The Select

by F. Paul Wilson

  "There's no one left to remember you, is there, Dorothy Havens," she said softly. "Tell you what. I'll remember you, with gratitude, for the rest of my life. And maybe I can get someone else to remember you too."

  *

  "Well, now. Look at you."

  Quinn glanced up from her dissection of the Accessory Nerve to see Tim peering at her from the other side of their cadaver. He'd just arrived, late as usual.

  "What's the matter with me?" she said.

  "Here she is, the gal who was turning three shades of green out in the hall before her first An Lab last month, and look at her now: Having lunch with her cadaver."

  Quinn paused. Tim was right. She hadn't given it any thought, but she had come a long way since that first day when she'd feared she was going to toss her cookies as soon as she stepped into this room. She hardly noticed the smell anymore, and here she was, barely a month later, sitting with her nose in her dissection of the rhomboid muscles, a Pepsi to her left by the cadaver's shoulder, and a half-eaten Twinkie to her right by the hip.

  "A testament to the human organism's adaptability, I suppose," she said.

  "And how."

  Quinn watched him open his kit, pull the damp cloth off his dissection, and sit down. Only his head was visible on the far side as he got to work. She'd been debating how to broach a certain subject with him and figured now was as good a time as any.

  "I've been thinking," Quinn said.

  "Careful. That can be dangerous. Habit forming, even."

  "Seriously. I want to name our cadaver."

  Tim glanced up at her. "Yeah? Well, why not? Kevin and Jerry named theirs Auntie Griselda. We can name ours Skinny Minnie."

  "No. I mean give it a real name. A person's name."

  He went back to his rhomboids. "Any particular name in mind?"

  "Dorothy."

  "Dorothy...like Dorothy of the Oz variety?"

  "Exactly."

  "Should we scare up a little dead dog and name it Toto?"

  God, he could be annoying at times. "I don't know why I even bothered."

  Tim must have tuned in to her tone. He glanced up again. "Okay. Dorothy it is. We can call her Dot."

  "No," Quinn said firmly. "Not Dot. Dorothy."

  "Why is this suddenly so important?"

  Quinn had hoped he wouldn't ask that. She couldn't tell him, That's her name, and she wasn't sure how to answer otherwise without sounding like some sort of wimp.

  "I've got my reasons," she said. "But you're going to think they're corny and sappy."

  Tim set down his instruments and leaned forward. "Try me."

  "All right." She took a deep breath and rattled off her rationale: "I want to call her a real name because she was a real person when she was alive and I think it's only fair that we think of her as a 'she' or a 'her' instead of an 'it.' And as we whittle her away and she stops looking like something even remotely human, maybe we can still think of her as a person if she's got a person's name. Dot isn't very human. It's like a punctuation mark. But Dorothy sounds pretty neighborly and very human—even without a dog."

  Tim's lips were struggling against a smile as he stared at her. Finally it broke through.

  "You're right," he said. "Those are very corny and sappy reasons. But if it's important to you, then it's a done deal. From now on, our friend on the table is Dorothy. Do we want to give her a last name?"

  "No." God, no. The first name was already too close to reality. "Just Dorothy should do fine."

  She'll like that. I hope.

  Tim was still staring at her.

  "What?" she said.

  "Dorothy's her real name, isn't it. How did you find out?"

  She was stunned. How did he know? "Tim, you're nuts. I—"

  "Truth, Quinn: How'd you find out?"

  She hesitated, then decided he should know. After all, he was dissecting her too.

  She told him everything, from finding the toe tag to Dr. Clifton's cool response to her questions.

  Tim grinned. "Probably afraid you were some money-hungry relative fishing for a hint of malpractice. I hear it's a jungle out there."

  Harrison walked up then, his teaching-assistant smirk firmly in place.

  "Late again, Brown?"

  "Was I?" Tim said. "I didn't check the clock when I came in."

  "I did. And you were late—the third time this week. You're batting a thousand, Brown." He pointed to Tim's dissection. "Let's see what you've learned here. The Accessory is which cranial nerve?"

