The Touch

by F. Paul Wilson

  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.

  Charles seemed to read her mind. He turned and gathered her in his arms.

  “He says Jeffy’s his next patient.”

  “But didn’t you say the Dat-tay-vao was damaging his mind?”

  The realization was like a dark cloud drifting past the sun. Would Alan have to trade a part of his mind to break through Jeffy’s autism? She didn’t know if she could allow that.

  She didn’t know if she could refuse.

  Sylvia pushed it all to the rear of her mind, to be dealt with when the time arose. Right now she had to concentrate on getting Alan back to Toad Hall.

  But she noticed something different about Charles, a change in him. He’d mellowed in the past few days. His hard, glossy façade had peeled away in spots, leaving soft, vulnerable areas exposed.

  “He touched you too, didn’t he?” she said after watching him for a long moment.

  “Rubbish! I didn’t have anything that needed curing.”

  “No. I mean the other way—with his own personal touch—the one he’s had all along. His empathy, his caring.”

  “He really does care, doesn’t he?” Charles said. “I thought it was an act, part of the dedicated, hardworking family doctor role he was playing. You know: foot soldier on the front lines in the never-ending battle against death and disease and all that sort of rot. But he’s the real thing. And I always thought someone like him would be a wimp who’d carry his devotion to his practice like a cross. But he’s a man.” Charles bit his lower lip. “Jesus! The things I thought about him! Said about him!”

  Sylvia gave him a hug. “Now maybe you can understand why he’s been staying here.”

  Charles looked at her. She saw pain in his eyes, but it was distant, and fading. “I dare say I do. And I hope you’re both very happy together.”

  “You called for me, Missus?” Ba said from the doorway.

  “Oh, yes, Ba. Did you bring that poem—the one about the Dat-tay-vao?”

  He handed it to her and she read it to Charles:

  “It seeks but will not be sought.

  It finds but will not be found.

  It holds the one who would touch,

  Who would cut away pain and ill.

  But its blade cuts two ways

  And will not be turned.

  If you value your well-being,

  Impede not its way.

  Treat the Toucher doubly well,

  For he bears the weight

  Of the balance that must be struck.”

  Sylvia turned to Charles. “See? ‘He bears the weight of the balance that must be struck.’ That sounds like what’s happening to Alan: Every time he uses the Touch it takes something from him. For every something given, something is taken away.”

  “Sounds like a variation on the old TANSTAAFL thing—

  There Ain’t No Such Thing As A Free Lunch: Somewhere along the line somebody gets stuck with the bill. But that’s not what concerns me most right now. We should waste no time setting the wheels in motion to get Alan out of the Foundation.”

  “Won’t he be getting out tonight? He’ll use the Dat-tay-vao on the senator and then he’ll be on his way.”

  “I don’t think so,” Charles said with a slow shake of his head. “Alan was mad—I mean really angry when I told him how McCready had set him up.”

  “You don’t think he’ll refuse to heal him, do you?” Sylvia said, her alarm slipping back on her. “That’s not like Alan.”

  “You didn’t see his eyes. And if McCready doesn’t get what he wants, he won’t let Alan go.”

  “But he can’t hold him!”

  “He can for a while. I thought he’d destroyed all of Alan’s original test results, but now that I think of it, I’ll bet he kept the originals of his psychological profiles.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Alan scores out as a bloody paranoid schizo. They could hold him on the grounds that he’s dangerous to himself or others.”

  “I’ll call Tony,” Sylvia said, angry as well as frightened now. “He’ll turn that place upside down.”

  “Don’t count on it, Sylvie. Those profiles, along with the Foundation’s reputation and the senator’s personal influence…well, it could be a long time before we spring Alan.”

  “Pardon me,” said Ba, who hadn’t moved from the doorway. “But does the Missus want the Doctor returned from the Foundation?”

  “Yes, Ba,” she said, noting the hint of eagerness in his voice. She knew how highly he regarded Alan. “Any ideas?”


  “I shall go there and bring him back.”

  He said it so matter of factly, yet Sylvia saw the determination in his eyes.

  “Forget it!” Charles said with a laugh. “The Foundation’s security is airtight.”

