The Select

by F. Paul Wilson

  He released the nurse and let her slip to the floor like a stuffed toy. He propped himself up on an elbow and grabbed one of the syringes from Ellie's tray.

  Then Tim lay back and began waiting again. He hoped it didn't take Doris too long to come looking for her co-worker.

  *

  "Elliot!" Verran said to the slim, dark man who had just arrived. "What took you so long?"

  Still feigning unconsciousness and watching through her barely-parted lids, Quinn immediately recognized the newcomer as the exterminator who had been in her room with Verran.

  "In case you forgot, Chief," Elliot said, "there's been some snow."

  "Never mind that," Whitney said. "Did you bring the car?"

  "Left it in one of the public lots by the hospital."

  "Very good." Whitney turned and looked at the others. "You all know what to do. I'll return to Washington now. I'll be expecting a call imminently, informing me that this matter has been satisfactorily disposed of. I will pass the news on from there."

  Then he brushed past Kurt and Dr. Alston, and strode through the door.

  "There's a guy in a big hurry," Elliot said.

  Verran nodded. "Yeah. A rat deserting the ship. He wants to be out of state when it goes down."

  "When what goes down?" Elliot said.

  Verran jerked his thumb at Quinn. "Her and the Brown kid. They're going to have an accident in that car you just brought in."

  "Shit," Elliot said. His gaze darted nervously about the room. He was visibly upset. "I didn't sign on for anything like this."

  "None of us did," Verran said. He rubbed his upper abdomen, as if in pain.

  "We've no other choice," Dr. Alston said. "We've been given instructions and I'm afraid we're stuck with them."

  "Right," Kurt said. "So let's stop standing around like a bunch of biddies and let's figure out how, when, and where we're gonna do this. We haven't got much darkness left."

  Quinn listened in horror as they discussed the mechanics of situating the two of them in the front seat of Griffin, running it off the road into a tree, and making sure the gas tank blew up. She looked for a way out but there were four men between her and the exit. No way she could get past them. But a chance might present itself later if they thought she was still out cold. Maybe she could get free and get to a phone, or find somebody who could get a message to the sheriff's office...

  A lump formed in her throat as she remembered Dr. Emerson, and how she'd thought he'd called the sheriff for her...

  "All right," Verran said. He sounded tired and unhappy. "We can't put this off any longer. Let's get it over with. Elliot, get up to Five and wheel Brown down here. I'll call up and have Doris transfer him to a gurney for you."

  With Elliot gone, there were only three men left in the room. Come on, Quinn thought, mentally urging the rest of them to leave. Don't any of you have someplace to go?

  But Verran and Dr. Alston sat in glum silence while Kurt whistled, clipping his fingernails.

  *

  "Ellie?"

  Tim closed his eyes as he saw Doris stick her blond head through the door and scan the ward. He heard her step inside and walk over to the prep room.

  "Ellie, where are you?"

  He heard Doris's footsteps turn in his direction, stop abruptly, then—

  "Oh, my God! Ellie! Ellie, what's wrong?"

  He opened his eyes then and saw Doris beside the bed, bending over the unconscious nurse. The white fabric of her uniform was stretched across the expanse of her back. The strap of her bra was a whiter band across her ribs. Holding the syringe like a dagger, Tim snaked his arm through the bars of his bed's safety rail and poised the needle over Doris's back. He hesitated. This was a gamble. He didn't know if the 9574 would be absorbed from the pleural cavity. But that wouldn't matter if he hit a rib and bent the needle.

  He clenched his teeth and remembered Doris's words to him earlier. And who knows? Maybe your girlfriend will be up here by then, and she'll be getting her own dose of it.

  Here's your own personal dose, bitch, he thought, and plunged the needle into the right side of her back, just above the bra strap. He felt the point graze a rib, then pop through into the lung cavity. Immediately he rammed the plunger home.

  Doris jerked and reared up, clutching at her back, reaching around her side and over her shoulder, trying frantically to get to whatever was causing the sudden stabbing pain. When she turned and saw Tim up on his elbow, looking at her, Doris's eyes bulged.

