F. Wilson - The Select

An uneasy feeling began to worm through Matt. Even through the static Quinn had sounded frightened. And why not? The things she'd been saying...

Matt had spent the hours since their abortive phone call trying to piece together the fragments he'd heard. The more he'd thought about them, the more unsettling they became.

It's Tim! I think he's here!...I don't think he ever went away...I think they're hiding him here...

They were enough to shake up anybody.

"I know she's here. I spoke to her a couple of hours ago. Call her again."

He shook his head. "I already let it ring a dozen times. If she was in that room, she would've picked up."

"Then maybe something's happened to her. Maybe—"

"The only thing that's happened to her is she's gone home for a couple of weeks."

"But she could be hurt. Let me go up and check on her."

The guard shook his head with deliberate slowness. "Nobody goes wandering around this campus without an escort, and there's nobody to spare for an escort at this hour. You come back after eight when the day shift's on and they can help you out. Right now, I suggest you turn around and take the road two miles further west to the Quality Inn and spend what's left of the night there."

"But—"

The guard shut his window.

Matt stared at him, then glanced at the red-and-white striped gate a few feet ahead. He was tempted to slam the Cherokee into gear and drive right through that slim, brittle-looking two-by-four. But what would that do? He'd get kicked off the campus before he learned anything, and probably be banned from ever entering again. He did not need that.

Maybe the Quality Inn was a good idea. But before he headed down the road again, there was one more thing he had to do.

Hoping the local cellular transmitter was working, he picked up the car phone and dialed Quinn's number. He counted a dozen rings, then let it go on ringing after that. Finally, when he couldn't stand the sound any longer, he hung up. But her words from hours ago echoed and reechoed through the canyons of his brain.

It's Tim! I think he's here!...I don't think he ever went away...I think they're hiding him here...

Either Quinn had gone paranoid, and that seemed unlikely— about as unlikely as Tim dropping out and flying to Las Vegas—or there was something nasty going on at The Ingraham.

Matt rubbed his eyes.

God, I'm tired.

He was too exhausted to think straight right now. Maybe it would all make sense in the morning. It sure as hell didn't now. But he'd be back at eight on the dot to find Quinn and straighten out this whole mess.

He was shifting into reverse when he heard the vibrato thrum of a helicopter. He looked up and saw the lights descending toward the helipad behind the medical center. When he'd been here last year he'd seen ex-senator Whitney land in one. Matt doubted he'd be coming to The Ingraham at this hour. Probably a MedEvac shipping in an emergency case.

Great things, helicopters. Snow-choked roads didn't slow them down a bit.

Matt turned the Cherokee around and went in search of the Quality Inn.

*

Tim lay on his right side in an agony of suspense. He'd seen Quinn leave the ward flanked by the two nurses, flash past the hall window with a nurse in pursuit, run back the other way chased by the blond bastard who'd punched him in the face that night ages ago when he was strapped in the chair talking to Dr. Alston.

Nothing had happened for a few minutes. He'd heard heavy banging vibrating through the walls, then the faint sound of glass breaking, then he'd seen Quinn run by the window again. Soon after, but not too close behind, the blond security goon had followed.

That was the last he'd seen of Quinn.

She got away.

Tim had been repeating that over and over, making a litany of it. She had to have got away. She couldn't have expended all that courage, braved all those risks, just to be caught and dragged downstairs to face Alston in Verran's little hidey hole. That would be too cruel, too unfair.

No, she got away, and the cops would be here soon.

But just in case Quinn had been caught, Tim was doing his damnedest to get his arms and legs working. His 2:00 a.m. dose of 9574 was late. Had to be. How else to explain the gnawing pain in his left thigh where Alston had burned and grafted him? Pain . When had Tim last experienced an iota of physical discomfort? And how else to explain this sudden ability to flex his elbows, shrug his shoulders, bend his knees? The joints were stiff and painful, but they did move. The daily physical therapy had kept them limber.

The important thing was he could move them. On his own. And he kept moving every joint he could, repeatedly flexing and extending, back and forth. But he had to be careful. They'd left the lights on, so any movement could be seen. He saw some of the other patients moving, twitching, jerking, like B-movie mummies in the earliest stages of reanimation. But none seemed to have anywhere near his degree of mobility. So as he worked his limbs Tim kept his eyes trained on the window and the door. He couldn't let the nurses catch him moving. They'd dose him right back into flaccidity.

Quinn's escape must have upset the dosage schedule—must have upset a lot of things out there. She'd probably thrown their whole routine into chaos.

What a gal. Tim grinned—yes, grinned. He could feel his facial muscles move, feel his cheeks crease with the smile. Can I pick 'em, or what?

He wiped the grin and froze his limbs as he saw a head appear in the door window. The door opened and Doris, the shift's head nurse, walked in. She strode directly to Tim's bed. She frowned as she looked down at him.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble your girlfriend caused up here tonight?"

Not entirely, but I hope it's a lot. He felt the muscles in his hands begin to fasciculate. He was glad they were hidden under the sheet.

"Is that graft on your leg hurting you? Feel it? It's only a fraction of what your fellow patients are going to be feeling soon. And it's all your girlfriend's fault."

What was she talking about?

"She went crazy out there. Broke near every vial of injectable we have. Threw them at us."

Good for her.

"So as a result we have none of the special neuromuscular agent we've been using left on the floor."

No 9574! Tim restrained himself from pumping a defiant fist in her face. Yes!

"But not to worry. There'll be more along as soon as Dr. Alston opens up the third floor for us. And then you'll get your dose, Number Eight. A little late, but better late than never, ay?" She smiled sourly. "And who knows? Maybe your girlfriend will be up here by then, and she'll be getting her own dose of it."

Tim squeezed his eyes shut, and fought his hands from creeping up and covering his ears.

Oh, no. Not Quinn. Not here.

"Well, you didn't really think she got away, did you? Not a chance. Kurt caught up to her, but I doubt that's the last we've seen of her." She sighed. "Why couldn't the two of you have just let things be? Why'd you have to go snooping about? It puts us all in a terrible position. Believe me, nobody's happy with this situation. This is not what we're about."

She turned and walked among the other patients, reassuring them, checking their IVs and their dressings. Suddenly the room began to vibrate. It took Tim a moment to recognize the sound: a helicopter. Who'd be coming in by helicopter at this hour—whatever it was? Doris must have wondered too. She bustled out to the nurses station, turning off the lights as she closed the door behind her, leaving the patients of Ward C in the dark.

Tim lay still for a few moments, dazed and sickened by the news that Quinn was a prisoner, then he burst into furious activity, moving his limbs, rubbing his hands together, massaging his muscles. He'd lain here like a lump long enough. He had to do something, had to think of something he could do despite his weakened state. How long did he have before Doris returned with a fresh supply of 9574? An hour? A few minutes?