F. Wilson - The Select

*

Quinn waited for Matt to call back. She'd barely been able to understand him. He'd sounded as if he'd been calling from a car phone. But why would he do that from Connecticut?

She waited a while, and when he didn't call again, she decided it was time. Enough waiting. Time to do . She had everything ready, lined up on the bed: her sneakers, her security pass card, and her penlight. All she had to do was put on her coat and slip into her boots.

Her hands shook as she slid the leather boot tops over her calves. One part of her mind was scolding her for even thinking of engaging in such a foolish, no-win stunt—if she didn't find Tim but was caught by security, she'd be in deep trouble with Dr. Alston and maybe even Dr. Emerson; if she did find Tim and got caught, she'd be in even deeper trouble, because she'd know something she shouldn't, and the people who had shangaied Tim would have to do the same to her.

But she wasn't going to get caught. She could do this. She had to do this.

Because another part of her was prodding her on, telling her she couldn't last another night wondering if that had been Tim in Ward C, couldn't go on with another day of her life until she knew the truth.

But what did she want the truth to be? Did she truly want to find Tim tonight? If that was Tim in Ward C, at least she'd know he was alive and know where he was. But she didn't want to find him there . Because that would mean there was something hideous about The Ingraham. Knowing that would put her in jeopardy and Tim in greater peril than he was already.

I have to know, she thought as she slipped into her coat. I won't have a moment's peace until I know .

With her sneakers jammed into the pockets of her overcoat, Quinn exited the dorm at a dead run, ducking past the camera in the lighted doorway, and dashing outside to where the powdery snow was gusting through the frigid air. The flakes seemed smaller now, and there were fewer of them falling, but the wind was rearranging them, building dunes around the shrubs and between the buildings, and scraping the open areas clean.

She had decided against the direct route to Science along the walks around the pond on the central campus. That would mean running the gauntlet of security cameras on all the flanking buildings. She opted instead for the rougher, woodsier route behind the class building to approach Science from the rear. She was a little concerned about her footprints at first, but when she turned to see how much of a trail she was leaving she saw the wind busily filling it in almost as soon as she completed a step.

When she reached Science, Quinn paused in the darkness outside the cone of light in front of the emergency exit door on the west side and looked around. No one about, nothing moving except the flakes. Still, she felt as if she were being watched. She knew there was a camera over the door, but were there others about? She wished she'd bothered to take note of their positions during the months she'd been here, but who'd have thought it would ever matter?

She pulled her security card from her jeans and took a deep breath, then she marched up to the door, slipped her card into the slot, and entered. She eased the door shut behind her but kept her snowy boots as close to the threshold as possible. Quickly she pulled her sneakers from her coat pocket and laid them on the floor. Then with repeated, nervous glances down the hall, she began pulling off her boots. She hated standing here in the fully lit, deserted corridor, sure to be spotted by anyone who walked into the rear end of the building's lobby, but she didn't dare leave a trail of wet footprints in the hall.

She also figured this gave her an excuse in case anyone in security had been monitoring the camera on the west side of Science during the two seconds she'd been on screen. If someone came to check, instead of a skulking interloper they'd find a student standing in plain view, changing her shoes. Quinn even had a story ready: She couldn't sleep so she'd come over to see if Dr. Emerson was around and if she could put her insomnia to good use.

But no one had come to investigate the door by the time she got into her sneakers, so she carried her boots over to the stairwell door, unlocked it with her card, and ducked inside. She left the boots in a corner and started up the steps, pulling off her coat as she climbed.

On Fifth Quinn carded herself out of the stairwell, blocked the door open with her coat, then crouched in the corner and checked the hall. Most of the overheads were out; only those by the nurses station were on. Softly glowing night lights were spaced low on the walls along the hallway. A Neil Diamond song was playing softly on the radio at the nurses station.

Quinn crept down the hall. So far she hadn't broken any rules. If they caught her now, her insomnia story would still hold up. She glanced into Ward C as she passed the window but it was dark in there. The only illumination came from the vital signs indicators, IVAC infusion pumps, and cardiac monitors over the beds. She tried to identify the patient she suspected was Tim but in this light they were all indistinguishable.

She stayed close to the wall as she edged toward the nurses station. Neil Diamond's baritone had segued into Michael Bolton's caterwaul on the radio—apparently one of those easy-listening stations. She knew there were two nurses on the late shift; she heard the muffled sound of their voices behind the music. They didn't sound as if they were at the desk, so she chanced a peek around the corner at the station.

Empty.

The music and the voices were coming from the little lounge room behind the med cabinet. That was where the nursing staff gave report, relaxed, and listened to the control board for alarms from the monitors in the ward.

This was her chance. She had to act now, before they came out onto the floor again. As the two nurses broke into soft laughter, Quinn moved. Without giving herself time to change her mind or lose her nerve, she dropped into a crouch, scurried around the corner, and ducked through the door into Ward C.

Now you're over the line, she thought as she eased the door closed and felt her terrified heart beating a mad tattoo against the inner wall of her chest. Now you've got big trouble if you're caught.

*

For a few seconds, Louis Verran didn't know where he was. He jerked forward in his chair and looked around. He was in Monitoring.

Christ! He'd dozed off.

He rubbed his eyes. Good thing he was alone. If Kurt or Elliot had caught him, they'd have given him a helluva razzing. But Elliot was in Baltimore on some R&R and Kurt was sacked out next door in the on-call room.

Goddam Quinn Cleary.

They all should have been getting some R&R. Christmas break wasn't a break for Security, as a rule, not with all those applicants rolling through here next week. Christ, it seemed like a treadmill at times. But at least they used to get off the first weekend of Christmas break. Not this year. Because Cleary was staying, and because Alston wanted close tabs on her, only one of them was off tonight. Elliot had drawn the high card.

Verran got up and stretched. His gut burned. He needed a break. He craved a break. He was still feeling the stress of last week—hauling in the Brown kid, putting him in storage, none of it was his cup of tea. He hadn't figured on any rough stuff when he took this job—who'd have thought? It was rare, but the potential was always there, and it never failed to set his stomach acid production a few notches higher.

He grabbed for his bottle of Mylanta and unscrewed the cap. As he tilted back his head to chug a couple of ounces, he saw the red light blinking on the recorder.

Shit! She'd been on the phone. When the hell had that happened?