"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 radicaclass="underline" 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 and ridesick, he closed his eyes but the feeling of spinning into the void pursued him. He'd figured his inner ear would pull this sort of stunt on him after his being flat for so long, but he hadn't imagined it would be this bad. He clenched his teeth against his rising gorge and held on for the duration of the hellride. He wasn't going to let go.
Finally the vortical movement slowed. When it stopped, Tim dared to open his eyes. The room was steady. He dropped back onto the mattress, gasping, sweating. He'd done it. In a couple of minutes he'd try it again. In the meantime he'd keep working his limbs, keep stretching and contracting those muscles. And all the while he'd be waiting.
Tim was surprised at how good he'd become at waiting.
*
As tired as Matt was—exhausted was more like it—sleep would not come.
He lay among the mute shadows of the motel room and listened to a snow plow scrape by on the road outside. He knew why he couldn't sleep—because he shouldn't sleep. He should be up and out and doing something.
Because the more he lay here and thought about it, the surer he was that Quinn was in trouble. Big trouble. She'd sounded so frightened on the phone, and now it looked as if she'd disappeared.
He'd replayed their fragmented cellular phone conversation countless times in his mind, looking for an answer, and with each run-through it sounded progressively more disjointed and bizarre. But the last two words he'd heard kept nudging him.
...Sheriff...Southworth...
Matt threw off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. It was obvious he wasn't going to get any sleep, so he might as well get up and do something. Get into motion. Even if he wasn't accomplishing anything, at least he'd feel better about himself. He pulled out the slim Frederick County phone book, looked up the number of the sheriff's office, and dialed. A man who announced himself as Deputy Harris answered and Matt asked for Sheriff Southworth.
Harris laughed. "The sheriff's name is Clarkson. But there's a Deputy Southworth."
"Is he around?"
"Won't be in till eight."
"Could you call him at home?"
"I don't think he'd appreciate a call at this hour. Can I help you?"
Matt hesitated, then figured, What the hell. He told Deputy Harris about Tim's disappearance—Harris was familiar with that— and about his phone call to Quinn.
"And now Quinn's gone too," Matt said.
"We don't know that yet," Harris said.
"But she did mention the name Southworth. Couldn't you give him a call? Maybe Quinn told him something."
"I guess I could give Ted a buzz," Harris said slowly. "He's been following the Brown case..."
"Please do."
Matt gave Harris his room number at the motel should he or Southworth want to get back to him, then hung up and waited.
Not a long wait. The phone rang three minutes later.
"You the one who just called the Sheriff's Office?" said a deep voice.
"Yes. Deputy Southworth?"
"That's me. Start talking."
*
Tim froze as the door opened and the lights came on. Ellie, the skinny nurse, entered, pushing a wheeled tray ahead of her. Tim watched the door swing shut behind her. She was alone. He was relieved to see her instead of Doris. He didn't know if his plan would work on the bigger woman.
As she headed in the direction of Number One, she glanced Tim's way and stared. Tim kept his face slack and expressionless.
"Well, look at you, Number Eight. Looks like you've been busy while I'm out."
She turned and wheeled the tray toward Tim. He noticed a row of filled and tagged syringes lined up on the tray—eight of them. She stopped the tray beside the bed and gazed down at the feeding tube on the floor.
"Now how did you manage that?"
Tim's right arm and the IV line were under the sheet. His left arm lay on top. He moved his left index finger back and fourth.
"Oh, I see. Getting a teeny bit of movement back, are we? So are the others. Well, we'll fix that. Looks like the new supply arrived just in time."
Tim watched her check the IVAC flow rate, then shut it off and swab the rubber injection port on the Y-adaptor with alcohol. She then selected a syringe from the tray, pulled off the needle protector, jabbed the point into the port, and pushed the plunger home, emptying the barrel's contents into the line.
As she restarted the flow, Tim pulled the IV needle out of the mattress with his right hand. Then he reached up with his left hand, grabbed a fistful of the starched white uniform over Ellie's breast bone, and yanked her toward him. Her eyes widened with shock that changed to pain and fear when Tim rammed the IV needle through her uniform and into her abdomen.