The Select

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Is everybody on staff part of this?"

  "Heavens, no. The fewer people aware, the less likelihood of a leak. Only key personnel in Administration, the admissions committee, and part of the clinical staff answer to the Foundation. The rest have no idea."

  Who was friend, who was foe? Tim wondered. And how could you tell?

  Alston was still crowing. "But occasional glitches aside, we've been extraordinarily successful here at The Ingraham. As a result, every city of any consequence has Ingraham graduates delivering healthcare to its neediest citizens."

  "How do you people do that to us and live with yourselves?"

  "Quid pro quo, Mr. Brown. You get the world's finest education at no cost, and—"

  "No cost? What about our souls?"

  "Please don't be so dramatic. Your soul, should such a thing exist, remains quite intact. All we get in return are a few referrals."

  "Right. Referrals to an early grave."

  "Come, come. You make the medical centers sound like death death camps. They are anything but. These are sick people being referred to us. And we treat their illnesses."

  "With experimental drugs!"

  "That very often work. We cure people every day."

  "And the ones you don't?"

  "Then we try another."

  "How many deaths on your hands, Alston?"

  He shook his head with annyance. "Look, Brown, I'm not some megalomaniacal comic book villain. This plan was already in development when I came to The Ingraham. The Foundation's board, composed of some of the keenest minds in industry, labor, and government, arrived at this policy after months and years of debate. There's nothing haphazard or whimsical here. It's all been carefully thought out."

  "How'd they get you?"

  "They recruited me. They'd heard me speak, read some of my articles critical of FDA policies and protocols; they scouted me, hired me, watched me very closely, and eventually let me in on their grand plan. I joined them—enthusiastically. I believe in what we're doing here. We're bringing amazing new therapies to medicine, to the world. This is the most important thing I will ever do with my life. And I'm proud to do my part."

  Am I being recruited? Tim wondered. He decided that it might be in his best interests—and Quinn's, as well—to bite back any critical remarks and feign a growing sympathy with Alston's point of view.

  "But I don't see how this can work."

  Alston smiled. "Oh, it's already working, Mr. Brown. Kleederman's ability to bring a whole array of new products to market has made it the top pharmaceutical company in the world. Consider all the benefits being reaped by patients on adriazepam and fenostatin and carbenamycin—compounds that would still be lost in the investigational jungle if not for our program. Lives have been saved by those drugs. And thousands upon thousands of people are living better lives because of them."

  "I never looked at it that way," Tim said, nodding slowly, thoughtfully, hoping he looked and sounded convincing. "Maybe you're not as crazy as you sound."

  "Crazy?" Alston frowned. "I see nothing crazy about trying to remain on the leading edge of technology and therapeutics. Do you want to practice with second-rate tools, Mr. Brown?"

  "No. Absolutely not." No lie there.

  "Then we must be willing to take risks."

  Risks, Tim thought. Right. But with whose lives?

  "It's a glorious challenge. Enormously exciting. But if you're not with us, you're against us. So what do you say, Mr. Brown? Do you want to be part of this? Do you want to join Mr. Kleederman in advancing the frontiers of therapeutics and leading medicine into the twenty-first century?"

  What will happen to me if I say no? Tim wondered.

  He had relaxed while listening to Dr. Alston's spiel, but suddenly he was afraid. He knew too much. If he went to the papers, the FBI, or even the AMA, he could blow the lid off The Ingraham and, at the very least, undo the decades of effort and millions of dollars Kleederman had invested in this intricate, monstrous conspiracy. The scandal could conceivably topple KMI itself.

  They had to get rid of him...unless Tim convinced Alston that he'd play along. And now he realized why Alston had taken all this time to explain everything to him—he didn't want to have to get rid of Tim. It was easier, much less complicated to simply enlist him. And Alston's monstrous ego had absolute faith in his ability to make Tim see the light. He was offering Tim a chance. Tim saw no choice but to take it.

  And he would play along. He'd be a model Ingraham student until he saw an opening, then he'd get the hell out of here and blow the whistle loud and clear.

