The Select

by F. Paul Wilson

  He felt as if he were being left out of something. Something good.

  *

  Quinn hurried over to Science. She was tempted to use the side door but decided to save that for when she was running late.

  Charlene was at the security desk again. Quinn flashed her badge as she approached and Charlene waved her by.

  Up on fifth, Quinn tried not to look into Ward C as she passed the window but couldn't resist a glance.

  The curtain was drawn shut.

  Quinn intended to keep moving, but the sight of that blank beige surface brought her to an abrupt halt before the glass. She stepped closer and tried to peek around the curtain's edges but found no openings.

  Frustrated, she proceeded around the corner to the nurses station. Maybe Marguerite would be there. All Quinn wanted was for someone to tell her everything was all right in Ward C. Not that she could do anything if it wasn't, but she felt linked to those seven helpless patients, in some odd way partially responsible for them.

  The nurses station was deserted. Where was everybody? Wasn't anyone watching Ward C?

  Behind the counter and to the left Quinn spotted a glass-windowed door. It had to open into Ward C. Why else the red and white warning sign under the glass?

  AUTHORIZED STAFF ONLY

  She glanced up and down the hall. Still no one in sight to ask. Shrugging, she stepped behind the nurses station to take a peek through the glass.

  What could it hurt?

  Yes, it was Ward C, but it looked different this time. Brighter. Instead of back-lit by daylight from the windows, the room was bathed in the fluorescent glow of the ceiling lights. Everything seemed to have a sharper edge. Otherwise, nothing had changed. The patients still numbered seven—at least no one had died—they still lay on their beds, immobile mounds of white with—

  No. Not all were immobile. One patient lying on his side on a bed in the central area was moving slightly, twisting, shifting his weight, sliding his red-bandaged leg toward the edge of the bed. The red bandage on the thigh gripped Quinn's attention. Something about the way it glistened...

  She gasped and pressed her face hard against the glass. That wasn't a bandage. That was blood. A patch of raw flesh, oozing red.

  And then Quinn noticed that the safety rail was down on the side where the leg was moving toward the edge. The patient was trying to get out of bed. If nobody stopped him, he was going to land in a heap on the floor.

  Quinn stepped back for another look up and down the hall. Still empty. She called Marguerite's name twice but no one answered. She thought of running down the hall for Dr. Emerson but that would take too long. And what could he do then that she couldn't do now?

  She returned to the door. The patient's bloody leg had moved farther along—the knee was jutting over the edge of the mattress. Another thirty seconds and he'd start sliding toward the floor.

  Quinn realized she couldn't wait. Setting her jaw, she pushed through the door and hurried to the bed. She caught the lower leg by the calf just as the foot fell off the edge.

  "Whoops!" she said softly, smiling and putting all the reassurance she had into her expression. "You're going to fall if you're not careful."

  Gently she guided the leg back onto the mattress. She averted her eyes from the bloody patch of flesh and looked into the eyes. They were blue, yes, the same eyes she had seen here over Christmas.

  Quinn jumped as a loud, angry voice rang out behind her.

  "What the hell do you think you're DOING?"

  She whirled and found Marguerite standing not two feet away, her dark eyes wide and angry above her surgical mask.

  "He—he was falling," Quinn said.

  "You're not allowed in here!" the nurse cried, her shout muffled by the mask. "Can't you read?"

  "Just get her out of here, Marguerite," said a sharp voice from the far side of the room behind Marguerite. "Before she does any more damage."

  Quinn knew that voice: Dr. Alston's. She looked past Marguerite's shoulder and saw him standing—masked, capped, gowned, gloved—in an alcove to the left of the door Quinn had entered. He was holding something over a tray, something that looked like a pink, wet paper towel.

  Quinn felt as if she'd been slapped in the face. "But I—"

  "Get her out!" Dr. Alston shouted. "We'll deal with her later!"

  "You heard him," Marguerite said. "Out."

  Unable to speak, her cheeks afire, Quinn brushed past her and hurried for the door. What did she do that was so terrible? She'd only been trying to help.

