Odds On: A Novel

by Michael Crichton

  Who else didn’t look like a thief? The Warrens, from someplace in Ohio. Their brat was screaming and splashing in the water now, attracting as much attention as he could. Mrs. Warren had a pasty face and a skinny, birdlike body. Her voice was shrill with displeasure as she cawed at little Herbie. Little Herbie pointedly spit a mouthful of water in her direction. Mr. Warren, who was plump and rumpled looking in his baggy business suits, shook a warning finger at Herbie and said something about paying attention to your mother. Herbie laughed and splashed more water.

  Then there was Miss Shaw, sitting in a canvas chair, a pile of bananas at her side, a book in her lap. Jencks could not imagine a more eccentric old woman, but she was charming in her nineteenth-century way. She looked up at Herbie and wrinkled her nose in disapproval. Jencks felt the same way. Little Herbie ought to be strangled.

  The Italian architect appeared. He was accompanied by the dark-haired girl with the hourglass body and the beautiful eyes. Jencks had liked the couple instinctively, though rumor was that they were having their troubles. “Not married, you know,” Mrs. Aldrich had hissed into his ear, her voice sounding like seltzer water jetting from a bottle. Jencks didn’t care. He thought they were an attractive pair.

  Could they have done it? It seemed unlikely, but that in itself was a reason for suspicion.

  “Morning,” Miguel said, dropping into a chair.

  “Well, at least you didn’t say good morning. Where’s Bryan?”

  “I don’t know; I haven’t seen him. Sorry I’m late, but I overslept. I heard some funny things this morning. You know, nobody thinks the bridge was blown up—they blame it on the storm.” He chuckled. “That’s our luck. We don’t even get credit for anything.”

  Jencks let the remark drop. “Any ideas?”

  “Not one. I’ve been hashing it over all morning, and nothing’s turned up. And I’m getting tired of giving sneaky looks to everyone around me. There are more people than I have sneaky looks for.”

  “I admire your talent for levity.”

  “Christ, there are times when all you can do is laugh.”

  Bryan came up.

  “You’re late,” Jencks snapped. “Nearly half an hour.”

  “It was worth it,” Bryan said, sitting down.

  “What was?” Jencks said, forgetting his anger, not daring to hope.

  “Have you observed the hotel routine?” Bryan asked. “I have, I suppose because I’ve talked so much with the girl. They do things very smoothly here, mostly because they can hire all the staff they need at low Spanish wages. In the mornings, the maids come in to clean out the rooms, stripping the linen from the beds of people that are leaving, and—”

  “Get to the point.”

  Bryan smiled, obviously unwilling to relinquish a moment of triumph.

  “And tidying up in rooms where guests are staying another night. They arrange things on the dressers, change towels in the bathrooms, and empty the wastebaskets. They empty them into large canvas bags, like mailbags, that the boys later come around to collect. Have you seen them?”

  “Yes,” Miguel said. “They’re green. Light green.”

  “That’s it,” Bryan said. “I was walking along, on my way down here, and I noticed something in one of them. It was in the middle, buried among a heap of discarded letters, cigarette butts, and empty bottles. This.” He reached into his pocket for a crumpled photograph of the interior of a hotel room.

  “Polaroid,” Jencks said, looking at the serrated edge of the print. “A Polaroid picture of a hotel room.”

  “Sixty seconds,” Bryan said, beaming.

  “The picture was taken from a position just inside the door,” Jencks said, examining it again. “And then discarded. Why?”

  “You can ask the same question about all these.”

  Bryan produced three more pictures from his pocket. Each showed a different hotel room; each had been crumpled and thrown away. “I was thinking of what you said last night, about the operation being a mirror image of our own. Well, these are—”

  “Flash cards!” Jencks said, “They didn’t use flash cards. They didn’t rely on memory. The came into a room, photographed it, and searched while the picture was developing. Later, they could compare the room to the picture and see if anything was out of place. That’s brilliant.”

  “Know anybody with a Polaroid camera?” Bryan asked.

  Miguel, who had listened in silence, now said, “I do.”

