One Door From Heaven

amongst this group, or they'd be whuppin' your butt for this performance. Now you go find 'em and you stay with 'em the rest of the time you're here, or I'll have to insist that you and your family accept a refund and vacate the meadow."
        Oh, Lord, maybe he's never going to get the hang of being Curtis Hammond. He blinks back tears, as much because he has embarrassed his sister-become as because he's somehow made a fool of himself.
        "Mr. Neary, sir," he pleads with utmost sincerity, "I am not some sassy-assed, spit-in-the-eye malefactor."
        'This assurance, although it could not be more truthful or more well-intentioned, inexplicably causes Mr. Neary's face to redden into a dark and ominous mask. "That's enough, young man."
        In one last desperate effort to make amends, Curtis says, "Mr. Neary, sir, I'm not quite right. I've been told by a beautiful immensity of a lady that I'm too sweet for this world. If you asked me whether I was stupid or somethin', I'd have to say I was stupid. I'm a not-quite-right, too-sweet, stupid Gump, is what I am."
        Old Yeller virtually spins off her back, onto all fours, judging the situation too dangerous to expose her belly any longer, and she sprints away from the dead zone even as Mr. Neary takes his first step toward Curtis.
        Trusting the dog's instincts at last, Curtis bolts after her. Fugitives again.

Chapter 39
        
        IF LIBRARIES in southern California had ever been like those portrayed in books and movies-mahogany-dark millwork, shelves rising to the ceiling, cozy little reading nooks tucked into odd corners in labyrinthine stacks-they weren't that way anymore. All surfaces here were easy-clean paint or Formica. Shelves didn't rise to the ceiling because the ceiling was a suspended grid of acoustic tiles punctuated by fluorescent panels that shed too much light to foster any sense of the romance of books. The shelves stood in predictable ranks, metal instead of wood, bolted to the floor for safety in an earthquake.
        To Micky, the atmosphere seemed like that in a medical facility: bleak in spite of the brightness, antiseptic, marked not by the quiet of diligent study but by the silence of stoic suffering.
        A significant area had been set aside for computers. All offered Internet access.
        The chairs were uncomfortable. Harsh light glared off the desk. She felt at home: reminded not of the trailer she shared with Geneva, but of the home provided by the California Department of Corrections.
        Other library patrons were busy at half the work stations, but Micky ignored them. She was self-conscious in the coral-pink suit that had so recently made her feel professional, fresh, and self-confident. Besides, after F. Bronson, she'd had enough of people for the day; machines would be more helpful, and better company.
        On-line, feeling like a detective, she sought Preston Maddoc, but little in the way of a manhunt was required. The villain came to her on so many linked sites, she was overwhelmed with information.
        From a pay phone, she'd canceled the job interview at three o'clock. So she spent the afternoon learning about Dr. Doom, and what she discovered suggested that Leilani was penned in an even darker and more escape-proof death cell than the girl had described.
        The essence of Maddoc's story was as simple as the details were outrageous. And the implications were terrifying not just for Leilani but for anyone who currently lived and breathed.
        Preston Maddoc's doctorate was in philosophy. Ten years ago, he declared himself a "bioethicist," accepting a position with an Ivy League university, teaching ethics to future doctors.
        That breed of bioethicists who call themselves "utilitarians" seek what they believe to be ethical distribution of supposedly limited medical resources by establishing standards for determining who should receive treatment and who should not. Scorning the belief in the sanctity of all human life that has guided Western medicine since Hippocrates, they argue that some human lives have greater moral and social value than others and that the authority to set these comparative values belongs rightfully to their elite group.
        Once, a small but significant minority of bioethicists had rejected the utilitarians' cold approach, but the utilitarians had won the battle and now ruled their departments in academia.
        Preston