Next (31 page)
Authors: Michael Crichton
Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller, #Suspense, #Fantasy, #Science Fiction, #Adventure
G
erard watched
the dark shapes approach.
They moved with a loping gait, and made a snorting or snuffling sound, and sometimes a mewling sound. Their bodies were low. Their backs were just visible above the sage. They circled his perch, approaching, then sliding away.
But they had clearly smelled him, because they were coming ever closer to him. There were six animals altogether. Gerard ruffled his feathers, partly in an attempt to warm his body.
The animals had long snouts. Their eyes glowed bright green. They had a distinctive musky odor that was unpleasant. They had long fluffy tails. He could see that they were not black but rather brownish-gray.
They moved in closer. “I’m sha sha shakin’, I’m shakin’ now.”
And closer. They were quite close, now.
The largest one paused a few feet away and stared at Gerard. Gerard did not move.
After several seconds, the big animal edged closer.
“You can stop right there, mister!”
The animal stopped instantly, and even took a few paces backward. The other animals in the group backed away, too. They all seemed confused by the voice.
But not for long. The big animal started to move in again.
“Well, hold on!”
This time, there was only a momentary pause. Then the animal kept coming.
“You feel lucky, punk? Do you? Huh?”
The animal was coming very slowly now. Sniffing at Gerard, closer and closer…Sniff, sniff…The creature smelled awful. The nose was just inches away…
Gerard bent and bit hard on the animal’s soft nose. The creature yelped and jumped backward, almost knocking Gerard from his perch. He regained his balance.
“Every time you turn around expect to see me,” Gerard said. “’Cause one time you’ll turn around and I’ll be there, and I’ll kill you, Matt.”
The animal was flat on the ground, rubbing his injured nose with his forelegs. He did that for a while. Then he got up, growling.
“Life is hard, but it’s harder if you’re stupid.”
The whole pack of animals was growling, now. They moved forward in a semicircle. They seemed to be coordinated. Gerard ruffled his feathers, and ruffled them again. He even flapped his wings, trying to make as large and active a shape of himself as possible. These creatures didn’t seem to care.
“Look, you fools, you’re in danger, can’t you see? They’re after you, they’re after all of us!”
But the spoken voices seemed to have no effect at all. The animals just kept moving forward, slowly. One was loping around behind Gerard. He turned his head to look. Not good, not good.
“Get back to where you once belonged!” Gerard flapped his wings again, nervously, but apparently the anxiety gave him new strength, because there was a bit of lift from the branch he stood on. The growling animals closed in—
And Gerard flapped his wings hard—hard—and felt himself lift into the air. It was weeks since his last feather clip, that was the reason. He could fly! He moved high above the ground, and discovered that he could soar a little. Not much, but a little. The smelly animals were far below, howling at him, but Gerard turned west, following the road that Stan had been driving on. He was heading away from the sunrise toward darkness. With his acute sense of smell, he detected the odor of food, and flew toward that.
S
leeping in
the front seat of her car, Alex Burnet opened her eyes and saw that she was surrounded by men. Three of them were peering into her car. They wore cowboy hats and carried big pronged sticks with loops on them. She sat up abruptly. One of them waved for her to be still.
“Jes’ a moment, miss.”
Alex looked over at her son, Jamie, sleeping peacefully in the seat beside her. He didn’t awaken. Nothing woke Jamie.
When she looked back outside, she gasped. One of the cowboys raised his stick. A gigantic rattlesnake, easily five feet long and as thick as a forearm, was wriggling on the end of it, making a sizzling sound with its rattle.
“You can come out now, if you want.” He swung the snake away.
She opened the door cautiously.
“It’s the heat of your engine,” one of them said. “Draws ’em under the car in the mornings.”
She saw that there were six men altogether. They each had sticks, and carried large sacks with squirming contents. “What’re you doing?”
“We’re collecting rattlers.”
“Why?” she said.
“For the Rattlesnake Roundup next week. In Yuma.”
“Uh-huh…”
“Do it every year. It’s a contest. Who brings the most snakes.”
“I see.”
“It’s by weight, so you want the big ’uns. Didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Thank you.”
The group of men was moving off. The man talking to her lagged behind. “Ma’am, you oughtn’t to be out here alone,” he said. “Though I see you got yourself a weapon.” He nodded to the backseat of the car.
“Yes,” she said, “but I don’t have any ammo.”
“Well, that won’t do you,” the man said. He started toward his car, parked across the road. “Is that a twelve-gauge you got?”
“Yes, it is.”
“These’ll serve.” He gave her a handful of red shells. She stuffed them into her pockets.
“Thanks. What do I owe you?”
He shook his head. “You just take care, ma’am.” He turned to rejoin the others. “A black Hummer came up this road about an hour ago. Big guy with a beard, said he was looking for a woman and her little boy. Said he was their uncle and they were missing.”