  "Count me in," Tim said.

  Alston was watching him closely. "Why should I believe you?"

  Tim met his gaze. "As you said, why should I want to practice with second-rate tools?"

  "Don't answer my question with another question. Convince me, Mr. Brown."

  "You're the one who's convincing, Dr. Alston. You've made a powerful case. And by the way, can we possibly arrange some KMI stock options for me?"

  "Can I take that to mean that you will continue your studies here as if nothing has happened, that you will never reveal what you know about The Ingraham?"

  "You can."

  Alston stepped over to where Verran was concentrating on his console.

  "Well, Louis. What do you say? Can we take Mr. Brown at his word?"

  Verran shook his head. "He's lying."

  Tim's stomach plummeted at the words. They were spoken not as opinion but as fact.

  "I'm not!" Tim said. "How can you say that?"

  "The chair's a lie-detector, kid," Verran said. "And it says you're lying through your teeth." He pressed a button and spoke into a microphone. "All right, guys. Time to move him."

  His gut squirming now, Tim began struggling in the chair, writhing, straining at the straps around his arms, but they wouldn't budge.

  "Damn you!" Alston said. His face was contorted with genuine anger as he leaned close to Tim. "Why couldn't you have gone along? Your shortsightedness forces us into an untenable position. We must now take extreme measures to protect ourselves."

  "L-like what?" Tim had never stuttered in his life, but he was starting now.

  "You'll see."

  Alston pulled a syringe and a small vial of clear fluid from his pocket.

  Panic became a rapier-taloned claw, raking at the lining of Tim's gut.

  "What's that? What're you going to do?"

  Alston said nothing as he filled the syringe and approached him. Tim made a desperate, futile attempt to squirm away from the needle as Alston plunged it into his deltoid without bothering to roll up the overlying shirt sleeve. Tim flinched at the sting of the point, the burn of the fluid emptying into his muscle from the syringe.

  Part of his brain was screaming that he was going to die, going to die, going to die, while another part refused to believe it. Then the door opened and two men came in. Tim recognized both. One was the blond security guard he and Quinn had seen in the parking lot before going to Atlantic City and the other had been the phony exterminator in Quinn's room.

  The big blond guy stalked forward and stopped in front of Tim.

  "His number's up?" he said to Verran.

  Verran nodded. He didn't look too happy. "Yeah, Kurt. His number's up and gone."

  "Good," Kurt said. "That means no more Mr. Nice guy."

  He cocked his right arm and punched Tim in the face.

  Amid the sudden blaze of pain, Tim heard Alston say, "Stop that immediately! What's gotten into you?"

  "This is the sonofabitch who broke my nose."

  "That's no excuse to mistreat him, especially considering what's about to happen to him."

  Perhaps it was the injection, perhaps the punch, perhaps Alston's remark, or perhaps it was a combination of all three. Tim passed out.

  NINETEEN

  Quinn watched anxiously as Dr. Emerson spoke into his phone. She noticed that his tweed jacket was worn at the elbows, his corduroys were rumpled, and
he needed a shave. He looked tired.

  "Very good. I'll tell her. No, that won't be necessary. Thank you." He hung up and turned to her. "That was Security. They've combed the anatomy lab and the entire class building without finding anyone. Whoever it was must have been scared off."

  The news brought Quinn no sense of relief.

  "I'd rather they'd caught him," she said. "Now they probably think I'm some sort of hysterical female."

  "I'm sure that isn't so. They say they think it was a thief, sneaking through the building, looking to steal whatever wasn't nailed down. You just got in his way, that's all. Security even offered to send over someone to escort you back to the dorm. I told them not to bother." He began to push himself up from his chair. "Come. I'll walk you back myself."

  "No, please," Quinn said. "I'll be all right." She glanced out the window at the approaching dawn. "The sun's almost up. I'll be fine."

  "Are you quite sure? It's really no trouble—"

  "You've done enough already," she said. She drained her teacup as she rose. "Thanks for your help."

