Michael Crichton - A Case of Need

We walked through what seemed to be a living room. There were studio couches and a few cheap lamps. The walls were white, and painted in weird, flowing designs in fluorescent colors. An ultraviolet lamp heightened the effect.

“Wild,” I said, hoping that was the right thing.

“Yeah, man.”

We went into the next room. The lighting was low. A pale, short boy with an immense head of curly blond hair squatted on the floor surrounded by electronic equipment. Two speakers stood by the far wall. A tape recorder was running. The pale boy was working with his equipment, twirling knobs, producing the sounds. He did not look up at us as we entered. He seemed to be concentrating hard, but his movements were slow.

“Stay here,” said the bearded boy. “I’ll tell him.”

I stood by the door. The bearded boy approached the other and said gently, “Sam. Sam.”

Sam looked up at him. “Hi,” he said.

“Sam, you have a visitor.”

Sam seemed puzzled. “I do?” He still had not noticed me.

“Yes. He is a very nice man. A very nice man. Do you understand that? He is very friendly.”

“Good,” Sam said slowly.

“He needs your help. Will you help him?”

“Sure,” Sam said.

The bearded boy beckoned to me. I came over and said to him, “What is it?”

“Acid,” he said. “Seventh hour. He should be coming down now. But go easy, right?”

“O.K.,” I said.

I squatted down so I was on Sam’s level. Sam looked at me with blank eyes.

“I don’t know you,” he said finally.

“I’m John Berry.”

Sam did not move. “You’re old, man,” he said. “Really old.”

“In a way,” I said.

“Yeah, man, wow. Hey, Marvin,” he said, looking up at his friend, “did you see this guy? He’s really old.”

“Yes,” Marvin said. “Hey, wow, old.”

“Sam,” I said, “I’m your friend.”

I held out my hand, slowly, so as not to frighten him. He did not shake it; he took it by the fingers and held it to the light. He turned it slowly, looking at the palm, then the back. Then he moved the fingers.

“Hey, man,” he said, “you’re a doctor.”

“Yes,” I said.

“You have doctor’s hands. I can feel it.”

“Yes.”

“Hey, man. Wow. Beautiful hands.”

He was silent for a time, examining my hands, squeezing them, stroking them, feeling the hairs on the back, the fingernails, the tips of the fingers.

“They shine,” he said. “I wish I had hands like that.”

“Maybe you do,” I said.

He dropped my hands and looked at his own. Finally he said, “No. They’re different.”

“Is that bad?”

He gave me a puzzled look. “Why did you come here?”

“I need your help.”

“Yeah. Hey. O.K.”

“I need some information.”

I did not realize this was a mistake until Marvin started forward. Sam became agitated; I pushed Marvin back.

“It’s O.K., Sam. It’s O.K.”

“You’re a cop,” Sam said.

“No. No cop. I’m not a cop, Sam.”

“You are, you’re lying.”

“He often gets paranoid,” Marvin said. “It’s his bag. He’s worried about freaking out.”

“You’re a cop, a lousy cop.”

“No, Sam. I’m not a cop. If you don’t want to help me, I’ll leave.”

“You’re a rock, a cop, a sock, a lock.”

“No, Sam. No. No.”

He settled down then, his body relaxing, his muscles softening.

I took a deep breath. “Sam, you have a friend. Bubbles.”

“Yes.”

“Sam, she has a friend named Karen.”

He was staring off into space. It was a long time before he answered. “Yes. Karen.”

“Bubbles lived with Karen. Last summer.”

“Yes.”

“Did you know Karen?”

“Yes.”

He began to breathe rapidly, his chest heaving, and his eyes got wide.

I put my hand on his shoulder, gently. “Easy, Sam. Easy. Easy. Is something wrong?”

“Karen,” he said, staring across the room. “She was…terrible.”

“Sam—”

“She was the worst, man. The worst.”

“Sam, where is Bubbles now?”

“Out. She went to visit Angela. Angela…”

“Angela Harding,” Marvin said. “She and Karen and Bubbles all roomed together in the summer.”

“Where is Angela now?” I asked Marvin.

At that moment, Sam jumped up and began to shout “Cop! Cop!” at the top of his lungs. He swung at me, missed, and tried to kick me. I caught his foot, and he fell, striking some of the electronic equipment. A loud, high-pitched whee-whee-whee filled the room.

Marvin said, “I’ll get the thorazine.” [47] Thorazine is a tranquilizer, universally used as an antidote to LSD and employed to end bad trips. However, when other psychedelic compounds such as STP are used, thorazine heightens the drug effect instead of abolishing it. Thus physicians who see LSD psychosis in the EW no longer automatically administer thorazine.

“Screw the thorazine,” I said. “Help me.” I grabbed Sam and held him down. He screamed over the howl of the electronic sound.

“Cop! Cop! Cop!”

He kicked and thrashed. Marvin tried to help, but he was ineffectual. Sam was banging his head against the floor.

“Get your foot under his head.”

He didn’t understand.

“Move!” I said.

He got his foot under, so Sam would not hurt his head. Sam continued to thrash and twist in my grip. Abruptly, I released him. He stopped writhing, looked at his hands, then looked at me.

“Hey, man. What’s the matter?”

“You can relax now,” I said.

“Hey, man. You let me go.”

I nodded to Marvin, who went and unplugged the electronic equipment. The howls stopped. The room became strangely silent.

Sam sat up, staring at me. “Hey, you let me go. You really let me go.”

He looked at my face.

“Man,” he said, touching my cheek, “you’re beautiful.”

And then he kissed me.

WHEN I GOT HOME, Judith was lying awake in bed.

“What happened?”

As I undressed, I said, “I got kissed.”

“By Sally?” She sounded amused.

“No. By Sam Archer.”

“The composer?”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“I’m not sleepy,” she said.

I told her about it, then got into bed and kissed her. “Funny,” I said, “I’ve never been kissed by a man before.”

She rubbed my neck. “Like it?”

“Not much.”

“That’s strange,” she said, “I like it fine,” and she pulled me down to her.

“I bet you’ve been kissed by men all your life,” I said.

“Some are better than others.”

“Who’s better than others?”

“You’re better than others.”

“Is that a promise?”

She licked the tip of my nose with her tongue. “No,” she said, “that’s a come-on.”

ONCE A MONTH, the Lord takes pity on the Cradle of Liberty and lets the sun shine on Boston. Today was that day: cool, bright and clear, with an autumn crispness in the air. I awoke feeling good, with the sharp expectation that things would happen.

I had a large breakfast, including two eggs, which I ate with guilty relish, savoring their cholesterol. Then I went into my study to plan the day. I began by drawing up a list of everyone I had seen and trying to determine if any of them were suspects. Nobody really was.

The first person to suspect in any abortion question is the woman herself, since so many are self-induced. The autopsy showed that Karen must have had anesthetic for the operation; therefore she didn’t do it.