“Uh-huh. What’d you tell him?”
“We hadn’t seen you yet. So we said no.”
“Which way did he go?” she said.
“Toward Elsinore. But I figure anytime now he’ll be heading back.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He waved. “Don’t stop for gas,” he said. “And good luck.”
TRANSCRIPT: CBS 5 SAN FRANCISCO >>>>>>>>>
Accused Bio-Terrorist Released Today
(CBS 5) Suspected terrorist Mark Sanger was released from Alameda County Jail today on two years’ probation for possession of dangerous biological materials. Informed sources say the technical complexity of the government’s charges against Sanger led the prosecutors to reluctantly conclude that they might not be able to put the suspect behind bars. In particular, the charge against Sanger that he had genetically modified turtles in Central America has now been thrown into question. We spoke with Julio Manarez in Costa Rica.
(Manarez) It is true that the Atlantic turtles have suffered from genetic modification that produces a purple color in their shells. As yet there is no explanation for how this happened. But the age of the turtles indicates that genetic manipulation occurred five to ten years ago.
(CBS 5) Shortly after his arrest, investigators determined that Sanger had not been in Costa Rica early enough to have carried out the genetic change. He was only there last year. And so Mark Sanger, suspected terrorist, is now free on a five-hundred-dollar fine.
I
n Congressional
Hearing Room 443, while waiting for proceedings to begin, Congressman Marvin Minkowski (D-Wisconsin) turned to Congressman Henry Wexler (D-California) and said, “Shouldn’t we have stronger regulations to limit the availability of recombinant DNA technology?”
“You thinking of Sanger?”
“Well, he’s the most recent case. Where did he get his stuff, do you know?”
“On the Internet,” Wexler said. “You can buy recombinant kits from outfits in New Jersey and North Carolina. Cost a couple of hundred bucks.”
“That’s asking for trouble, isn’t it?”
“Listen,” Wexler said, “my wife gardens. Does your wife garden?”
“Now that the kids are gone? She’s a fanatic about her roses.”
“Local garden club? All of that?”
“Well, sure.”
“Plenty of gardeners who used to make hybrids by grafting cuttings onto rootstocks now use DNA kits to carry things a step further,” Wexler said. “People are making genetically modified roses all over the world. Supposedly a Japanese company has made a blue rose using GM methods. A blue rose has been a dream of growers for centuries. Point is, the technology’s everywhere, Marv. It’s in big companies, and it’s in backyards. Everywhere.”
“What do we do about that?” Minkowski said.
“Nothing,” Wexler said. “I’m not about to do anything to make your wife angry. Or mine.” He cupped his chin in his hand, in a gesture that always looked intelligent on camera. “But maybe,” he said, “maybe it’s time for a speech expressing my concern about the dangers of this uncontrolled technology.”
“Good idea,” Minkowski said. “I think I’ll give one, too.”
LIPOSUCTION NEWS
Prime Minister’s Fat Sells for $18,000
Next: Celebrities to Donate Fat for Charity
BBC NEWS. A bar of soap made from fat liposuctioned from Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi has been sold for $18,000 to a private collector. The soap is a work of art entitled “Mani Pulite” (“Clean Hands”), made by the artist Gianni Motti, who is based in Switzerland. Motti bought the fat from a clinic in Lugarno where Berlusconi had the liposuction performed. Motti then molded it into a bar of soap, which sold at the Basel art fair to a private Swiss collector who “can now wash his hands with Berlusconi.”
Commentators noted that Berlusconi is unpopular in Europe, which may have reduced the price fetched by his fat. The fat of film celebrities would be worth significantly more. “The sky’s the limit for Brad Pitt or Pamela Anderson by-products,” said one.
Would celebrities ever sell their fat? “Why not?” said a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. “It could be a charity thing. After all, they’re doing the liposuction anyway. At the moment we just throw the fat away. But they might as well use their fat to help worthy causes.”
Speedboat Racer Bums Around
The Butt of Many Jokes
WIRED NEWS SERVICE. Wealthy New Zealander Peter Bethune will attempt to set a world record on a speedboat powered by fat from his own backside. His eco-correct
78-foot trimaran,
Earthrace,
is powered entirely by bio-diesel fuel made from vegetable oil and other fats. In fact, Bethune’s bum will make only a minor contribution to the round-the-world journey. His buttocks yielded a mere liter of fuel. However, Bethune noted that he was badly bruised and said “it was a personal sacrifice” to produce the fuel.
Artist Cooks, Eats His Own Body Fat
Protests “Wastefulness” of Western Society
REUTERS. New York conceptual artist Ricardo Vega underwent liposuction, cooked his fat, and ate it. He said his purpose was to draw attention to the wastefulness of Western society. He also set aside other portions of his fat for sale, noting that this would enable people to taste human flesh and experience cannibalism. Vega did not set a price for his fat, but one art dealer estimated that it would be worth considerably less than Berlusconi’s. “Berlusconi is a prime minister,” he pointed out. “Vega is an unknown. Besides, this has already been done by the artist Marcos Evaristta, who made meatballs of his body fat.”
