The Select

by F. Paul Wilson

  The important thing was he could move them. On his own. And he kept moving every joint he could, repeatedly flexing and extending, back and forth. But he had to be careful. They'd left the lights on, so any movement could be seen. He saw some of the other patients moving, twitching, jerking, like B-movie mummies in the earliest stages of reanimation. But none seemed to have anywhere near his degree of mobility. So as he worked his limbs Tim kept his eyes trained on the window and the door. He couldn't let the nurses catch him moving. They'd dose him right back into flaccidity.

  Quinn's escape must have upset the dosage schedule—must have upset a lot of things out there. She'd probably thrown their whole routine into chaos.

  What a gal. Tim grinned—yes, grinned. He could feel his facial muscles move, feel his cheeks crease with the smile. Can I pick 'em, or what?

  He wiped the grin and froze his limbs as he saw a head appear in the door window. The door opened and Doris, the shift's head nurse, walked in. She strode directly to Tim's bed. She frowned as she looked down at him.

  "Do you have any idea how much trouble your girlfriend caused up here tonight?"

  Not entirely, but I hope it's a lot. He felt the muscles in his hands begin to fasciculate. He was glad they were hidden under the sheet.

  "Is that graft on your leg hurting you? Feel it? It's only a fraction of what your fellow patients are going to be feeling soon. And it's all your girlfriend's fault."

  What was she talking about?

  "She went crazy out there. Broke near every vial of injectable we have. Threw them at us."

  Good for her.

  "So as a result we have none of the special neuromuscular agent we've been using left on the floor."

  No 9574! Tim restrained himself from pumping a defiant fist in her face. Yes!

  "But not to worry. There'll be more along as soon as Dr. Alston opens up the third floor for us. And then you'll get your dose, Number Eight. A little late, but better late than never, ay?" She smiled sourly. "And who knows? Maybe your girlfriend will be up here by then, and she'll be getting her own dose of it."

  Tim squeezed his eyes shut, and fought his hands from creeping up and covering his ears.

  Oh, no. Not Quinn. Not here.

  "Well, you didn't really think she got away, did you? Not a chance. Kurt caught up to her, but I doubt that's the last we've seen of her." She sighed. "Why couldn't the two of you have just let things be? Why'd you have to go snooping about? It puts us all in a terrible position. Believe me, nobody's happy with this situation. This is not what we're about."

  She turned and walked among the other patients, reassuring them, checking their IVs and their dressings. Suddenly the room began to vibrate. It took Tim a moment to recognize the sound: a helicopter. Who'd be coming in by helicopter at this hour—whatever it was? Doris must have wondered too. She bustled out to the nurses station, turning off the lights as she closed the door behind her, leaving the patients of Ward C in the dark.

  Tim lay still for a few moments, dazed and sickened by the news that Quinn was a prisoner, then he burst into furious activity, moving his limbs, rubbing his hands together, massaging his muscles. He'd lain here like a lump long enough. He had to do something, had to think of something he could do despite his weakened state. How long did he have before Doris returned with a fresh supply of 9574? An hour? A few minutes?

  Whatever the answer, he had to be ready for her.

  *

  "Do I have to tell you how upset Mr. Kleederman is, Arthur?"

  Quinn heard the distantly familiar voice through the thick, sick, unrelenting pain that hammered against the inner wall of her skull. She was on her back; the feel of the cushions against her shoulders and buttocks was very much like a couch, but she had no idea where that couch was.

  Wherever the couch was, the air smelled stale, like old cigar smoke.

  "No. Not at all. Your very presence here at this hour is testimony to that."

  A new voice. Quinn knew that one: Dr. Alston. No surprise there. She'd guessed he was in on this. But Dr. Emerson...

  She fought a sob and forced her eyes to open a slit. She saw Dr. Alston half turned away from her. The man he was speaking to was tall, sleek, well-dressed, with not a single one of his salt-and-pepper hairs out of place. Even through the web of her eyelashes, Quinn recognized him immediately: former Senator Whitney.

  "We need a major overhaul of the screening process, Arthur."