  *

  Arthur Alston's face was livid as he pointed a shaking finger at Quinn Cleary.

  "It will be days before we know the fall-out from your irresponsible misadventure, young lady."

  Walter Emerson watched Quinn closely, curious as to how she was going to respond. She had come to him with her story nearly an hour ago, visibly upset. He had listened, calmed her down, but had given no opinion, saying only that he would be with her when she faced Arthur.

  That time came soon enough. Arthur stormed into Walter's lab with that insufferable attitude of his, demanding that "the ignoramus who invaded Ward C" be brought before him. Walter had sent Alice on an early coffee break and summoned Quinn. Now he was settled back in his chair, waiting to see how she handled herself. If she had half the gumption he thought she had, she'd stand her ground.

  "I'm sorry, Dr. Alston," she said. "I know I entered a restricted area, but I saw no other choice at the time."

  "The sign says 'Authorized Staff Only'," Arthur said. "Can it be stated any more clearly than that?"

  "No, but—"

  "There are no 'buts' here, Miss Cleary. If you are to remain a lab assistant here—in fact, if you are to remain a student at this institution—you will follow the rules, or you will be out of here faster than you can blink your baby blue eyes."

  Walter watched Quinn's cheeks redden. He was tempted to step in here before Arthur got out of hand, but no. He wanted to hear Quinn's response.

  "I saw one of your patients in danger, Dr. Alston," she said through tight lips. "I saw his bed's safety rail down and saw him slipping over the edge of the mattress. What was I supposed to do?"

  "You shouldn't have been at the door in the first place!"

  "What was I supposed to do, sir?"

  Very good, Walter thought. Stay polite, respectful, but keep the ball in his court.

  "You should have called for a nurse," Arthur said.

  "I did, sir. More than once. No one answered. What was I to do then, sir? Stand there and watch your patient hit the floor?"

  "You should not have ignored the sign on the door, Miss Cleary. The health of those patients is extremely fragile. Their graft sites are highly prone to infection. We allow no one to enter Ward C unless they are wearing a surgical cap, a surgical mask, and sterile gloves. You were wearing none of those. God knows what you brought with you into that room."

  "Correct me if I'm wrong, sir, but wouldn't he be worse off contamination-wise if he'd fallen on the floor?"

  "That would not have happened, Miss Cleary. Marguerite was keeping an eye on him all the time."

  "If you say so, sir. But I could not know that at the time. I acted as I thought best. I'm sorry it upset you or risked any harm to your patient. But may I ask you, sir: If I'd stood there and watched your patient bounce off the floor, would you now be here congratulating me for not acting?"

  Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again.

  "Do not enter Ward C again, Miss Cleary. Under any circumstances. Is that clear?"

  "Very clear, sir." She turned to Walter. "I'm going to call it a day, if that's all right with you, Dr. Emerson."

  Walter could see she was fighting back tears. He wanted to shake her hand and congratulate her on the way she'd handled herself, but he couldn't do that in front of Arthur.

  "Fine, Quinn," he said. "Get some dinner and relax. It's Friday night. Have some fun somewhere."

  She gave h
im a forced smile that said she was not in a fun mood, then she started for the door.

  "Good night, Dr. Alston," she said as she passed him.

  Arthur said nothing. When she was gone, he turned to Walter, but Walter spoke first.

  "A little hard on her, weren't you, Arthur?" he said.

  "Not hard enough, I fear," Arthur replied. "That girl is trouble, Walter, sticking her nose where it does not belong."

  "She saw someone in trouble, she rushed in to help. A humanitarian gesture. Why do you berate a future doctor for a humanitarian gesture?"

  "She could have contaminated the graft. She shouldn't have been in there, pure and simple."

  Walter fixed Arthur with a stare. "And the safety rail shouldn't have been left down," he said pointedly. "Pure and simple."

  Arthur returned the stare for a few heartbeats, then turned away.

  "This is getting nowhere. But it does point up one problem: 9574 needs a longer half-life. The subjects seem to be developing a tolerance to it. The longer they're on it, the less efficacious it appears to be."

