The Complete Adversary Cycle: The Keep, the Tomb, the Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack)

by F. Paul Wilson

  Why?

  At least all the data was still available to Charles in the main computer.

  Or was it?

  He fairly ran back to his office and keyed in his access code to retrieve the Bulmer data.

  FILE NOT IN MEMORY

  A chill rippled over him. It was almost as if someone were trying to eradicate every trace of Alan Bulmer from the Foundation’s records.

  Again—why?

  Only one man could answer that question.

  Charles headed for the elevator.

  “Charles!” the senator rasped from behind the desk as Charles entered his office. “I was expecting you.”

  “I’m sure you were.”

  “Sit down.”

  “I’d rather stand.” Charles found he could best hide his uneasiness over the last hour’s events by acting properly angry.

  “Now, now,” the senator said with a friendly chuckle. “I know you’re upset, and with good reason. But I had to get those records to a safer place. You’ll forgive me a little paranoia, won’t you?”

  Charles went cold at the lie. “They’re in a safer place than my safe?”

  “Oh, yes! I have them in my own ultra-secure hidey-hole where I keep very sensitive documents. The Bulmer data are there.”

  “I see.”

  Charles could almost admire the smoothness of the senator’s line. Beautifully done, even down to that cute, folksy, hidey-hole bit.

  But the bloody damn why of it all still plagued him. He suppressed the urge to call the senator out on his lies and wring the truth out of him. That would be futile. Besides, he had just thought of another avenue of approach.

  “So,” McCready said in a conciliatory tone, “are we still friends?”

  “We were never friends, Senator. And let me warn you: I’m changing the combination to my safe, and if it’s ever even touched by one of your stooges, you’ll be looking for a new director.”

  With that, he strode from the senator’s office and hurried for his own.

  Charles sat in his locked office and punched Senator McCready’s access code into his computer terminal.

  He had seen the senator use it on occasion when they had to call up his personal medical file. For some reason—perhaps because the senator knew everyone’s code and no one knew his—Charles had memorized it.

  He now ran through all the files keyed exclusively to the senator’s code.

  He found the missing Bulmer data. Everything regarding Bulmer that had been keyed to Charles’ access had been transferred to the senator’s exclusive access. Most of the rest was pure rubbish—McCready’s most recent medical test results, notes, memos. Charles came across a public opinion projection done by the computer and was about to move on when he spotted the word “healed” in the center of a paragraph. He read it through.

  The projection exhaustively covered the effect of illness and its cure upon public reaction to a presidential candidate.

  It found that a seriously ill candidate had little chance of nomination and virtually no chance of winning.

  Franklin Delano Roosevelt to the contrary, a candidate who had been seriously ill but somehow miraculously cured was haunted by a specter of doubt as to if and/or when the illness might recur, and was severely handicapped against a healthy opponent.

  But even worse off was a candidate who had hidden a serious illness from the public and had then been cured. A question uppermost in many voters’ minds concerned what else he might be hiding from them.

  Everything was suddenly perfectly clear to Charles. Except for one thing: The “somehow miraculously cured” in the second scenario obviously referred to Bulmer, but the date on the report was June 1—almost six weeks ago.

  He didn’t have time to figure that out now—he had to get to Bulmer immediately.

  44

  Alan

  “So that’s his plan,” Charles said in a fierce, whispered voice. “He’s going to dump you in the street!”

  Alan struggled to disbelieve all that he’d just been told.

  “Charles, I never thought much of the man, but this…this!” He felt cold.

  “It’s true. I owe you too much to play games with you. But you don’t know what I know. He’s going to have you work your magic on his myasthenia gravis and then he’s going to say he never heard of you. And I’ll tell you straight, mate: If I had to prove we’d ever done so much as a urinalysis on you here, I couldn’t.”

  “But you said that computer projection was dated almost a month and a half ago. That would mean he’s been planning since May. That’s crazy! Nobody in the world could have predicted back in May that I’d wind up here. Everything looked fine back then.”

  Alan knew he had a point, and so, apparently, did Charles. His voice lost some of its intensity.

  “There was no hint that things were going to get dodgy for you?”

  “Not the slightest. There was a little flak when the article in The Light came out, but hardly anybody takes them seriously.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, trying to remember. “No. Near as I can say, things started falling apart when the local paper got on my case. That led to the hospital hearing and everything just escalated from there.”

  Charles’ head snapped up. “Local paper? Jesus bloody Christ! What’s it called?”

  “The Monroe Express. Why?”

  “I’ll know in a second.”

  He picked up the phone and began jabbing at the numbers. Alan turned to the window and fought the sense of betrayal that threatened to overwhelm him.

  He turned as he heard Charles hang up the phone and saw the reluctant excitement in his eyes. Apparently Charles had confirmed his deduction, but he didn’t look happy about it.

  “Everybody thinks of either politics or medical research when the McCready name is mentioned. We all forget where his money came from: a chain of newspapers! And your hometown paper is part of the McCready chain!”

  Alan slumped into a chair. “The Express! I never dreamed!”

