The small aluminum grappling hook had caught the ledge of a darkened second-floor window on the third try. Ba hauled himself up the length of the attached quarter-inch nylon cord until he could grab the ledge and pull himself up and balance there. He repeated the process with the window directly above.
This was as far as he would go on the outside. Dr. Axford had said that the administrative offices were on the third floor. As Ba had hoped, they were deserted at this time of night, and there was no sign that the windows were hooked up to the alarm system. A brief flick of his flashlight revealed that the floor inside was carpeted. Good. He pulled the duffle bag up to the ledge, withdrew Dr. Axford’s white lab coat, and wrapped it around his right hand. Turning his face away, he struck the window a hard backhand blow. A splintering crash was followed by a softer clatter of the shards falling against each other as they hit the carpet, then silence.
Ba hooked his grapple inside the frame and waited, ready to slide down to street level at the first sign of anyone coming to investigate. No one showed, so he climbed in. He donned the lab coat, which was far too short in the arms, and waited until it came: a cacophony of bells and beeps. It sounded as if every alarm in the building was going off at once.
Ba checked his watch: 9:32. He bowed his respect to the Missus. His old friend Sergeant Nash had fathered a wonderful daughter. She was as resourceful as she was compassionate. He stepped into the deserted hall and from there made his way to the fire stairs near the elevator alcove. He was on the third floor; the senator’s domain was on the twentieth.
He began to climb.
He was breathing hard when he reached the top level, so he stopped and rested a moment, peering through the small rectangle of wired glass. There was only one elevator door at this level, and one doubtlessly needed a key to travel this far. He checked the latch on the door. It was unlocked. A warning sounded in his brain. It would be senseless to lock a door to a fire stair, but if the senator was as security conscious as Dr. Axford had said, this door would be wired with an alarm. The security system, however, was in chaos now, so it might be safe to open it and check around for any other possible entry to the top floor besides the single elevator.
He moved out into the alcove and followed a short hallway to a set of double doors that was tightly closed. It was the only doorway on the entire floor. He briefly put his ear against it but could hear no sound from within. The entire level had a deserted feeling to it. He checked his watch: 9:40. He was on schedule, and it was apparent that Dr. Bulmer hadn’t arrived yet.
Ba hurried back to the stairwell to wait. He had decided that the simplest and safest course was to intercept Dr. Bulmer as he stepped from the elevator and bring him back down to street level—leaving behind whoever had been escorting him to the twentieth floor, of course.
When he heard the knock on the door, Alan glanced at the clock. Nine twenty-six. Right on time.
He opened the door and found himself face-to-face with the swarthy security guard who had refused to let him leave the wing hours ago. With him was another guard. They looked familiar, and then he recognized them as Axford’s assistants. Their name tags said “Henly” and “Rossi.”
He swallowed the anger that had been simmering for hours and said: “What happened to the white coats?”
“Traded them in,” Henly, the blond guard, said.
“Catch that maniac?” Alan asked Rossi.
He nodded. “Yep. And we brought you a visitor.”
Leaning heavily on his cane, Senator McCready shuffled into the room. An empty wheelchair sat behind him in the hall.
“Good evening, Dr. Bulmer!” he said, genially enough. “I hope the unavoidable extension of your stay here hasn’t inconvenienced you too much.”
Alan hid his shock at seeing the senator come to him. He had expected the opposite. Much of his rage evaporated at seeing the infirmity and debility of the man close up. The slowness of his movements, the exertion they cost him—he was in sad shape.
“What an unexpected pleasure!” he managed to say. “And don’t give my incarceration a second thought. How often does a man get a chance to be alone with his thoughts for nearly half a day? A little introspection is good for the soul.” He grabbed McCready’s hand and shook it. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me!”
That last sentence, at least, was true. By coming to the Foundation, Alan had learned that he could prove the existence of the Dat-tay-vao and could predict the hour of its occurrence with a simple tide chart. He had also learned that it was destroying his mind. He had gained something despite McCready’s treachery.
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. Bulmer.”
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 we
re 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? 1 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! 1 can keep you here or have you committed to state institutions for the rest of your life!”
Bulmer leaned back and folded his arms. “You exaggerate. But that’s okay. You still won’t get what you want.”
“Oh. You want to deal, is that it?”
