McCready smiled. "As the barker said, 'You ain't seen nothin' yet!' " He fairly dropped into the chair. "We've gathered enough evidence to polish up your reputation and safeguard your medical license."
But you've destroyed it! Alan thought, his anger rising.
"We'll be sending out a general press release first thing tomorrow morning."
You lying bastard! It would never be composed, much less released.
Alan forced a smile. "I can barely wait to see it."
Suddenly the air was full of whooping sirens and clanging bells.
McCready snapped a glance at the two guards. "What's that all about?" His voice was barely audible above the din.
"Beats me," Henly said, his expression concerned and puzzled as he unclipped his walkie-talkie from his belt. "Sounds like fire and break-in and everything else. I'll check with Dave."
He turned and stuck his head into a relatively quiet corner while Alan and the others waited in silence. Finally Henly turned back to them.
"It's all right. Dave says some lady came in stewed to the gills demanding to see a patient and spilled a drink on the control console. Says it's a mess down there."
"Go help him out," McCready said. He turned to Rossi. "And you wait outside. I have a personal matter to discuss with Dr. Buhner."
The guard stepped out and closed the door, muffling somewhat the continued clamor of the alarms.
"Personal matter?" Alan said.
"Yes." The senator rested both hands atop his cane and leaned forward. "As I'm sure you can see, I'm not a well man. By this time of night I'm usually fast asleep from exhaustion. It is only from sheer force of will that I made it here tonight."
"What's the problem?"
McCready removed his dark glasses. "You tell me, Doctor."
Alan saw the pathognomonic drooping, half-closed eyelids.
"Myasthenia gravis."
"Correct. A relentlessly progressive case. I… this is so difficult to ask… I was wondering if you might—"
"Heal you?"
"Yes. If you would."
Over my dead body! was what Alan wanted to say, but he kept his expression bland.
"Do you happen to know when high tide is, Senator?"
"It's at ten-eighteen." McCready checked his watch. "Just a little over thirty minutes away."
"Good. Then the Dat-tay-vao should be working soon."
"The what?"
"The Touch, Senator. The Touch that heals. Let's give it a try, shall we?"
Alan waited a few moments until his watch ticked around to 9:50. He had had a long time to think today, and had decided that his life had been manipulated too often for too long. He was reclaiming control, and here was where it began. McCready could wreck his career, ruin his reputation, send his teetering marriage over the edge, and convince the world that he was insane. But Alan Bulmer could still decide if and when to use the Dat-tay-vao. It was all he had left.
And it was all that McCready wanted.
Not quite knowing what would happen next, Alan stood up and placed his hands upon the senator's head.
Out in the hall, the alarms stopped.
Ba's watch said it was almost ten o'clock. All was quiet— too quiet. No one had come or gone on the top floor here. This troubled him. If they were going to bring the Doctor up to the senator's quarters, they surely would have done so by now.
Which left two possibilities: Either Dr. Bulmer wasn't coming up here tonight or the senator had gone to him. Dr. Axford had seemed quite sure that the senator would stay where he was and have Dr. Bulmer brought up. But Dr. Axford had been wrong before.
Seven-nineteen. That was the number of Dr. Bulmer's room.
Ba started down the steps.
"Had a few too many, lady?"
The blond guy was leering down at her as she slumped on the bench. He had arrived like the cavalry to help the downstairs guard stop the racket and reset all the alarms. He strutted before her as if he knew without question that his uniform made him irresistible to women. Sylvia hated uniforms. Especially paramilitary models.
"Buzzsh-off, bozo," she said. "I ain't feelin' too good."
"Oh, but you're looking fine!"
"Yeah. Right."
He took her gently but firmly by the arm. "Let's you and me take a walk back to the overnight quarters where we can talk about this privately."
Sylvia snatched her arm away. She wanted to lash out at lover-boy, here, but held back.
"Talk about what?"
"About how much trouble you're in, honey. But maybe we can work something out."
Sylvia had a pretty good idea of how he wanted to work out. "Ain't in no trouble. Senator's a friend of mine."
"Yeah? What's your name?"
"Toad. Mrs. S. Toad."
The guard waved her off with disgust. "Get her out of here, Dave. I've got to get back upstairs to the senator."
Sylvia's heart leaped. Alan would be wherever the senator was. She took a fresh and sudden interest in the guard.
"You're gonna see the senator?" she cried, rising and following him toward the elevator. "Take me with you! I gotta see him!"
"Get lo—!" he began, then stopped. A calculating gleam lit his eyes. "Well… okay. What say I take you up to the senator's personal quarters and see if he's there? And if he ain't there"—he winked at Dave—"we can wait for him."
"S'go," Sylvia said, taking his arm. She wanted in the worst way to get upstairs to where Alan was, and this seemed as good a route as any. "Senator's an ol' buddy of mine."
The guard patted her hand as he led her toward the elevator.
"Mine, too."
As the elevator doors closed and the car started up, he leaned against her and ran a hand up her flank.
"Ooh," she said, swaying against the side wall of the car. "This elevator's making me sick."
He backed away. "Hold on, hon. It's a short ride."
* * *
"Nothing's happening," McCready said after Bulmer's hands had rested on him almost a full minute. He fought the uneasiness creeping into him like a chill. "Does it usually take this long?"
"No," Bulmer said. "It usually happens instantly."
"Why isn't it working?" McCready fought off a rising panic. Bulmer seemed so unconcerned. "It's supposed to work half an hour before and after high tide! What's wrong? All the conditions are right! Why isn't it working?"
"Something's missing," Bulmer said.
"What is it? What? Just tell me and I'll have Rossi get it! What?"
Bulmer glared into his eyes.
"Me."
"I don't understand."
"I've got to want to cure you."
And then it was all clear. "So. Axford got to you."
"He sure did, you son of a bitch."
McCready repressed a desire to scream in rage at Axford's treachery. He kept cool on the outside.
"That makes things difficult, which is unfortunate, but it doesn't change anything."
"Meaning?"
"You'll remain our guest until you do something about my condition."
"I do have friends, you know."
McCready allowed himself a bitter laugh. "Not many. Hardly any, in fact. I had my people take a careful look into your life, hoping to find some sort of lever against you. But there was none. No mistress, no vices. You're pretty much a work-obsessed loner, Alan Bulmer. Much like me. The only friend who might present a problem is that lawyer, DeMarco. But I can deal with him. So you can consider yourself out in the cold."
Bulmer shrugged carelessly, almost as if he had been expecting this. Wasn't he frightened? His uncaring attitude worried McCready.
"Don't you understand what I'm saying to you? I can tie up your life indefinitely! I have personality profiles, answered in your own hand, that any psychiatrist in the country will interpret as the product of a severely psychotic and probably dangerous mind! I can keep you here or have you committed to state institutions for the rest of your life!"