F. Wilson - The Select

As his car started down, Tim leaned against the rear wall, bracing his elbows on the hand rail. He was startled by his reflection in the metallic doors. Even taking into account the distortion of the uneven surface, he was one hell of a sight. He looked like Kharis the mummy after a run-in with a mob of angry villagers. The gauze wrappings over his left thigh were soaked with blood; apparently the graft was bleeding. There was even a splotch of blood over his genitals, probably oozing from his penis after his none-too-gentle removal of that catheter. He had no desire to examine either area closely.

He pawed the gauze from his face but left the rest in place. It was the only clothing he had.

He suddenly realized he might need a weapon of some sort beyond a loaded syringe. Something heavy. He hit the 3 button just in time, and the car stopped. He stuck his card back in the slot and pressed the OFF button. The lights went out and the car went dead. He stepped into a dim hallway, lit only by widely spaced night lights along the floor. He shuffled up and down, trying doors. He wasted five precious minutes or more looking for something, anything he might use as a club. He would have been grateful even for a broom handle. But everything was locked.

He returned to the elevator, flipped on the power, and continued down. He'd have to rely on his syringes of 9574. Trouble was, they took so damn long to take effect.

As the car slowed to a halt, Tim glanced up at the floor indicator. L was lit.

"Oh, no!" he cried softly, jamming his palm against the basement button. "No!"

When the doors opened on the lobby, he'd be in plain view of the security desk.

*

Louis Verran's stomach rumbled and shot him another stab of pain — just in case he'd momentarily forgotten about his ulcer. He reached for his Mylanta. The soft blue bottle felt light. He shook it. Empty. He tossed it in the trash and rubbed his ample, aching gut. Christ, he had more acid bubbling inside than a Delco warehouse. He reached for a cigar, then changed his mind; that would only aggravate his stomach.

He'd left the CIA to get away from stress situations, from pressure, from dirty jobs. The Ingraham was supposed to be like semi-retirement, but it was beginning to make the Company look like play school.

He glanced over at the girl, Cleary. He had a feeling she was coming to, but she hadn't stirred. Kurt must have clocked her good. When he'd carried her in, limp as a dishrag, blood smeared over the back of her head, Verran had thought she was already dead and had nearly panicked trying to figure out what to do with the body.

Wasted worry, it turned out. But now, thanks to Kurt and the senator, she was going to be truly dead, and soon.

More pain as another surge of acid found a tender spot in his stomach lining and torched it.

He used to think of himself as one of the good guys. Now...

He looked across the room at Kurt scraping away at his cuticles and Alston flipping through one of Kurt's skin mags. He certainly hadn't been hanging out with the good guys.

But Christ, there was no other way to silence the girl so soon after her boyfriend's disappearance. And Cleary had to be silenced. She could put all their heads in a noose.

Verran sighed and burped. You do what you have to do, and then you try to forget about it and hope you never have to do it again.

The phone rang. It was Elliot.

"We got trouble, Chief."

"Aw, no," Verran groaned. "What now?"

Across the room, Kurt stopped fooling with his nails and Alston rested his magazine in his lap. Both stared Verran's way.

"I'm on Five and we've got two doped-out nurses on the floor and Ward C is shy one patient—Brown."

"Oh, Christ. Where is he?"

"I've checked this floor from one end to the other and he's not on Five, I can tell you that."

"But he couldn't get off. It's a secure floor."

Kurt put his nail clipper away; Alston dropped the magazine and rose to his feet.

"What is it, Louis? What's happened?"

Verran concentrated on the phone and waved at Alston to shut up.

Elliot said. "He's off, Chief. Trust me on this."

"Then find him, dammit!" Verran said. "Go down to Four and start looking. We'll start on One and work our way up. Get moving!"

As he hung up, Verran decided to go on the offense. He pointed to Alston.

"You fucked up again, Doc. Brown is on the loose."

"That's impossible! He was dosed with..." Alston's voice trailed off.

"Right. But they ran out of the stuff, didn't they."

"Good Lord!"

"It's okay," Verran said. "We'll seal the building until we find him. But it's a damn good thing the Senator left when he did."

Alston nodded mutely.

Verran had an awful feeling, wondering what else possibly could go wrong, when the phone rang again.

"I'll bet that's Elliot," he said. "Probably found Brown in the bathroom or something."

It wasn't Elliot. It was Bernie from the lobby security desk. Since Bernie wasn't part of the big picture at The Ingraham, Verran immediately began inventing explanations in case he'd found Brown wandering around. But that wasn't the problem.

"Mr. Verran, there's a couple of men here to see you."

At this hour? Verran's mouth went dry.

"Who?"

"I only got the name of one. He says he's Deputy Southworth from the Frederick County Sheriff's Office, and he wants to talk to you."

"Tell him..." Verran wanted Bernie to tell Southworth to get lost, or come back later, but knew that wouldn't work. Southworth hadn't come here in the wee hours of the morning to chitchat. "Did he say what he wants?"

"Yeah. He wants to talk to you about the disappearance of one of the students."

"At this hour? He wants to talk about Timothy Brown at this hour?"

"No, sir. He says he wants to ask you about someone named Quinn Cleary."

Verran almost dropped the phone. For a few heartbeats his voice failed him as acid bubbled up and seared the back of his throat.

"Tell him I'll be right up."

Verran hung up and turned to the others. Suddenly he was exhausted. When was this going to end?

"A couple of guys from the Sheriff's Department are upstairs asking about a missing student named Cleary."

"Cleary?" Alston said. "How on earth does anyone know she's gone?"

"We are about to find out. Kurt, you stay here and keep an eye her. The Doc and I will go up and see what this is all about."

"You let me do the talking," Alston said as they hurried toward the stairs to the lobby. "I'll handle this yokel."

"You do that, Doc," Verran told him. "'Cause I don't feel much like talking."

As they stepped out of the stairwell and into the lobby, Verran spotted Southworth immediately, but the guy with him wasn't another deputy. He could have been one of The Ingraham students but Verran didn't recognize him.

And then he got a sudden, awful feeling that this was the guy Cleary had been talking to a few hours ago. But that couldn't be. He'd been calling from Connecticut. Hadn't he?

Verran told Bernie to take a break. As Bernie headed for the security lounge on Second, Verran introduced Alston to Southworth who in turn introduced the kid as Matt Crawford, an old friend of Quinn Cleary's.

Yeah, that was the one. But how the hell had he got here so fast—and in the snow, no less?

As they were all shaking hands, Verran heard the elevator bell sound behind him. His stomach acid began another dance as everyone turned to look. All he needed now to cap off the night would be Timothy fucking Brown standing there in the elevator, staring out at them. He forced himself to steal a glance over his shoulder, and sighed quietly when he saw the empty car.

As the doors slid closed again, he turned back to Southworth to see what he knew. He desperately wanted something for his stomach. He was ready to trade his left hand for a roll of Tums.