  The others looked at him expectantly.

  “A nympho on the third floor who calls herself Cynthia.”

  “Cynthia?” Bryan asked. “You know her?”

  “Yes,” Miguel said. “I slept with her.”

  “It figures,” Bryan said. “As exclusive as a swinging door.”

  “How do you know her?” Jencks asked Bryan, fighting to control the excitement in his voice.

  “She came up to me a couple of days ago. Made a little play, wiggled her hips. We talked a bit; I wasn’t interested. Do you know her, Steve?”

  “She pulled the same thing with me,” Jencks said.

  “Nympho,” Miguel pronounced, as if it were a medical opinion.

  Jencks’ eyes narrowed. “What did you talk about?”

  “We didn’t talk,” Miguel said. “We just—”

  “Not you. Bryan.”

  Bryan shrugged. “All sort of minor things. I don’t really remember; she was swinging that body back and forth under my nose.”

  “She pumped me,” Jencks said. “I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it all comes back now.”

  “She pumped me, too,” Miguel said, laughing coarsely.

  Jencks had a strong urge to punch Miguel in the face, but said only, “I think we’d better visit Cynthia, as a group of mutual friends.”

  Together, they got up and went into the Reina.

  Cynthia looked up, startled, as the key was inserted into the lock, and the door swung open. Three men walked into the room.

  She had been caught dressing and wore only a cashmere sweater which reached her waist. Instinctively, she pulled it down so it covered her crotch, but her buttocks were bare behind.

  “Nice legs,” Miguel snickered, shutting the door. “You should see what she can do with them, too.”

  Jencks sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

  Miguel recognized it “Kef,” he said, looking at Cynthia with new interest

  “What?”

  “Kef. Marijuana. She’s been smoking it.”

  Cynthia drew back, still holding her sweater down with one hand. “No.”

  “They get very suspicious when they’re high,” Miguel explained. “What shall we do with her?”

  “You may think,” Cynthia purred, “that the three of you are too much. You’re not. I can take you on, you’ll see.” The hand holding her sweater began to caress her loins.

  “She’s high, all right,” Miguel said. “Let me handle this.”

  There was an edge to his voice which disturbed Jencks. “I’ll take care of it,” Jencks said.

  “Let me,” Miguel insisted softly. “It will be my pleasure.” He walked up to Cynthia and held her face in his hands.

  Jencks was about to step forward, but Bryan caught him and shook his head. Jencks hesitated, then relaxed against a wall.

  “Cynthia,” Miguel said softly, stroking her cheek. “Do you remember me?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice dreamy.

  “Cynthia, we want to take some pictures. Where is your camera?”

  “I don’t have any camera.” She pouted and shook her head in an exaggerated, almost drunken way.

  “Cynthia.”

  She stopped shaking her head and looked at him.

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Her laugh, high and lilting, broke the stillness of the room. “You can’t. I can take all of you, I told you before.”

  “I’m not talking about that, Cynthia.” The threat was v
ery clear in his voice now, but she did not respond to it.

  “No camera.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I never had any camera.”

  “I saw it, a Polaroid camera. In your room, remember, Cynthia?”

  “No camera.”

  She felt his hand stroking her cheek. It felt good, but his voice was funny. It was alternately loud and soft, like a radio being turned high and low in succession. If he wanted sex, it was all right with her, but he didn’t seem interested. All this talk about the camera, with his voice shouting, then soft, shouting, then soft.

  “Cynthia, I’m going to hurt you.”

  She laughed again and released her sweater which snuggled back up around her waist. She could feel it clinging around her, like hands.

  A tingle ran through her. A small brush fire was burning, in a deserted field, an abandoned wheat field, a field of olive trees, a grove of bright red cherries.…

  Miguel was leaning over her, his breath smelling of tobacco and coffee. It washed over her face like a wave.

  “Cynthia. If it hurts too much, tell me, and I’ll stop.”

