Michael Crichton - A Case of Need

“A little man,” I said.

“What?”

“A little man,” I explained. It was obvious. He was stupid not to understand. It was perfectly obvious, a reasonable statement from a reasonable man. Norton was just playing games, pretending he didn’t understand.

“John,” he said, “I want you to count backward from one hundred. Subtract seven from one hundred. Can you do that?”

I paused. It wasn’t easy. In my mind, I saw a piece of paper, a shining white piece of paper, with pencil on it. One hundred minus seven. And a line, for the subtraction.

“Ninety-three.”

“Good. Continue.”

That was harder. It needed a new piece of paper.

I had to tear the old one off the pad before I could begin with a new piece. And when I had torn the old one off, I had forgotten what was on it. Complicated. Confusing.

“Go on, John. Ninety-three.”

“Ninety-three minus seven.” I paused. “Eighty-five. No. Eighty-six.”

“Go on.”

“Seventy-nine.”

“Yes.”

“Seventy-three. No. Seventy-four. No, no. Wait a minute.”

I was tearing off pieces of paper. So hard. And so very confusing. It was so much work to concentrate.

“Eighty-seven.”

“No.”

“Eighty-five.”

“John, what day is this?”

“Day?”

What a silly question. Norton was full of silly questions today. What day is this?

“Today,” I said.

“What is the date?”

“The date?”

“Yes, the date.”

“May,” I said. It was the date of May.

“John, where are you?”

“I am in the hospital,” I said, looking down at my whites. I opened my eyes a fraction, because they were heavy and I was groggy and the light hurt my eyes. I wished he would keep quiet and let me sleep. I wanted to sleep. I needed the sleep. I was very, very tired.

“What hospital?”

“The hospital.”

“What hospital?”

“The—” I started to say something, but couldn’t remember what I intended to say. My headache was fierce now, pounding on the right eye, on the front of my head on the right side, a terrible pounding headache.

“Raise your left hand, John.”

“What?”

“Raise your left hand, John.”

I heard him, heard the words, but they were foolish. No one would pay attention to those words. No one would bother.

“What?”

The next thing I felt was a vibration, on the right side of my head. A funny rumbling vibration. I opened my eyes and saw a girl. She was pretty, but she was doing strange things to me. Brown fluffy things were falling off my head. Drifting down. Norton was watching and calling for something, but I did not understand the words. I was nearly asleep, it was all very strange. After the fluff came a lather.

And the razor. I looked at it, and the lather, and I was suddenly sick, no warning, no nothing, but vomit all over and Norton was saying, “Hurry it up, let’s go.”

And then they brought in the drill. I could barely see it, my eyes kept closing, and I was sick again.

The last thing I said was “No holes in my head.”

I said it very clearly and slowly and distinctly.

I think.

IT FELT LIKE SOMEBODY had tried to cut off my head and hadn’t done a very good job. When I woke up I buzzed for the nurse and demanded more morphine. She said I couldn’t have it in a smiling, difficult-patient way and I suggested she go to hell. She didn’t much like that but I didn’t much like her. I reached up and felt the bandages on the side of my skull and made a few comments. She didn’t like those any better so she left. Pretty soon Norton Hammond came in.

“You’re a hell of a barber,” I said, touching my head.

“I thought we did pretty well.”

“How many holes?”

“Three. Right parietal. We took out quite a bit of blood. You remember any of that?”

“No,” I said.

“You were sleepy, vomiting, and one pupil was dilated. We didn’t wait for the X rays; we put the bun-holes right in.”

“Oh,” I said. ” When do I get out of here?”

“Three or four days, at most.”

“Are you kidding? Three or four days?”

“An epidural,” he said, “is a rugged thing. We want to be sure you rest.”

“Do I have any choice?”

“They always say,” he said, “that doctors make the worst patients.”

“More morphine,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“Darvon.”

“No.”

“Aspirin?”

“All right,” he said. “You can have some aspirin.”

“Real aspirin? Not sugar pills?”

“Watch it,” he said, “or we’ll call a psychiatric consult.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He just laughed and left the room.

I slept for a while, and then Judith came in to see me. She acted annoyed with me for a while, but not too long. I explained to her that it wasn’t my fault and she said I was a damned fool and kissed me.

Then the police came, and I pretended to be asleep until they left.

In the evening, the nurse got me some newspapers and I searched for news about Art. There wasn’t any. Some lurid stories about Angela Harding and Roman Jones, but nothing else. Judith came again during evening visiting hours and told me that Betty and the kids were fine and that Art would be released the next day.

I said that was great news and she just smiled.

THERE IS NO SENSE OF TIME IN A HOSPITAL. One day blends into the next; the routine—temperatures, meals, doctors’ rounds, more temperatures, more meals—was everything. Sanderson came to see me, and Fritz, and some other people. And the police, only this time I couldn’t fake sleep. I told them everything I knew and they listened and made notes. Toward the end of the second day I felt better. I was stronger, my head was clearer, and I was sleeping less.

I told Hammond and he just grunted and said to wait another day.

Art Lee came to see me in the afternoon. He had the old, wry grin on his face but he looked tired. And older.

“Hi,” I said. “How’s it feel to be out?”

“Good,” he said.

He looked at me from the foot of the bed and shook his head. “Hurt much?”

“Not anymore.”

“Sorry it happened,” he said.

“It’s all right. It was interesting, in a way. My first epidural hematoma.”

I paused. There was a question I wanted to ask him. I had been thinking about a lot of things and kicking myself for my foolish mistakes. The worst had been calling that reporter into the Lees’ house that night. That had been very bad. But there were other bad things. So I wanted to ask him.

Instead, I said, “The police have things wrapped up now, I imagine.”

He nodded. “Roman Jones was supplying Angela. He made her do the abortion. When it failed—and you got curious—he went over to Angela’s house, probably to kill her. He decided he was being followed and caught you. Then he went to her place and went after her with a razor. That was what happened to your forehead.”

“Nice.”

“Angela fought him with a kitchen knife. Slashed him up a little. It must have been a pleasant scene, him with the razor and her with the knife. Finally she managed to hit him with a chair and knock him out the window.”

“She said that?”

“Yes, apparently.”

I nodded.

We looked at each other for a while.

“I appreciate your help,” he said, “in all this.”

“Any time. You sure it was help?”

He smiled. “I’m a free man.”

“That’s not what I mean,” I said.

He shrugged and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“The publicity wasn’t your fault,” he said. “Besides, I was getting tired of this town. Ready for a change.”