  "I'm working on it," Walter said. "And with Miss Cleary as an assistant, I may be able to solve that problem for you."

  Arthur looked at him and shook his head. "You do love to rub salt in a wound, don't you."

  "Only your wounds, Arthur. Only yours."

  They shared a laugh.

  *

  Tim had been dozing on Quinn's extra bed. The sound of the key in the lock roused him. He leapt up and tiptoed quickly to the door where he flattened himself against the wall next to the hinges and waited. As the door began to swing inward, he grabbed the knob and yanked it the rest of the way.

  "Booga-booga!"

  Only it wasn't Quinn staring at him with an open-mouthed, shocked expression. It was some fat, fiftyish guy instead. Tim yelped in surprise and took a step back.

  "Who the hell are you?" Tim said.

  "That's my question, buddy," the guy said in whiny voice. "Who the hell are you, and what the hell are you doing in one of the female rooms?"

  He looked rattled. He had a hang-dog face and a bulging neck. He carried a flashlight in one hand and some sort of electronic baton in the other. Tim gave him a closer look and recognized him.

  "You're Mr. Verran, the security guy."

  "Chief of Security. And you still haven't answered the questions."

  "Oh. Yeah. I'm Tim Brown. First-year student here. I'm waiting for Quinn Cleary—this is her room—"

  "I know that. Let's see some ID."

  Tim fished his photo ID card out of his wallet and handed it to Verran. He noticed a tremor in the older man's hand as he examined it.

  "Tell me something, Mr. Verran. What's the idea of sneaking in here?"

  "I'm not sneaking in anywhere," he said sharply. He seemed to have regained his composure as he handed back Tim's card. "There's...there was a report of some guy hiding out in one of the girls' rooms. I came by to check up on it. Where's the assigned occupant?"

  "She's over in Science, working for Dr. Emerson."

  "She know you're here?"

  "Of course. We're going to dinner together when she gets back. But tell me something: Who reported—?"

  "A concerned fellow student. But how do I know the assigned occupant knows you're here?"

  "You don't. But we can wait for Miss Assigned Occupant and she can tell you herself."

  "Maybe I—" The walkie talkie on Verran's hip squawked. He unclipped it from his belt and turned his back to Tim. "Yeah?"

  "She's on her way, Lou," said a tinny voice.

  "Right." Verran turned back to Tim. "I've got to go. But I'll check up on you, buddy. If your story checks out, okay. If not, you're in big trouble."

  Tim watched him hurry down the hall, then looked around. Women's Country was empty. Who would have called security about a guy in Quinn's room? And how could anyone possibly have known he was here?

  Tim closed the door and wandered back toward the spare bed.

  Come to think of it, this Verran guy had looked pretty damn surprised, as shocked to see Tim as Tim had been to see him. Maybe more so. And why a flashlight and that other weird-looking gadget? Not exactly equipment for confronting a prowler.

  What was he going to do with a flashlight in Quinn's room?

  Tim stepped over to the window.

  Something strange there. Some—

  "Damn!"

  Sudden pain in the sole of his right foot. Something had jabbed into it. Something sharp.

  He dropped back onto the bed and pulled his foot up where he could see it. Some sort of pin had pierced his sock and was stuck in his sole. He pulled it out and held it up to the light.

  A little black thing, a flat, circular hockey-puck-like nob, maybe a quarter inch across, stuck on a straight pin. What was it? A tie tack? One of those old-fashioned stick pins? He wondered if it was Quinn's. He doubted it. She wore about as much jewelry as she did make up. And this thing didn't look very feminine anyway.

  Then he heard the key in the door again. He hoped this time it was Quinn, not just because he didn't want to deal with Louis Verran's homely puss again, not just because his stomach was rumbling, but because he was hungry for the sight of her. Images of her face—talking, eating, bending over her books, concentrating as she wielded her scalpel—had been popping into his head at all hours.

  As she stepped into the room, the sight of her sent a smile to his face and a wave of warmth through him.

  What have you done to me, Quinn Cleary? he thought.

  He said, "How were things at the office today, dear?"