  "It was nothing, child. Absolutely nothing. Any time you need my help, you just call."

  Funny thing about Dr. Emerson calling her "child." She didn't mind.

  "I hope that won't be necessary."

  "By the way," he said as she reached for the doorknob, "Security wants you to stop by as soon as you can and give them a description of your assailant."

  "I don't know what I can tell them. All I saw was a shadow and a flashlight."

  "They need to make a report to the local authorities, so tell them what you can. You never know what tiny snippets will lead to an identification."

  "Will do."

  Quinn waved, stepped out into the hall, and hurried toward the exit.

  The pre-dawn air was cold and clear and a rime of frost had crystallized on the grass. Quinn broke into a jog toward the dorm, her breath steaming and streaming around her. She couldn't help anxious glances left and right at the shadows tucked behind the shrubs and foundation plantings. Security had said the intruder was gone, but Security was supposed to keep intruders from getting on campus in the first place.

  Despite her lingering anxiety, it felt good to move, to run, to inhale cold air and feel it swirl through her bronchial tree, clearing her lungs and her brain. Last night's fright seemed remote, almost as if it had happened months ago, to someone else. All of the night's strange events had taken on a air of vague unreality.

  But what about Tim? What had he been thinking last night? Such erratic behavior—it gave her the willies, especially in someone she'd come to care for so much. And where had he been all this time? Probably back in his bed sound asleep. She smiled. She'd kill him.

  She trotted directly to his room and raised her fist to pound on the door, but stopped herself when she realized she'd probably wake Kevin and most of the residents on this end of the floor. She could wait.

  Quinn trotted up the stairs to her own room. It would be nice to grab a few winks to make up for some of her lost sleep, but she knew the caffeine in Dr. Emerson's tea wouldn't let her do that. Maybe she could bone up a little more for the anatomy practical. But first...

  She searched through her rumpled sheets and blankets for the notes Tim had written her when he'd popped in last night. She wasn't going to let him forget how crazy he'd acted. She'd hold onto them, and perform dramatic readings whenever the situation warranted.

  But where were they? She was sure she'd left them right here by the pillow. She tore the bed apart. She looked under the bed. She checked all her pockets.

  Gone.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, dumbfounded. Where on earth—?

  Unless Tim had come back and taken them.

  She slapped her thighs. That did it. She reached for the phone. Sorry, Kevin, but you're about to get a wake-up call. Blame it on your crazy roommate.

  Ten rings. No answer.

  Uneasy now, Quinn ran back downstairs and began knocking on Tim's door, calling his name. She wished now she'd accepted one of his room keys when he'd offered it, but she hadn't felt right taking it when he had a roommate, even someone as easygoing as Kevin.

  "Hey, Quinn. What's up?"

  She turned and gasped. "Kevin!"

  He was coming down the hall dressed in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, his pillow slung over his shoulder.

  "You two have a fight?"

  "Where's Tim?"

  He grinned. "Hey, you spent the night with him, not me."

  "What are you talking about? I just got here. I called a minute ago and there's no answer."

  His grin vanished. "You kidding?"

  "No. Open up, will you? He was acting awfully strange last night."

  Kevin already had his key in hand. He unlocked the door and Quinn pushed ahead of him, rushing through the front room to the bed room.

  "Oh, God."

  Neither bed had been slept in. The room looked just like all the bedrooms looked after the maids were finished. She ran to the closet and slid the door aside. It wasn't empty, but there were a lot of unused hangers on the rod.

  "Where is he, Kevin? What did he say to you last night?"

  Kevin told her about Tim asking him to bunk down the hall so the two of them could have some time alone together.

  With her terrified heart pounding against the wall of her chest, Quinn pushed past Kevin and ran full tilt for the parking lot. She slid to a halt on the frosty grass at the top of the rise. Even from up here, even in the skim-milk light of pre-dawn, she could see that Griffin was gone. She searched the rest of the lot for it, but no gray Olds Cierra anywhere. Tim's invisible car was nowhere to be seen.

