F. Wilson - The Select

Heavy, pounding footsteps behind her shattered her little fantasy and yanked her back into horrific reality. She had a good lead on Kurt but she didn't know where she was going. The elevator was out of the question.

The stairs! Where are the stairs?

She lost a few steps as she slowed, reading the signs on all the doors. And then she saw the EXIT sign. She lost more ground pulling open the door, ground that Kurt did not lose because he caught the door before it closed—

—and he grabbed Quinn as she reached the first landing.

He snagged her ankle and wrenched it back and up, trying to topple her. Quinn clung to the railing with her free hand and twisted around to look down at him. With the blood oozing along the side of his neck and soaking into his collar, and with a grin as triumphant as it was ferocious, Kurt looked like an escaped lunatic. He had her now. He'd won. And there was no hint of mercy or compassion to be found in the glacial blue of his eyes. She was going to pay dearly for what she'd done to his ear.

"No!" Quinn shouted and defended herself with the only weapon she had. She stabbed at him with the syringe, backhanded, blindly, squeezing the plunger as she struck. It sank deep into his right eye socket.

Two things happened immediately:

Quinn released the barrel and recoiled in horror at the sight of the syringe jutting from Kurt's stunned, horrified, agonized face.

Kurt released her ankle and his hands darted toward his face.

They never made it. Both hands stopped within inches of his face and remained there, fingers splayed, trembling. His expression was a mixture of shock and dismay. The tremor spread to the rest of his body as it shuddered and shook like a fish on a hook. And then his body stiffened. Slowly he teetered backward like a felled redwood and landed head first on the steps behind and below him. With a sickening snap, his head bent on his shoulders to very nearly a right angle. His body shuddered once, then lay still.

Quinn stood trembling on the landing, unsure of which way to turn, torn between running back to see if Tim was all right and climbing the rest of the stairs to the lobby to find Deputy Southworth.

She chose the latter. The only way to save herself and Tim was to break through the Ingraham's iron shell of security and drag in the outside world.

She just hoped the deputy was still there.

*

Louis Verran was actually allowing himself to relax. The subdued lighting of the lobby—they cut half the switches after Science closed down for the day—lent it a quiet, peaceful atmosphere. Almost like church.

Cleary's friend, Crawford, didn't really know that much. He'd only heard snatches of Cleary's end of the conversation on his car phone. And Verran had to hand it to Doc Alston—he handled Southworth beautifully.

A bad moment came when Dr. Emerson walked through the front doors. He looked dazed, like a guy in shock. Almost looked as if he'd been crying.

"Walter," Alston said. "What on earth are you doing here at this hour?"

But Emerson said nothing. He walked past like a zombie, eyes straight ahead, on a beeline for the elevators. Verran held his breath. Emerson was one of the faculty members who knew the score at The Ingraham, but he was a bit too unpredictable for Verran's liking.

But Emerson kept his mouth shut. He stepped into the elevator and went up to Fifth.

And Verran vented another sigh of relief.

"You see?" Alston said to Southworth as the elevator doors closed behind Emerson. "I'm not the only faculty member here at this hour.

"Fine," Southworth said, "but let me get this straight: Mr. Verran called you in because Timothy Brown had reappeared?"

"Not quite," Alston said with exaggerated patience. "Louis does not 'call me in,' as it were. He called to inform me that Mr. Brown had returned. I decided to come in to see Mr. Brown for myself. As Director of Medical Education, I thought it my duty to question him about his missed tests and classes and to warn him of his imminent risk of failure. He wanted to hear none of it. All he wanted was to collect Ms. Cleary and take her skiing."

"I don't believe any of this," Crawford said.

Alston shrugged dramatically. "I don't know what else I can tell you, young man. Mr. Brown returned, picked up Ms. Cleary, and the two of them drove off together. I certainly disapproved, but I had no power to stop them."

"Just when did Brown show up?" Southworth asked.

"Just before midnight, Ted," Verran said, jumping in. "I called Dr. Alston right away."

"And that would explain that fragment you heard from your friend," Alston told Crawford. "About Tim being here. That was what she meant. Your mutual friend had returned."

"No," Crawford said, shaking his head. "That doesn't hang together. Quinn said—"

Alston raised his hand. "None of us can be sure what Ms. Cleary said. You were tired, she was tired and overwhelmed by her friend's return. I suggest we all get a good night's sleep and discuss this further in the morning."

Southworth looked at Crawford. The deputy had been pretty quiet, soaking up everything in his usual low-key way. No telling for sure what Southworth was thinking. Ever.

He said, "I think Dr. Alston's got a point there. I'll put out a bulletin on Brown's car and we'll wait and see if they're picked up. Meanwhile, if you want to do anything, try hanging around the airport and see if they show up there."

Verran loved the idea but Crawford didn't look too happy with it. Finally he gave a reluctant shrug.

"All right. I'll try that. None of this makes any sense, but if they're not here, I guess they're not here."

Alston stepped forward and put a hand on Crawford's shoulder, guiding him toward the doors as he spoke.

"Don't you worry, young man. We'll find them. The Frederick County Sheriff's Department is second to none in its dedication and expertise. If your friends are still in Maryland, they'll locate them. And if they contact The Ingraham, I promise, you'll be the first to know."

That's it, Doc, Verran thought. Lay it on thick. Say whatever you have to say, just get them the hell out of here.

And then, behind him, through the door to the basement stairs, Louis Verran thought he heard a female voice shout No! But it was so faint he couldn't be sure he'd actually heard it.

No matter. Southworth and Crawford hadn't heard it. They were almost to the doors.

Keep going. Keep going.

A dozen or so feet and they'd be gone.

Half a dozen feet...

They were at the doors, passing through...

A sound behind him. A door opening. Verran turned and thought his heart was going to stop as his worst nightmare became real: The Cleary broad, her shirt flapping open, blood smeared around her mouth, bursting into the lobby. Verran made a grab for her but he was far too slow. And he was too stunned by the sight of her. Had that jerk Kurt tried something on her? And if so, where the hell was he? What had happened downstairs?

Not that it mattered. The end of his cushy job at The Ingraham, and no doubt the end of his life as a free man, was sprinting across the floor toward Southworth and Crawford, screaming at the top of her lungs.

"Matt! Oh, God, Matt! Matt, Matt, Maaaaaaatt! "

She leapt into Crawford's arm's and they hugged like a long-lost sister and brother while she babbled a mile a minute.

Suddenly Southworth was no longer low key. He grabbed Alston by the shoulder, turned him around, and shoved him back toward the security desk. Verran felt his stomach acid explode and wanted a place to hide.

"Seems we've got a little bit of a discrepancy here, Verran," Southworth said as he and the others reached the desk. He stood two feet back from the counter with his hand resting on the grip of his pistol—still in its holster, but the meaning of the gesture was not lost on Verran. "This young lady says she's Quinn Cleary—and Crawford here confirms that—and she says Tim Brown is being held downstairs as a prisoner. What the hell do you have to say about that?"