  "The screening process works extremely well," Dr. Alston said. "But it's not perfect. No system dealing with human variables can be perfect."

  Through her lid slits, Quinn saw the senator point her way without looking at her.

  "This will be the third student to disappear in two years, Arthur. Three in two years. Sooner or later, and I fear it will be sooner, someone is going to become suspicious and begin asking questions. Someone is going to demand an investigation. With my connections and the combined influence of our board, we can bury a certain amount of that sort of thing. But one suspicious parent coupled with one loud-mouthed reporter and we could have the makings of a disaster for the Foundation. Tell me, Arthur: How do we explain two students disappearing this year?"

  "I..." Dr. Alston didn't seem to have an answer.

  "And she does have to disappear, Arthur. She doesn't know The Ingraham's mission and methods, but she can bring charges of kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, battery, and who knows what else against us. If you can think of another way out of this, I'll gladly present it to the board. I don't like this, any of it, but you and I know how the board decides on these matters: She's got to go."

  Quinn knew she had to be hallucinating. A former U.S. senator and a respected professor at one of the world's premier medical schools were discussing the necessity of making her "disappear." This couldn't be true.

  Then came a third voice, also familiar: "I think I've got the answer."

  Security Chief Verran was speaking from somewhere to her right.

  "Well, don't keep us in suspense, Lou," Whitney said. "How do we settle this?"

  "We put the two disappearances together. Link them. Make them one disappearance."

  Dr. Alston had turned to face Verran, who Quinn still couldn't see.

  "We're listening," Whitney said.

  "I've already set it in motion. I got hold of Elliot in Baltimore. He says there wasn't much snow down there and the airport never shut down. So I sent him out to BWI to get the Brown kid's car out of the long-term lot and drive it back here."

  "What?" Dr. Alston said. "Are you insane? That will only serve to point the finger directly at us!"

  "Let him finish, Arthur," Whitney said.

  "Thank you, Senator. My plan is to say the Brown kid came back, picked up his girlfriend Cleary, and the two of them drove off together. We haven't seen them since."

  "I see," Whitney said. "So even though we've got two missing students, it's really only one incident. I like it. Excellent thinking, Louis."

  "But we've still got a car to get rid of," Dr. Alston said.

  "I'm sure we can hide it for awhile until things cool down, then find a way to destroy it," Whitney said.

  "Destroy it tonight."

  A new speaker, a fourth voice.

  Verran's voice said, "What do you mean, Kurt?"

  The blond man who had chased her and knocked her out stepped into Quinn's field of vision.

  "Crash and burn. It's the perfect night for it. We inject a little booze into the guy's bloodstream, pour a little down his throat. The two lovebirds go racing down the icy road, skid into a tree, the gas tank explodes, boom, they have to be identified by their dental records. No disappearances. No questions. A tragic case of drunk driving. Case closed."

  Quinn watched Dr. Alston and the former senator look at each other, saw their gazes meet, then break away. Her heart began to pound.

  Why aren't they saying anything? The man's talking about a double murder. Why isn't anybody telling him to shut up?

 
; Whitney broke the silence. "No. That's out of the question."

  Thank you, God! A voice of sanity!

  The man called Kurt shrugged. "Just a thought."

  Silence. Complete except for the low electrical hum of the equipment that filled the room.

  Suddenly Whitney said, "You could...handle this?" He kept his eyes down, not looking at Dr. Alston, not looking at Kurt, looking at no one.

  "Sure," Kurt said. "No problem." His tone was apropos to someone discussing who was going to make a run to the nearby Pizza Hut.

  Another silence, chilled and calculating this time, was shattered by the ringing of the phone. Quinn jumped and hoped nobody noticed.

  From her right, Verran spoke monosyllables into the receiver, then hung up.

  "It's Doris up on Fifth, Doc," Verran said. "She's howling for that fresh supply of juice you promised her."

  "She'll have to be patient," Dr. Alston said.

  "She says the natives are getting restless."

  "Oh, very well," Dr. Alston said peevishly. "Call her and tell her to meet me on Three. I'll be right back."

