Michael Crichton - Drug of Choice

“Nothing happened, Rog. Everything’s fine. Everything is just—”

“Everything is not fine. The whole damned town is after me. The cops are chasing me. I just got shot at. A nice girl turned me in. Everything is not fine at all.”

“Rog, they’re worried, that’s all. They’re concerned about you.”

Clark said, “You got any more martinis?”

“Sure. Always. But—”

“Make two,” Clark said. “Big ones.”

Jerry hesitated, then went into the kitchen. It was clear he was humoring Clark, and that he was afraid of him for some reason.

“Jerry,” he said, “do you know the whole story behind all this?”

“Yeah, sure, Rog,” Jerry said. “Everybody knows.”

“Everybody?”

“Yeah, we thought it was very, uh, disturbing.”

“You bet it’s disturbing,” Clark said. He got up and went into the kitchen, where he heard Jerry pouring the drinks.

“It’s disturbing as—”

Abruptly, he was struck on the back of the head.

He fell, in a moment of pain and dizziness, but sat up immediately. Jerry was standing over him with a soda bottle in his hand.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Clark said. Jerry looked confused. “I was trying…”

“To knock me out? Thanks.” He rubbed his head, which throbbed painfully.

“It always works in pictures,” Jerry said, putting the bottle down.

“Thanks a lot.”

“Well, it’s for your own good,” Jerry said. “You ought to realize you’re a sick man. You need time to recover, to get back on an even keel.”

“And you were just trying to help,” Clark said.

“I don’t know,” Jerry said. He looked embarrassed. “Here. Take this. Drink it and get the hell out of here.” He gave Clark the martini. “It’s all I can do for you, Rog.”

Clark looked at the martini and continued to rub his head. He was getting nowhere with Jerry. He was getting nowhere with anybody. It was all—

“I’m a sick man?”

“Look, Rog, it’s an illness. Just like any other kind of illness. You’ll get well, but it takes time. We all have faith in you.”

“Jerry,” he said slowly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It was quite a shock to all of us,” Jerry said.

“What was?”

“The whole business.”

“What business?”

Jerry turned, picked up a newspaper clipping from on top of the refrigerator, and handed it to Clark.

He read it quickly. The headline said DOCTOR COMMITTED. The story was brief and vague, describing how Dr. Roger Clark, a resident at the Los Angeles Memorial Hospital, had attacked a medical secretary, Miss Janice Connor. She had called the police and Clark had been retained in custody by the police; later, when she declined to press charges, he was released into the care of Dr. Harvey Blood for institutional treatment.

“Oh,” Clark said.

“I got to admit,” Jerry said, “you don’t seem too crazy to me, just a little confused.”

“You’ve been clearer yourself,” Clark said. He tapped the article with his finger. “This is a frame, Jerry.”

“A frame?”

“Yeah. This guy Blood arranged for me to be shipped off to a Caribbean island, where they give the guests all these drugs, and then—”

“Now, Rog…”

“It’s the truth, I swear it.”

“I’m willing to believe you, Rog, but I’m not the one you have to convince.”

At that moment, he heard sirens in the distance, but coming closer.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?” Jerry said innocently.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Clark said. He went to the bedroom and looked in. Linda was there, cowering in the bed, still holding the telephone.

“Thanks for everything,” Clark said.

He ran.

He drove off just as the first of the police cars pulled up in front of Jerry’s apartment building. It was now four in the morning; the first dawn was lightening the sky over the mountains to the east.

Time was very important now. In daylight, they would have him, and daylight was only a few hours away. He felt his old anger returning, the blind rage which made him sweat and shiver.

He was all alone—he knew that now. Nobody could help him. He had to find a solution by himself, and he had to find it quickly.

To begin with, he needed materials. But where would he find them?

Only one place came to mind: the hospital.

He slipped in through the service entrance, and made his way along the underground tunnels to the elevators. No one saw him; he was alone with his echoing footsteps and the hissing pipes overhead.

At the elevator, he pressed the fourth floor button, and held it. The doors closed, and the elevator ascended smoothly, without stopping at any intermediate floors.

At the fourth floor, the doors opened. He went out. Directly ahead was a sign: TO OPERATING ROOMS.

This was where he wanted to be.

DOWN THE HALLWAY WAS the utility closet. He ducked in and found a pair of coveralls and the blue shirt that maintenance men wore; there was also a transistor radio hanging on a peg. The night men often carried a transistor around with them for company. He put on the coveralls and shirt, hung the transistor from the strap around his shoulder, and turned it on.

It was a Beatles song; he paid little attention as he pushed the large utility cart forward. On the cart were several trays of supplies, and a large cloth sack at one end, open at the top, for garbage disposal.

He pushed the cart into the operating area, through the swinging doors, his transistor going full blast. There was a night nurse at the registration desk, next to the large blackboard where the day’s operations were scheduled and crossed off when completed; there were two recovery room nurses walking around, and a maintenance man waxing the floors in OR 2.

Nobody paid any attention to him, though the night nurse glanced up when she heard the music. He pushed his cart through to the supply room, and busied himself cleaning out the wastebaskets. A technician was there, hunting among the shelves of supplies that ran from floor to ceiling.

She turned to him. “We’re out of Kellys,” she said.

“What?”

“We’re out of Kellys. Order more from central supply, will you?”

“All right,” he said.

The technician left; he was alone in the room. Swiftly, he pushed the cart down to the anesthesia supplies. There were several cans of ether on the lowest shelf. Alongside was a sign: “Authorized Personnel Only.”

He scooped up six of the cans and set them onto the shelf of the cart. Then, looking further, he saw a timer used to record the anesthetic induction times; it was a mechanical, spring-wound affair, but quite accurate.

Lastly, he found an oxygen cylinder. It was a small one, just a few cubic feet, but quite heavy. He could carry it under one arm, but it weighed twenty pounds.

He looked around, found the stickers, and pasted one across the cylinder: EMPTY RETURN TO GAS LABORATORY FOR REFILLING.

A few minutes later, he was back in the utility closet, shucking off his overalls.

“Gee, I had a dreadful flight,” went the song on the radio.

He flicked it off, gathered up the equipment, wrapped the coveralls around it, and walked out to the elevator.

Once outside the hospital, he had a moment of elation. He had done it; he had pulled it off. He drove away into the early morning, and as he drove his elation disappeared.

The most difficult part was still ahead.

It took him twenty minutes, driving on back roads and through residential districts, to reach the Santa Monica Freeway. From there, it was twelve minutes to the Los Calos exit. The sun was beginning to appear above the mountains as he turned off the freeway, and onto the small road that led north, to Advance, Inc.