Michael Crichton - Rising Sun

I saw the silhouette of a woman pass one of the windows. She looked naked. "Shouldn't be," I said.

"Okay then, let's do it."

We started up the stairs single file. Frank Sinatra was singing "My Way." We heard the laughter of women. It sounded like more than one. "Christ, I hope they got some fucking drugs out."

I thought the chances of that were pretty good. We reached the top of the stairs, ducking to avoid being seen through the windows.

The front door was Spanish, heavy and solid. Graham paused. I moved a few steps toward the back of the house, where I saw the greenish glow of pool lights. There was probably a back door going out to the pool. I was trying to see where it was.

Graham tapped my shoulder. I came back. He gently turned the handle of the front door. It was unlocked. Graham took out his revolver and looked at me. I took out my gun.

He paused, held up three fingers. Count of three.

Graham kicked the front door open and went in low, shouting "Hold it, police! Hold it right there!" Before I got into the living room, I could hear the women screaming.

There were two of them, completely naked, running around the room and shrieking at the top of their lungs, "Eddie! Eddie!" Eddie wasn't there. Graham was shouting, "Where is he? Where is Eddie Sakamura?" The redhead grabbed a pillow from the couch to cover herself, and screamed, "Get out of here, you fucker!" and then she threw the pillow at Graham. The other girl, a blonde, ran squealing into the bedroom. We followed her, and the redhead threw another pillow at us.

In the bedroom, the blonde fell on the floor and howled in pain. Graham leaned over her with his gun. "Don't shoot me!" she cried. "I didn't do anything!"

Graham grabbed her by the ankle. There was all this twisting bare flesh. The girl was hysterical. "Where is Eddie?" Graham said. "Where is he?"

" In a meeting! " the girl squealed.

"Where?"

" In a meeting! " And flailing around, she kicked Graham in the nuts with her other leg.

"Aw, Christ," Graham said, letting the girl go. He coughed and sat down hard. I went back to the living room. The redhead had her high heels on but nothing else.

I said, "Where is he?"

"You bastards," she said. "You fucking bastards."

I went past her toward a door at the far end of the room. It was locked. The redhead ran up and began to hit me on the back with her fists. "Leave him alone! Leave him alone!" I was trying to open the locked door while she pounded on me. I thought I heard voices from the other side of the door. In the next moment Graham's big bulk slammed into the door and the wood splintered. The door opened. I saw the kitchen, lit by the green light of the pool outside. The room was empty. The back door was open.

" Shit ."

By now the redhead had jumped on my back, and locked her legs around my waist. She was pulling my hair, screaming obscenities. I spun around in circles, trying to throw her off me. It was one of those strange moments where in the middle of all the chaos I was thinking, be careful , don't hurt her , because it would look bad for a pretty young girl to end up with a broken arm or cracked ribs, it would mean police brutality even though right now she was tearing my hair out by the roots. She bit my ear and I felt pain. I slammed myself back against the wall, and I heard her grunt as the breath was knocked out of her. She let go.

Out the window, I saw a dark figure running down the stairs. Graham saw it, too.

"Fuck," he said. He ran. I ran, too. But the girl must have tripped me because I fell over, landing hard. When I got to my feet I heard the sirens of the black and whites and their engines starting up.

Then I was back outside, running down the steps. I was maybe ten meters behind Graham, about thirty feet, when Eddie's Ferrari backed out of the garage, ground the gears, and roared down the street.

The black and whites immediately took up pursuit. Graham ran for his sedan. He had pulled out to follow while I was still running for my own car, parked farther down the road. As his car flashed past me, I could see his face, grim and angry.

I got into my car and followed.

* * *

You can't drive fast in the hills and talk on the phone. I didn't even try. I estimated I was half a kilometer behind Graham, and he was some distance behind the two patrol cars. When I got to the bottom of the hill, the 101 overpass, I saw the flashing lights going down the freeway. I had to back up and pull around to the entrance below Mulholland, and then I joined traffic heading south.

When the traffic began to slow up, I stuck my flasher on the roof, and pulled into the right-hand breakdown lane. I got to the concrete embankment about thirty seconds after the Ferrari hit it flat out at a hundred and sixty kilometers an hour. I guess the gas tank had exploded on impact, and the flames were jumping fifteen meters into the air. The heat was tremendous. It looked like the trees up on the hill might catch on fire. You couldn't get anywhere near the twisted wreck of the car.

The first of the fire trucks pulled up, with three more black and whites. There were sirens and flashing lights everywhere.

I backed up my car to make room for the trucks, then walked over to Graham. He smoked a cigarette as the firemen began to spray the wreck with foam.

"Christ," Graham said. "What a fucking cockup."

"Why didn't the backup patrolmen stop him when he was in the garage?"

"Because," Graham said, "I told them not to shoot at him. And we weren't there. They were trying to decide what to do when the guy drove away." He shook his head. "This is going to look like shit in the report."

I said, "Still, it's probably better you didn't shoot him."

"Maybe." He ground out his cigarette.

By now, the firemen had gotten the fire out. The Ferrari was a smoking hulk crumpled against the concrete. There was a harsh smell in the air.

"Well," Graham said. "No point staying around here. I'll go back up to the house. See if those girls are still there."

"You need me for anything else?"

"No. You might as well go. Tomorrow is another day. Shit, it'll be paperwork until we drop." He looked at me. He hesitated. "We in sync about this? About what happened?"

"Hell, yes," I said.

"No way to handle it differently," he said. "Far as I can see.

"No," I said. "Just one of those things."

"Okay, buddy. See you tomorrow."

"Good night, Tom."

We got into our cars.

I drove home.

Mrs. Ascenio was snoring loudly on the sofa. It was three forty-five in the morning. I tiptoed past her and looked in Michelle's room. My daughter lay on her back, her covers tossed aside, her arms flung over her head. Her feet stuck through the bars of the crib. I tucked the covers around her and went into my own room.

The television was still on. I turned it off. I pulled off my tie and sat down on the bed to remove my shoes. I suddenly realized how tired I was. I took off my coat and trousers and threw them onto the television set. I lay down on my back and thought I should take off my shirt. It felt sweaty and grimy on my body. I closed my eyes for a moment and let my head sink back into the pillow. Then I felt a pinching, and something tugging at my eyelids. I heard a chirping sound and thought in a moment of horror that birds were pecking at my eyes.

I heard a voice saying, "Open your eyes, Daddy. Open your eyes." And I realized that it was my daughter, trying to pull my eyelids up with small fingers.

"Yuuuh," I said. I glimpsed daylight, rolled away, and buried my face in the pillow.

"Daddy? Open your eyes. Open your eyes, Daddy."

I said, "Daddy was out late last night. Daddy is tired."

She paid no attention. "Daddy, open your eyes. Open your eyes. Daddy? Open your eyes, Daddy."