Next. Michael Crichton

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СКАЧАТЬ for new drugs, Joshua. Big commercial applications. I mean, what if this spray gets people off drugs? What if it breaks their addiction?”

      Joshua was shaking his head. “Mom, really, nothing happened.”

      “Okay, fine, you don’t want to tell me the truth, I get it. Was it something experimental? Is that what your spray is?”

      “Mom—”

      “Because the thing is, Josh, I told Lois Graham about it because her Eric dropped out of USC. He’s on crack or smack or—”

      “Mom—”

      “And she wants to try this spray on him.”

      Oh Jesus. “Mom, you can’t talk about this.”

      “And Helen Stern, her daughter is on sleeping pills; she crashed her car; they’re talking about putting her baby in foster care. And Helen wants—”

      “Mom, please! You can’t talk about it anymore!”

      “Are you crazy? I have to talk about it,” she said. “You gave me my son back. It’s a miracle. Don’t you realize, Joshua? You have performed a miracle. The whole world is going to talk about what you have done—whether you like it or not.”

      He was beginning to sweat, to feel dizzy, but suddenly his vision became clear and calm. The whole world is going to talk about it.

      Of course, that was true. If you could get people off drugs? It would be the most valuable pharmaceutical in the last decade. Everybody would want it. And what if it did more? Could it cure obsessive-compulsive disorders? Could it cure attention-deficit disorders? The maturity gene had behavioral effects. They already knew that. Adam sniffing that aerosol was a gift from God.

      And his next thought was: What’s the state of the patent application on ACMPD3N7?

      He decided to skip lunch and head back to the office.

      “Mom?”

      “Yes, Josh.”

      “I need your help.”

      “Of course, dear. Anything.”

      “I need you to do something for me and not to talk about it to anyone, ever.”

      “Well, that’s difficult—”

      “Yes or no, Mom.”

      “Well, all right, dear.”

      “You said that Lois Graham’s son is on smack, and dropped out of college?”

      “Yes.”

      “Where is he now?”

      “Apparently,” she said, “he’s downtown in some godawful flophouse off campus—”

      “Do you know where?”

      “No, but Lois went to see him. She told me it was squalid. It’s on East Thirty-eighth, some old frame house with faded blue shutters. Eight or nine addicts are there sleeping on the floor, but I can call Lois and ask her—”

      “No,” he said quickly. “Don’t do anything, Mom.”

      “But you said you needed my help—”

      “That’s for later, Mom. For now, everything is fine. I’ll call you in a day or so.”

      He scribbled on a pad:

      Eric Graham

      E 38th Street

      Frame hse blue shutters

      He reached for his car keys.

      Rachel Allen, who worked in the dispensary, said, “You still haven’t signed back in one oxygen canister from two weeks ago, Josh. Or the virus vial that was with it.” The company measured remaining virus in returned vials, as a way of keeping a rough track of dosages to the rats.

      “Yes,” he said, “I know, uh, I keep forgetting.”

      “Where is it?”

      “It’s in my car.”

      “In your car? Josh, that’s a contagious retrovirus.”

      “Yeah, for mice.”

      “Even so. It must remain in a negative-pressure laboratory environment at all times.” Rachel was a stickler for the rules. Nobody really paid attention to her.

      “I know, Rach,” he said, “but I had a family emergency. I had to get my brother”—he dropped his voice—“out of jail.”

      “Really.”

      “Yes.”

      “For what?”

      He hesitated. “Armed robbery.”

      “Really.”

      “Liquor store. Mom is crushed. Anyway, I’ll bring the canister back to you. Meanwhile, can I have one more?”

      “We only sign out one at a time.”

      “I need one more now. Please? I’m under a lot of pressure.”

      Light rain was falling. The streets were slick with oil and shimmered in rainbow patterns. Beneath low, angry clouds, he drove down East Thirty-eighth Street. It was an old section of town, bypassed by modern rebuilding farther north. Here houses built in the 1920s and 1930s were still standing. Josh drove past several wood-frame houses, in various states of disrepair. One had a blue door. None had blue shutters.

      He ended up in the warehouse district, the street lined with loading docks. He turned around and headed back. He drove as slowly as he could, and finally he saw the house. It was not actually on Thirty-eighth but on the corner of Thirty-eighth and Alameda, tucked back behind high weeds and ratty bushes. An old mattress streaked with rust lay on the sidewalk in front of the house. There was a truck tire on the front lawn. A battered VW bus was pulled up to the curb.

      Josh parked across the street. He watched the house. And waited.

      CH013

      The coffin rose into sunlight. It looked the same as it had when buried a week earlier, except for the clumps of dirt that dropped from the underside.

      “This is all so undignified,” Emily Weller said. She stood stiffly at the graveside, accompanied by her son, Tom, and her daughter Rachel. Of course, Lisa was not there. She was the cause of all this, but she could not be bothered to see what she had done to her poor father.

      The coffin swung slowly in the air as the graveside workers guided it to the far side of the pit under the direction of the hospital pathologist, a nervous little man named Marty Roberts. He should be nervous, Emily thought, if he was the one who had given the blood to Lisa without anybody’s СКАЧАТЬ