“No deal. Either I stay or I go free, but in neither case do you get the Dat-tay-vao.”
McCready stared at him, his mind whirling in confusion. What was the matter with this man? The determination in his eyes was unnerving.
“So that’s how it’s to be?” McCready said finally, leaning heavily on his cane as he struggled to his feet. “Suit yourself.”
“All you had to do was ask.”
McCready felt his legs go weak—the weakness now was due to more than just the myasthenia gravis—and sat down again. All you had to do was ask. Such a naive statement…yet it cut him to the core to think that he could have avoided all the intrigue and plotting simply by walking into Bulmer’s office two months ago when he first got wind of those stories. Oh, God, if that were true, if he could have been well all that time, if he could have—
No! This was a crazy way to think. Bulmer was lying! McCready stood firm against the wave of uncertainty. He had proceeded the only way he could.
“That was impossible. I couldn’t give you a gun like that to let you hold to my head. You showed what you think of my politics at the committee hearing in April. I couldn’t take the risk that you’d exploit what you knew and what you’d done as soon as I decided to run for President.”
“I’m a doctor. Anything that went on between us would be privileged.”
McCready snorted. “Do you really expect me to believe that?”
“I guess not,” Bulmer said, and for an instant McCready thought he saw pity break through the anger in the other man’s eyes. “You assume I’m like you.”
He could no longer fight the overwhelming fear that he would never be free of this disease.
“I’m sick!” he cried through a sob that tore itself from his heart. “And I’m sick of being sick! I’m desperate, can’t you see that?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Then why don’t you help me? You’re a doctor!”
“Oh, no!” Bulmer said, rising and stepping toward him. “Don’t try to run that game on me, you cold-blooded bastard! You were going to have me committed for the rest of my life a minute ago. That didn’t work, so now you do the poor-broken-down-old-man number. Forget it!”
Alan hoped his words were convincing, because inside, much to his frustration and dismay, he was actually beginning to sympathize with McCready.
“I want to live again! Make love again! Shout again!”
“Stop it!” Alan said, trying to block out the words, made all the more compelling by the steadily fading power of McCready’s voice.
“No! I won’t stop! You’re the only hope I have left!” With a sudden burst of strength he grabbed Alan’s hands and pulled them down against his shoulders. “Heal me, damn you! Heal me!”
“No!” Alan said through clenched teeth.
And then it happened. Lancing pain, like fire, like ice, like electricity, ranged up his arms and throughout his body. Alan fell back and McCre
ady screamed, a howl from the depths of his lungs.
Rossi lunged into the room.
“What the fuck’s goin’ on here?”
He looked at McCready, who was gray in the face and rapidly shading toward blue as he tried to pull air into his lungs.
“What’d you do to him?”
“Nothing!” Alan said, hugging his burning arms against his chest. “Nothing!”
“Then what’s the matter with him!”
“Myasthenic crisis, I think. Get a house doctor or somebody up here with oxygen! Quick!”
“You’re a doctor!” Rossi said, looking from Alan to the senator and back again. “Help him out!”
Alan hugged his arms more closely against himself. Something awful had just happened at his touch, and he was afraid to lay a hand on McCready again, afraid he’d make it worse.
“I can’t. Get somebody else.”
As Rossi leaped to the phone, Alan glanced at the open door that led to the hall. He started for it. He wanted out of here.
He made it all the way out to the elevator area, where he pressed the Up and Down buttons. He was waiting for the doors to open and take him away from there—he didn’t care in which direction—when Rossi rushed up and grabbed his arm.
“Wait a minute, pal. You ain’t goin’ nowhere!”
It was fear and it was anger and it was sheer frustration at being told what he could and could not do once too often that made Alan lash out at the guard. He rammed his elbow into Rossi’s solar plexus; as he doubled over, Alan got both hands against the back of the guard’s head and pushed him toward the floor. Rossi landed with a grunt as the air wooshed out of him.
But then he was rolling over onto his back and pulling his revolver from its holster.
Suddenly a foot and a long leg, both in black, appeared and pinned Rossi’s gun arm to the floor.
Alan jerked his head up and nearly cried out in fright and pleasure. Ba! The lanky Vietnamese stood there like a pallid vision from a nightmare. The door to the fire stairs was swinging closed behind him.