  "First we settle this," Whitney said. "I think the car crash sounds like the answer."

  "Now wait a minute," Dr. Alston said. "Do you realize what you're saying?"

  Whitney spun on him. "Of course I do, Arthur! And I don't like it any more than you! I loathe it! But extreme problems sometimes call for extreme solutions."

  "But we're talking murder here."

  "Really. And I suppose you'd prefer that we transfer this latest transgressor to your private abattoir where you can slice and dice her to your heart's content in the name of science."

  Dr. Alston's head rocked back as if he'd been slapped in the face. "I resent that! My research will save burn victims, improve the quality of countless lives. This...this car ride will accomplish nothing!"

  "It may well save The Ingraham," Whitney shot back. "It will certainly protect the Foundation. Isn't that enough? More than enough?"

  Dr. Alston said, "I know the Foundation is quite willing to take extreme measures to protect itself, but—"

  Whitney leaned into his face. "Or shall I set up a meeting between you and Mr. Kleederman and the board of directors so you can discuss your reservations with them face to face?"

  Dr. Alston shook his head glumly, shrugged, and turned away, moving toward the door.

  Spicules of ice crystallized in Quinn's veins as former Senator Jefferson Whitney pronounced sentence.

  "All right then. We'll wait for the car to arrive. Then we'll leave the matter in Kurt's hands."

  *

  Tim retched.

  As his reflexes began to return, the nasogastric feeding tube snaking through his nose, down the back of his throat, and into his stomach, had begun to trigger his gag reflex. The retching was becoming intolerable. He had to get it out.

  He reached his right hand up, wrapped his fingers around the glossy plastic tubing, and began pulling. The sensation was indescribably nauseating, like extricating a thick, white tapeworm from your gut via your nose. Tim's stomach heaved, his esophagus spasmed, his throat tried to close around it, but still he pulled, relentlessly dragging on the tube until he felt its soft, blunt end scrape against the back of his throat. Then, accompanied by a final retch, it slithered through his right nostril and dropped free onto the mattress, trailing a thick glob of mucous.

  Tim grimaced as he watched it slink over the side rail and fall to the floor.

  Now the IV.

  His fingers pushed aside the overlying gauze on his forearm and fumbled with the tape over the IV site. His gross motor control was returning but his nervous system didn't seem ready for fine manipulation yet. No matter. He'd simply have to bull through this. One way or another that IV was coming out.

  He wriggled his index finger under the tape and ripped it up, exposing the hub of the IV needle and more tape. He guided his twitching fingers around the tape and hub, grasping them as one, then he yanked back. The needle pulled free painlessly, dribbling clear fluid across the sheet while a droplet of blood welled in the puncture site.

  Tim jabbed the IV needle into his mattress, then dammed the blood flow with his thumb. He didn't want any telltale red splotches on his arm. He maintained the pressure for what he guessed was a minute, then checked the site: No more bleeding. He sucked the blood off his thumb, then pushed the tape and gauze back into place.

  Okay, he was ready. But first he decided to try something radical: he pushed himself up on both elbows, grabbed the side rails, then pulled himself to a sitting position.

  The room pinwheeled clockwise while the bed did its own tilt-a-whirl in the opposite direction. He felt seasick and ridesick, he closed his eyes but the feeling of spinning into the void pursued him. He'd figured his inner ear would pull this sort of stunt on him after his being flat for so long, but he hadn't imagined it would be this bad. He clenched his teeth against his rising gorge and held on for the duration of the hellride. He wasn't going to let go.

  Finally the vortical movement slowed. When it stopped, Tim dared to open his eyes. The room was steady. He dropped back onto the mattress, gasping, sweating. He'd done it. In a couple of minutes he'd try it again. In the meantime he'd keep working his limbs, keep stretching and contracting those muscles. And all the while he'd be waiting.

  Tim was surprised at how good he'd become at waiting.

  *

  As tired as Matt was—exhausted was more like it—sleep would not come.

