Venom Business

by Michael Crichton

  8. THE DUPLICATE

  “AND THIS, GENTLEMEN, IS our prize possession. This cat you see before you has had its anterior hypothalamic nucleus removed cryogenically. Inhibitory influences on rage are thus eliminated. Our attempts to induce a secondary inhibition by shock treatment have been wholly unsuccessful.”

  The psychology students, all down from Cambridge, all doing their Part Threes, gaped as the cat snarled and flung itself at the bars of the cage.

  “Observe carefully,” Dr. Black said. “This animal is totally beyond its own control. Further, it cannot be conditioned, even by our strongest stimulus—electroshock. However, there are approaches: gloves, please.”

  His assistant provided a pair of heavy canvas gloves with broad cuffs that extended up his forearm. As Dr. Black pulled on the gloves, he said to the assistant, “We’ll use twenty milligrams this time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The assistant filled a syringe.

  “The cat will be injected with meprobamate, a so-called minor tranquilizer. It is the active principle in Miltown and Equanil. Chemically, it is a propanediol derivative, and its mode of action is still wholly unexplained.”

  The syringe was passed to him.

  “Stand back, please, gentlemen.”

  The students backed off as Black opened the door to the cage. He reached in with his gloved hand, and the cat attacked viciously, sinking teeth and claws into the canvas. With his free hand, Black maneuvered the syringe in, and with a swift jab, injected the contents.

  The cat gave a scream of pure rage as the needle went in. It continued to scream for several seconds after Black withdrew his hands and closed the cage door. It howled in uncontrolled fury, rolled on the floor, clawed at the bars.

  And then it stopped.

  Quite suddenly, quite dramatically, it relaxed, the muscles loosening. The cat sat quietly and purred. It yawned, licked its forepaws, and looked placidly at the students.

  Dr. Black removed his heavy gloves and opened the door. He reached in with his bare hands and stroked the cat.

  “Nice kitty.”

  The cat closed its eyes and purred.

  “You see, gentlemen? The cat has responded to a chemical. It is reacting in a way which cannot be duplicated by conditioning. It is producing a manner of behavior which it can no longer produce of its own will. In six hours, when the drug wears off, it will revert to a raging beast.”

  The students gawked in silence.

  “Come along, gentlemen.”

  Black was giving them a visitor’s tour, just the highlights, the most dramatic examples and the most unusual cases. He spared them the endless succession of tedious experiments with limited scope and narrow aims.

  “Next, I would like to show you the reverse of the coin, so to speak. In one case, a neuroanatomical deficit, with a presumed biochemical deficit, produced a given behavior pattern—that of uncontrolled rage. Now, however, I would like to duplicate the behavior by purely biochemical means.”

  He reached into a cage and withdrew a calm, gentle cat He held it in his arms and stroked the fur soothingly.

  “This is Harold,” he said.

  Some of the students tittered at the name. Actually, the cat had no name at all, but Black always called it Harold for the tours. The students found it amusing.

  “Harold is a perfectly normal cat, who occasionally goes into rages. We can arrange this by a simple injection of the drug Dezisen, which is a purified synthetic extract of South American snake venom. It is known to have a variety of neurophysiological effects.”

  As he held the cat, an assistant handed him a syringe and he injected a milliliter into the animal. Nothing happened; he continued to stroke it and replaced it in the cage.

  For several minutes, the students watched breathlessly. The animal lay on the floor of the cage and purred in contentment.

  And then, with a frightening sudden fury, it lashed out. It became precisely the same as the first cat, snarling in rage, banging against the bars of the cage.

  “As you can see, Harold is now responding to the drug. He will do so for another fifteen or twenty minutes. With higher doses, the response can be sustained for as long as an hour. I should advise you that we have no explanation for the effect at this time; all we can say is that it happens, and that there is very little variation in response from animal to animal. It seems to be quite specific as a trigger to the rage reaction.”

  One student said, “Does it work only in cats?”

