The Select

'This will be the third student to disappear in two years, Arthur. Three in two years. Sooner or later, and I fear it will be sooner, someone is going to become suspicious and begin asking questions. Someone is going to demand an investigation. With my connections and the combined influence of our board, we can bury a certain amount of that sort of thing. But one suspicious parent coupled with one loud-mouthed reporter and we could have the makings of a disaster for the Foundation. Tell me, Arthur: How do we explain two students disappearing this year?'

'I...' Dr. Alston didn't seem to have an answer.

'And she does have to disappear, Arthur. She doesn't know The Ingraham's mission and methods, but she can bring charges of kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, battery, and who knows what else against us. If you can think of another way out of this, I'll gladly present it to the board. I don't like this, any of it, but you and I know how the board decides on these matters: She's got to go.'

Quinn knew she had to be hallucinating. A former U.S. senator and a respected professor at one of the world's premier medical schools were discussing the necessity of making her 'disappear.' This couldn't be true.

Then came a third voice, also familiar: 'I think I've got the answer.'

Security Chief Verran was speaking from somewhere to her right.

'Well, don't keep us in suspense, Lou,' Whitney said. 'How do we settle this?'

'We put the two disappearances together. Link them. Make them one disappearance.'

Dr. Alston had turned to face Verran, who Quinn still couldn't see.

'We're listening,' Whitney said.

'I've already set it in motion. I got hold of Elliot in Baltimore. He says there wasn't much snow down there and the airport never shut down. So I sent him out to BWI to get the Brown kid's car out of the long-term lot and drive it back here.'

'What?' Dr. Alston said. 'Are you insane? That will only serve to point the finger directly at us!'

'Let him finish, Arthur,' Whitney said.

'Thank you, Senator. My plan is to say the Brown kid came back, picked up his girlfriend Cleary, and the two of them drove off together. We haven't seen them since.'

'I see,' Whitney said. 'So even though we've got two missing students, it's really only one incident. I like it. Excellent thinking, Louis.'

'But we've still got a car to get rid of,' Dr. Alston said.

'I'm sure we can hide it for awhile until things cool down, then find a way to destroy it,' Whitney said.

'Destroy it tonight.'

A new speaker, a fourth voice.

Verran's voice said, 'What do you mean, Kurt?'

The blond man who had chased her and knocked her out stepped into Quinn's field of vision.

'Crash and burn. It's the perfect night for it. We inject a little booze into the guy's bloodstream, pour a little down his throat. The two lovebirds go racing down the icy road, skid into a tree, the gas tank explodes, boom, they have to be identified by their dental records. No disappearances. No questions. A tragic case of drunk driving. Case closed.'

Quinn watched Dr. Alston and the former senator look at each other, saw their gazes meet, then break away. Her heart began to pound.

Why aren't they saying anything? The man's talking about a double murder. Why isn't anybody telling him to shut up?

Whitney broke the silence. 'No. That's out of the question.'

Thank you, God! A voice of sanity!

The man called Kurt shrugged. 'Just a thought.'

Silence. Complete except for the low electrical hum of the equipment that filled the room.

Suddenly Whitney said, 'You could...handle this?' He kept his eyes down, not looking at Dr. Alston, not looking at Kurt, looking at no one.

'Sure,' Kurt said. 'No problem.' His tone was apropos to someone discussing who was going to make a run to the nearby Pizza Hut.

Another silence, chilled and calculating this time, was shattered by the ringing of the phone. Quinn jumped and hoped nobody noticed.

From her right, Verran spoke monosyllables into the receiver, then hung up.

'It's Doris up on Fifth, Doc,' Verran said. 'She's howling for that fresh supply of juice you promised her.'

'She'll have to be patient,' Dr. Alston said.

'She says the natives are getting restless.'

'Oh, very well,' Dr. Alston said peevishly. 'Call her and tell her to meet me on Three. I'll be right back.'

'First we settle this,' Whitney said. 'I think the car crash sounds like the answer.'

'Now wait a minute,' Dr. Alston said. 'Do you realize what you're saying?'

Whitney spun on him. 'Of course I do, Arthur! And I don't like it any more than you! I loathe it! But extreme problems sometimes call for extreme solutions.'

'But we're talking murder here.'

'Really. And I suppose you'd prefer that we transfer this latest transgressor to your private abattoir where you can slice and dice her to your heart's content in the name of science.'

Dr. Alston's head rocked back as if he'd been slapped in the face. 'I resent that! My research will save burn victims, improve the quality of countless lives. This...this car ride will accomplish nothing!'

'It may well save The Ingraham,' Whitney shot back. 'It will certainly protect the Foundation. Isn't that enough? More than enough?'

Dr. Alston said, 'I know the Foundation is quite willing to take extreme measures to protect itself, but—'

Whitney leaned into his face. 'Or shall I set up a meeting between you and Mr. Kleederman and the board of directors so you can discuss your reservations with them face to face?'

Dr. Alston shook his head glumly, shrugged, and turned away, moving toward the door.

Spicules of ice crystallized in Quinn's veins as former Senator Jefferson Whitney pronounced sentence.

'All right then. We'll wait for the car to arrive. Then we'll leave the matter in Kurt's hands.'

*

Tim retched.

As his reflexes began to return, the nasogastric feeding tube snaking through his nose, down the back of his throat, and into his stomach, had begun to trigger his gag reflex. The retching was becoming intolerable. He had to get it out.

He reached his right hand up, wrapped his fingers around the glossy plastic tubing, and began pulling. The sensation was indescribably nauseating, like extricating a thick, white tapeworm from your gut via your nose. Tim's stomach heaved, his esophagus spasmed, his throat tried to close around it, but still he pulled, relentlessly dragging on the tube until he felt its soft, blunt end scrape against the back of his throat. Then, accompanied by a final retch, it slithered through his right nostril and dropped free onto the mattress, trailing a thick glob of mucous.

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