Venom Business

by Michael Crichton

  “Could we stop this?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “This kind of talk. Let’s stop it.”

  “All right.”

  “Let’s say that we’ve known each other for two weeks, that you’ve taken me out every night to all the best restaurants, and called me every day, and sent me flowers and passionate, cryptic notes.”

  “Why would I do a thing like that?”

  “Let’s just say you did.”

  “All right. I did. Now what?”

  “Now you’re taking me into the country for a day. I’m sitting here expecting you to say something important to me.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well?”

  “I’m trying to think of something important,” he said.

  “Is it so hard?”

  “Yes,” he said. “As a matter of fact, it is.”

  Back in the car she said, “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t mean to get so stinking.”

  “We both were.”

  “And I didn’t mean to say all those things.”

  “You were very amusing.”

  “That’s good,” she said. “I think.” She took the cigar out of his mouth and threw it out the window. Then she lit a cigarette, and placed it between his lips.

  “Thanks.”

  “Any time.”

  “You have nice hands.”

  “Don’t be corny.”

  “You do. Scout’s honor.”

  “Cornier and cornier.”

  “Passionate hands. Lusty hands.”

  “Listen,” she said. “The last useful thing these hands did was chop up a horse.”

  “What kind of a horse?”

  “A nice one. But old.”

  “Where was this?”

  “On the ranch. We—”

  “You have a ranch?”

  “Yes, I was raised on one. And we had this horse—”

  “Montana?”

  “No, Wyoming. And we bad an old horse that broke his leg.”

  “So you chopped it up.”

  “No, I killed it first.”

  “You shot it?”

  “No, gave it an injection of Demerol.”

  “You’re a very good shot.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, the horse died, and we had to get rid of it. I had to get rid of it. I was the only one on the ranch at the time. But it was heavy as hell. Have you ever tried to lift a dead horse?”

  “No. Never tried to beat one, either.”

  “There you go again. Corny.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Anyway, the pick-up was high off the ground, about four feet—”

  “You have a pick-up?”

  “Yes.”

  “At the ranch?”

  “Listen,” she said, “are you going to let me tell the story, or what?”

  He smoked the cigarette. She said, “Anyway, the pick-up was high, so I had to cut the horse into small chunks in order to lift it into the truck, and even then it was heavy. The head, for instance, weighed—”

  “Please. I just finished lunch.”

  “—about fifty pounds. It was really a struggle for a young girl.”

  “How young were you?”

  “Fifteen, at the time.”

  “You’re joking,” he said.

  She shook her head.

  “That’s a terrible story,” he said.

  “I suppose it is,” she said. “I had nightmares for months later, but I got over it eventually.”

  “Like numbers one through five.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Exactly.” She smiled: “Some day,” she said, “I’ll tell you about my ocelots.”

  Raynaud parked the car and they walked through the Backs, the fields behind the colleges, along the River Cam. Horses and cows grazed in dappled sunlight that filtered through the trees.

  As they walked, she said, “You’re the quietest kidnapper I ever met.”

  “We kidnappers are a thoughtful bunch.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “The ransom note,” he said.

  “What will it say?”

  “I’m not sure. How much are you worth?”

  “Oh,” she said. “Not much.”

  “Then I’ll ask for something reasonable. Twenty thousand dollars.”

  With mock outrage: “I’m worth more than that.”

  “Okay. Fifty thousand.”

  “And will the note have a threat?”

  “Oh, yes. An awful threat.”

  She smiled. They walked on. A cow behind St. John’s College looked up at them, mouth full of grass. It watched impassively for a moment, then turned away. Birds chirped in the trees overhead. They walked through the formal gardens behind St John’s and sat on the grassy banks of the river, in the shade of a willow. Students punted on the Cam, the girls reclining in the square-ended boats while the boys poled behind.

  “It’s peaceful here,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Seriously,” she said. “Why did you bring me here?”

  He looked at his hands. “I’m not sure.”

  “You must have had a reason.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I suppose I did.”

  He put his arm around her and drew her close, feeling the bones of her shoulder. She rested her head on his chest and they looked out at the river. Her body was relaxed against him, and he sensed that she was trusting him in a very deep way, and it gave him a strange, powerful feeling that was almost sad.

  “I don’t understand any of this,” he said.

  “Any of what?”

  He stroked her hair. “You.”

  “There’s nothing to understand,” she said. She put her hand on his chest. “Your heart is beating fast. I can feel it.”

  “Don’t pay any attention. It just likes pretty girls.”

  “Does it?”

  “Yes,” he said, and he kissed her.

