Michael Crichton - Disclosure

"Oh, I can't do anything for you," Dorfman said. "It's your life. You have your own mistakes to make. And I must return to my guests. But try to pay attention, Thomas. Do not sleep through this. And remember, all human behavior has a reason. All behavior is solving a problem. Even your behavior, Thomas."

And he spun in his wheelchair and went back to the dining room.

Fucking Max, he thought, walking down Third Street in the damp evening. It was infuriating, the way Max would never just say what he meant.

This is your trouble, Thomas. And it has been a long time coming.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Fucking Max. Infuriating and frustrating and exhausting, too. That was what Sanders remembered most about the sessions he used to have, when Max was on the DigiCom board. Sanders would come away exhausted. In those days, back in Cupertino, the junior execs had called Dorfman "The Riddler."

All human behavior is solving a problem. Even your behavior, Thomas.

Sanders shook his head. It made no sense at all. Meanwhile, he had things to do. At the end of the street, he stepped into a phone booth and dialed Gary Bosak's number. It was eight o'clock. Bosak would be home, just getting out of bed and having coffee, starting his working day. Right now, he would be yawning in front of a half-dozen modems and computer screens as he began to dial into all sorts of databases.

The phone rang, and a machine said, "You have reached NE Professional Services. Leave a message." And a beep.

"Gary, this is Tom Sanders. I know you're there, pick up."

A click, and then Bosak said, "Hey. The last person I thought I'd hear from. Where're you calling from?"

"Pay phone."

"Good. How's it going with you, Tom?"

"Gary, I need some things done. Some data looked up."

"Uh… Are we talking things for the company, or private things?"

Private."

"Uh… Tom. I'm pretty busy these days. Can we talk about this next week?"

"That's too late."

"But the thing is, I'm pretty busy now."

"Gary, what is this?" "Tom, come on. You know what this is." "I need help, Gary." "Hey. And I'd love to help you. But I just got a call from Blackburn who told me that if I had anything to do with you, anything at all, I could expect the FBI going through my apartment at six a.m. tomorrow morning. "Christ. When was this?" "About two hours ago." Two hours ago. Blackburn was way ahead of him. "Gary…" "Hey. You know I always liked you, Tom. But not this time. Okay? I got to go." Click.

Frankly, none of this surprises me," Fernandez said, pushing aside a paper plate. She and Sanders had been eating sandwiches in her office. It was nine p.m., and the offices around them were dark, but her phone was still ringing, interrupting them frequently. Outside, it had begun to rain again. Thunder rumbled, and Sanders saw flashes of summer lightning through the windows.

Sitting in the deserted law offices, Sanders had the feeling that he was all alone in the world, with nobody but Fernandez and the encroaching darkness. Things were happening quickly; this person he had never met before today was fast becoming a kind of lifeline for him. He found himself hanging on every word she said.

"Before we go on, I want to emphasize one thing," Fernandez said. "You were right not to get in the car with Johnson. You are not to be alone with her ever again. Not even for a few moments. Not ever, under any circumstances. Is that clear?"

"Yes."

"If you do, it will destroy your case."

"I won't."

"All right," she said. "Now. I had a long talk with Blackburn. As you guessed, he's under tremendous pressure to get this matter resolved. I tried to move the mediation session to the afternoon. He implied that the company was ready to deal and wanted to get started right away. He's concerned about how long the negotiations will take. So we'll start at nine tomorrow."

"Okay."

"Herb and Alan have been making progress. I think they'll be able to help us tomorrow. And these articles about Johnson may be useful, too," she said, glancing at the photocopies of the ComLine pieces.

"Why? Dorfman says they're irrelevant."

"Yes, but they document her history in the company, and that gives

us leads. It's something to work on. So is this e-mail from your friend." She frowned at the sheet of printout. "This is an Internet address."

"Yes," he said, surprised that she knew.

"We do a lot of work with high-technology companies. I'll have somebody check it out." She put it aside. "Now let's review where we are. You couldn't clean out your desk because they were already there."

"Right."

"And you would have cleaned out your computer files, but you've been shut out of the system."

"Yes."

"Which means that you can't change anything."

"That's right. I can't do anything. It's like I'm an assistant."

She said, "Were you going to change any files?"

He hesitated. "No. But I would have, you know, looked around."

"Nothing in particular you were aware of?"

“No.”

"Mr. Sanders," she said, "I want to emphasize that I have no judgment here. I'm simply trying to prepare for what may happen tomorrow. I want to know what surprises they'll have for us."

He shook his head. "There isn't anything in the files that's embarrassing to me."

"You've thought it over carefully?"

"Yes."

"Okay," she said. "Then considering the early start, I think you better get some sleep. I want you sharp tomorrow. Will you be able to sleep?"

"Jeez, I don't know."

"Take a sleeping pill if you need to."

"I'll be okay."

"Then go home and go to bed, Mr. Sanders. I'll see you in the morning. Wear a coat and tie tomorrow. Do you have some kind of a blue coat?"

"A blazer."

"Fine. Wear a conservative tie and a white shirt. No after-shave."

"I never dress like that at the office."

"This is not the office, Mr. Sanders. That's just the point." She stood up and shook his hand. "Get some sleep. And try not to worry. I think everything is going to be fine."

"I bet you say that to all your clients."

"Yes, I do," she said. "But I'm usually right. Get some sleep, Tom. I'll see you tomorrow."

He came home to a dark, empty house. Eliza's Barbie dolls lay in an untidy heap on the kitchen counter. One of his son's bibs, streaked with green baby food, was on the counter beside the sink. He set up the coffeemaker for the morning and went upstairs. He walked past the answering machine but neglected to look at it, and failed to notice the blinking light. Upstairs, when he undressed in the bathroom, he saw that Susan had taped a note to the mirror. "Sorry about lunch. I believe you. I love you. S."

It was just like Susan to be angry and then to apologize. But he was glad for the note and considered calling her now. But it was nearly

midnight in Phoenix, which meant it was too late. She'd be asleep.

Anyway, as he thought about it, he realized that he didn't want to call her. As she had said at the restaurant, this had nothing to do with her. He was alone in this. He'd stay alone. Wearing just shorts, he padded into his little office. There were no faxes. He switched on his computer and waited while it came up.

The e-mail icon was blinking. He clicked it.

TRUST NOBODY.

AFRIEND

Sanders shut off the computer and went to bed.

In the morning, he took comfort in his routine, dressing quickly while listening to the television news, which he turned up loud, trying to fill the empty house with noise. He drove into town at 6:30, stopping at the Bainbridge Bakery to buy a pull-apart and a cup of cappuccino before going down to the ferry.

As the ferry pulled away from Winslow, he sat toward the stern, so he would not have to look at Seattle as it approached. Lost in his thoughts, he stared out the window at the gray clouds hanging low over the dark water of the bay. It looked like it would rain again today.