  "The twelfth," Tim said.

  "Name the other eleven."

  Tim rattled them off.

  "Okay," Harrison said. He withdrew a pointer from his pocket and poked at Tim's dissection. "Identify these tissues here."

  Tim scorched through them without a miss. Quinn knew he was comparing his dissection to his mental photographs from the pages of Gray's.

  "Well, apparently you've learned something from this, although I don't see how. Looks like you've been working with a chainsaw instead of a scalpel. Where is your technique, Brown?"

  "I think I left it with your tact," Tim said with his little-boy smile.

  Harrison stood statue-still for an instant, as if not quite sure that he had heard correctly and listening carefully in case it might be repeated. Then his smirk curved into a reluctant but genuine smile.

  "One for you, Brown." He turned to Quinn. "By the way, Cleary. Dr. Emerson asked me to tell you to stop by his office in the faculty building after lab."

  The words startled Quinn. "Me? Did he say why?"

  "Something about a job."

  Harrison strolled away toward another table.

  "There he goes," Tim said in a low voice, "leaving a trail of slime as he—"

  "He almost seemed human there for a moment," Quinn said.

  "Almost. What do you think Emerson wants with you?"

  "I haven't the faintest."

  "Got to watch out for these old guys."

  "What do you mean?"

  Tim winked. "Wear an extra pair of pantyhose."

  Quinn almost threw her scalpel at him.

  *

  Walter Emerson sat in his oak-paneled faculty building office, poring over the latest print-outs on 9574. The new data were good, better than he'd hoped for. This compound was going to revolutionize—

  "You wanted to see me, Dr. Emerson?"

  He glanced up and saw the slim young strawberry blonde standing in his doorway, exactly as she had last December when she'd arrived for her interview. And looking no less apprehensive now, as well might any first-year student who'd been summoned to the office of one of the professors.

  A sight for sore eyes, he thought. That is, if you don't mind cliches and have a weakness for slim young strawberry blondes.

  "Miss Cleary. Yes. Yes, I did. Come in. Have a seat. Do you want some coffee?"

  She shook her head as she seated herself in the leather chair opposite his desk. "No thanks."

  "Just as well," he said. "By this time of day, the coffee's not fit for human consumption. Even the lab rats won't touch it."

  She was gracious enough to smile politely at his weak attempt at humor.

  "Harrison mentioned something about a job," she said.

  "Yes. I need a research assistant. The pay is modest, to say the least, but it's respectable."

  "Really?" she said, her already large blue eyes widening further. "You want me?"

  "That is, after all, why I asked you to come here."

  "But what about my studies?"

  "It's a part-time job and the work is easy. Actually, you'll soon find out that research assistant is a euphemism for dishwasher and all-purpose gofer. But you'll be working on the sacrosanct fifth floor of the Science Center, and between bouts of scut work you'll get a first-hand look at neuropharmacological research that I promise will prove useful later on in your schooling here. And we can arrange your hours around your class and lab schedule."

  Walter watched her chew her lo
wer lip, weighing the pros and cons. The student who had been his assistant last year had moved on to his clinical duties and was now spending his afternoons learning from the patients in the medical center. Walter needed an extra hand around here and he knew she needed the money.

  "How much...?"

  "Ten dollars an hour."

  "Can I give it a trial run?" she said after another, briefer pause. "I'd really like to do it but I don't want to commit to the job and then find out it's eating into my study time too much."

  "That would be fine," Walter said. "We'll give you three or four weeks—till the first of November, say. At that point you can either sign on for the year or send me looking for someone else."

  She smiled. The room brightened. "Okay. Great."

  "Wonderful. Tomorrow's your early afternoon. Come up to Fifth Science and I'll show you around. You can officially start then."

  "I'll be there," she said, rising. She turned at the door, her expression troubled, hesitant. "But...why me?"

  "Pardon?" He wasn't prepared for that question.

  "There are forty-nine other students in the class. Why'd you ask me?"

  "Because..."