  "Tim!" she called to the dawn, knowing there would be no reply but compelled to cry out for an answer.

  Where are you? What's wrong with you? What have you done?

  Her voice rose to a scream that echoed down the hill.

  "Tim!"

  *

  "I warned you there'd be only trouble if you went to that school. You remember that, don't you?"

  Quinn groaned within. She'd told herself she'd regret it if she called her mother, but after the way the day had gone, she needed to talk to someone. She felt as if she were losing her mind.

  She'd stumbled through the day in a daze, unable to concentrate on her classes. Her mind was on Tim and where he could be, and how he was, and why he hadn't made any of his classes and missed the practical. Between every class, when she wasn't calling Tim's room, praying he'd pick up the phone, she was out on the slope overlooking the student parking lot, searching for a glimpse of Griffin.

  The thought of eating repelled her, so she'd used her lunch hour to stop by the Security Office, ostensibly to make her report on the incident in the anatomy lab, but mainly to see if they had any idea of where Tim might be.

  Mr. Verran looked exhausted, more hang-dog than ever. He didn't seem the least bit concerned by Tim's disappearance.

  His attitude was: "So? He's skipped a few classes and took off on a long weekend. He ain't the first student to do it, and he won't be the last, I promise you."

  Quinn knew he was wrong. Tim might have a cavalier attitude about studying, but he didn't miss tests.

  Mr. Verran wouldn't hear of reporting Tim as a missing person. There was a 24-hour minimum before anyone would start looking for him. Quinn left the Security Office angry and frustrated at her inability to convey to anyone the fearful urgency exploding inside her.

  After staggering through the anatomy practical and realizing she'd barely passed, she'd called Dr. Emerson and asked to be excused from her research duties for the afternoon. He told her, by all means stay out—after last night's ordeal, he wouldn't dream of asking her to come in. He thought she was still strung out from the incident in the lab. She didn't tell him about Tim.

  After a half-hearted attempt at dinner, she scanned the parking lot once more, then returned to her room and called Matt at Yale, praying he'd heard from Tim—or better yet, tha
t Tim was right there, lounging by the TV, drinking a beer.

  But Matt hadn't heard a word from his old roommate, and was dumbfounded. She made him promise to call her the minute he heard anything. Anything.

  The next call had been the toughest: Tim's folks. Mrs. Brown answered, and quickly passed it to her husband. Mr. Brown was hostile at first, and why not? He'd never met Quinn and didn't want to hear what she was telling him. But something in her voice must have carried her feelings along the wire—her fear for Tim and genuine bafflement as to his whereabouts—for he began to soften, to really listen, and ask questions. By the end of the call he was somber and subdued. He took Quinn's number and said he would call her if he heard from his son.

  After that she'd sat on her bed in her darkening room. Despite the voices drifting in from the hall—someone laughing, someone shouting—the dorm seemed empty. She felt alone in the universe. She'd had a sudden, irrepressible urge to call her parents, to make sure they were okay, to reassure herself they still existed, and to affirm that she herself was real.

  "Yes, Mom," she said. "I know you warned me. But you said something would happen to me. This is a friend of mine."

  Her mother's voice softened. "I've gathered from how you've spoken of him that Tim is more than just a friend."

  "Well, yes."

  "Do you love him?"

  "I...I think so." Quinn knew so, but couldn't go into that now with her mother. She missed Tim desperately, and if she began talking about her feelings for him, she'd break down completely. "He's very special."

  Her mother's voice suddenly turned plaintive. "Come home, Quinn. Come home now before the same thing happens to you."

  The change in tone startled her as much as the words.

  "Mom, what are you talking about?"

  "Something terrible's happened to your friend, Quinn. Can't you feel it?"

  "Don't say that, Mom. You can't know that. You're scaring me."

  But what was truly frightening was that Quinn did feel it, a deep, slow, leaden certainty in the base of her neck that something unimaginable had befallen Tim. She couldn't tell her mother that, couldn't let her think that she too might be experiencing "the Sheedy thing." Not after disparaging it for so long.