F. Wilson - The Select

Tim grimaced as he watched it slink over the side rail and fall to the floor.

Now the IV.

His fingers pushed aside the overlying gauze on his forearm and fumbled with the tape over the IV site. His gross motor control was returning but his nervous system didn't seem ready for fine manipulation yet. No matter. He'd simply have to bull through this. One way or another that IV was coming out.

He wriggled his index finger under the tape and ripped it up, exposing the hub of the IV needle and more tape. He guided his twitching fingers around the tape and hub, grasping them as one, then he yanked back. The needle pulled free painlessly, dribbling clear fluid across the sheet while a droplet of blood welled in the puncture site.

Tim jabbed the IV needle into his mattress, then dammed the blood flow with his thumb. He didn't want any telltale red splotches on his arm. He maintained the pressure for what he guessed was a minute, then checked the site: No more bleeding. He sucked the blood off his thumb, then pushed the tape and gauze back into place.

Okay, he was ready. But first he decided to try something radical: he pushed himself up on both elbows, grabbed the side rails, then pulled himself to a sitting position.

The room pinwheeled clockwise while the bed did its own tilt-a-whirl in the opposite direction. He felt seasick and ridesick, he closed his eyes but the feeling of spinning into the void pursued him. He'd figured his inner ear would pull this sort of stunt on him after his being flat for so long, but he hadn't imagined it would be this bad. He clenched his teeth against his rising gorge and held on for the duration of the hellride. He wasn't going to let go.

Finally the vortical movement slowed. When it stopped, Tim dared to open his eyes. The room was steady. He dropped back onto the mattress, gasping, sweating. He'd done it. In a couple of minutes he'd try it again. In the meantime he'd keep working his limbs, keep stretching and contracting those muscles. And all the while he'd be waiting.

Tim was surprised at how good he'd become at waiting.

*

As tired as Matt was—exhausted was more like it—sleep would not come.

He lay among the mute shadows of the motel room and listened to a snow plow scrape by on the road outside. He knew why he couldn't sleep—because he shouldn't sleep. He should be up and out and doing something.

Because the more he lay here and thought about it, the surer he was that Quinn was in trouble. Big trouble. She'd sounded so frightened on the phone, and now it looked as if she'd disappeared.

He'd replayed their fragmented cellular phone conversation countless times in his mind, looking for an answer, and with each run-through it sounded progressively more disjointed and bizarre. But the last two words he'd heard kept nudging him.

...Sheriff...Southworth...

Matt threw off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. It was obvious he wasn't going to get any sleep, so he might as well get up and do something. Get into motion. Even if he wasn't accomplishing anything, at least he'd feel better about himself. He pulled out the slim Frederick County phone book, looked up the number of the sheriff's office, and dialed. A man who announced himself as Deputy Harris answered and Matt asked for Sheriff Southworth.

Harris laughed. "The sheriff's name is Clarkson. But there's a Deputy Southworth."

"Is he around?"

"Won't be in till eight."

"Could you call him at home?"

"I don't think he'd appreciate a call at this hour. Can I help you?"

Matt hesitated, then figured, What the hell. He told Deputy Harris about Tim's disappearance—Harris was familiar with that— and about his phone call to Quinn.

"And now Quinn's gone too," Matt said.

"We don't know that yet," Harris said.

"But she did mention the name Southworth. Couldn't you give him a call? Maybe Quinn told him something."

"I guess I could give Ted a buzz," Harris said slowly. "He's been following the Brown case..."

"Please do."

Matt gave Harris his room number at the motel should he or Southworth want to get back to him, then hung up and waited.

Not a long wait. The phone rang three minutes later.

"You the one who just called the Sheriff's Office?" said a deep voice.

"Yes. Deputy Southworth?"

"That's me. Start talking."

*

Tim froze as the door opened and the lights came on. Ellie, the skinny nurse, entered, pushing a wheeled tray ahead of her. Tim watched the door swing shut behind her. She was alone. He was relieved to see her instead of Doris. He didn't know if his plan would work on the bigger woman.

As she headed in the direction of Number One, she glanced Tim's way and stared. Tim kept his face slack and expressionless.

"Well, look at you, Number Eight. Looks like you've been busy while I'm out."

She turned and wheeled the tray toward Tim. He noticed a row of filled and tagged syringes lined up on the tray—eight of them. She stopped the tray beside the bed and gazed down at the feeding tube on the floor.

"Now how did you manage that?"

Tim's right arm and the IV line were under the sheet. His left arm lay on top. He moved his left index finger back and fourth.

"Oh, I see. Getting a teeny bit of movement back, are we? So are the others. Well, we'll fix that. Looks like the new supply arrived just in time."

Tim watched her check the IVAC flow rate, then shut it off and swab the rubber injection port on the Y-adaptor with alcohol. She then selected a syringe from the tray, pulled off the needle protector, jabbed the point into the port, and pushed the plunger home, emptying the barrel's contents into the line.

As she restarted the flow, Tim pulled the IV needle out of the mattress with his right hand. Then he reached up with his left hand, grabbed a fistful of the starched white uniform over Ellie's breast bone, and yanked her toward him. Her eyes widened with shock that changed to pain and fear when Tim rammed the IV needle through her uniform and into her abdomen.

She started shouting, struggling, but Tim pulled her further over the bed rail, levering her kicking feet off the floor, and pressing her face against his chest, muffling her cries in the gauze that swathed him. He watched the IV continue dripping, hoping the 9574 was flowing into her abdominal cavity, hoping it was being absorbed into the bloodstream via the peritoneal lining, praying it would work soon because he didn't know how long his weakened muscles could keep this up.

Suddenly, as if someone had pulled her plug, Ellie went limp. Tim loosened his grip, saw her eyes looking out at him from a slack face, and knew the 9574 had gone to work. Ellie would not be a problem for the next six hours.

He released the nurse and let her slip to the floor like a stuffed toy. He propped himself up on an elbow and grabbed one of the syringes from Ellie's tray.

Then Tim lay back and began waiting again. He hoped it didn't take Doris too long to come looking for her co-worker.

*

"Elliot!" Verran said to the slim, dark man who had just arrived. "What took you so long?"

Still feigning unconsciousness and watching through her barely-parted lids, Quinn immediately recognized the newcomer as the exterminator who had been in her room with Verran.

"In case you forgot, Chief," Elliot said, "there's been some snow."

"Never mind that," Whitney said. "Did you bring the car?"

"Left it in one of the public lots by the hospital."

"Very good." Whitney turned and looked at the others. "You all know what to do. I'll return to Washington now. I'll be expecting a call imminently, informing me that this matter has been satisfactorily disposed of. I will pass the news on from there."

Then he brushed past Kurt and Dr. Alston, and strode through the door.