  He lay among the mute shadows of the motel room and listened to a snow plow scrape by on the road outside. He knew why he couldn't sleep—because he shouldn't sleep. He should be up and out and doing something.

  Because the more he lay here and thought about it, the surer he was that Quinn was in trouble. Big trouble. She'd sounded so frightened on the phone, and now it looked as if she'd disappeared.

  He'd replayed their fragmented cellular phone conversation countless times in his mind, looking for an answer, and with each run-through it sounded progressively more disjointed and bizarre. But the last two words he'd heard kept nudging him.

  ...Sheriff...Southworth...

  Matt threw off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. It was obvious he wasn't going to get any sleep, so he might as well get up and do something. Get into motion. Even if he wasn't accomplishing anything, at least he'd feel better about himself. He pulled out the slim Frederick County phone book, looked up the number of the sheriff's office, and dialed. A man who announced himself as Deputy Harris answered and Matt asked for Sheriff Southworth.

  Harris laughed. "The sheriff's name is Clarkson. But there's a Deputy Southworth."

  "Is he around?"

  "Won't be in till eight."

  "Could you call him at home?"

  "I don't think he'd appreciate a call at this hour. Can I help you?"

  Matt hesitated, then figured, What the hell. He told Deputy Harris about Tim's disappearance—Harris was familiar with that— and about his phone call to Quinn.

  "And now Quinn's gone too," Matt said.

  "We don't know that yet," Harris said.

  "But she did mention the name Southworth. Couldn't you give him a call? Maybe Quinn told him something."

  "I guess I could give Ted a buzz," Harris said slowly. "He's been following the Brown case..."

  "Please do."

  Matt gave Harris his room number at the motel should he or Southworth want to get back to him, then hung up and waited.

  Not a long wait. The phone rang three minutes later.

  "You the one who just called the Sheriff's Office?" said a deep voice.

  "Yes. Deputy Southworth?"

  "That's me. Start talking."

  *

  Tim froze as the door opened and the lights came on. Ellie, the skinny nurse, entered, pushing a wheeled tray ahead of her. Tim watched the door swing shut behind her. She was alone. He was relieved to see her instead of Doris. He didn't know if his plan would work on the
bigger woman.

  As she headed in the direction of Number One, she glanced Tim's way and stared. Tim kept his face slack and expressionless.

  "Well, look at you, Number Eight. Looks like you've been busy while I'm out."

  She turned and wheeled the tray toward Tim. He noticed a row of filled and tagged syringes lined up on the tray—eight of them. She stopped the tray beside the bed and gazed down at the feeding tube on the floor.

  "Now how did you manage that?"

  Tim's right arm and the IV line were under the sheet. His left arm lay on top. He moved his left index finger back and fourth.

  "Oh, I see. Getting a teeny bit of movement back, are we? So are the others. Well, we'll fix that. Looks like the new supply arrived just in time."

  Tim watched her check the IVAC flow rate, then shut it off and swab the rubber injection port on the Y-adaptor with alcohol. She then selected a syringe from the tray, pulled off the needle protector, jabbed the point into the port, and pushed the plunger home, emptying the barrel's contents into the line.

  As she restarted the flow, Tim pulled the IV needle out of the mattress with his right hand. Then he reached up with his left hand, grabbed a fistful of the starched white uniform over Ellie's breast bone, and yanked her toward him. Her eyes widened with shock that changed to pain and fear when Tim rammed the IV needle through her uniform and into her abdomen.

  She started shouting, struggling, but Tim pulled her further over the bed rail, levering her kicking feet off the floor, and pressing her face against his chest, muffling her cries in the gauze that swathed him. He watched the IV continue dripping, hoping the 9574 was flowing into her abdominal cavity, hoping it was being absorbed into the bloodstream via the peritoneal lining, praying it would work soon because he didn't know how long his weakened muscles could keep this up.

  Suddenly, as if someone had pulled her plug, Ellie went limp. Tim loosened his grip, saw her eyes looking out at him from a slack face, and knew the 9574 had gone to work. Ellie would not be a problem for the next six hours.