F. Paul Wilson - The Touch

"Of course."

"Even if it's true?"

"Sure."

"And continue using it in secret?"

"No!" She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "You couldn't hide something like that! You'd just have to forget about any weird power and go back to regular medicine. Don't you see how you're becoming some kind of leper around here?"

"No."

"Of course you don't! You're walking around like you're on drugs lately. But I do! So put a stop to this once and for all. Tell everybody it's all bull. Please!"

Was she right? He had hoped it would all die down, but it hadn't. He realized now that as long as he used the Dat-tay-vao and cured more and more of the incurables, it would never die down. It would only get worse.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I should put a stop to this once and for all."

Ginny smiled. The first genuine smile he had seen on her face in weeks. "Great! When?"

"Soon. Real soon."

"Dr. Buhner!"

He heard Connie hurrying down the hall. She burst into his office and shoved a magazine under his nose.

"Look!"

It was the waiting-room copy of the latest issue of People . Connie had it opened to an article titled "The Miracles in Monroe." There were photos and case histories of a number of his patients. At the end of the article was a grainy, long-range shot of him exiting the private door to his office building.

The caption read: "The secretive Dr. Bulmer who has refused all comment."

"Wonderful!" he said, feeling sick. This capped it. Things couldn't possibly get any worse.

Connie brought him the registered letter two days later.

The return address was for Monroe Community Hospital. The letter said that he was "invited" before the Board of Trustees "to explain and clarify the rumors and sensational stories" concerning him that were coming to have "a deleterious effect on the hospital's reputation." They expected him on Friday—three days from now.

Here it comes , he thought. He had realized all along in some corner of his mind that sooner or later he was going to run afoul of the medical establishment. Not so much the individual practitioners themselves, but the administrative types who lived off disease and trauma without ever treating or coming near a patient.

"Start canceling all my appointments for the rest of the week. And see if Mr. DeMarco is in his office next door. Tell him I have to speak to him right away."

A moment later she called him back. "Mr. DeMarco is in court and will not be back until this afternoon. He'll call you then. And there's a Mrs. Toad on the phone. She said she must speak to you immediately."

___22.___

Sylvia

"I think you've got trouble."

"So what else is new?"

Alan smiled at her from across the table. It was a weak smile, but it seemed genuine. He looked more worn and haggard than the last time she had seen him, when they had sat at this same table after meeting in the cemetery. She had been shocked that the board would even think of calling Alan on the carpet, and had rushed to lend him whatever support she could.

"I just got word about this hearing of yours before the Board of Trustees."

"Bad news travels fast."

"Not as fast as you might think. I'm a big contributor to the building fund over there and I hear things sooner than most. Sol made some calls and…" She didn't want to say this, but he had to be told. He had to be ready.

"And?"

"It doesn't look good."

He shrugged.

"Don't take this lightly, Alan. The four board members I spoke to are really upset with that editorial in the Express and are taking its implications very seriously. They're beginning to see you as a real threat to the hospital's expansion bid."

"Who'd you speak to?"

"My father-in-law, naturally. He sells the hospital all its insurance—an expanded hospital means expanded premiums for him. Two others made me promise not to mention their names to anyone, but I can tell you that one runs the bank where I keep my accounts and the other brokers some real estate for me now and then."

She waited for the light of recognition in Alan's eyes and a conspiratorial smile that would reflect her own. Neither came.

"I'm sorry…"he said with a baffled shake of his head. "I don't…"

How could he forget the board members? Was it possible to be on the staff of the hospital all these years and not know the names on the Board of Trustees?

"Never mind," she said quickly to cover his obvious embarrassment. "Their names aren't important. It's what they think that counts, and they think you're a liability."

"You're making my day," he said with a wry twist of his mouth. "Who was the fourth?"

"My uncle, naturally—your esteemed ex-partner."

"I'm sure he'll give a stirring speech in my defense."

"Right—when water flows uphill. So you can see why I'm worried. That's four out of ten. I don't know the others but I doubt they feel any different."

Alan leaned back and mused in silence. She watched his troubled face, sharing his anguish.

"You don't deserve this," she said. "You haven't hurt anybody. You've—"

"Maybe I should just resign from the staff," he said as if he hadn't heard her. "I hardly use the hospital nowadays anyway."

"I'm sure they'd love that. It would save them a lot of trouble if you made the decision for them."

"I'll tell you quite frankly, Sylvia: The thought of standing before that board scares the hell out of me. I don't want to have to explain myself to them or anyone else."

"But if you don't show, that will give them more ammunition against you."

"Well, I don't want to make it easy for them, and I don't want to put another bullet in their gun," Alan said, straightening up. "So that leaves me with showing up and toughing it out."

"I guess so." But you're going to get hurt , she thought with a tightening in her chest.

"They're not going to shut me off," he said with sudden determination.

He gave her a tight smile and she smiled back with her lips only. She knew he was putting on a show for her, but she saw through it. He was afraid.

And he should be.

___23.___

Alan

Alan swerved in toward the curb when he saw Tony standing there, waving.

"What are you doing here?" he asked as Tony got in. "We were supposed to meet at the office."

"You can't get into the goddamn parking lot," he said, lighting a cigarette as soon as he settled himself in the seat. "It's loaded with cripples."

"Handicapped," Alan said.

"You speak Newspeak, I'll speak Oldspeak. Whatever they are, they've taken over the whole fucking lot. I figured there'd be a mob scene if you showed up so I walked up a couple of blocks to head you off at the pass."

He dragged on his cigarette, rolled his window down two inches, and let the smoke flow through the opening.

"I spoke to some of them, you know. Most of them are here because of that article in People . Like they've been to Lourdes and the Vatican and Bethlehem already, looking to be cured of something. But others know somebody who's already seen you and been cured of something incurable."

They passed the office then. Alan was startled at the congestion of cars and vans and people that filled the lot and overflowed onto the street and lined the curbs. He hadn't been to the office in days. He hadn't realized…

Guilt filled him. He hadn't used the Touch in days. He had wasted hours of power.

"And so now they're all here—looking for you. It's taken me a couple of days, Al, but I got to tell you, I'm a believer. You've got something ."

Alan feigned a wounded expression. "You mean you doubted me?"

"Shit, yes! You threw me some real curves there. I thought that maybe you needed a checkup from the neck up, if you know what I mean."