  "You!"

  She began to gasp for air. And then she saw the tray of syringes next to the bed. She coughed.

  "Oh, no! Oh, NO!"

  Tim grabbed for her as she lurched away from the bed but his fingers only managed to brush her sleeve, then she was tottering out of reach toward the door, wheezing loudly, her hands still clawing at her back, trying to reach the syringe that was still buried to the hub between her ribs. She staggered against the door and almost fell, but leaned on the frame and pulled it open. She squeezed through the narrow opening and stumbled out to the nurses station.

  "Damn!" Tim croaked as she disappeared from view. If she got to a phone...

  He fumbled at his side rail, found the release, and lowered the rail. Slowly he pushed himself up to a sitting position. Everything remained stable—the practice runs had helped. He let his legs drop over the side of the bed. The room spun for half a minute and he grabbed fistfuls of sheet to keep from falling off. When his equilibrium returned he slowly slid his legs down to the floor. His knees wobbled but held as they accepted the unaccustomed burden of his weight. The tile floor was cold but Tim wouldn't have cared if it had been ice—it felt wonderful to be on his feet again. All around him, his fellow Ward C residents were moving under their sheets.

  Still holding onto the bed for support, he took a tentative step toward the door. He wished his legs were shorter, stumpier, so they'd hold him better, but his present models were doing the job. He took a second step—

  —and searing agony shot through his penis and pelvis.

  Grunting with the pain, Tim doubled over and would have fallen if the bed hadn't been there to lean on. Gasping, bleary-eyed, his breath hissing between his clenched teeth, he looked down to see what—

  The catheter. He'd forgotten the urinary catheter.

  He groaned and backed up one, two shaky steps. He didn't have time for this. Doris could be out there right now calling the security goon squad. But he wouldn't get far dragging his urine collection bag along like a purse. He had to disconnect it.

  As he turned, searching for the bag, he spotted Ellie's bandage scissors protruding from the side pocket of her uniform. He stretched over and fumbled in the pocket. He came out with the scissors and a credit card. No, not a credit card, a security pass key, just like Quinn's. That might come in handy.

  But now the scissors. Slowly, carefully, he got the handles situated in his fumbling fingers and managed to cut through the brick-colored tube protruding from the tip of his penis.

  A tiny stream of clear water shot from the severed end. Tim knew these catheters were multi-bored. A thin tube ran within the wall of the larger tube, ending in a small sack at the bladder end. After the catheter was inserted into the bladder, water was injected along the tube, inflating the balloon, and locking the catheter in the bladder. By cutting the catheter, Tim had deflated the balloon. But did he have the courage to remove it?

  He had no choice. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the distal end and pulled.

  It wasn't quite like dragging barbed wire through his urethra, but it came close. He shuddered twice as he was forced onto his tip-toes, and then it was out. He tossed it aside without looking at it, then sagged against the bed, but only long enough for a few ragged gasps. Then he straightened his knees and grabbed the remaining syringes from Ellie's tray; with those in one hand and the security key in the other, he wove his way across the ward like a drunk on rollerblades.

  Tim pushed on the door and found Doris o
n the floor behind the nurses station counter, the syringe still protruding from her back, the phone still on its cradle.

  Had the 9574 hit her nervous system before she'd had a chance to call? Tim hoped so.

  From outside in the night, he heard the thrum of a helicopter again, this time rising and fading. Whoever had flown in before was flying out again.

  No time to lose. He shuffled to the elevator and shoved Ellie's card into the slot. When the car arrived, he stepped in, inserted the card into the interior slot, and pressed the basement button. If they were holding Quinn in the Science Center, she'd be in the basement.

  As the doors closed, Tim thought he heard the hum of the cables in the neighboring shaft. He wondered who else was riding the elevators at this hour.