  His mind marveled and recoiled at the subtlety and pervasiveness of the conspiracy McCready had engineered. Those seemingly public-spirited editorials calling for Alan’s removal, and the immediate trumpeting of the news that he had been suspended from the hospital staff. They’d accomplished their purpose: He’d been left with no place to turn and had fairly leaped at McCready’s offer of help.

  “That bastard!” he shouted, feeling the rage surge up in him. His marriage, his practice, his reputation—they all might be still intact if not for McCready. “That son of a bitch! I still can’t believe it.”

  “Let’s try one more thing, then, shall we?” Charles picked up the phone and laid it in Alan’s lap. “I haven’t checked this out, but try it yourself. Dial the operator and ask her to connect you with Alan Bulmer’s room.”

  Alan lifted the receiver, pressed “0,” and asked for himself.

  “I’m sorry,” said the voice. “We have no one by that name listed as a Foundation patient.”

  Despite the sensation of a lead weight settling in his stomach, Alan told himself that this didn’t necessarily confirm Charles’ theory. Today was his last day here; perhaps they had simply removed his name from the inpatient list a little ahead of time.

  “When was he discharged?” Alan asked.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but our records don’t list that name as having ever been a patient here within the past year.”

  Fighting the sick feeling that slithered up inside him, Alan slammed the receiver down.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  “I was going to suggest that.”

  “But first,” Alan said, feeling the muscles of his jaw knot as he spoke through clenched teeth, “I want to pay a little visit to the senator and tell him just what I think of him and his rotten little scheme. “

  “That might cause more problems than we can handle,” Charles told him.

  He had a strange feeling that Charles was afraid.

  “Li
ke what?”

  “Like you may find yourself detained here longer than you wish.”

  “Come on, Charles!” Alan said with a laugh. “You’re letting this make you paranoid. I came in here of my own free will and I can leave whenever I want.”

  “Don’t count on it, mate. And don’t call me paranoid. You’re the bloke whose psychological profile shows delusional activity.”

  “What are you talking about?” Alan said, feeling the first twinges of alarm now.

  “The MMPI and all those other multiple choice tests you took on your second day here, they portray you as a chap who sees himself as possessing a God-like power. Just hold on now!” he said quickly as Alan opened his mouth to protest. “I’m a believer. Those tests were designed to ferret out the schizoid types. They’re invalidated by a chap who can really do the things you can. So you and I both know you haven’t broken with reality. But let me tell you, friend: Little red flags went up all over the place when your tests were scored.”

  “So you’re saying they might be able to justify detaining me if they want?”

  “Right. I don’t know how much you remember about New York State commitment laws, but believe me, you could be out of circulation for a bloody long time.”

  It cost him a lot of effort, but Alan managed to smile. “Maybe I’ll just leave now and send the senator a telegram. Tomorrow.”

  “Good. And just to be on the safe side, I’ll get you a lab coat to wear on the way out. Everybody on staff here wears them. It’ll be the next best thing to being invisible. I’ve got an extra in my office. Lay low until I get back.”

  Alan quickly gathered up the few incidental belongings he could stuff in his pockets. He was traveling light anyway. He had lost all his clothes except for what he’d been wearing when the house burned down. He checked and made sure he had his wallet and car keys, then sat down to wait.

  Through the closed door he could hear constant movement out in the hall—footsteps back and forth, carts being wheeled by. He did not recall that much activity during the past few days, but then, he hadn’t been waiting anxiously for someone to arrive and lead him out of here.

  He’d been on edge to begin with. After half an hour, he was one tight knot of tension. Where the hell was Charles?

  He’d intended to stay out of sight until Charles returned, but he could not sit still any longer. For want of doing something, he decided to take a look and see if Charles was anywhere in sight.

  The hall was eerily silent. He noticed immediately that the door leading to the elevator atrium was closed. That struck him as odd. It had always been kept open during the day and was closed only after 10:00 p.m. He hurried down to it and pulled on the handle.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  Beyond the small pane of wired glass, the elevator area stood empty. As Alan rattled the handle and pounded on the door, a face appeared at the glass. He was dark, wore a security guard’s cap, and looked vaguely familiar.

  “The door’s jammed!” Alan said.

  “No, sir,” said the guard. His voice was slightly muffled through the door. “It’s locked.”

  “Well, unlock it, then!”

  The guard shook his head apologetically. “It’s for your own protection, sir. A violent patient escaped from the security ward. We’re pretty sure we’ve trapped him between the fourth and sixth floors, but until we catch him we’re sealing off all the wards and administrative areas.”

  Alan rattled the handle. “I’ll take my chances. Open it.”

  “Sorry, sir. Can’t do that. Orders. But as soon as this loony’s caught, I’ll be right here to open up.”

  He moved away from the door and, despite Alan’s repeated pounding and calling, did not reappear.

  Anger and fear intermingled. He was tempted to run into the nearest room, grab a chair, and use it to smash the little glass window in the door. Not that it would get him out of here, but it sure as hell would make him feel a lot better.

  Of course, the act could later be used as proof that he was not only deranged, but violent. Why play into their hands? Why make it easy for them?

