The Select

'But his own father brought in an expert who couldn't find a shred of evidence of electronic surveillance.'

'He's there in Ward C. I know he's there.'

'How do you know that, Miss Cleary?'

'I was watching one of the Ward C patients when he gave me a secret hand signal Tim and I used in Atlantic City.'

'A secret hand signal. I see. Did you get close to him? Did you see his face?'

'No, but—'

'Why were you watching this particular patient?'

'He's built like Tim. He reminded me of Tim.'

'You really miss your buyfriend, don't you. You really wish he was back.'

'Yes, but—'

'We understand, Miss Cleary. We'll be sure to look into this matter very soon. But don't call us. We'll call you when we find something. Good night.'

So now Quinn was back on her bed, staring into the swirling wilderness and racking her brain for a way to convince the police that Tim was in Ward C.

If indeed he was in Ward C.

Sometimes you see what you want to see.

What if she did manage to convince Deputy Southworth to barge into the Science Center and they found out the new Ward C patient was a farm boy from West Virginia who'd been riding a tractor when the fuel tank exploded under him? What would happen then?

The Ingraham would probably kick her out.

And then where would she be? She'd still be without Tim, but she'd be without a medical education as well.

Quinn could come up with only one solution: She had to be able to go to the sheriff's office and say she had looked into the patient's face and it was Timothy Brown.

And that was just what she was going to do. Tonight. After the change of shift.

It was the only way.

She shivered. It wasn't cold in the room. She was terrified.

*

Matt rubbed his burning eyes. His arms were leaden, his fingers cramped from gripping the steering wheel, and his right leg throbbed from incessant switching between the gas and brake pedals. He glanced at the dashboard clock.

I don't believe this, he thought. After midnight and I haven't hit Gettysburg yet. And it's still snowing like crazy.

After getting lost twice in the rural backroads of western New Jersey, he'd finally made it to the Pennsylvania Turnpike. That, too, had been slow going, with accidents eastbound and westbound, but it least it had been moving—a big improvement over the Jersey Pike.

But he'd made his big mistake around Harrisburg when he got off the Pennsy Pike and headed south toward Maryland. He'd had three choices: Route 83, Route 81, or Route 15. The first two were major roads, but 83 would swing him too far back east, and 81 would take him too far west; Route 15 ran right between the other two and offered to bring him closest to The Ingraham in the fewest miles.

But Route 15 was only two lanes, lined with dark, sleeping houses and snow-coated trees bending their laden branches low over the road. Matt had been crawling for miles, with hours more to go, most likely.

This is crazy, he thought.

The best thing to do would be find a motel and spend the night. Forget about The Ingraham for tonight and get some sleep. The roads would be clearer in the morning.

He pulled onto the shoulder and yanked the cellular phone from its cradle between the bucket seats. He fished out a slip of paper with Quinn's number and punched it in.

If he wasn't getting there till tomorrow, he wanted to make sure she didn't zip off to Baltimore or the like for the day.

The signal was shaky but he recognized her hello.

'Hey, Quinn, it's Matt.'

'Oh, Matt. Thank God you called. It's Tim! I think he's here!'

'What? He came back?'

Matt was stunned. But beneath the shock was a strange mix of emotions, an uneasy balance between relief that Tim was back and anger at him for running off in the first place.

'No. I don'...ink he ever went away...'

The signal was breaking up. Through the static Matt thought he'd heard her say something about Tim not going away.

'Come again, Quinn? I didn't catch that.'

'I th...'s here, at...ngraham...ink they're hiding him.'

'Quinn—'

'...'m going...ind out...sure...night...Sheriff's.... Southworth...'

And then he lost the signal completely. He tried the redial button a couple of times but couldn't make a connection. Either he was on the fringe of the local cellular transmitter zone or the storm was doing it. Whatever, he'd lost the connection.

But even through the static, Quinn had sounded strange. Frightened. Almost deranged.

Something about somebody hiding Tim at The Ingraham? What was happening to her?

To hell with knocking off, he thought as he put the Cherokee back in gear. He'd push through to The Ingraham tonight. A glance at the dashboard clock and he corrected himself: This morning. It was almost one a.m.

*

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