Michael Crichton - A Case of Need

“Why?”

“Because of the heat. The heat. The clinic and the heat.”

“You’d been stealing from the surgery?”

“Yes…not much, just a little…but enough…”

“How long?”

“Three years…maybe four…”

“And what happened?”

“Roman robbed the clinic…Roman Jones.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

“And?”

“The heat was on. They were checking everybody…”

“So you had to stop stealing?”

“Yes…”

“What did you do?”

“I tried to buy from Roman.”

“And?”

“He wanted money. A lot.”

“Who suggested the abortion?”

“Roman.”

“To get money?”

“Yes.”

“How much did he want?”

I already knew the answer. She said, “Three hundred dollars.”

“So you did the abortion?”

“Yes…yes…yes….”

“And who acted as anesthetist?”

“Roman. It was easy. Thiopental.”

“And Karen died?”

“She was all right when she left…. We did it on my bed…the whole thing.… It was all right, everything…on my bed….”

“But later she died.”

“Yes…Oh God, give me some stuff….”

“We will,” I said.

I filled a syringe with more water, squeezed out the air until a fine stream shot into the air, and injected it intravenously. Immediately she calmed. Her breathing became slower, more relaxed.

“Angela,” I said, “did you perform the abortion?”

“Yes.”

“And it resulted in Karen’s death?”

A dull voice. “Yes.”

“All right.” I patted her arm. “Just relax now.”

WE WALKED DOWN THE CORRIDOR. Tom Harding was waiting there with his wife, smoking a cigarette and pacing up and down.

“Is she all right, Doctor? Did the tests—”

“Fine,” I said. “She’ll recover beautifully.”

“That’s a relief,” he said, his shoulders sagging.

“Yes,” I said.

Norton Hammond gave me a quick glance, and I avoided his eyes. I felt like hell; my headache was much worse and I was beginning to have moments when my vision blurred. It seemed much worse in my right eye than my left.

But someone had to tell them. I said, “Mr. Harding, I am afraid your daughter has been implicated in business that involves the police.”

He looked at me, stunned, disbelieving. Then I saw his face melt into a peculiar acceptance. Almost as if he had known it all along. “Drugs,” he said, in a low voice.

“Yes,” I said and felt worse than ever.

“We didn’t know,” he said quickly. “I mean, if we had…”

“But we suspected,” Mrs. Harding said. “We never could control Angela. She was a headstrong girl, very independent. Very self-reliant and sure of herself. Even as a child, she was sure of herself.”

HAMMOND wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. “Well,” he said, “that’s that.”

“Yes.”

Even though he was close to me, he seemed far away. His voice was suddenly faint and insignificant. Everything around me was insignificant. The people seemed small and faded. My headache now came in bursts of severe pain. Once, I had to stop for a moment and rest.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Just tired.”

He nodded. “Well,” he said, “it’s all over. You should be pleased.”

“Are you?”

We went into the doctors’ conference room, a small cubbyhole with two chairs and a table. There were charts on the walls, detailing procedure for acute emergencies: hemorrhagic shock, pulmonary edema, MI, burns, crush injuries. We sat down and I lit a cigarette. My left hand felt weak as I flicked the lighter.

Hammond stared at the charts for a while; neither of us said anything. Finally, Hammond said, “Want a drink?”

“Yes,” I said. I was feeling sick to my stomach, disgusted, and annoyed. A drink would do me good, snap me out of it. Or else it would make me sicker.

He opened a locker and reached into the back, producing a flask. “Vodka,” he said. “No smell. For acute medical emergencies.” He opened it and took a swallow, then passed it to me.

As I drank, he said, “Jesus. Tune in, turn on, drop dead. Jesus.”

“Something like that.”

I gave the flask back to him.

“She was a nice girl, too.”

“Yes.”

“And that placebo effect. You got her into withdrawal on water, and you snapped her out of it with water.”

“You know why,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, “she believed you.”

“That’s right,” I said. “She believed me.”

I looked up at a chart illustrating the pathological lesion and emergency steps for diagnosis and treatment of ectopic pregnancy. I got down to the place where they talked about menstrual irregularity and cramping right-lower-quadrant pain when the words began to blur.

“John?”

It took me a long time to answer. It seemed as if it took me a long time to hear the words. I was sleepy, slow-thinking, slow-acting.

“John?”

“Yes,” I said. My voice was hollow, a voice in a tomb. It echoed.

“You O.K.?”

“Yes, fine.”

I kept hearing the words repeated in a kind of dream: fine, fine, fine….

“You look terrible.”

“I’m fine….” Fine, fine, fine…

“John, don’t get mad—”

“I’m not mad,” I said and shut my eyes. The lids were hard to keep open. They stuck down, were heavy, sticking to the lower lids. “I’m happy.”

“Happy?”

“What?”

“Are you happy?”

“No,” I said. He was talking nonsense. It meant nothing. His voice was squeaky and high like a baby, a chattering, childish voice. “No,” I said, “I’m not mad at all.”

“John—”

“Stop calling me John.”

“That’s your name,” Norton said. He stood up, slowly, moving in dreamy slowness, and I felt very tired as I watched him move. He reached into his pocket and produced his light and shined it into my face. I looked away; the light was bright and hurt my eyes. Especially my right eye.

“Look at me.”

The voice was loud and commanding. Drill sergeant’s voice. Snappish and irritable.

“Fuck off,” I said.

Strong fingers on my head, holding me, and the light shining into my eyes.

“Cut it out, Norton.”

“John, hold still.”

“Cut it out.” I closed my eyes. I was tired. Very tired. I wanted to sleep for a million years. Sleep was beautiful, like the ocean washing the sand, lapping up with a slow, beautiful, hissing sound, cleaning everything.

“I’m O.K., Norton. I’m just mad.”

“John, hold still.”

John, hold still.

John, hold still.

John, hold still.

“Norton, for Christ’s sake—”

“Shut up,” he said.

Shut up, shut up.

He had his little rubber hammer out. He was tapping my legs. Making my legs bounce up and down. It tingled and irritated me. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to go fast, fast asleep.

“Norton, you son of a bitch.”

“Shut up. You’re as bad as any of them.”

As any of them, as any of them. The words echoed in my head. As any of what? I wondered. Then the sleep, creeping up on me, fingers stretching out, plastic, rubbery fingers, closing over my eyes, holding them shut….

“I’m tired.”

“I know you are. I can see.”

“I can’t. I can’t see anything.”

Anything.

Can’t see.

I tried to open my eyes. “Coffee. Need coffee.”

“No,” he said.

“Give me a fetus,” I said and wondered why I said it. It made no sense. Did it? Didn’t it? So confusing. Everything was confused. My right eye hurt. The headache was right behind my right eye. Like a little man with a hammer, pounding the back of my eyeball.