  His voice came from an echo chamber, a large dark room where sound returned to haunt you. “Tell me and I’ll stop,” she heard again. “Tell me and I’ll stop … tell me and stop … tell me and I’ll stop …”

  “Do you think this is wise?” one of the men said. “Think this is wise … this is wise … this is wise.…”

  “Let me handle it,” Miguel said. She felt his hand lift her sweater. Cold air touched her stomach and breasts. Miguel was panting. His fingers ran over her body, comforting her. It was going to be sex. Everything was sex in the end. In the end. She laughed.

  He slapped her, each finger stinging her check. Her eyes closed. Fear grabbed her as an eagle plucks up a lamb, carrying it into the air, away from the ground, far from safety.

  His hands caressed her kneecap, then pinched. It was not a hard pinch, but gentle, almost loving. He began to pinch more, moving his hand up her leg. The pinches were harder. His hand moved to the inside of her thigh. It was tender there, and the pinches hurt, little pricks of pain that rippled like a stone falling into water. His hand moved up. He was hurting her more. Soon it would hurt very much.

  “The camera, where is it?”

  The voice was dead. She hardly heard him. She was concentrating on the pain, which nipped at her. It was an animal, biting her and growling as it moved up her body. It had no right to be there. It was obscene, it was terrible, it was terrifying.

  His hands no longer caused distinct moments of hurt. It was all blended now. each new pinch inseparable from the last. The pain spiraled. And suddenly, it died. Things were gentle, peaceful, and relaxed; his hand was tender as it stroked her legs and lips. She was ready for him. His fingers were drowning in her. They were feeling her small spots, searching for the little place. She could tell it was there, a little hill in the golden wheat field. He could find it, and she would enjoy his discovery.

  A streak of pleasure shot past her eyeballs, like a comet. Sparks of desire scattered. He had found the place and was teasing it. The backs of her knees were wobbly and loose. She wanted him. He was being so exquisite, she had to have him. She felt helpless, held down like a butterfly waiting for the shock of ether to knock it out. Another lash of excitement, then another. She moaned.

  And suddenly she felt pain that was excruciating. He was pinching her again, and it was unbelievable. Nothing could hurt so much. Another hand was at her breasts, pinching there, too. Two centers of pain radiated in her, each agonizing, but one dominated, sending out pulses of pent-up screams.

  “The camera,” his voice said, panting in her face. “Where is the camera?”

  Her neck tensed with a new jolt of pain. “No camera,” she said. Didn’t he know she didn’t want to talk about a camera? Cameras didn’t interest her.

  The hand was gentle again. Gasping for breath, her bruised nipples heaving, she received the new wave of pleasure. It was incredible, the combination. The pleasure was less bearable than the pain. She almost longed to be hurt again. She saw a house flooded, then pounded by rain, then flooded again by warm, swirling waters. It was in a steaming jungle. Vines hung from the trees, and there were many slim saplings standing straight and resilient.

  “Please take me,” she said. Her mouth was dry. She was having trouble breathing.

  “The camera. Just tell us about the camera.”

  His voice was dry, too, flaking and cracking like an old painted sign.

  “Take me.”

  “You must learn to answer the question.” Though he was panting loudly, like a steam engine chugging, she heard his words. And suddenly, pain shot through her, from far away to up close, bursting inside her. She bit her lips. She could not take much more of it. The pain stopped, and she bathed in pleasure, but it was not a restful thing. This time he was building her, preparing her for the heights of love. It was wonderful, what he was doing.

  He stopped. She moaned.

  She had to have a man, she had to take it in her, to be able to press herself down on it, to scratch the maddening itch.

  “Please. Oh, please.” She was writhing, gasping.

  “Tell me.”

  “No.”

  “Tell me, or I’ll leave.”

  She hesitated. To convince her, to tip the balance, he touched her again with the delicate stroke, the brush, the delicate brush on the painter’s canvas. “Jean-Paul has it,” she said, still gasping.

  “Jean-Paul?”

  “Jean-Paul Morand,” said one of the men. His voice was gruff, like gravel being dumped from a truck. “I know who he is. A tough-looking customer.”

  Miguel said, “It was you and Jean-Paul?”

