Free The Select by F. Paul Wilson Page B

a slight
chance to work?"
    "Of course. The plan was designed by
the Master Plotter. It cannot fail."
    "If you say so."
    Quinn didn't want to hope,
couldn't allow herself to hope.
    Matt had said Tim had cooked up this
whole scheme. Why? What was his angle? She'd actually cried when
Matt told her how he was trying to help her get his spot at The
Ingraham, but she hadn't been all that surprised. This was the sort
of thing Matt would do.
    But Tim...What was Tim Brown getting
out of this?
    "All right," Tim said, gathering up
his papers. "Registration's in the class building. That's where
I'll be. You head for the Admissions Office and do your thing. I'll
catch up with you there."
    Quinn still couldn't move. Now she was
terrified.
    "What if this doesn't
work?"
    "It will. Ten to one it will. But even
if not, what have you lost? By tonight you'll either be registered
here or right back where you were two weeks ago when we cooked this
thing up. And you haven't risked a thing."
    "But I'll feel awful." And I'll
have to hustle back to Connecticut and sign my life away to the
Navy.
    "Yeah, but you'd feel worse if you
never gave it a shot."
    Quinn nodded. He was right. Pass this
up and she risked being plagued the rest of her life wondering if
it would have worked.
    As she made herself step out of the
car, Tim said, "Good luck, Quinn."
    "Thanks. I'll need it."
    She walked up the slope to the
Administration Building and followed the little black-and-white
arrows planted in the grass to the Admissions Office. She paused in
the empty silent hallway outside the oak door. Her heart began to
pound, her palms were suddenly slick with sweat. Intrigue was not
her thing. How on earth was she ever going to pull this
off?
    Quinn shook herself. How?
Because she couldn't afford not to pull it off. She stepped inside.
    The Admissions Office
turned out to be a small room, fluorescent lit, with a dropped
ceiling. A long marble counter ran the width of the room,
separating the staff from the public. A woman sat at a cluttered
desk just past the counter. She appeared to be in her fifties with
a lined face, a prominent overbite, and graying hair that might
have been red once. A plastic name plate on her desk read Marjory Lake .
    "Are—" The word came out a croak.
Quinn cleared her throat. "Are you Marge?"
    The woman looked up, fixed her with
bright blue eyes, wary, not welcoming. "Some people call me that.
If you're looking for registration it's—"
    "I'm Quinn Cleary," she said, reaching
her hand over the counter. "It's nice to talk to you face to face
for a change."
    Marge bolted out of her seat. "Quinn?
Is that you, sweetheart? Oh, you look just like I imagined you!
Claire! Evelyn! Look who's here! It's Quinn!"
    Two other women, both short, plump
brunettes, left their desks and crowded forward, shaking her hand,
welcoming her like a relative. Quinn was sure if the counter hadn't
been there they'd have been hugging her.
    When all the greetings and
first-meeting pleasantries had been exchanged, Marge looked at her
with a puzzled expression.
    "But what are you doing here? We
didn't...I mean...no one's..."
    "I know," Quinn said. "I just decided
I wanted to be here in case someone doesn't show up."
    Claire and Evelyn went "Aaawww," and
glanced at each other. Marge gripped her hand.
    "I don't know how to say this, Quinn,
honey," Marge said, "but that sort of thing just doesn't happen
around here."
    "I know," Quinn said. "But I haven't
anyplace else to go at the moment so I thought I'd give it a
shot."
    More quick, that-poor-kid glances were
exchanged, then Marge said, "Well, might as well make the best of
it. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. You're welcome to wait
as long as you like. Want some coffee?"
    Quinn would have preferred a Pepsi but
didn't want to turn down their kind offer.
    "Sure. Coffee would be
great."
    *
    Tim showed up an hour later. Quinn
introduced him to "the girls," as they called themselves. They knew
his name—after all, they had