  “No. We have tested it in mice, dogs, and monkeys. The effect is the same.”

  Someone laughed and said, “People?”

  “No one knows,” Black said, “the human response. But we assume it is similar.”

  He returned to his office at four o’clock, smiling slightly. Everything had gone well; the students were impressed. In a simple, petty way he enjoyed impressing young minds.

  And the early tests of the drug were working out well. They had gotten to the point of taking blood and urine samples from an animal during and after the acute rage reaction. They could find no abnormalities, no excreted end-products, nothing. It seemed to vanish without a trace.

  All in all, it appeared to be the ideal drug.

  He wondered what would happen when it was given to Richard Pierce.

  Personally, Black disliked Pierce. He knew that the boy was fond of him, and he was careful not to disturb the illusion. Their friendship was important; trust was a blind emotion. And it was particularly valuable since Richard was by nature hostile and suspicious.

  The matter of the arsenic pills was a perfect example. Richard had come to him quaking with fear, convinced that Lucienne wanted to kill him by poisoning. After a lengthy discussion, Black had said that arsenic was the most likely thing, though in fact arsenic would never be used—the police were alerted to it, and most arsenic victims were discovered. Much better would be an organic phosphate, like an insecticide, or a barbiturate, which would look like a suicide. But Black did not explain that to Richard.

  Then there was the business of the tolerance doses. Patently absurd, of course—arsenic had a cumulative effect in the body; repeated small doses would lead to a chronic poisoning and eventual death. Black had been sorely tempted to prescribe real arsenic in the pills, but if Richard died he might have a nasty time with the police. In the end, he settled on plain Librium, a tranquilizer. The chemist made up special pills with numbers on them, and Richard never suspected.

  He had even gotten sick on the early doses. Very amusing.

  Well, no matter. The Librium couldn’t hurt him, and it might keep him relaxed, make him drop his guard. That would help Raynaud.

  At five, Black left the research building and picked up his Aston Martin. He was proud of the car, though it rankled him to think he had bought it second-hand. And whenever he saw it next to Pierce’s Maserati, it seemed insignificant and tawdry.

  He smiled to himself as he turned the key in the ignition. Black liked the Maserati, and it would soon be up for grabs; it would go cheaply.

  Certainly Raynaud would not be around to buy it. Raynaud would shortly have problems of his own, major problems. They would have nothing to do with the purchase of a dead man’s car.

  Burgess, the butler, was on the second-floor hall phone in Black’s house, speaking in a low voice. “Yes, madam. No, nothing else. Of course, madam. I will.”

  He hung up and walked briskly down the hall.

  Black peered around the corner and smiled. Poor Lucienne. So suspicious in her old age—but so obvious about it. And to choose Burgess, a doddering old fool who nipped the Teacher’s in the evening and then remarked in the morning that the maid must have been at it again. Burgess was as subtle as a water buffalo.

  Black had known about Burgess and his daily calls for almost a year. He had made the discovery by chance, but it had not surprised him. Considering Lucienne, it was almost predictable. She was paranoid about men, convinced that they were all out to ruin and destroy
her.

  Which was true, in a sense, but only in a sense. The interesting thing was her attitude toward Black. Even with the evidence staring her in the face, she refused to believe, to make the final step toward acceptance. She had deluded herself for years.

  It had begun with the moment her husband was killed. The passing Citroën had only knocked him unconscious; he was not badly injured, and a few brisk slaps on the face would have brought him round good as new. But Black had pretended the injury was serious, and she had accepted the judgment though her eyes must have told her the truth. And then driving, with Black in the back seat holding his hand over Pierce’s mouth and pinching the nose shut with his fingers, until the last heartbeat had died away….

  Lucienne had known all along. She must have known.

  Actually, Black had not planned the accident. It had been in the back of his mind, but he had not planned it, and when it had happened and the Citroën sped away, he had reacted quickly and smoothly. In a matter of minutes, Pierce was dead and Black could begin the tiresome charade of mouth-to-mouth respiration and rubbing the limbs. The ministrations served another purpose as well: they kept the corpse fresh-looking for the half-hour ride to the hospital.