  How could he put this? He didn't want her to think he looked on her as a charity case. Of course he'd checked out her parents' financial statement and it was obvious she could use the income. But that wasn't the prime criterion. Walter had watched her in the An Lab, spoken to her, eavesdropped on her interaction with her fellow students, and he'd come to realize that his first impression had been correct: Quinn Cleary was one of the good ones, one of the rare birds that came along only once in a great while. She was going places. And once she got out of here and into the real world she was going to buff the shine on The Ingraham's already bright name. Walter didn't want anything— especially the shortage of a few dollars—to get between Quinn Cleary and her medical degree.

  And of course it didn't hurt that she reminded him so much of Clarice.

  "Because I think that not only can you do the job, but perhaps you can make a contribution as well."

  That smile again. "Okay. I'll sure try."

  And then she was gone, and Walter Emerson's office descended into relative gloom.

  *

  "So it's legit?" Tim said. "He's not just some dirty old man?"

  He had stopped by Quinn's room to see what Dr. Emerson had wanted and was stretched out on the extra bed, hands behind his head.

  "Actually, he's a rather clean old man," Quinn said. She swiveled quickly in her desk chair and pointed to him. "Source?"

  "Easy: A Hard Day's Night. I think McCartney said it first, but each of them used the line eventually."

  Quinn shrugged resignedly. She should have known. If Tim could spot a line from A Thousand Clowns, a Beatles movie would be easy pickings.

  Tim sat up on the edge of the bed. He worked a folded envelope out of the back pocket of his jeans and held it up.

  "And now my news. My folks sent down a bunch of my mail from home and guess what? The Taj comped me a room."

  "What language are you speaking?"

  He smiled. "English. The Taj Mahal—that's Trump's big casino in A.C.—has offered me a free room any night I want between November first and February 28th."

  "Why would they want to do that?"

  "I used to be a regular winner there last winter and spring, right after I turned 21. But I haven't been back for some time. They probably think I'm gambling at that new place the Indians opened in Connecticut and they want me back."

  "Why would they want you back if you won money from them? I'd think they'd be glad you went somewhere else."

  "Because the odds are in their favor. They don't care if I've won in the past. All they want is my action."

  "Action?"

  "Yeah. My play. They figure if I play there long enough, they'll get their money back. What they don't like is my taking the money I won from them and losing it at a competitor's tables. They want me to lose it at their tables."

  "Are you going?"

  "Of course. And you're invited."

  Quinn laughed. "To spend the night with you in an Atlantic City hotel room? Now who's the dirty old man?"

  "I'm not old. And besides, the room'll have two double beds. You could have your own."

  "That's good of you."

  "Of course, if you got lonely during the night and wanted me to—"

  "Dream on, Brown."

  "Okay, but seriously, I'd like to show you how I work these places. It'll be fun."

  "And what'll I be? Your good luck charm?"

  "Quinn, babes, if I had to depend on luck I wouldn't get within ten miles of a casino. Luck is a sucker bet. What do you say?"

  She looked at his eager face and wondered. She'd turn down a similar proposition from anyone else she'd known for so brief a time. Turn it down flat. But Tim...somehow she trusted Tim.

  "I'll give you a definite maybe. Let's think about it."

  "Great. I was looking at the second weekend in November, right after the big anatomy midterm. We'll need a break then. How's that sound?"

  "We'll see."

  He waved and headed for the door. "Okay. It's a deal. Second weekend in November. Don't forget."

  "Tim—"

  But he was already out in the hall.

  Quinn couldn't help smiling as she swiveled back and forth in her desk chair. A weekend in Atlantic City with Tim. That could be fun. She'd never been to a casino in her life.

  But sharing a room...

  What am I afraid of? Tim?

  No. That wasn't it. She liked Tim—found herself liking him more each passing day. Liked him too much, maybe. Sometimes, when he was sitting near her, she had this urge to reach over and stroke his cheek, or the nape of his neck.