  He gave the door a final frustrated kick and then headed for the nursing station to see if the guard’s story was on the level. As he moved along the hall, he noticed that all the rooms were empty. The wing hadn’t been filled to anywhere near capacity, but now there was no one in any of the rooms.

  He increased his pace. By the time he reached the nursing station, he was not surprised in the least to find it deserted.

  Alan didn’t have to search any further. He knew from the dead silence of the wing that he was the only one here.

  He hurried back to his room and picked up his phone. Dead. He’d half expected that.

  Alan took a deep breath and sat. He wasn’t afraid, he was angry. But as he sat there, he felt his anger cool from the wall pounding, lamp-throwing type to a sharp, icy rage that put his teeth on edge and set his fingers to drumming.

  He knew what was up. He would be kept here for the rest of the afternoon and most of the early evening under the ruse of protecting him from a deranged patient. And then at, oh, say, about 9:45 or so—approximately half an hour before high tide—the security ward escapee would be captured and the door to Alan’s wing unlocked. Alan would be free to go, but first the good senator would like to have a friendly word or two with him to explain what wonderful things the Foundation planned to do for him now that his healing ability had been proven.

  And by the way, while you’re here, and since it happens to be high tide at the moment, would you mind clearing up this little ol’ neuromuscular disease I’ve got?

  Obviously Senator McCready didn’t know that Alan was on to him. Else why put on this elaborate charade?

  So Alan waited patiently, grinding his teeth and drumming his fingers on his thigh as he stared out the window at the Manhattan skyline. He’d had it with being pushed around. He’d lost control of his own life somewhere along the way. He’d become a pawn, moved here and there at various times by circumstance, by the hospital Board of Trustees, by the Dat-tay-vao, and now by Senator James McCready.

  Well, it stopped here and now. Alan Bulmer was climbing back into the driver’s seat. He was reclaiming his life and making his own decisions from here on in.

  And he actually was looking forward to seeing the senator.

  He had a surprise for him.

  45

  Sylvia

  “Charles!” Sylvia was shocked to see him at her front door. She glanced behind him. “Isn’t Alan with you?”

  He shook his head and walked past her. He was still in his white lab coat and obviously upset. His normally high coloring was higher than usual.

  “He was supposed to be, but they’re keeping him there.”

  “Keeping him?” Her heart tripped over a beat, paused to catch itself, then went on in rhythm. “How long?”

  “Till after high tide, I imagine. If he cooperates.”

  “Charles, what are you talking about? Why isn’t he with you?”

  “They kicked me out! Just like that!” Charles snapped his fingers and talked on at breakneck speed. “‘Here’s your severance pay and please leave the premises now, thank-you-very-much.’ Must have found out I was snooping into his personal-access-only files.”

  “Charles!” Sylvia was frightened and baffled and Charles wasn’t making any sense.

  “Okay! Okay! I’ll tell you in a minute!” he said, heading for the library. “Just let me get a bleeding whiskey!”

  Eventually he told her. She sat on the arm of the leather sofa while he paced the length of the library, swirling and sipping from the glass of Glenlivet clutched in his hand as he told her incredible things—about a man with metastatic cancer to the brain who suddenly didn’t have a tumor cell in his body, about abnormal scans and EEG sine-wave artifacts coinciding with high tide and Alan’s Hour of Power, and an Alzheimer-like syndrome that Alan’s use of the Dat-tay-vao seemed to be causing.

  “You
mean it’s damaging his brain?” She wanted to be sick. Alan…senile at forty. It was too awful to imagine.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “But that fits in with the poem Ba showed me. Something about ‘keeping the balance.’ If only I could think of it.”

  She stepped over to the intercom and called Ba in from the garage, asking him to bring the Dat-tay-vao poem. Then she wandered the room, rubbing her tense palms together.

  It was all frightening and bewildering to Sylvia, yet she still hadn’t had her question answered.

  “Why is he still there?”

  “Because our great and wonderful friend, Senator James McCready, who has used all of us so very neatly, wants to use Alan as well and then throw him to the wolves!”

  Another explanation followed, this one even more fantastic than the first, concerning McCready’s manipulation of events to get Alan into the Foundation and the subsequent destruction of all the data.

  “Then it’s true?” Sylvia said, finding her voice at last. “He really can…cure? With a touch? I’m hearing this from you of all people?”

  She watched Charles nod, saw his lips tremble.

  “Yes.” His voice was barely a whisper. “I believe.”

  “What happened?”

  “Julie—” His voice broke. He turned and faced the wall. Sylvia’s heart leaped. She came up behind him and put both her hands on his shoulders.

  “Julie’s cured?”

  He nodded but remained faced away.

  “Oh, Charles!” she cried, throwing her arms around him. The burst of joy inside her brought tears to her eyes. “That’s wonderful! That’s absolutely wonderful!”

  Sylvia had only met Julie a few times, but had been deeply touched by the child’s quiet courage. There was, however, another more personal reason for her joy: If Julie could be cured, then there was real hope for Jeffy.