  “I have been there many times with the Missus. I shall go there tonight and bring the Doctor back.”

  Charles laughed again. But Sylvia watched Ba’s face, remembering what her father had told her about the simple fisherman who had attached himself to the Ranger group and trained with them, and who Dad had said he wanted most at his side in any combat situation. Ba wanted to do this. And Sylvia realized with a sudden tingle of excitement that she wanted him to do it.

  “Very well, Ba. But be careful.”

  The smile dropped from Charles’ face as if he’d been shot. “What? Just like that? Go get Alan? Are you crazy?”

  Sylvia returned Ba’s grateful little bow, but stopped him as he turned to make his exit.

  “Wait, Ba.” She turned to Charles. “Would you draw a few floor plans and tell him where you think Alan may be? It would greatly help matters.”

  “But this is insane! Security will be all over him as soon as he sets foot inside!”

  “Let’s hope Ba doesn’t have to hurt too many of them.”

  She was enjoying the befuddled expressions playing over Charles’ face.

  He finally settled down and she watched as he sketched out the floor plans of the upper levels. Ba leaned over them in silence.

  “Where’s Alan now?” Sylvia asked. She didn’t know why, but it was important to her to know the location of his room.

  “Most likely he’s still in the seventh-floor patient wing—room 719—but he could be anywhere in the complex.” He pointed to a section of the top floor. “Your safest bet is here: Alan will be in McCready’s private quarters between 9:45 and 10:45 tonight.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I remember my chart saying that high tide is 10:18 tonight. That would probably be the best place and time to find him.”

  Ba shook his head. “The best time is when he is between. It would be very hard to enter the senator’s private place.”

  Charles was looking at him with new respect. “That makes good sense, old boy. I daresay you might bring this off after all, although I sincerely doubt it.” He took off his lab coat. “Here. Take this. I can’t imagine any place or circumstance in the Foundation where you wouldn’t stand out like a sore thumb, but this might make you less conspicuous.”

  “Want to go along, Charles?”

  He smiled sardonically. “Sounds like I’d have a wonderful time. I’m especially entranced by the possibility of being arrested for breaking and entering and spending a few nights in the Tombs. No, Love. I’ll pass on this. Doubt if I’d be much use anyway. They know me there, and all security shifts have surely been informed that I’m persona non grata. And besides, I’ve got to get home to Julie. A functioning renal system is still a very new thing for her. I want to be there if she needs me.”

  That reminded Sylvia that she would have to catch Gladys and ask her to stay with Jeffy for a few hours while she was out. She waited until Ba showed Charles out, then caught him as he headed back toward the garage.

  “I’m coming along tonight, Ba,” she told him, and watched as his usually placid features reflected bewilderment and concern.

  “Missus, there might be trouble! You cannot come!”

  “Oh, but I must, Ba. And if you won’t have me along, I’ll drive there on my own. So let’s not waste time arguing.”

  “But why, Missus?”

  Sylvia thought about that. Why, indeed? Why get personally involved in something like this when Ba could probably do just as well on his own? Maybe it was because she felt so helpless in the face of Jeffy’s regression. Would this make her feel useful? She wasn’t sure, and it really didn’t matter. She only knew she loved Alan and wanted to be there for him. And that was enough.

  “Because, Ba,” she told him. “Just because.”

  46

  At the Foundation

  Ba had a bad feeling about tonight as he pulled into the curb before the Foundation building. His initial plan had been simple: one man moving stealthily through the halls. Now it had been complicated by the Missus.

  He was still recovering from the shock of the Missus’ insisting on coming along tonight. He had planned to take his AMC Pacer, but now he was driving the Graham, and the Missus was in her usual place in the rear seat.

  During the drive, Ba had argued strenuously to limit her to the most marginal involvement, such as waiting at the wheel of the car while he went inside, but she had flatly refused. She wanted to be there. So he had reluctantly given the Missus a safe assignment: Go to the front entrance and make a scene—create a diversion.

  “That’s my specialty,” she had said. “Making scenes.”

  As he put on the emergency brake, Ba heard the top twist off a bottle. He turned and saw her pouring liquor into a short glass. She took some in her mouth, rinsed it around like mouthwash, then swallowed with a grimace.