  As his car started down, Tim leaned against the rear wall, bracing his elbows on the hand rail. He was startled by his reflection in the metallic doors. Even taking into account the distortion of the uneven surface, he was one hell of a sight. He looked like Kharis the mummy after a run-in with a mob of angry villagers. The gauze wrappings over his left thigh were soaked with blood; apparently the graft was bleeding. There was even a splotch of blood over his genitals, probably oozing from his penis after his none-too-gentle removal of that catheter. He had no desire to examine either area closely.

  He pawed the gauze from his face but left the rest in place. It was the only clothing he had.

  He suddenly realized he might need a weapon of some sort beyond a loaded syringe. Something heavy. He hit the 3 button just in time, and the car stopped. He stuck his card back in the slot and pressed the OFF button. The lights went out and the car went dead. He stepped into a dim hallway, lit only by widely spaced night lights along the floor. He shuffled up and down, trying doors. He wasted five precious minutes or more looking for something, anything he might use as a club. He would have been grateful even for a broom handle. But everything was locked.

  He returned to the elevator, flipped on the power, and continued down. He'd have to rely on his syringes of 9574. Trouble was, they took so damn long to take effect.

  As the car slowed to a halt, Tim glanced up at the floor indicator. L was lit.

  "Oh, no!" he cried softly, jamming his palm against the basement button. "No!"

  When the doors opened on the lobby, he'd be in plain view of the security desk.

  *

  Louis Verran's stomach rumbled and shot him another stab of pain — just in case he'd momentarily forgotten about his ulcer. He reached for his Mylanta. The soft blue bottle felt light. He shook it. Empty. He tossed it in the trash and rubbed his ample, aching gut. Christ, he had more acid bubbling inside than a Delco warehouse. He reached for a cigar, then changed his mind; that would only aggravate his stomach.

  He'd left the CIA to get away from stress situations, from pressure, from dirty jobs. The Ingraham was supposed to be like semi-retirement, but it was beginning to make the Company look like play school.

  He glanced over at the girl, Cleary. He had a feeling she was coming to, but she hadn't stirred. Kurt must have clocked her good. When he'd carried her in, limp as a dishrag, blood smeared over the back of her head, Verran had thought she was already dead and had nearly panicked trying to figure out what to do with the body.

  Wasted worry, it turned out. But now, thanks to Kurt and the senator, she was going to be truly dead, and soon.

  More pain as another surge of acid found a tender spot in his stomach lining and torched it.

  He used to think of himself as one of the good guys. Now...

  He looked across the room at Kurt scraping away at his cuticles and Alston flipping through one of Kurt's skin mags. He certainly hadn't been hanging out with the good guys.

  But Christ, there was no other way to silence the girl so soon after her boyfriend's disappearance. And Cleary had to be silenced. She could put all their heads in a noose.

  Verran sighed and burped. You do what you have to do, and then you try to forget about it and hope you never have to do it again.

  The phone rang. It was Elliot.

  "We got trouble, Chief."

  "Aw, no," Verran groaned. "What now?"

  Across the room, Kurt stopped fooling with his nails and Alston rested his magazine in his lap. Both stared Verran's way.

  "I'm on Five and we've got two doped-out nurses on the floor and Ward C is shy one patient—Brown."

  "Oh, Christ. Where is he?"

  "I've checked this floor from one end to the other and he's not on Five, I can tell you that."

  "But he couldn't get off. It's a secure floor."

  Kurt put his nail clipper away; Alston dropped the magazine and rose to his feet.

  "What is it, Louis? What's happened?"

  Verran concentrated on the phone and waved at Alston to shut up.

  Elliot said. "He's off, Chief. Trust me on this."

  "Then find him, dammit!" Verran said. "Go down to Four and start looking. We'll start on One and work our way up. Get moving!"

  As he hung up, Verran decided to go on the offense. He pointed to Alston.

  "You fucked up again, Doc. Brown is on the loose."

  "That's impossible! He was dosed with..." Alston's voice trailed off.

  "Right. But they ran out of the stuff, didn't they."

  "Good Lord!"

  "It's okay," Verran said. "We'll seal the building until we find him. But it's a damn good thing the Senator left when he did."

  Alston nodded mutely.

  Verran had an awful feeling, wondering what else possibly could go wrong, when the phone rang again.