  “You and Jean-Paul … you and Jean-Paul …” The voice reverberated, repeated, asked again.

  “Yes. We did it. Now please.”

  “Where is the stuff?” Miguel asked.

  “Jean-Paul,” she repeated. “Jean-Paul.”

  She opened her eyes, saw light and three faces. Two were calm; one was sweating. She reached for Miguel.

  “Don’t leave me, not now.”

  He turned to the others. The ugly man jerked his thumb toward the door. He looked disgusted.

  “I don’t really believe in torture,” Miguel said to her. “But I’m afraid this time is an exception. Later.”

  He got up. He was leaving. She wanted to scream. Panic. What were they going to do? She was so hot, so wet. She was still trembling from him. He was leaving her, they were all leaving. Footsteps moved to the door, and then she heard it slam.

  She was alone. She burst into hysterical tears.

  Bryan stopped at the desk, carrying one of his own sweaters in his hand. “Sorry,” he said to Annette. “One of the guests left this at the pool a few minutes ago. Fellow named Morand. I thought I’d drop it by his room.”

  “We can send it up with the boy,” Annette said.

  “No bother,” Bryan replied smoothly. “I’m on my way upstairs anyway. What’s his room?”

  “214,” Annette said, consulting her chart.

  “Thanks very much,” Bryan smiled.

  He met Jencks on the first floor. “214,” he said. The two men went up one flight and turned down the corridor. The maids were just finishing with the last of the rooms.

  “Where’s Miguel?”

  “He went to get his gun.”

  “His gun! I told him specifically—”

  “I know, I know. But perhaps it’s just as well.”

  They stopped at Jean-Paul’s door.

  “Wait for Miguel?” Bryan asked.

  Jencks shook his head. He didn’t like guns and would use one only as a last resort. He knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” a muffled voice asked. It did not sound fearful, or even interested, just preoccupied.

  “Femme de chambre,” Jencks said, in a high voice.

  “Un moment,” came the reply. Footsteps a
pproached.

  The door opened and they had a glimpse of Jean-Paul’s face, covered with shaving lather. With brutal force, Jencks slammed the door wide, pinning Jean-Paul’s arm against the wall. They entered and threw him down on the bed. He sat there, astonished, and looked at them.

  “The cameras,” Jencks said.

  Jean-Paul stood threateningly, and Bryan hit him once in the stomach, quite hard. The Frenchman crumpled, holding his gut. He got lather on his knees.

  “No games,” Jencks said. “We’re not in the mood. Where are the cameras?”

  “Je ne parte pas Anglais,” Jean-Paul muttered.

  Bryan grabbed him by the wrist and elbow, straightened his arm and flung Jean-Paul against the wall. He slapped hard against the plaster, face first. Bryan caught him as he fell, and turned him to face Jencks. There was a little U of lather on the wall.

  “Be careful,” Jencks said to Jean-Paul. “You can get killed, if you’re not careful.”

  Jean-Paul was barely conscious. Bryan had to prop him up against the wall.

  Without another word, Jencks turned and began to search the room. He flung open the closet doors and rummaged among the clothing. Then he checked all the dresser drawers. Behind him, he heard a sigh and looked over to see Bryan dropping Jean-Paul to the bed.

  “Out like a light,” Bryan said.

  “You weren’t exactly gentle.”

  “I’m crying.”

  Bryan joined the search. Together, they looked under the beds, behind the furniture, in the bathroom. Jencks found Jean-Paul’s suitcase locked; he spent several minutes jimmying it open with a pocketknife. It was empty.

  “Son of a bitch,” Bryan said.

  Jencks looked up to see Jean-Paul standing by the door. Neither of them had noticed him get up; they had been absorbed in their inspection. Jean-Paul opened the door, and Bryan dived for him. Jean-Paul kicked; the Englishman grunted and fell to his knees. By then Jencks was on his feet, but Jean-Paul was outside, slamming the door behind him. Jencks heard running feet in the corridor. Roughly he pushed Bryan out of his way and went out into the hall. It was empty, but at the far end, around the corner, he heard running, and saw a passing shadow.