Michael Crichton - State Of Fear

Afterward she lay against him, her skin soft but her body taut beneath the surface. The bedroom ceiling had a soft glow from the church faзade opposite. He was relaxed, but she seemed, if anything, to be energized, restless after making love. He wondered if she had really come, despite her moans and her final cries. And then abruptly, she got up.

"Anything wrong?"

She took a sip of wine. "To the toilet," she said, and turned away, passing through a door. She had left her wineglass. He sat up and took a sip, seeing the delicate pattern of her lipstick on the rim.

He looked at the bed and saw the dark streaks on the sheets from her heels. She had not taken them off until midway through their love-making. Now the heels were tossed away, coming to a stop beneath the window. Signs of their passion. He still felt, even now, as if he were in a dream. He had never been with a woman like this. Beautiful like this, living in a place like this. He wondered how much this apartment cost, the wood paneling, the perfect location amp; He took another sip of wine. He could get used to this, he thought.

He heard water running in the bathroom. A humming sound, a tuneless song.

With a bang! the front door slammed open and three men burst into the bedroom. They were wearing dark raincoats and hats. Terrified, Marshall set the wineglass on the tableit felland dived for his clothes beside the bed to cover himself, but in an instant the men were on him, grabbing him with gloved hands. He yelled in alarm and panic as they threw him over, shoving him facedown on the bed. He was still yelling as they pushed his face into a pillow. He thought they were going to suffocate him, but they didn't. One man hissed, "Be quiet. Nothing will happen if you are quiet."

He didn't believe him, so he struggled, calling out again. Where was Marisa? What was she doing? It was happening so fast. One man was sitting on his back, knees digging into his spine, his cold shoes on Marshall's bare buttocks. He felt the man's hand on his neck, shoving him into the bed.

"Be quiet!" the man hissed again.

The other men had each taken one of his wrists, and they were pulling his arms wide, spread-eagling him on the bed. They were getting ready to do something to him. He felt terrified and vulnerable. He moaned, and somebody hit him on the back of the head. "Quiet!"

Everything was happening quickly, it was all impressionistic. Where was Marisa? Probably hiding in the bathroom, and he couldn't blame her. He heard a sloshing sound and saw a plastic baggie and something white in it, like a golf ball. They were placing the baggie under his armpit, on the fleshy part of his arm.

What the hell were they doing? He felt the water cold against his under-arm, and he struggled but they held him tight, and then inside the water, something soft pressed against the arm, and he had a sticky sensation, like sticky chewing gum, something sticky and tugging against the flesh of his arm, and then he felt a little pinch. Nothing, hardly noticeable, a momentary sting.

The men were moving quickly, the baggie was removed, and at that moment he heard two surprisingly loud gunshots and Marisa was screaming in rapid French"Salaud! Salopard! Bouge-toi le cul!"and the third man had tumbled off Marshall's back and fallen to the ground, then scrambled up, and Marisa was still screaming, there were more shots, and he could smell powder in the air, and the men fled. The door slammed, and she came back, stark naked, babbling in French he could not understand, something about vacherie, which he thought was a cow but he wasn't thinking straight. He was starting to tremble on the bed.

She came over and threw her arms around him. The barrel of the gun was hot and he yelled, and she set it aside. "Oh Jonathan, I am so sorry, so sorry." She cradled his head against her shoulder. "Please, you must forgive me, it is all right now, I promise you."

Gradually his trembling stopped, and she looked at him. "Did they hurt you?"

He shook his head, no.

"Good. I did not think so. Idiots! Friends of Jimmy, they think they make a joke, to scare you. And me I am sure. But you are not hurt?"

He shook his head again. He coughed. "Perhaps," he said, finding his voice at last. "Perhaps I should be going."

"Oh, no," she said. "No, no, you cannot do this to me."

"I don't feel"

"Absolutely no," she said. She pushed closer to him, so her body was touching his. "You must stay a while."

"Should we call the police?"

"Mais non. The police will do nothing. A quarrel of lovers. In France we do not do this, call the police."

"But they broke in amp;"

"They are gone now," she said, whispering in his ear. He felt her breath. "There is only us, now. Only us, Jonathan." Her dark body slid down his chest.

It was after midnight when he was finally dressed and standing at the window, looking out at Notre Dame. The streets were still crowded.

"Why will you not stay?" she said, pouting prettily. "I want you to stay. Don't you want to please me?"

"I'm sorry," he said. "I have to go. I don't feel very well."

"I will make you feel better."

He shook his head. In truth, he really did not feel well. He was experiencing waves of dizziness, and his legs felt oddly weak. His hands were trembling as he gripped the balcony.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I have to leave."

"All right, then I will drive you."

Her car, he knew, was parked on the other side of the Seine. It seemed far to walk. But he just nodded numbly. "All right," he said.

She was in no rush. They strolled arm in arm, like lovers, along the embankment. They passed the houseboat restaurants tied up to the side, brightly lit, still busy with guests. Above them, on the other side of the river, rose Notre Dame, brilliantly lit. For a while, this slow walk, with her head on his shoulder, the soft words she spoke to him, made him feel better.

But soon he stumbled, feeling a kind of clumsy weakness coursing through his body. His mouth was very dry. His jaw felt stiff. It was difficult to speak.

She did not seem to notice. They had moved past the bright lights now, under one of the bridges, and he stumbled again. This time he fell on the stone embankment.

"My darling," she said, worried and solicitous, and helped him to his feet.

He said, "I think amp;I think amp;"

"Darling, are you all right?" She helped him to a bench, away from the river. "Here, just sit here for a moment. You will feel better in a moment."

But he did not feel better. He tried to protest, but he could not speak. In horror he realized he could not even shake his head. Something was very wrong. His whole body was growing weak, swiftly and astonishingly weak, and he tried to push up from the bench, but he could not move his limbs, he could not move his head. He looked at her, sitting beside him.

"Jonathan, what is wrong? Do you need a doctor?"

Yes, I need a doctor, he thought.

"Jonathan, this is not right amp;"

His chest was heavy. He was having trouble breathing. He looked away, staring straight ahead. He thought in horror: I am paralyzed.

"Jonathan?"

He tried to look at her. But now he could not even move his eyes. He could only look straight forward. His breathing was shallow.

"Jonathan?"

I need a doctor.

"Jonathan, can you look at me? Can you? No? You cannot turn your head?"

Somehow, her voice did not sound concerned. She sounded detached, clinical. Perhaps his hearing was affected. There was a rushing sound in his ears. It was harder and harder to breathe.

"All right, Jonathan, let's get you away from here."

She ducked her head under his arm and with surprising strength got him to his feet. His body was loose and floppy, sagging around her. He could not control where he looked. He heard the clicking of footsteps approaching and thought, Thank God. He heard a man's voice say in French, "Mademoiselle, do you need help?"