Tim! He was down now, huddled against the wall, virtually defenseless as Kurt began kicking him. She had to do something.
As she rose from the couch, she automatically tugged her bra down over her breasts, but she left her blouse unbuttoned. She needed a weapon, something she could use as a club—or a knife. She noticed a syringe dangling from the back of Kurt's shirt. As she watched, it slipped from the fabric and fell to the floor.
Quinn spotted a number of other syringes scattered on the floor and her mind began to race. Obviously Tim had brought them. He'd tried to inject Kurt with one. What was in them? A sedative? A poison? Or...
...9574?
Of course!
She snatched a pair off the floor, uncapped both, dropped into a crouch, and crept up behind Kurt where he was viciously driving those big boots into Tim's slumped, defenseless body.
"Stop it!" she screamed as she plunged one of the needles to the hub into the back of his thigh and emptied it.
It wasn't an intravenous injection, but if nothing else it would stop him from kicking Tim.
Kurt grunted and lurched around, clutching at the back of his thigh. Quinn tried to jab him with the other needle but he took an off-balance swing at her and she had to duck away.
And then she saw that the door was wide open and the path to it was clear.
She ran.
"I'm going for help, Tim!" she shouted as she passed him.
Tim lay slumped on the floor, a still, bloodied form. She didn't know if he heard her or not, wasn't sure he was still conscious—or even alive. A sick, cold anger added its own power to the terror already fueling her feet. Kurt had hurt Tim. She'd get him for that.
Heavy, pounding footsteps behind her shattered her little fantasy and yanked her back into horrific reality. She had a good lead on Kurt but she didn't know where she was going. The elevator was out of the question.
The stairs! Where are the stairs?
She lost a few steps as she slowed, reading the signs on all the doors. And then she saw the EXIT sign. She lost more ground pulling open the door, ground that Kurt did not lose because he caught the door before it closed—
—and he grabbed Quinn as she reached the first landing.
He snagged her ankle and wrenched it back and up, trying to topple her. Quinn clung to the railing with her free hand and twisted around to look down at him. With the blood oozing along the side of his neck and soaking into his collar, and with a grin as triumphant as it was ferocious, Kurt looked like an escaped lunatic. He had her now. He'd won. And there was no hint of mercy or compassion to be found in the glacial blue of his eyes. She was going to pay dearly for what she'd done to his ear.
"No!" Quinn shouted and defended herself with the only weapon she had. She stabbed at him with the syringe, backhanded, blindly, squeezing the plunger as she struck. It sank deep into his right eye socket.
Two things happened immediately:
Quinn released the barrel and recoiled in horror at the sight of the syringe jutting from Kurt's stunned, horrified, agonized face.
Kurt released her ankle and his hands darted toward his face.
They never made it. Both hands stopped within inches of his face and remained there, fingers splayed, trembling. His expression was a mixture of shock and dismay. The tremor spread to the rest of his body as it shuddered and shook like a fish on a hook. And then his body stiffened. Slowly he teetered backward like a felled redwood and landed head first on the steps behind and below him. With a sickening snap, his head bent on his shoulders to very nearly a right angle. His body shuddered once, then lay still.
Quinn stood trembling on the landing, unsure of which way to turn, torn between running back to see if Tim was all right and climbing the rest of the stairs to the lobby to find Deputy Southworth.
She chose the latter. The only way to save herself and Tim was to break through the Ingraham's iron shell of security and drag in the outside world.
She just hoped the deputy was still there.
*
Louis Verran was actually allowing himself to relax. The subdued lighting of the lobby—they cut half the switches after Science closed down for the day—lent it a quiet, peaceful atmosphere. Almost like church.
Cleary's friend, Crawford, didn't really know that much. He'd only heard snatches of Cleary's end of the conversation on his car phone. And Verran had to hand it to Doc Alston—he handled Southworth beautifully.
A bad moment came when Dr. Emerson walked through the front doors. He looked dazed, like a guy in shock. Almost looked as if he'd been crying.
"Walter," Alston said. "What on earth are you doing here at this hour?"
But Emerson said nothing. He walked past like a zombie, eyes straight ahead, on a beeline for the elevators. Verran held his breath. Emerson was one of the faculty members who knew the score at The Ingraham, but he was a bit too unpredictable for Verran's liking.
But Emerson kept his mouth shut. He stepped into the elevator and went up to Fifth.
And Verran vented another sigh of relief.
"You see?" Alston said to Southworth as the elevator doors closed behind Emerson. "I'm not the only faculty member here at this hour.
"Fine," Southworth said, "but let me get this straight: Mr. Verran called you in because Timothy Brown had reappeared?"
"Not quite," Alston said with exaggerated patience. "Louis does not 'call me in,' as it were. He called to inform me that Mr. Brown had returned. I decided to come in to see Mr. Brown for myself. As Director of Medical Education, I thought it my duty to question him about his missed tests and classes and to warn him of his imminent risk of failure. He wanted to hear none of it. All he wanted was to collect Ms. Cleary and take her skiing."
"I don't believe any of this," Crawford said.
Alston shrugged dramatically. "I don't know what else I can tell you, young man. Mr. Brown returned, picked up Ms. Cleary, and the two of them drove off together. I certainly disapproved, but I had no power to stop them."
"Just when did Brown show up?" Southworth asked.
"Just before midnight, Ted," Verran said, jumping in. "I called Dr. Alston right away."
"And that would explain that fragment you heard from your friend," Alston told Crawford. "About Tim being here. That was what she meant. Your mutual friend had returned."
"No," Crawford said, shaking his head. "That doesn't hang together. Quinn said—"
Alston raised his hand. "None of us can be sure what Ms. Cleary said. You were tired, she was tired and overwhelmed by her friend's return. I suggest we all get a good night's sleep and discuss this further in the morning."
Southworth looked at Crawford. The deputy had been pretty quiet, soaking up everything in his usual low-key way. No telling for sure what Southworth was thinking. Ever.
He said, "I think Dr. Alston's got a point there. I'll put out a bulletin on Brown's car and we'll wait and see if they're picked up. Meanwhile, if you want to do anything, try hanging around the airport and see if they show up there."
Verran loved the idea but Crawford didn't look too happy with it. Finally he gave a reluctant shrug.
"All right. I'll try that. None of this makes any sense, but if they're not here, I guess they're not here."
Alston stepped forward and put a hand on Crawford's shoulder, guiding him toward the doors as he spoke.
"Don't you worry, young man. We'll find them. The Frederick County Sheriff's Department is second to none in its dedication and expertise. If your friends are still in Maryland, they'll locate them. And if they contact The Ingraham, I promise, you'll be the first to know."