  A fresh-looking corpse, he knew from experience, was important.

  9. A FURTHER ADVANCE

  “IT’S A BAD IDEA,” Raynaud said.

  “Bloody hell,” Pierce said.

  “Too many people. Too hard to keep track of you.”

  “Bloody hell,” Pierce said.

  “Anyone would have a dozen opportunities. I would be powerless to stop them.”

  “Listen,” Pierce said. “You were hired to protect me, not ruin my life.”

  “I’m just telling you, is all. It’s a bad idea.”

  “And I’m paying you five hundred a day to look after me. Anywhere I go.”

  Raynaud sighed. “How many will be there?”

  “Fifty. A hundred. I don’t know.”

  “Many people know you’re going?”

  “Some.”

  “No,” Raynaud said.

  “Now look, lad, you can carry this thing too far. I intend to go to the party. Susan Locke is a dear friend.”

  Susan Locke was the owner of a new boutique, The Chastity Belt, which was opening on King’s Road in Chelsea. Pierce had been fiddling with the invitation all day, playing with it, staring at it.

  “No,” Raynaud said.

  “Not only that,” Pierce said, “but I intend that you should have some fun. I want you to take a girl yourself.”

  “No. Impossible.”

  “It will improve your spirits.”

  “It will decrease your chances of survival.”

  “Charles, for Christ’s sake, be human.”

  “You’ve paid me to do a job.”

  “And you’ll do it my way.”

  Raynaud said, “I’d feel terrible if something happened to you.”

  “Bloody hell. Only because I wouldn’t pay you the rest of the—”

  He broke off, snapped his fingers, and wrote a check quickly.

  “One thousand pounds,” he said. “A further advance. Now will you go to the party?”

  Raynaud took the check. “Yes.”

  “And take Pet?”

  “Pet?”

  “Yes. I think she’s the logical one for you. You’ll adore her. Such a firm pair.”

  He grinned and dialed her number.

  “Pet? Hello, love, how are you? Yes, I know…Did it go all right? Good…Listen, you free tonight? No, not me. Charles. You remember him? Yes, that’s the one…Right…No, no, he’s not that way at all …Yes, he has one. A Sunbeam, I think. Yes, super. All right….”

  He cupped his hand over the phone.

  “Listen, Charles. She’s not free for dinner. Can you pick her up at nine?”

  “Sure, I suppose so.”

  “Good.” He returned to the phone. “It’s all set, love. Nine. Right? See you there.”

  He hung up and began to laugh. “You’d better watch yourself, lad. She thought you were a fag.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  Pierce just laughed, and went into the other room to dress. It was only five in the afternoon; Raynaud said, “Changing already?”

  “Yes. I have to go out early.”

  “Why?”

  “Dominique’s coming in at six-thirty.”

  “Dominique? Listen, you’re not thinking of—”

  “Of course, lad. She’s come all this way to see swinging London. It’s my duty to show her around. Besides, she needs the money.”

  “What about Sandra?”

  “What about her?” Pierce said, and laughed. “By the way, it won’t bother you if Dominique stays here, will it? She’ll be in my bedroom.”

  “You’re going to keep her here?”

  “Sure. Cheaper than a hotel, and more convenient”

  “How will you explain that to—”

  “I won’t. She won’t ask, and I won’t tell her. She need never know, eh, lad? I’ve got to be at the airport at seven. I’d better change.”

  At nine, when he arrived at Pet’s flat in South Ken, she was not ready. She answered the door in her robe, smoking a pipe.

  “Come on in. I’ll just be a minute.”

  She handed the pipe to him. “Have a drag if you want. I don’t drink, you see. Tried it?”

  “Drinking?”

  “No. Smoking.”

  He nodded.

  “Oh, I forgot. You’re from Mexico.”

  He sat down and put the pipe on a table. “I think I’ll wait.”

