Michael Crichton - State Of Fear

"So you want me to go see Drake," Evans said.

"Right. And find out whatever you can."

"I hate this," Evans said.

"I understand," Kenner said. "But we need you to do it."

Evans looked at Sarah, who was rubbing her eyes, still sleepy. He was annoyed to see that she had arisen from her bed perfectly composed, her face uncreased, beautiful as ever. "How are you?" he said to her.

"I need to brush my teeth," she said. "How long until we land?"

"Ten minutes."

She got up, and walked to the back of the plane.

Evans looked out the window. The sunlight was glaring, harsh. He hadn't had enough sleep. The line of stitches in his scalp pinched. His body ached from being wedged in the damned crevasse for so long. Just to rest his elbow on the armrest of the seat was painful.

He sighed.

"Peter," Kenner said, "those guys tried to kill you. I wouldn't be too careful about the niceties when you fight back."

"Maybe so, but I'm a lawyer."

"And you could be a dead lawyer," Kenner said. "I don't advise it."

It was with a sense of unreality that Peter Evans merged his hybrid car onto the San Diego freeway, twelve lanes of roaring traffic on an expanse of concrete as wide as half a football field. Sixty-five percent of the surface area of Los Angeles was devoted to cars. People had to wedge themselves in what little was left. It was an inhuman design and it was environmentally absurd. Everything was so far apart, you couldn't walk anywhere, the pollution was incredible.

And people like Kenner did nothing but criticize the good work of environmental organizations, without whose efforts the environment of a place like Los Angeles would be much, much worse.

Face it, he thought. The world needed help. It desperately needed an environmental perspective. And nothing in Kenner's smooth manipulation of facts would change that truth.

His thoughts rambled on in this way for another ten minutes, until he crossed Mulholland Pass and came down toward Beverly Hills.

He looked at the passenger seat beside him. The doctored cell phone glinted in the sunlight. He decided to take it to Drake's office right away. Get this whole thing over with.

He telephoned Drake's office and asked to talk to him; he was told Drake was at the dentist and would return later in the day. The secretary wasn't sure exactly when.

Evans decided to go to his apartment and take a shower.

He parked in the garage and walked through the little garden to his apartment. The sun was shining down between the buildings; the roses were in bloom, beautiful. The only thing that marred it, he thought, was the lingering odor of cigar smoke in the air. It was offensive to think that somebody had smoked a cigar and that what remained was "Sssst! Evans!"

He paused. He looked around. He could see nothing.

Evans heard an intense whisper, like a hiss: "Turn right. Pick a damn rose."

"What?"

"Don't talk, you idiot. And stop looking around. Come over here and pick a rose."

Evans moved toward the voice. The cigar smell was stronger. Behind the tangle of the bushes, he saw an old stone bench that he had never noticed before. It was crusted with algae. Hunched down on the bench was a man in a sportcoat. Smoking a cigar.

"Who are"

"Don't talk," the man whispered. "How many times do I have to tell you. Take the rose, and smell it. That'll give you a reason to stay a minute. Now listen to me. I'm a private investigator. I was hired by George Morton."

Evans smelled the rose. Inhaling cigar smoke.

"I have something important for you," the guy said. "I'll bring it to your apartment in two hours. But I want you to leave again, so they'll follow you. Leave your door unlocked."

Evans turned the rose in his fingers, pretending to examine it. In fact, he was looking past the rose at the man on the bench. The man's face was familiar, somehow. Evans was sure he had seen him before amp; "Yeah, yeah," the man said, as if reading his thoughts. He turned his lapel, to show a badge. "AV Network Systems. I was working in the NERF building. Now you remember, right? Don't nod. For Christ's sake. Just go upstairs, change your clothes, and leave for a while. Go to the gym or whatever. Just go. These assholes" he jerked his head toward the street "have been waitin' for you. So don't disappoint them. Now go."

His apartment had been put back together very well. Lisa had done a good jobthe slashed cushions had been flipped over; the books were back in the bookcase. They were out of order, but he would deal with that later.

From the large windows in his living room, Evans looked out toward the street. He could see nothing except the green expanse of Roxbury Park. The kids playing at midday. The clusters of gossiping nannies. There was no sign of surveillance.

It looked perfectly normal.

Self-consciously, he started unbuttoning his shirt, and turned away. He went to the shower, letting the hot spray sting his body. He looked at his toes, which were dark purple, a worrisome, unnatural color. He wiggled them. He didn't have much sensation, but other than that, they seemed to be all right.

He toweled off, and checked his messages. There was a call from Janis, asking if he was free tonight. Then another, nervous one from her, saying her boyfriend had just come back into town and she was busy (which meant, don't call her back). There was a call from Lisa, Herb Lowenstein's assistant, asking where he was. Lowenstein wanted to go over some documents with him; it was important. A call from Heather, saying that Lowenstein was looking for him. A call from Margo Lane, saying she was still in the hospital and why hadn't he called her back? A call from his client the BMW dealer, asking when he was coming to the showroom.

And about ten hang-ups. Far more than he usually had.

The hang-ups gave him a creepy feeling.

Evans dressed quickly, putting on a suit and tie. He came back into the living room and, feeling uneasy, clicked on the television set, just in time for the local noon news. He was heading for the door when he heard: "Two new developments emphasize once again the dangers of global warming. The first study, out of England, says global warming is literally changing the rotation of the Earth, shortening the length of our day."

Evans turned back to look. He saw two co-anchors, a man and a woman. The man was explaining that even more dramatic was a study that showed that the Greenland ice cap was going to melt entirely away. That would cause sea levels to rise twenty feet.

"So, I guess it's good-bye Malibu!" the anchor said cheerfully. Of course, that wouldn't happen for a few years yet. "But it's coming amp;unless we all change our ways."

Evans turned away from the television and headed for the door. He wondered what Kenner would have to say about this latest news. Changing the rotation speed of the Earth? He shook his head at the sheer enormity of it. And melting all the ice in Greenland? Evans could imagine Kenner's discomfiture.

But then, he'd probably just deny it all, the way he usually did.

Evans opened the door, carefully ensured that it would remain unlocked, closed it behind him, and headed for his office.

He ran into Herb Lowenstein in the hall, walking toward a conference room. "Jesus," Lowenstein said, "where the hell have you been, Peter? Nobody could find you."

"I've been doing a confidential job for a client."

"Well next time tell your damn secretary how to reach you. You look like shit. What happened, you get in a fight or something? And what's that above your ear? Jesus, are those stitches?"

"I fell."

"Uh-huh. What client were you doing this confidential job for?"

"Nick Drake, actually."