Marcos Evaristta is a Chilean-born artist living in Denmark. Reports that his body-fat meatballs would be auctioned by Christie’s in New York could not be confirmed as Christie’s representatives did not return phone calls.
T
he ambulance sped
south on the freeway. Sitting in the driver’s seat, wearing her new Bluetooth headset, Dolly talked to Vasco. Vasco was angry, but there was nothing Dolly could do about it. He’d set off in the wrong direction a second time. He had only himself to blame.
“Look,” Dolly said. “We just got telephone records for the last five years. Just got ’em this minute. Alex calls people in this area code named Kendall, Henry and Lynn. He’s a biochemist; we don’t know what she does. But Lynn and Alex are the same age. We think maybe they grew up together.”
“And where are they located?” Vasco said. “The Kendalls.”
“La Jolla. It’s north of—”
“I know where it is, goddamn it,” Vasco said.
“Where are you now?” Dolly said.
“Coming back from Elsinore. I’m at least an hour from La Jolla. Road’s so damn twisty. Goddamn it, I
know
she was sleeping on this road somewhere.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know. Got my nose working.”
“Okay, well, she’s probably on her way to La Jolla now. She might even be there already.”
“And where are you?”
“Twenty minutes from the Kendall house. You want us to pick them up?”
Vasco said, “How’s the doc?”
“Sober.”
“Sure?”
“Close enough for government work,” Dolly said. “He’s drinking coffee from a thermos.”
“You check the thermos?”
“Yes. Of course. So—do we pick up, or wait for you?”
“If it’s the girl, Alex, leave her alone. But if you see the kid, grab him.”
“Will do,” Dolly said.
B
ob,” Alex said,
holding her phone to her ear.
She heard a groan at the other end. “What time is it?”
“It’s seven in the morning, Bob.”
“Aw Christ.” A thump as his head hit the pillow. “This better be important, Alex.”
“Were you out on a wine-tasting?” Robert A. Koch, distinguished head of the law firm, devoted a great deal of attention to wine. Kept his collection in lockers all over town. Bought at auction from Christie’s; made trips to Napa, Australia, France. But as far as Alex was concerned, the whole thing was just an excuse to get drunk on a regular basis.
“I’m waiting, Alex,” he said. “It better be good.”
“Okay, last twenty-four hours, I got a bounty hunter, huge guy looks like a walking brick, he’s after me and my kid, trying to stick biopsy needles in us and take our cells.”
“Very funny. I’m waiting.”
“I’m serious, Bob. There’s a bounty hunter chasing me and my kid.”
“This is out of nowhere?”
“No. I think it’s related to BioGen.”
“I hear BioGen is having troubles,” Bob said. “And they’re trying to take your cells? They probably can’t do that.”
“
Probably
is not what I want to hear.”
“You know the law is unclear.”
“Look,” she said, “I have my eight-year-old son here; they’re trying
to grab him in the back of an ambulance and stick needles into his liver, I don’t want to hear
unclear.
I want to hear
We’ll stop it.
”
“We’ll certainly try,” he said. “This is your father’s case?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you call him?”
“He’s not answering.”
“You call the police?”
“There’s a warrant out for my arrest. In Oxnard. There’s a hearing in Oxnard today. I need somebody good to go up and appear for me.”
“I’ll send Dennis.”
“I said, somebody
good.
”
“Dennis is good.”
“Dennis is good if he has a month. This is today, Bob.”
“Well, who do you want?”
“I want you,” she said.
“Aw Christ. Oxnard? It’s so fucking far…I haven’t had my shots…”
“I have a sawed-off shotgun in the backseat, Bob. I don’t really care if you think the drive is too long.”
“Okay, okay, take it easy,” he said. “I have to arrange some things.”
“Will you go?”
“Yes, I’ll go. You want to give me a hint what this is about?”
“You’ll find it in the Burnet file. I assume it has to do with takings, by eminent domain or simple conversion.”
“Taking your cells?”
“They claim they own them.”
“How can they own
your
cells? They own your father’s cells. Oh, I get it. Same cells. But that’s bullshit, Alex.”
“Tell the judge.”
“They can’t violate the integrity of your body, or the body of your kid, just—”
“Save it for the judge,” she said. “I’ll call you later, find out how it went.”
She flipped the phone shut.
She looked down at Jamie. He was still sleeping, peaceful as an angel.
If Koch got to Oxnard by late morning, he might get an emergency hearing set for the afternoon. She should probably call him around four p.m. That seemed a very long time away.
She drove toward La Jolla.