  She gave him a quizzical look: “Straight?”

  “No. Just tired. It’ll knock me out.”

  “Okay. Whatever you say.” She went into the bedroom and he heard her opening drawers. “By the way,” she said, “where did you meet Richard?”

  “We’re old friends. From college.”

  “Know him well?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose. Why?”

  “He doesn’t really seem your type, somehow.”

  “We get along.”

  “Ummm. Was this his idea, or your idea?”

  “What?”

  “Me, tonight.”

  “My idea.”

  “That’s good. I was worried.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I thought he might be planning something with me.”

  “That worries you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Come in here and zip me up, would you? And bring the pipe.”

  He took the pipe into the bedroom. She was struggling with a short dress in vivid purple trimmed in hot pink. She was staring into the mirror and tugging at the zipper behind.

  “Damn,” she said. “I knew I shouldn’t have had lunch today.”

  He gave her the pipe and she sucked on it, inhaling deeply. He worked on the zipper.

  “I gain weight,” she said, “if I even look at food. Ah. Thank you.”

  He pulled the zipper up, and did the snap at the neck.

  “Thanks awfully.”

  She took another drag of the pipe, and set it on the bureau. Then she started to comb her long, straight blond hair.

  “Yes,” she said, looking at him in the mirror, “I was worried. Two years ago, I had a flatmate. Name of Jennifer: Jennifer Olive, her real name, I swear it. She was a secretary at the Swedish Trade Board. A nice girl from Bristol, fresh in from the country. She met Richard and was swept off her feet. Madly in love with him for six months. All she got out of it was three hundred pounds for the abortion, and a goodbye peck on the cheek. He wouldn’t even see her off on the train back to Bristol. I had to do that.”

  Pet finished combing her hair, and began collecting lipstick and tissues for her purse.

  “She was a very trusting girl, Jennifer. Everybody knew it and tried to watch out for her. She was only bloody seventeen. Richard didn’t care. He got her into that big car of his and she melted. What’d I do with my shoes?”

&
nbsp; “Over by the bed.”

  “Oh, yes. Christ, this damned stuff’s taking hold. We’d better leave.”

  She sat on the bed and pulled on her heels, black patent, T-strap. She stood and twirled for him. “Good?”

  “Very good.”

  “I always thought I was topheavy, myself. I’ve had these since I was twelve. Shall we go?”

  “My car’s in front.”

  They got in. He started the car, and they drove in silence for a while. Then she leaned back and sighed. “I always feel amorous,” she said, “when I’m high. Liquor makes me sick, but this stuff…Do you like me?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I’m glad. I like you, too. By the way, is it true Richard isn’t coming to the party?”

  “Who said that?”

  “A friend of a friend, who had talked to Sandra. She’s coming, I think. I imagine she wants to see all her friends after a weekend in Wales.”

  “Oh.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “No, no. Nothing.”

  She smiled and touched his hand as he drove. “You know what I like about you?”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t pinch my bottom while you zipped up my dress.”

  “Proves nothing,” Raynaud said. “Maybe I’ll pinch it later.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Maybe you will.”

  10. THE INTERLUDE

  RICHARD PIERCE SWIRLED THE martini in his glass and stared around the room. Question: could you concentrate on the alcohol while unspeakable things went on down below?

  He sipped it tentatively. Tasted nothing.

  Answer: no.

  Dominique, kneeling at his feet, paused and laughed softly.

  “You find something funny?”

  “No,” she said. “Enchanting.”

  “Carry on,” he said, and sipped the drink. Still nothing to taste. Sensation centered elsewhere. Natural enough. She was skilled, this one, the best they came.

  So to speak.

  Getting blotted, that was the trouble. Blasted and blotted. Five drinks at the airport, waiting for the plane from Paris. Immoderate. What the hell, everybody said so. Image to maintain.

  But there was something else. He had planned it carefully; Charles was gone now, involved with Pet and her huge tits. Now was the time.