Next. Michael Crichton

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СКАЧАТЬ had a bad feeling.

      The kid knew, all right. He knew exactly what he was doing.

      “He’s up here,” Dolly said, standing on the second floor. “But the door won’t open. No, he’s going down again.”

      “Go back to the table,” Vasco said to her. “Let him go.”

      She realized at once what he was talking about. She hurried back down the plush red velvet staircase to the ground floor. She was not surprised to see that the table where the thuggish man had sat was now empty. No thug. No beautiful Russian girl. Just a hundred-dollar bill tucked under a glass. He’d paid in cash, of course.

      And vanished.

      Vasco was now surrounded by three hotel security guys, all talking at once. Standing half a head above them he yelled for quiet. “One thing,” he said. “How do we get the elevator open?”

      “He must have hit the override.”

      “How do we get it open?”

      “We have to kill the power to it.”

      “Will that open it?”

      “No, but then we can wedge it open, once it’s stopped.”

      “How long will that take?”

      “Maybe ten, fifteen minutes. Doesn’t matter, this guy isn’t going anyplace.”

      “Yes, he is,” Vasco said.

      The security guy laughed. “Where the hell can he go?”

      The elevator came down again. Tolman was on his knees, holding the glass door shut.

      “Get up,” Vasco said. “Get up, get up. Come on, son, it’s not worth it, stand up!”

      Suddenly, Tolman’s eyes rolled up into his head and he fell onto his back. The elevator started to rise.

      “What the hell?” one of the security men said. “Who is he, anyway?”

      Ah shit, Vasco thought.

      The kid had pushed some override that had jammed the elevator circuits. It took them forty minutes to get the doors open and haul him out. He was long since dead, of course. The instant he fell, he was immersed in 100 percent nitrogen atmosphere, from the liquid nitrogen that was streaming from the dewar. Because nitrogen was heavier than air, it progressively filled the elevator from the bottom up. Once the kid flopped on his back, he was already unconscious, and he would have died within a minute.

      The security guys wanted to know what was in the dewar, which was no longer smoking. Vasco got some gloves and pulled out the long metal stick. There was nothing there, just a series of empty clips where the embryos should have been. The embryos had been removed.

      “You mean to say he killed himself?” one of the security men said.

      “That’s right,” Vasco said. “He worked in an embryology lab. He knew about the danger of liquid nitrogen in a confined space.” Nitrogen caused more laboratory fatalities than any other chemical. Half the people who died were trying to rescue co-workers who had collapsed in confined spaces.

      “It was his way out of a bad situation,” Vasco said.

      Later, driving home with him, Dolly said, “So what happened to the embryos?”

      Vasco shook his head. “No idea. The kid never got them.”

      “You think the girl took them? Before she went to his room?”

      “Somebody took them.” Vasco sighed. “The hotel doesn’t know her?”

      “They reviewed security cameras. They don’t know her.”

      “And her student status?”

      “University had her as a student last year. She didn’t enroll this year.”

      “So she’s vanished.”

      “Yeah,” Dolly said. “Her, the dark-skinned guy, the embryos. Everything vanished.”

      “I’d like to know how all this goes together,” Vasco said.

      “Maybe it doesn’t,” Dolly said.

      “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Vasco said. Up ahead, he saw the neon of a roadhouse in the desert. He pulled over. He needed a drink.

      CH001

      Division 48 of Los Angeles Superior Court was a wood-paneled room dominated by the great seal of the state of California. The room was small and had a tawdry feeling. The reddish carpet was frayed and streaked with dirt. The wood veneer on the witness stand was chipped, and one of the fluorescent lights was out, leaving the jury box darker than the rest of the room. The jurors themselves were dressed casually, in jeans and short-sleeve shirts. The judge’s chair squeaked whenever the Honorable Davis Pike turned away to glance at his laptop, which he did often throughout the day. Alex Burnet suspected he was checking his e-mail or his stocks.

      All in all, this courtroom seemed an odd place to litigate complex issues of biotechnology, but that was what they had been doing for the past two weeks in Frank M. Burnet v. Regents of the University of California.

      Alex was thirty-two, a successful litigator, a junior partner in her law firm. She sat at the plaintiff’s table with the other members of her father’s legal team, and watched as her father took the witness stand. Although she smiled reassuringly, she was, in fact, worried about how he would fare.

      Frank Burnet was a barrel-chested man who looked younger than his fifty-one years. He appeared healthy and confident as he was sworn in. Alex knew that her father’s vigorous appearance could undermine his case. And, of course, the pretrial publicity had been savagely negative. Rick Diehl’s PR team had worked hard to portray her dad as an ungrateful, greedy, unscrupulous man. A man who interfered with medical research. A man who wouldn’t keep his word, who just wanted money.

      None of that was true—in reality, it was the opposite of the truth. But not a single reporter had called her father to ask his side of the story. Not one. Behind Rick Diehl stood Jack Watson, the famous philanthropist. The media assumed that Watson was the good guy, and therefore her father was the bad guy. Once that version of the morality play appeared in the New York Times (written by the local entertainment reporter), everybody else fell into line. There was a huge “me, too” piece in the L.A. Times, trying to outdo the New York version in vilifying her father. And the local news shows kept up a daily drumbeat about the man who wanted to halt medical progress, the man who dared criticize UCLA, that renowned center of learning, the great hometown university. A half-dozen cameras followed her and her father whenever they walked up the courthouse steps.

      Their own efforts to get the story out had been singularly unsuccessful. Her father’s hired media advisor was competent enough, but no match for Jack Watson’s well-oiled, well-financed machine.

      Of course, members of the jury would have seen some of the coverage. And the impact of the coverage was to put added pressure on her father not merely to tell his story, but also СКАЧАТЬ