  Maybe she was afraid of getting carried away. Maybe it went further than that. Maybe it was involvement she was afraid of. Hadn't George Washington told the country to avoid foreign entanglements? That was what she'd managed to do through her four years at U. Conn. She'd dated plenty—sweet guys, determined gropers, and the whole spectrum between—but through it all she'd kept her emotional distance. No foreign entanglements.

  And frankly, no one had really moved her.

  The last time she had been involved—really involved—had been in high school, and that had been a disaster. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe it all went back to Bobby Roca.

  She turned back to her desk and cleared thoughts of men and hotel rooms and November from her head and concentrated on her pathology notes. Tomorrow was the immediate concern. She had to do some extra booking tonight to make up for the loss of study time tomorrow afternoon when she'd be starting in Dr. Emerson's lab.

  MONITORING

  Louis Verran cursed around his cigar as he adjusted the volume from room 252. It didn't help, just made the static louder. He'd heard Atlantic City mentioned and that was about it.

  Alston wanted a close watch on those two first-year kids, Brown and Cleary. They were being nice and cooperative about it by spending lots of time together in either Cleary's room or Brown's. Verran appreciated the two-fer. Too bad they weren't boffing each other. That would have made the surveillance a little more interesting.

  And now the pick-up in 252 was so full of static, he probably couldn't even tell if they were screwing. Electret mikes were just about the hardiest on the market. Weren't supposed to go bad early in the first semester.

  Damn. He resisted the impulse to bang on the control panel—the problem wasn't here, it was in the dorm—and turned to Kurt.

  "The audio from 252 is for shit. When was the last time it was replaced?"

  "I'll check." He tapped his keyboard a few times, then looked up at Verran. "Two years come December. What's up? It checked out fine during the summer."

  "It's dying."

  "I'll put it down for replacement over Thanksgiving break."

  "Can't wait till then," Verran said. "I'll do it myself tomorrow."

  "Elliot can stay late a
nd—"

  "I'll handle it."

  Kurt and Elliot were capable, but Verran believed in keeping their exposure to the student body at a minimum. Especially Kurt. He was good looking and all the more memorable for his shaggy blonde hair. Someone would remember him wandering through the dorms. And if challenged, Kurt could be trouble. He had a mean streak.

  But as Chief of Security, Verran had the entire campus as his stomping grounds. And sometime tomorrow morning he'd be stomping through Ms. Cleary's room while she was out.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The beige brick front of the Science Center loomed over Quinn as she hurried up the slope. The double-wide glass doors slid open at her approach. She hurried through the high-ceilinged, marbled-floored lobby and headed directly for the elevators. Usually her energy was scraping bottom by this time in the afternoon, but today she was up and excited. Today she started her new job.

  "Excuse me," said a woman's voice to her right.

  Quinn turned and saw a heavy-set black woman looking at her from behind the circular counter of the security desk.

  "Me?"

  "Can I help you, Miss?"

  Quinn stepped closer. The woman's badge read Charlene Turner. She wore a smile but her eyes and manner were all business.

  "I'm supposed to meet Dr. Emerson upstairs this afternoon," Quinn told her.

  "Fifth floor?" she said, her expression dubious. "He's going to meet you on Fifth? What's your name?"

  "Cleary."

  The woman tapped something into her keyboard and checked her screen.

  "You're not down for an appointment. What time he tell you?"

  "No time. He just said to come by after class this afternoon. I'm going to be working for him."

  "Ah. Why didn't you say so?" More tapping on her keyboard. "Now I got you. Cleary, Quinn—student assistant to Dr. Emerson."

  "Right," Quinn said. "I can go upstairs now?"

  "Not so fast. You're not official yet." Charlene Turner flipped through a file drawer and withdrew a manila envelope. From it she produced an ID badge and something that looked like a credit card. She compared the photo on the badge to Quinn.

  "Yeah, that's you all right." She handed both across the counter. "The badge goes on your coat or blouse or some other visible place as soon as you enter this building, and it stays there as long as you're in here. The other goes in your wallet. Don't lose it. Big trouble if you do."