Who'd be coming in by helicopter
at this hour—whatever it was? Doris must have wondered too. She
bustled out to the nurses station, turning off the lights as she
closed the door behind her, leaving the patients of Ward C in the
dark.

Tim lay still for a few
moments, dazed and sickened by the news that Quinn was a prisoner,
then he burst into furious activity, moving his limbs, rubbing his
hands together, massaging his muscles. He'd lain here like a lump
long enough. He had to do something, had to think of something
he
could
do
despite his weakened state. How long did he have before Doris
returned with a fresh supply of 9574? An hour? A few
minutes?

Whatever the answer, he had to be
ready for her.

*

"Do I have to tell you how upset Mr.
Kleederman is, Arthur?"

Quinn heard the distantly familiar
voice through the thick, sick, unrelenting pain that hammered
against the inner wall of her skull. She was on her back; the feel
of the cushions against her shoulders and buttocks was very much
like a couch, but she had no idea where that couch was.

Wherever the couch was, the air
smelled stale, like old cigar smoke.

"No. Not at all. Your very presence
here at this hour is testimony to that."

A new voice. Quinn knew that one: Dr.
Alston. No surprise there. She'd guessed he was in on this. But Dr.
Emerson...

She fought a sob and forced her eyes
to open a slit. She saw Dr. Alston half turned away from her. The
man he was speaking to was tall, sleek, well-dressed, with not a
single one of his salt-and-pepper hairs out of place. Even through
the web of her eyelashes, Quinn recognized him immediately: former
Senator Whitney.

"We need a major overhaul of the
screening process, Arthur."

"The screening process works extremely
well," Dr. Alston said. "But it's not perfect. No system dealing
with human variables can be perfect."

Through her lid slits, Quinn saw the
senator point her way without looking at her.

"This will be the third student to
disappear in two years, Arthur. Three in two years. Sooner or
later, and I fear it will be sooner, someone is going to become
suspicious and begin asking questions. Someone is going to demand
an investigation. With my connections and the combined influence of
our board, we can bury a certain amount of that sort of thing. But
one suspicious parent coupled with one loud-mouthed reporter and we
could have the makings of a disaster for the Foundation. Tell me,
Arthur: How do we explain two students disappearing this
year?"

"I..." Dr. Alston didn't seem to have
an answer.

"And she does have to disappear,
Arthur. She doesn't know The Ingraham's mission and methods, but
she can bring charges of kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment,
battery, and who knows what else against us. If you can think of
another way out of this, I'll gladly present it to the board. I
don't like this, any of it, but you and I know how the board
decides on these matters: She's got to go."

Quinn knew she had to be
hallucinating. A former U.S. senator and a respected professor at
one of the world's premier medical schools were discussing the
necessity of making her "disappear." This couldn't be
true.

Then came a third voice, also
familiar: "I think I've got the answer."

Security Chief Verran was speaking
from somewhere to her right.

"Well, don't keep us in suspense,
Lou," Whitney said. "How do we settle this?"

"We put the two
disappearances together. Link them. Make them
one
disappearance."

Dr. Alston had turned to face Verran,
who Quinn still couldn't see.

"We're listening," Whitney
said.

"I've already set it in motion. I got
hold of Elliot in Baltimore. He says there wasn't much snow down
there and the airport never shut down. So I sent him out to BWI to
get the Brown kid's car out of the long-term lot and drive it back
here."

"What?" Dr. Alston said. "Are you
insane? That will only serve to point the finger directly at
us!"

"Let him finish, Arthur," Whitney
said.

"Thank you, Senator. My plan is to say
the Brown kid came back, picked up his girlfriend Cleary, and the
two of them drove off together. We haven't seen them
since."

"I see," Whitney said. "So even though
we've got two missing students, it's really only one incident. I
like it. Excellent thinking, Louis."

"But we've still got a car to get rid
of," Dr. Alston said.

"I'm sure we can hide it for awhile
until things cool down, then find a way to destroy it," Whitney
said.