  "I'll bet that's Elliot," he said. "Probably found Brown in the bathroom or something."

  It wasn't Elliot. It was Bernie from the lobby security desk. Since Bernie wasn't part of the big picture at The Ingraham, Verran immediately began inventing explanations in case he'd found Brown wandering around. But that wasn't the problem.

  "Mr. Verran, there's a couple of men here to see you."

  At this hour? Verran's mouth went dry.

  "Who?"

  "I only got the name of one. He says he's Deputy Southworth from the Frederick County Sheriff's Office, and he wants to talk to you."

  "Tell him..." Verran wanted Bernie to tell Southworth to get lost, or come back later, but knew that wouldn't work. Southworth hadn't come here in the wee hours of the morning to chitchat. "Did he say what he wants?"

  "Yeah. He wants to talk to you about the disappearance of one of the students."

  "At this hour? He wants to talk about Timothy Brown at this hour?"

  "No, sir. He says he wants to ask you about someone named Quinn Cleary."

  Verran almost dropped the phone. For a few heartbeats his voice failed him as acid bubbled up and seared the back of his throat.

  "Tell him I'll be right up."

  Verran hung up and turned to the others. Suddenly he was exhausted. When was this going to end?

  "A couple of guys from the Sheriff's Department are upstairs asking about a missing student named Cleary."

  "Cleary?" Alston said. "How on earth does anyone know she's gone?"

  "We are about to find out. Kurt, you stay here and keep an eye her. The Doc and I will go up and see what this is all about."

  "You let me do the talking," Alston said as they hurried toward the stairs to the lobby. "I'll handle this yokel."

  "You do that, Doc," Verran told him. "'Cause I don't feel much like talking."

  As they stepped out of the stairwell and into the lobby, Verran spotted Southworth immediately, but the guy with him wasn't another deputy. He could have been one of The Ingraham students but Verran didn't recognize him.

  And then he got a sudden, awful feeling that this was the guy Cleary had been talking to a few hours ago. But that couldn't be. He'd been calling from Connecticut. Hadn't he?

  Verran told Bernie to take a break. As Bernie headed for the security lounge on Second, Verran introduced Alston to Southworth who in turn introduced the kid as
Matt Crawford, an old friend of Quinn Cleary's.

  Yeah, that was the one. But how the hell had he got here so fast—and in the snow, no less?

  As they were all shaking hands, Verran heard the elevator bell sound behind him. His stomach acid began another dance as everyone turned to look. All he needed now to cap off the night would be Timothy fucking Brown standing there in the elevator, staring out at them. He forced himself to steal a glance over his shoulder, and sighed quietly when he saw the empty car.

  As the doors slid closed again, he turned back to Southworth to see what he knew. He desperately wanted something for his stomach. He was ready to trade his left hand for a roll of Tums.

  *

  As the elevator doors closed and he was once again safely sealed in the car, Tim released the breath he'd been holding. Just before the doors had opened on the lobby, he'd flattened himself against the side wall by the control panel. He hadn't been able to see the security desk, and the security desk hadn't been able to see him. But he'd heard voices out there, and knew he'd acted not a second too soon.

  Tim maintained his position by the control panel as the elevator continued its descent to the basement. When it stopped, he flattened himself against the wall again, planning to check out the immediate area before leaving the car.

  As the doors opened he heard a muffled shout of pain. It came from behind one of the doors down the hall on the left.

  But it wasn't Quinn's voice. It was a man's.

  *

  Quinn's hopes had risen when she'd heard that Tim had escaped; they'd leapt higher when Verran said there were a couple of deputy sheriffs up in the lobby. Now they soared as Verran and Alston walked out.

  That left only one man to get past. But big, blond Kurt was the most formidable.

  She spied on him through her lashes: For a moment he stood at the door to the hall, watching Alston and Verran head for the first floor, then he closed it and approached her. Quinn closed her eyes.

  "C'mon, baby," he said, his voice close as he shook her shoulder. "Wake up and play. Ol' Kurt's got something for you. Something you're gonna love."