Michael Crichton - Drug of Choice

“I see,” Clark said.

“So I was thinking, what do you say? What can you say? And then I realized that this was deep down distress, nothing shallow, but deep down distress, in the lower tract. For that deep down pain and discomfort in the lower tract, take the one medication that doctors recommend for their own—”

“Hello, darling,” a voice whispered in his ear. He turned: Sharon was wearing a crochet dress over a bodystocking, and a calm smile. She looked directly at him.

“I hear there’s a great view from the bridge,” she said.

“Is there?”

“You mustn’t miss it,” she said.

She took his arm and they moved through the crowd, then up a narrow stairs. She went first; he followed.

“Stop looking at my legs,” she said, as they went up.

“Be careful,” he said, “or I’ll bite your ankle.”

She stopped.

She lifted her foot back, to his face.

He looked at it for a moment, then bit the ankle. It was rather pleasant, actually, salty and nice.

She laughed. “Does that appeal to you?”

“No. It’s the way I get my kicks. Lost two front teeth once.”

“I’ll remember to be careful,” she said, and laughed again.

Up on the bridge, they could look down on the foredeck, and the couples dancing in the moonlight.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t telephone,” she said. “But I’m glad you decided to come.”

“Anytime,” he said.

“Well, later then,” she said.

“Ladies first,” he said.

She laughed. “My, you doctors are daring on your nights off.”

And he looked at her, and he thought to himself that it was funny, it was all pretty funny, and the drink was hitting him awfully hard, and Sharon said “I like considerate men,” and he moved forward to kiss her.

And fell. A long, long way.

“RISE AND SHINE.”

He opened his eyes and smelled coffee. Sunlight streaming into a large room, across a vast bed. Sheets touching his skin. Sharon Wilder standing over him in a short robe, holding a tray.

“Good morning,” she said. “Did you sleep well?” He was confused, still thinking oddly and slowly. The boat…

“Very well.”

“Good,” she said. She set the tray on the bed and stretched. “So did I.”

He looked across the bed at the other pillow, and then he looked back at her. She wore no makeup, her hair was loose and tangled, and she looked marvelous.

She handed him a coffee cup. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “about last night.”

“Not a bit,” he said, trying to remember.

“I know it must have been dull for you,” she said.

He had a vague memory, a slight stirring. “Absolutely not. It was wonderful.”

“I meant the party,” she said. “That dreadful party.”

“Oh yes.”

She giggled and kissed him on the neck. His coffee spilled; he jumped; she giggled again.

“I like you,” she said.

Then she went into a large closet, and began to dress. He glanced around the room. It was done in gold and white, with a huge bed covered with a canopy.

“Is this your bedroom?”

She giggled. “Yes. Don’t you remember?”

He looked out the window, at a broad lawn. “And your house?”

“Yes. I call it the Love Next. Do you like it?”

“Well, I haven’t seen very much of it.”

“Silly, I showed it all to you last night.”

“I meant the house.”

“So did I.”

She came out wearing a short skirt and blouse. “You’ll probably want to take a shower. It’s right in there.” She pointed to a door.

“Thanks.”

“Meantime I’ll make breakfast. Eggs and bacon?”

“You cook too?”

“Just mornings. I don’t like the servants around in the mornings.”

She walked out of the room and he got slowly up from the bed. He could remember nothing of the night before, nothing since being on the bridge of the boat.

It was odd, disorienting. He must have been drunk as hell. Yet there was no hangover; in fact, he felt marvelous. Better than he’d felt in a long time.

He walked around the room, looking at her makeup desk, her closet, a small writing table in the corner. There was a letter on top of the desk; he glanced at it curiously. It was from a travel agency, stating that her two tickets to San Cristobal Island were enclosed. The payment had been made by Advance, Inc. and all was in order. She would fly by jet from Los Angeles to Miami, and change planes for Nassau. From there she would travel by the special hotel airplane to San Cristobal.

Clark frowned. He had never heard of San Cristobal. And he wondered about the hotel; the letter did not specify it by name.

Peculiar, he thought.

He stepped into the shower and turned it on, very hot.

When he came out, he began to look for his clothes. They were not in the bedroom; he looked out in the hall and found a tie and a pair of socks. He picked them up and continued, finding his shirt, then his pants. He came into a living room, very simple and elegant. His jacket was thrown over a couch, his shoes on the floor, and two half-finished martinis stood on the coffee table.

“Find everything?” Sharon called.

“Yes, thanks.”

He dressed and went into the kitchen. Sharon was scooping eggs onto two plates. He sat down and they ate; she was in a hurry: she had a beauty parlor appointment in an hour, and then the photographers an hour after that…

He smiled. “Busy girl.”

“Not really. Just pre-publicity for the next film. Actually, I’m going on vacation in a week.”

“That’s funny. So am I.”

“Where are you going?”

“Mexico City.”

She made a face. “Don’t like it,” she said. “Too dusty. You should go where I’m going.”

“Where’s that?”

“San Cristobal. It’s a new resort in the Caribbean.”

That explained why he had never heard of it. On an impulse, he said, “Why don’t we go together?”

She shook her head. “Can’t.”

“Why not?”

She gave him an odd smile. “Previous engagement. Maybe next vacation?”

“All right,” he said. “Maybe the next one.”

HE TOOK A CAB back to the Long Beach pier, got into his car, sat down and thought things over. He was feeling suddenly very peculiar. He had just spent the night with Sharon Wilder—every man’s dream—and he could remember nothing about it. He had slept in her bed, and showered in her shower, eaten breakfast in her kitchen and God knew what else.

And he could remember nothing about it

Today was his day off, and he had intended to spend it with the travel agent, discussing his vacation plans. But he was puzzled, feeling off-balance. Reaching into his pocket, he found the list of doctors Sharon Wilder had been seeing. An internist, a dermatologist, a psychiatrist, and the mysterious Dr. George K. Washington.

He decided, for no very good reason, to pay a call on the psychiatrist.

Dr. Abraham Shine seemed to own two houses. One was located near the road, a modern, rectangular structure. There was a sign by the door which said, “Office.” Farther back, along a gravel drive, was a mansion of pink stucco, secluded among carefully tended shrubs and bushes. Clark parked and went into the office.

He immediately found himself in a small but plush reception area. Two things attracted his attention. There was a massive modern structure sculpture of interlocking polished chrome spheres. And there was a receptionist with large eyes and spheres that did not interlock.

“May I help you?”

“I’m, uh, Dr. Clark, Roger Clark…”

“Yes, Doctor. Do you have an appointment?”