Michael Crichton - State Of Fear

There was no movement. Just the fingers on the couch.

"Is it here?"

The fingers stopped. Or almost stopped. They still moved slightly. But there was clearly an effort being made.

"Can you control your fingers?" Evans said.

They started, then stopped again.

"So you can. Okay. Now: is the thing you wanted me to see here?"

Fingers moved.

Then stopped.

"I take that as a yes. Okay." Evans stepped back. In the distance, he heard an approaching siren. The ambulance would be here in a few minutes. He said, "I am going to move in one direction, and if it is the right direction, move your fingers."

The fingers started, then stopped, as if to signal "yes."

"Okay," Evans said. He turned and took several steps to his right, heading toward the kitchen. He looked back.

The fingers did not move.

"So it's not that way." He now moved toward the television, directly in front of the man.

The fingers did not move.

"All right, then." Evans turned left, walking toward the picture windows. Still the fingers did not move. There was only one direction remaining: he moved behind the investigator, heading toward the door. Since the man could not see him, Evans said, "Now I am walking away from you, toward the front door amp;"

The fingers did not move.

"Maybe you didn't understand," Evans said. "I wanted you to move your fingers if I was heading in the right direction amp;"

Fingers moved. Scratching the couch.

"Yeah, okay, but which direction? I went in all four directions and"

The doorbell rang. Evans opened it, and two paramedics rushed in, bringing a stretcher. And now there was pandemonium, they were asking him rapid-fire questions, and loading the guy onto the stretcher. The police arrived a few moments later, with still more questions. They were the Beverly Hills police, so they were polite, but they were insistent. This man was paralyzed in Evans's apartment, and Evans did not seem to know anything about it.

Finally, a detective came through the door. He wore a brown suit and introduced himself as Ron Perry. He gave Evans his card. Evans gave him his own card. Perry looked at it, then looked at Evans and said, "Haven't I seen this card before? It looks familiar. Oh yeah, I remember. It was at that apartment on Wilshire where the lady was paralyzed."

"She was my client."

"And now it's happened again, the same paralysis," Perry said. "Is that a coincidence or what?"

"I don't know," Evans said, "because I wasn't here. I don't know what happened."

"Somehow people just become paralyzed wherever you go?"

"No," Evans said. "I told you, I don't know what happened."

"Is this guy a client, too?"

"No."

"Then who is he?"

"I have no idea who he is."

"No? How'd he get in here?"

Evans was about to say he had left the door open for him, but he realized that was going to be a long explanation, and a difficult one.

"I don't know. I, uh amp;Sometimes I don't lock my door."

"You should always lock your door, Mr. Evans. That's just common sense."

"Of course, you're right."

"Doesn't your door lock automatically, when you leave?"

"I told you, I don't know how he got in my apartment," Evans said, looking directly into the detective's eyes.

The detective returned the stare. "How'd you get those stitches in your head?"

"I fell."

"Looks like quite a fall."

"It was."

The detective nodded slowly. "You could save us a lot of trouble if you'd just tell me who this guy is, Mr. Evans. You've got a man in your apartment, you don't know who he is, you don't know how he got here. Forgive me if I feel you're maybe leaving something out."

"I am."

"Okay." Perry took out his notebook. "Go ahead."

"The guy's a private detective."

"I know that."

"You do?" Evans said.

"The paramedics checked his pockets, found a license in his wallet. Go on."

"He told me he had been hired by a client of mine."

"Uh-huh. Which client is that?" Perry was writing.

"I can't tell you that," Evans said.

He looked up from his pad. "Mr. Evans"

"I'm sorry. That's privileged."

The detective gave a long sigh. "Okay, so this guy is a private investigator hired by a client of yours."

"Right," Evans said. "The investigator contacted me and said he wanted to see me, to give me something."

"To give you something?"

"Right."

"He didn't want to give it to the client?"

"He couldn't."

"Because?"

"The client is, uh, unavailable."

"I see. So he came to you instead?"

"Yes. And he was a bit paranoid, and wanted to meet me in my apartment."

"So you left the door to your apartment open for him."

"Yes."

"Some guy you'd never seen before?"

"Yes, well, I knew he was working for my client."

"How did you know that?"

Evans shook his head. "Privileged."

"Okay. So this guy comes into your apartment. Where are you?"

"I was at my office."

Evans quickly recounted his movements during the intervening two hours.

"People saw you at the office?"

"Yes."

"Conversations?"

"Yes."

"More than one person?"

"Yes."

"You see anybody else besides people in the law firm?"

"I stopped to get gas."

"Attendant will recognize you?"

"Yes. I had to go in to use my credit card."

"Which station?"

"Shell on Pico."

"Okay. So you were gone two hours, you come back here, and the guy is amp;"

"As you saw him. Paralyzed."

"And what was he going to give you?"

"I have no idea."

"You didn't find anything in the apartment?"

"No."

"Anything else you want to tell me?"

"No."

Another long sigh. "Look, Mr. Evans. If two people I knew were mysteriously paralyzed, I'd be a little worried. But you don't seem worried."

"Believe me, I'm worried," Evans said.

The detective frowned at him. "Okay," he said finally. "You have a client privilege you're invoking. I have to tell you that I've gotten calls from UCLA and from the CDC on this paralysis thing. Now that there's a second case, there are going to be more calls." He flipped his notebook shut. "I'm going to need you to come by the station and give us a signed statement. Can you do that later today?"

"I think so."

"Four o'clock?"

"Yes. Fine."

"The address is on the card. Just ask for me at the desk. Parking is under the building."

"Okay," Evans said.

"See you then," the detective said, and turned to leave.

Evans shut the door behind him and leaned against it. He was glad to finally be alone. He walked around the apartment slowly, trying to focus his thoughts. The television was still on, but the sound was turned off. He looked at the couch where the private investigator had been sitting. The indentation of his body was still visible.

He still had half an hour before he was supposed to meet with Drake. But he wanted to know what the PI had brought to him. Where was it? Evans had moved in every direction of the compass, and each time the man had indicated with his fingertips that it was the wrong direction.

Which meant what? He hadn't brought the thing? It was somewhere else? Or that whoever paralyzed him had taken it, so it was no longer there?

Evans sighed. The critical questionis it here?was one he hadn't asked the detective. Evans just assumed it was there.

And suppose it was? Where would it be?

North, south, east, west. All wrong.

Which meant amp;

What?

He shook his head. He was having trouble concentrating. The truth was, the private investigator's paralysis had unnerved him more than he wanted to admit. He looked at the couch, and the indentation. The guy couldn't move. It must have been terrifying. And the paramedics had lifted him up bodily, like a sack of potatoes, and put him on the stretcher. The cushions on the couch were in disarray, a reminder of their efforts.