*
Tim checked his pockets as he galloped down the stairs, and realized he didn't have his car keys. He'd have to stop off at his room.
When he opened his door, the room was dark. Had he turned the lights out? He didn't remember. As he reached for the switch someone grabbed his arm and yanked him inside. The shock and sudden terror of it stole his voice. He heard the door slam behind him and now he was in complete darkness. He started to yell but someone rammed a fist into one of his kidneys and all that escaped him was an agonized groan. As the pain drove him to his knees, gasping, retching, his arms were pinned behind his back.
Here it comes, he thought. A bullet through the brain.
But then something—a rag of some sort—was forced into his mouth. He heard the scritch of tape being pulled from a roll and then a piece was pressed over his mouth. He had to breath through his nose. Air whistled in and out of his nostrils. He fought panic as he listened to another piece of tape being torn from the roll. If they covered his nose he'd suffocate. But this piece went across his eyes. And then he felt metal bands tighten around his wrists.
Handcuffs. His panic ebbed toward mere terror. They weren't going to kill him.
At least not yet.
*
Quinn knew something was wrong before she reached the parking lot. As she hurried down the slope she spotted Tim's car in its usual spot, but the motor wasn't running. She approached Griffin cautiously and peered within.
Empty.
She touched the hood and found it cold.
What's going on, Tim? What are you up to?
She shivered in the chill breeze. She'd thrown on a sweatsuit and a jacket but still she was cold. She'd just got out of a warm bed from a dead sleep and her body wasn't ready to handle this drop in temperature.
She heard a creak as one of the dorm's outer doors opened and closed.
Finally!
She looked toward the darkened dorm, expecting Tim to appear on the slope, heading her way. She heard the squeak of wheels, like someone rolling a wagon along the walk up there, thought she saw a shadow or two move across the space between the dorm and the caf, but they were gone before she could focus. She waited, but still no Tim.
Who else would be wandering around the campus at this hour?
Meet me in the car. That was what the note had said. Tim had said he was going to warm it up.
That gave Quinn an idea. She pulled out her key ring and picked out Tim's car keys. She opened the door and got inside. The cold of the vinyl raced through the fabric of her sweats, chilling her rear and the backs of her thighs. She started the car and pushed the thermostat up to the maximum.
If Tim wasn't going to heat up the car for her, she'd heat it up for him. But she wished he'd hurry. It was creepy out here.
She pushed down the door lock and rubbed her hands together, waiting for the heat.
Come on, Tim. Come out, come out, wherever you are.
*
Tim tried to keep the encroaching panic at bay by cataloging what he knew.
First off, he was still alive. That was a good start.
Second, he was unharmed—relatively. His left flank still ached and throbbed from that one, nasty kidney punch—which he now assumed had been dealt to shut him up—but after that he'd been handled roughly but without any evidence of malice. His abductors didn't seem to have anything personal against him. It was all pretty businesslike. Tim wasn't sure whether or not he should take heart from that.
Third, he was still on campus—where, he wasn't sure. After binding and gagging him, they'd dumped him into one of the laundry hampers the maids used for dirty linen and wheeled him out of the dorm—just the way convicts used to break out of prison in the old B movies. He'd bumped and rattled along a series of fairly level concrete walks, so he'd assumed he was traveling among the buildings of the campus. Then he'd been pushed uphill a short distance, into a building, into an elevator for a short trip down, along a hallway and into this room where he'd been strapped into a padded armchair that creaked like wood when he shifted his weight.
His best guess: He was in the basement of the Science Center.
Suddenly the tape was ripped away from his mouth. Tim spit out the gag and gulped air. He waited for the blindfold tape to be removed but it remained untouched.
"Who are you?" he heard someone ask him.
The tantalizingly familiar voice startled him with its matter-of-fact tone.
"What?" Tim's tongue was dry from the cloth gag and he sounded like a frog who'd been singing all night. He worked up some saliva to moisten it.
The question came again. "Who are you?"
Now he pegged the voice: Louis Verran's. He found a certain grim satisfaction—if no comfort—in realizing that his suspicions were now proved correct.
"You know damn well who I am—" He almost added Verran's name but caught himself. Maybe the blindfold had been left on for a reason. Maybe he'd be endangering himself by revealing that he recognized his interrogator.
"I want you to say it. Say your name."
Okay. He'd cooperate. No harm in that.
"Timothy Brown."
"From what college did you graduate, Mr. Brown?"
"Dartmouth."
"And which is your room here on campus?"
"Room one-twenty-five."
"All right," Verran's voice said, moving closer. "He's all yours."
Tim grimaced with pain as the tape was ripped from across his eyes, taking some of his eyebrows with it. He squinted in the unaccustomed glare, but gradually the light and shadows began to take form.
"Mr. Brown, Mr. Brown, Mr. Brown," said a tired voice he recognized instantly. "Whatever are we going to do with you, Mr. Brown?"
Tim blinked to bring the figure standing before him into focus.
"Dr. Alston!"
"Yes, Mr. Brown."
"You're in on this?"
Dr. Alston pulled up a chair and seated himself facing Tim. He looked utterly relaxed, completely in control.
"In on what, Mr. Brown? Just what is it you think is going on here?"
Tim glanced around. He could have been in an electronics hobbyist's heaven—or hell. Monitors, speakers, computers, equalizers, oscilloscopes, white, red, and green blinking lights, wires, cables, and an array of other equipment he couldn't identify. Louis Verran was off to the right, watching a monitor. Tim tried to pull his arms free but they were securely bound—wrists, forearms, and biceps—to the armchair. He noticed wires connected by clamps to his fingertips. Were they going to shock him? He wiggled his fingers, trying to shake off the clamps, but they held firm.
He looked at Alston who smiled.
"No, Mr. Brown. We have no intention of torturing you. But we do want to make sure you stay put until we are through with you."
No question about staying put. He was trapped. Caged like a lab animal. The realization was a sick, sinking sensation in his chest. But at least Dr. Alston was a safe, sane, respected physician, researcher, and academician.
Wasn't he?
Alston said, "Again: What do you think is going on?"
"I don't know," Tim said. "But I do know you've got The Ingraham bugged six ways from Sunday."
Dr. Alston smiled that thin, cold smile of his as he lounged in his chair. "'Six ways from Sunday.' How quaint. I assure you we do not have The Ingraham bugged."
"The dorm, then."
"The dorm, yes. And you've discovered that, haven't you? What else have you discovered, Mr. Brown?"
Tim saw no use in lying about dismantling the headboard. The two goons who'd mugged him must have seen it.
"Something in the headboard."
"What in the headboard?"
"I don't know."
"You're the brainy medical student, Mr. Brown. What do you think?"