"Destroy it tonight."

A new speaker, a fourth
voice.

Verran's voice said, "What do you
mean, Kurt?"

The blond man who had chased her and
knocked her out stepped into Quinn's field of vision.

"Crash and burn. It's the
perfect night for it. We inject a little booze into the guy's
bloodstream, pour a little down his throat. The two lovebirds go
racing down the icy road, skid into a tree, the gas tank
explodes,
boom
,
they have to be identified by their dental records. No
disappearances. No questions. A tragic case of drunk driving. Case
closed."

Quinn watched Dr. Alston and the
former senator look at each other, saw their gazes meet, then break
away. Her heart began to pound.

Why aren't they saying
anything? The man's talking about a double murder. Why isn't
anybody telling him to shut up?

Whitney broke the silence. "No. That's
out of the question."

Thank you, God! A voice of
sanity!

The man called Kurt shrugged. "Just a
thought."

Silence. Complete except for the low
electrical hum of the equipment that filled the room.

Suddenly Whitney said, "You
could...handle this?" He kept his eyes down, not looking at Dr.
Alston, not looking at Kurt, looking at no one.

"Sure," Kurt said. "No problem." His
tone was apropos to someone discussing who was going to make a run
to the nearby Pizza Hut.

Another silence, chilled and
calculating this time, was shattered by the ringing of the phone.
Quinn jumped and hoped nobody noticed.

From her right, Verran spoke
monosyllables into the receiver, then hung up.

"It's Doris up on Fifth, Doc," Verran
said. "She's howling for that fresh supply of juice you promised
her."

"She'll have to be patient," Dr.
Alston said.

"She says the natives are getting
restless."

"Oh, very well," Dr. Alston said
peevishly. "Call her and tell her to meet me on Three. I'll be
right back."

"First we settle this," Whitney said.
"I think the car crash sounds like the answer."

"Now wait a minute," Dr. Alston said.
"Do you realize what you're saying?"

Whitney spun on him.
"Of
course
I do,
Arthur! And I don't like it any more than you! I
loathe
it! But extreme
problems sometimes call for extreme solutions."

"But we're talking murder
here."

"Really. And I suppose you'd prefer
that we transfer this latest transgressor to your private abattoir
where you can slice and dice her to your heart's content in the
name of science."

Dr. Alston's head rocked back as if
he'd been slapped in the face. "I resent that! My research will
save burn victims, improve the quality of countless lives.
This...this car ride will accomplish nothing!"

"It may well save The
Ingraham," Whitney shot back. "It will certainly protect the
Foundation. Isn't that enough?
More
than enough?"

Dr. Alston said, "I know the
Foundation is quite willing to take extreme measures to protect
itself, but—"

Whitney leaned into his face. "Or
shall I set up a meeting between you and Mr. Kleederman and the
board of directors so you can discuss your reservations with them
face to face?"

Dr. Alston shook his head glumly,
shrugged, and turned away, moving toward the door.

Spicules of ice crystallized in
Quinn's veins as former Senator Jefferson Whitney pronounced
sentence.

"All right then. We'll wait for the
car to arrive. Then we'll leave the matter in Kurt's
hands."

*

Tim retched.

As his reflexes began to return, the
nasogastric feeding tube snaking through his nose, down the back of
his throat, and into his stomach, had begun to trigger his gag
reflex. The retching was becoming intolerable. He had to get it
out.

He reached his right hand up, wrapped
his fingers around the glossy plastic tubing, and began pulling.
The sensation was indescribably nauseating, like extricating a
thick, white tapeworm from your gut via your nose. Tim's stomach
heaved, his esophagus spasmed, his throat tried to close around it,
but still he pulled, relentlessly dragging on the tube until he
felt its soft, blunt end scrape against the back of his throat.
Then, accompanied by a final retch, it slithered through his right
nostril and dropped free onto the mattress, trailing a thick glob
of mucous.