F. Paul Wilson - The Touch

Alan smiled. "So did I at first. But then I realized that if I was having delusions, an awful lot of formerly sick people were sharing them."

When he had called Tony for help, he had told him the truth about the Dat-tay-vao . He had felt it necessary to lay everything out for the man who would be advising him at the hearing. He had told him about the incident in the emergency room, about how his new power dovetailed with the life history of the derelict Tony had researched.

Tony had been skeptical, but not overtly so. Alan was glad that he seemed to be convinced now.

"No lie, Al: It's still pretty hard for me to swallow, even after talking to the pilgrims on your doorstep. But the one thing we can't do is tell the Board Bastards that you really have this power."

At the mention of the board, Alan's palms became slippery on the wheel and his stomach went into spasm. In fifteen minutes or so he'd be seated before the board like some juvenile miscreant. He hated the idea. It angered him, but it frightened him even more.

"Why not bring it out in the open once and for all?" Alan asked. "Get it over with."

" No !" Tony fumbled his cigarette, dropped it on the floor of the car, and hastily retrieved it. "Christ, don't even consider it! That'll open up a can of worms I don't even want to think about dealing with!"

"But sooner or later—"

"Al, old buddy, trust me with this. I've looked over the medical staff bylaws and there's nothing in there that threatens you. You don't even have to show up today—and I've advised you not to but you choose to ignore that advice. So be it. But the fact remains: They can't touch you. Let them play their little head games on you all they want. Just sit back and relax. If you haven't been convicted of a felony or found guilty of moral turpitude or gross negligence of your duties as an attending physician in the department of medicine, they can't lay a finger on you. They're just blowin' smoke, man. Let 'em blow."

"If you say so, Tony. I just—"

"Just nothing, Al. You don't take nothin' from these moneylenders, real estate shills, and used car salesmen. You just sit mum and look clean and neat while I do the dirty work."

Alan could see that Tony was working up a head of steam in preparation for the meeting. He let him roll.

"If those turkeys think they can hang you because of a little yellow journalism, they got another think comin'! Let 'em try. Just let 'em try!"

Alan felt his fear and uneasiness slip away in the wash of Tony's belligerent confidence.

"Now, gentlemen," Tony was saying, "I'm sure you're all aware of how embarrassing this is to Dr. Bulmer, to be called before the Board of Trustees like some errant schoolboy before the principal because of some graffiti written about him on the schoolyard wall."

Alan sat in wonder and watched Tony pacing back and forth before the board members. He was eloquent, respectful, and deferential, yet never obsequious. He made it seem as though Alan had granted them an audience out of the goodness of his heart.

There they sat, the twelve of them—ten trustees plus Alan and Tony—seated around the oblong table in this small rectangular meeting room on the hospital's first floor. A coffee urn was set up in the corner, its red light beckoning; maritime paintings by local artists depicting the North Shore broke the muted beige of the walls. All were at the same table, yet unquestionably separated into two groups: Alan and Tony were down at their end, the members of the board—two physicians and eight local businessmen who devoted their spare time to "community service"—clustered around theirs. He knew both physicians well—Lou, of course, was his former partner, and old Bud Reardon had practically run the surgery department single-handedly in the hospital's early days. Bud was showing his years, lately. Alan had noticed him limping as he came in.

Alan really didn't know the others as individuals. He didn't do business with them, didn't get involved in hospital politics, and although he belonged to the same club as most of them, he didn't spend enough time there to have more than a nodding acquaintance with them.

While none of them actually stared, they all looked at him and glanced away as if he were a stranger, as if they were trying to put some mental distance between themselves and the doctor they might have to discipline. But they didn't frighten him now. Tony was right. He had broken no laws, either civil or criminal, had done nothing that would put him outside the bylaws. They couldn't touch him. He was safe.

"What I would like to know, Mr. DeMarco," the car dealer said, interrupting Tony, "is why Dr. Bulmer thinks he needs a lawyer here today? This isn't a trial, you know."

"Precisely. I am aware of that, and so is Dr. Bulmer. And I am heartened to hear that you are aware of that, sir. In fact, I had to talk Dr. Bulmer into allowing me to speak for him today. He didn't want me here, but I insisted on coming to make sure that none of you tries to turn this little informal gathering into a trial."

The white-haired Dr. Reardon cleared his throat. "All we want is to discuss the rather peculiar publicity Dr. Bulmer's gotten lately and ask him how it started, why it keeps on going, and how come he's done nothing to discourage it."

"Dr. Bulmer is under no obligation to respond. The 'peculiar publicity' you mention is nothing of a criminal nature. He can't be expected to hold a press conference every time some—"

"I would prefer to hear Dr. Bulmer's reply from Dr. Bulmer himself," the banker said.

The other board members nodded and murmured in agreement. Tony turned to Alan.

He said, "It's up to you."

Alan felt his heart pick up its tempo as he let his eyes scan the faces of the board members. "What would you like to know?"

Lou spoke up immediately. His words were clipped, his tone frankly irritated.

"Why in God's name haven't you done or said anything to squelch the ridiculous stories about these miracle cures you supposedly perform?"

Alan opened his mouth and then closed it. He had been about to give his usual reply about not dignifying the stories by taking the trouble to deny them, then changed his mind. Why not get it out in the open? He was tired of the half-truths, the surreptitious cures, the constant tension. Why not put an end to all that and come clean? He pushed himself to speak quickly before he had a chance to change his mind.

"I haven't made any denials because the stories are true."

There — I've said it .

A dead hush fell over the room, broken only briefly by Tony's muttered, "Christ on a crutch!"

"Let me get this straight, Alan," Lou said with an incredulous, half-amused, tell-me-I'm-wrong smile on his face. "Do you mean to say that you can actually cure incurable illnesses with a touch?"

"I know it sounds nuts," Alan said with a nod, "but yes— it's been happening for…"How long had it been? He couldn't remember when it had begun. "For months."

The board members exchanged worried glances. As they began to bend their heads together to confer, Bud Reardon said:

"Alan, do you realize what you're saying?"

"Believe me, I do. And if I were in your shoes, I know I'd be looking at me just the way you are."

Alan's statement seemed to have a disarming effect on the board, but only for a moment. The consternation on their faces remained, and they all seemed to be urging an opinion from the two medical members. Alan looked over at Tony and found him glaring his way in frustration. The lawyer made a punching motion with his fist. He wasn't encouraging Alan— he was angry.

Finally there was silence. Lou spoke. "We simply can't accept what you've said, Alan. You've put us in a dreadful position with this. We thought maybe you were simply ignoring the wild stories in the hope they would go away; some of us even thought you might be letting the stories continue because of the tremendous boost the publicity gave your practice. But none of us ever even considered the possibility that you would stoop to propagate such nonsense—"