  She smiled, but it was a half-hearted smile, as if it were an effort. That wasn't like her.

  "Something wrong?"

  "Oh, nothing really," she said as she slipped out of her lab coat. "I just had a bad run-in with Alston over at Science a little while ago."

  She told him about Ward C and the patient almost slipping off the bed, and about the dressing down she'd received.

  "The ungrateful bastard," Tim said when she'd finished. "That wasn't a fair or even a sane reaction."

  "Tell me about it. But you know, I got the strangest feeling that he was almost as afraid as he was angry."

  Tim was angry too. And the heat of his anger surprised him. He had an urge to find Alston and grab him by his dinky string tie and teach him a thing or two about the proper response to a young woman who tries to help a patient in trouble.

  Was he so angry because that young woman was Quinn?

  More evidence of how far she'd gotten under his skin.

  But he bottled the anger. Confronting Alston was little more than an idle fantasy anyway.

  "Forget about the creep," he told her. "Let's go eat."

  "I've lost my appetite," she said, "but I'll keep you company."

  Tim remembered the weird black stick pin he'd found and held it out to her.

  "By the way, is this yours?"

  She gave it barely a glance. "Nope. Never seen it before. What is it?"

  "Beats me. I found it on your floor, over there by the window. Stuck me in the foot."

  She looked at it again, more closely this time, but no sign of recognition lit in her eyes. She shrugged.

  "Maybe one of the maids dropped it."

  Tim shrugged into his sport coat and stuck the pin into the lapel, then he struck a pose.

  "May I present the very latest in men's accessories. Think it'll catch on?"

  Quinn squinted at his lapel. "I can hardly see it."

  Tim glanced down. The tiny black hockey puck was almost lost in the herringbone pattern.

  "Oh, well. Another of my fashion milestones down the drain."

  Tim followed her out the door.

  *

  About time, Verran thought as he watched Brown and Cleary leave and head for the caf. I was beginning to think they'd never leave.

  He waited in the bushes until they disappeared into the caf, then he slipped into the dorm and hurried up to Broads' Count
ry.

  No one about. Quickly he unlocked 252 and closed the door behind him. He turned on the metal detector and went immediately to the space between the window and the second bed, where he'd hit the floor when Cleary had surprised him last night. Slowly, carefully, he waved the business end of the detector over the thick carpet, keeping a close eye on the needle in the illuminated gauge in the handle.

  It didn't budge.

  He ran his fingers through the deep pile. This was the most obvious area. It had to be here.

  When his fingers found nothing, he turned and crept across the room, carefully sweeping the detector over the carpet all the way to the door.

  The only flickers from the needle turned out to be a penny and a dime.

  Great. Just great. The detector was working fine, but no bug.

  Where the hell was it, then?

  NOVEMBER

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  Modern Medicine

  THE WORLD'S LONGEST CONTINUOUS

  FLOATING MEDICAL BULL SESSION

  (II)

  Tonight the session had wound up in, of all places, Harrison's room.

  "He's not as bad as we all thought," Tim said as he led Quinn down the hall of the north wing's first floor. His sharp blue eyes were bright. He wasn't wearing his dark glasses as much as he used to. She preferred him this way. "Of course, he's hardly Mr. Warmth, either. Far from it, in fact. But at least he's articulate."

  Quinn glanced at her watch. She was behind on her histology notes and had been in the middle of bringing them up to date when Tim had popped in and dragged her away to the bull session.

  "Come on, Quinn," he'd said. "You need a break. Take five and add your two cents to the session. It could use some new blood."

  "But my notes—"

  "You want to crack like that guy Prosser who disappeared without a trace a couple of years ago? There's more to medicine than histology, you know."

  "But if I don't pass the rest won't matter."

  "You'll pass."

  She'd come along because she realized Tim was right. She would pass. Just passing had never been good enough for her and still wasn't, but she did need a break. Between classes, labs, studying, and working with Dr. Emerson, she was beginning to feel a bit frazzled. She'd thought about quitting the lab job, but the work was getting more interesting now and she found the extra money came in handy for the sundries The Ingraham didn't provide.