"Correct me if I'm wrong, sir, but wouldn't he be worse off contamination-wise if he'd fallen on the floor?"
"That would not have happened, Miss Cleary. Marguerite was keeping an eye on him all the time."
"If you say so, sir. But I could not know that at the time. I acted as I thought best. I'm sorry it upset you or risked any harm to your patient. But may I ask you, sir: If I'd stood there and watched your patient bounce off the floor, would you now be here congratulating me for not acting?"
Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again.
"Do not enter Ward C again, Miss Cleary. Under any circumstances. Is that clear?"
"Very clear, sir." She turned to Walter. "I'm going to call it a day, if that's all right with you, Dr. Emerson."
Walter could see she was fighting back tears. He wanted to shake her hand and congratulate her on the way she'd handled herself, but he couldn't do that in front of Arthur.
"Fine, Quinn," he said. "Get some dinner and relax. It's Friday night. Have some fun somewhere."
She gave him a forced smile that said she was not in a fun mood, then she started for the door.
"Good night, Dr. Alston," she said as she passed him.
Arthur said nothing. When she was gone, he turned to Walter, but Walter spoke first.
"A little hard on her, weren't you, Arthur?" he said.
"Not hard enough, I fear," Arthur replied. "That girl is trouble, Walter, sticking her nose where it does not belong."
"She saw someone in trouble, she rushed in to help. A humanitarian gesture. Why do you berate a future doctor for a humanitarian gesture?"
"She could have contaminated the graft. She shouldn't have been in there, pure and simple."
Walter fixed Arthur with a stare. "And the safety rail shouldn't have been left down," he said pointedly. "Pure and simple."
Arthur returned the stare for a few heartbeats, then turned away.
"This is getting nowhere. But it does point up one problem: 9574 needs a longer half-life. The subjects seem to be developing a tolerance to it. The longer they're on it, the less efficacious it appears to be."
"I'm working on it," Walter said. "And with Miss Cleary as an assistant, I may be able to solve that problem for you."
Arthur looked at him and shook his head. "You do love to rub salt in a wound, don't you."
"Only your wounds, Arthur. Only yours."
They shared a laugh.
*
Tim had been dozing on Quinn's extra bed. The sound of the key in the lock roused him. He leapt up and tiptoed quickly to the door where he flattened himself against the wall next to the hinges and waited. As the door began to swing inward, he grabbed the knob and yanked it the rest of the way.
"Booga-booga!"
Only it wasn't Quinn staring at him with an open-mouthed, shocked expression. It was some fat, fiftyish guy instead. Tim yelped in surprise and took a step back.
"Who the hell are you?" Tim said.
"That's my question, buddy," the guy said in whiny voice. "Who the hell are you, and what the hell are you doing in one of the female rooms?"
He looked rattled. He had a hang-dog face and a bulging neck. He carried a flashlight in one hand and some sort of electronic baton in the other. Tim gave him a closer look and recognized him.
"You're Mr. Verran, the security guy."
"Chief of Security. And you still haven't answered the questions."
"Oh. Yeah. I'm Tim Brown. First-year student here. I'm waiting for Quinn Cleary—this is her room—"
"I know that. Let's see some ID."
Tim fished his photo ID card out of his wallet and handed it to Verran. He noticed a tremor in the older man's hand as he examined it.
"Tell me something, Mr. Verran. What's the idea of sneaking in here?"
"I'm not sneaking in anywhere," he said sharply. He seemed to have regained his composure as he handed back Tim's card. "There's...there was a report of some guy hiding out in one of the girls' rooms. I came by to check up on it. Where's the assigned occupant?"
"She's over in Science, working for Dr. Emerson."
"She know you're here?"
"Of course. We're going to dinner together when she gets back. But tell me something: Who reported—?"
"A concerned fellow student. But how do I know the assigned occupant knows you're here?"
"You don't. But we can wait for Miss Assigned Occupant and she can tell you herself."
"Maybe I—" The walkie talkie on Verran's hip squawked. He unclipped it from his belt and turned his back to Tim. "Yeah?"
"She's on her way, Lou," said a tinny voice.
"Right." Verran turned back to Tim. "I've got to go. But I'll check up on you, buddy. If your story checks out, okay. If not, you're in big trouble."
Tim watched him hurry down the hall, then looked around. Women's Country was empty. Who would have called security about a guy in Quinn's room? And how could anyone possibly have known he was here?
Tim closed the door and wandered back toward the spare bed.
Come to think of it, this Verran guy had looked pretty damn surprised, as shocked to see Tim as Tim had been to see him. Maybe more so. And why a flashlight and that other weird-looking gadget? Not exactly equipment for confronting a prowler.
What was he going to do with a flashlight in Quinn's room?
Tim stepped over to the window.
Something strange there. Some—
"Damn!"
Sudden pain in the sole of his right foot. Something had jabbed into it. Something sharp.
He dropped back onto the bed and pulled his foot up where he could see it. Some sort of pin had pierced his sock and was stuck in his sole. He pulled it out and held it up to the light.
A little black thing, a flat, circular hockey-puck-like nob, maybe a quarter inch across, stuck on a straight pin. What was it? A tie tack? One of those old-fashioned stick pins? He wondered if it was Quinn's. He doubted it. She wore about as much jewelry as she did make up. And this thing didn't look very feminine anyway.
Then he heard the key in the door again. He hoped this time it was Quinn, not just because he didn't want to deal with Louis Verran's homely puss again, not just because his stomach was rumbling, but because he was hungry for the sight of her. Images of her face—talking, eating, bending over her books, concentrating as she wielded her scalpel—had been popping into his head at all hours.
As she stepped into the room, the sight of her sent a smile to his face and a wave of warmth through him.
What have you done to me, Quinn Cleary? he thought.
He said, "How were things at the office today, dear?"
She smiled, but it was a half-hearted smile, as if it were an effort. That wasn't like her.
"Something wrong?"
"Oh, nothing really," she said as she slipped out of her lab coat. "I just had a bad run-in with Alston over at Science a little while ago."
She told him about Ward C and the patient almost slipping off the bed, and about the dressing down she'd received.
"The ungrateful bastard," Tim said when she'd finished. "That wasn't a fair or even a sane reaction."
"Tell me about it. But you know, I got the strangest feeling that he was almost as afraid as he was angry."
Tim was angry too. And the heat of his anger surprised him. He had an urge to find Alston and grab him by his dinky string tie and teach him a thing or two about the proper response to a young woman who tries to help a patient in trouble.
Was he so angry because that young woman was Quinn?
More evidence of how far she'd gotten under his skin.
But he bottled the anger. Confronting Alston was little more than an idle fantasy anyway.
"Forget about the creep," he told her. "Let's go eat."