F. Paul Wilson - The Touch

Alan struggled to disbelieve all that he had just been told.

"Charles, I never thought much of the man, but this… this !" He felt cold.

"It's true. I owe you too much to play games with you. But you don't know what I know. He's going to have you work your magic on his myasthenia gravis and then he's going to say he never heard of you. And I'll tell you straight, mate: If I had to prove we'd ever done so much as a urinalysis on you here, I couldn't."

"But you said that computer projection was dated almost a month and a half ago. That would mean he's been planning since May. That's crazy! Nobody in the world could have predicted back in May that I'd wind up here. Everything looked fine back then."

Alan knew he had a point, and so, apparently, did Charles. His voice lost some of its intensity.

"There was no hint that things were going to get dodgy for you?"

"Not the slightest. There was a little flak when the article in The Light came out, but hardly anybody takes them seriously." He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, trying to remember. "No. Near as I can say, things started falling apart when the local paper got on my case. That led to the hospital hearing and everything just escalated from there."

Charles' head snapped up. "Local paper? Jesus bloody Christ! What's it called?"

"The Monroe Express . Why?"

"I'll know in a second."

He picked up the phone and began jabbing at the numbers. Alan turned to the window and fought the sense of betrayal that threatened to overwhelm him.

He turned as he heard Charles hang up the phone and saw the reluctant excitement in his eyes. Apparently Charles had confirmed his deduction, but he didn't look happy about it.

"Everybody thinks of either politics or medical research when the McCready name is mentioned. We all forget where his money came from: a chain of newspapers! And your hometown paper is part of the McCready chain!"

Alan slumped into a chair. "The Express! I never dreamed!" His mind marveled and recoiled at the subtlety and pervasiveness of the conspiracy McCready had engineered. Those seemingly public-spirited editorials calling for Alan's removal, and the immediate trumpeting of the news that he had been suspended from the hospital staff. They had accomplished their purpose: He had been left with no place to turn and had fairly leaped at McCready's offer of help.

"That bastard!" he shouted, feeling the rage surge up in him. His marriage, his practice, his reputation—they all might still be intact if not for McCready. "That son of a bitch! I still can't believe it."

"Let's try one more thing, then, shall we?" Charles said as he picked up the phone and laid it in Alan's lap. "I haven't checked this out, but try it yourself. Dial the operator and ask her to connect you with Alan Bulmer's room."

Alan lifted the receiver, pressed "O," and asked for himself.

"I'm sorry," said the voice. "We have no one by that name listed as a Foundation patient."

Despite the sensation of a lead weight settling in his stomach, Alan told himself that this didn't necessarily confirm Charles' theory. Today was his last day here; Perhaps they had simply removed his name from the inpatient list a little ahead of time.

"When was he discharged?" Alan asked.

"I'm sorry, sir, but our records don't list that name as having ever been a patient here within the past year."

Fighting the sick feeling that slithered up inside him, Alan slammed the receiver down.

"Let's get out of here," he said.

"I was going to suggest that."

"But first," Alan said, feeling the muscles of his jaw knot as he spoke through clenched teeth, "I want to pay a little visit to the senator and tell him just what I think of him and his rotten little scheme."

"That might cause more problems than we can handle," Charles told him.

He had a strange feeling that Charles was afraid. "Like what?"

"Like you may find yourself detained here longer than you wish."

"Come on, Charles!" Alan said with a laugh. "You're letting this make you paranoid. I came in here of my own free will and I can leave whenever I want."

"Don't count on it, mate. And don't call me paranoid. You're the bloke whose psychological profile shows delusional activity."

"What are you talking about?" Alan said, feeling the first twinges of alarm now.

"The MMPI and all those other multiple choice tests you took on your second day here—they portray you as a chap who sees himself as possessing a God-like power. Just hold on now!" he said quickly as Alan opened his mouth to protest. "I'm a believer. Those tests were designed to ferret out the schizoid types. They're invalidated by a chap who can really do the things you can. So you and I both know you haven't broken with reality. But let me tell you, friend: Little red flags went up all over the place when your tests were scored."

"So you're saying they might be able to justify detaining me if they want?"

"Right. I don't know how much you remember about New York State commitment laws, but believe me, you could be out of circulation for a bloody long time."

It cost him a lot of effort, but Alan managed to smile. "Maybe I'll just leave now and send the senator a telegram. Tomorrow."

"Good. And just to be on the safe side, I'll get you a lab coat to wear on the way out. Everybody on staff here wears them. It'll be the next best thing to being invisible. I've got an extra in my office. Lay low until I get back."

Alan quickly gathered up the few incidental belongings he could stuff in his pockets. He was traveling light, anyway. He had lost all his clothes except for what he had been wearing when the house burned down. He checked and made sure he had his wallet and car keys, then sat down to wait.

Through the closed door he could hear almost constant movement out in the hall—footsteps back and forth, carts being wheeled by. He did not recall that much activity during the past few days, but then, he hadn't been waiting anxiously for someone to arrive and lead him out of here.

He had been on edge to begin with. After half an hour, he was one tight knot of tension. Where the hell was Charles?

He had intended to stay out of sight until Charles returned, but he could not sit still any longer. For want of doing something, he decided to take a look and see if Charles was anywhere in sight.

The hall was eerily silent. He noticed immediately that the door leading to the elevator atrium was closed. That struck him as odd. It had always been kept open during the day and was closed only after 10:00 p.m. He hurried down to it and pulled on the handle.

It wouldn't budge.

Beyond the small pane of wired glass, the elevator area was empty. As Alan rattled the handle and pounded on the door, a face appeared at the glass. He was dark, wore a security guard's cap, and looked vaguely familiar.

"The door's jammed!" Alan said.

"No, sir," said the guard. His voice was slightly muffled through the door. "It's locked."

"Well, unlock it, then!"

The guard shook his head apologetically. "It's for your own protection, sir. A violent patient escaped from the security ward. We're pretty sure we've trapped him between the fourth and sixth floors, but until we catch him we're sealing off all the wards and administrative areas."

Alan rattled the handle. "I'll take my chances. Open it."

"Sorry, sir. Can't do that. Orders. But as soon as this loony's caught, I'll be right here to open up."

He moved away from the door and, despite Alan's repeated pounding and calling, did not reappear.

Anger and fear intermingled. He was tempted to run into the nearest room, grab a chair, and use it to smash out the little glass window in the door. Not that it would get him out of here, but it sure as hell would make him feel a lot better. Of course, the act could later be used as proof that he was not only deranged, but violent. Why play into their hands? Why make it easy for them?