  “Ugh! How do people drink scotch?” She breathed into her palm. “At least I’ll smell the part. Let’s go. It’s showtime.” Her eyes were bright with excitement.

  Ba got out and stepped around to let her out, then watched as she walked up to the brightly lit front entrance, glass in hand, staggering just enough to look like someone who had had more than enough to drink.

  He took a small duffle bag from the front seat and left the car under the lights at the curb. It would be safe there for a while, and he had decided that the best way to bring Dr. Bulmer out was straight through the front door.

  He hurried off toward the side of the building.

  It was 9:20 and he could wait no longer.

  Senator McCready had rested all day. Sleep in other than short dozes had been almost impossible due to the excitement and anticipation of tonight. But he had resolutely stored up his strength, all but screaming at the clock for the unbearably slow caress of the hands across its face.

  Now the time was almost here. He was going to Bulmer. At first he had intended to have him brought up here to the top-floor residence, but had dropped that idea in favor of one with more psychological appeal. He would go to Bulmer, thus appearing to be a humble supplicant rather than someone expecting a command performance.

  Yes, this was the better approach. And after he was cured, Bulmer would have to be discredited. Try as he might, McCready could think of no alternative solution. That small, almost forgotten part of him let out a faint cry of protest. He turned a deaf ear to it. He couldn’t relent now. He couldn’t ignore the polls or the computer projection. A vindicated Dr. Alan Bulmer would be too much of a liability. McCready had to ruin him. There was simply no other way out.

  The doors slid open and Rossi wheeled him into the elevator. They headed for the seventh floor.

  The guard spotted her from his marble-enclosed guard station and was moving toward her before she was halfway through the revolving door.

  “Sorry, miss,” he said, holding out his hands in a “Stop” gesture. “We’re closed to all visitors now.”

  Sylvia took a deep breath and launched herself into character.

  “Wanna shee my doctor.”

  “None of the staff doctors are here now. Only a few resident physicians. Who’s your doctor? We’ll leave a message for him.”

  She had decided to be a belligerent drunk. She had seen enough of them at her parties—she hoped she could be convincing.

  “I’m not talkin’ ’bout one of your goddamn staff doctors! I’m talkin’ ’bout Dr. Alan Bulmer. He’s a patient here!”

  “Visiting hours ended at seven. They start again at one tomorrow.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your visiting hours! I’m here now…and I wanna shee Bulmer now!” She started toward the elevators. “What floor is he on?”

  He grabbed her gently but firmly by the arm and
guided her back toward the door. “Tomorrow, lady. Tomorrow.” Sylvia snatched her arm away. “Do you know who I am, you…. you lackey?”

  “No. And I don’t care. Git!”

  Sylvia had to hand it to the guard—he was keeping his cool. But it was showing signs of wear.

  “Call the senator!” she cried as he grabbed her shoulders from behind and firmly propelled her toward the door. “He’ll tell you who I am!”

  It was time to play her ace card. She lurched away from him and leaned over the front of the guard station. There was a large panel of green and red lights there. Only the green were lit; they glowed steadily. She let her knees buckle.

  “I’m gonna be sick!”

  “Not there you ain’t!” He pulled her away and eased her onto a bench a few feet away. “Sit here. I’ll get you some water.” He reached for her glass of scotch. “And you’ve had too much of that already.”

  “Doncha touch that! Just get me some water.”

  As he stepped over to the water fountain and filled a paper cup for her, Sylvia took a breather. So far, so good. She glanced at her watch.

  Almost time.

  She stood up again and staggered over to the guard station.

  “Hey! Get away from there!” the guard cried as he returned with her water.

  “You’re right,” Sylvia said, holding up her glass of scotch. “I don’t need any more of thish.” She placed the glass carefully on the marble rim directly above the control panel, then she made sure to hit it with her elbow as she swung around to return to the bench.

  The guard’s cry of “Oh, shit, no!” mixed with the tinkle of breaking glass, followed by a chorus of electrical pops and hisses accompanied by acrid white smoke rising from the control board as twelve-year-old scotch leaked down into the printed circuits.

  As buzzers and bells began to sound, Sylvia moaned. “Oooh, I’m gonna be so sick!”