  Whistles and catcalls from the punters interrupted them. They lit cigarettes and stared out at the river, both suddenly uneasy.

  “You scare me,” she said. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then do it again,” she said, “and find out.”

  He lay down on the grass and she bent over him, her short blond curls glowing in the sunlight. He kissed her again, longer. When she broke, she kept her eyes on him.

  “Did you mean that?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is serious business.”

  “Yes,” he said, and pulled her down again. There were more shrieks and whistles from the river, but they paid no attention.

  Finally, she said, “You’re a good kisser, for a kidnapper.”

  “Takes two.”

  He smiled. “I think you’re sexy.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Another kiss. He ran his hand down her back, feeling the ridge of her spine, her shoulder blades, the soft hairs of her neck, trying to get used to everything.

  “Say,” he said, when they broke again. “I think you’re habit forming.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What do you think?”

  She brushed her hair back from her face and said, “Say something important to me.”

  “I love you,” he said, and kissed her again.

  “Jolly good show!” shouted a voice from the river.

  Room 14 of the King’s Arms Hotel looked out onto the street, and it was noisy. The furniture was nothing much; her vinyl dress was thrown over the back of a chair, adding a touch of color to the room.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  He was touching her lips, and the small indentations left from her teeth, when she had bit down. Then he touched her cheek, the angle of her jaw.

  “Casing the joint,” he said.

  “Sometimes you make me afraid.�
�

  “Don’t.” He placed a finger over her lips, then brought it down, tracing over her chin, down her neck, to her breasts. Her skin was light gold, and there was a faint paleness from a bikini.

  “Do you like me?” she asked, in a hesitant voice.

  “I love you.”

  “I mean…”

  “Yes,” he said. “I like you.”

  “I worry,” she said. “Why should I worry?”

  “Because you are a silly girl,” he said, touching her knee, feeling the bones, her thigh, the muscles of her hip. Skin. Beautiful, smooth, soft.

  “Nice hands,” she said.

  He smiled. “Corny.”

  “Nice hands.” She sighed. “Touch me again. You have a nice touch.”

  “So do you.”

  “I’m glad.”

  She had mysteriously changed, becoming almost a child, hesitant and offering, waiting for approval. He wanted to reassure her.

  “Don’t worry,” he said.

  “I won’t,” she said. “If you won’t.”

  And then later, in a surprised voice, but a pleased voice, she said, “Again?” and he said, yes, again, if she didn’t mind too much, and she said that she didn’t mind at all, that it would be a great pleasure, and he said he hoped it would be a great pleasure, and later on she said in a very loud voice that it was a great, oh, yes, a great, yes, a pleasure, great, yes, great.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “About what?” “Being so loud. And all.”

  Curled up on her side, legs drawn up into a tawny bundle, she watched him. “Who’s listening?”

  “The neighbors,” she said, and giggled.

  “What neighbors.”

  “I don’t know. Do you love me?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  She let her body stretch out, slowly, luxuriantly, and pressed up against him, fitting herself to him, smoothly and gracefully.

  “Christ, you scare me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I love you.”

  “That scares you?” He kissed her breast below the pink nipple.

  “Hell, yes, it scares me.”

  “What can I do to reassure you?”

  She was quiet a moment, then said, “Well, it will sound funny, but…”

  “At your service,” he said.

  She walked to the mirror, her eyes smoldering with a dark, sexy look, walking in a certain way because she knew he was watching and wanted him to watch.

  “You were showing off,” she said.

  He grinned. “I suppose I was.”

  “But I don’t mind,” she said. She looked at herself in the mirror. “Do I look different? I feel different.”

  Raynaud laughed.

  “That amuses you?”

  “It pleases me.”

  “It should.” She stepped close to the mirror and checked her eyes. “I’m a mess. Did I get mascara all over the pillow?”

  “Yes. That’s what you get for crying.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I always cry when I’m happy.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  She said, “I’m going to take a shower now.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “It’s not necessary. Aren’t you tired?”

  Raynaud smiled. “I’m exhausted.”

  “You ought to be. I can hardly walk.”

  “Crude girl.”

  “Oversexed bastard.”

  She went back to him and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re going to think I’m terrible…”

  “I do, I do.”

  “…but I’m starved.”

  “That’s easily taken care of.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. There’s a restaurant downstairs.

  “I didn’t notice,” she said, and giggled.

  They had a corner table and sat grinning at each other, wrapped in their private secret. They rubbed knees under the table. The food, when it came, was ordinary, but it seemed excellent; their conversation seemed fascinating and witty.

  After an hour, a tall, strikingly beautiful girl came over to their table.

  “Hello, Charles.”

  Raynaud looked up. “Hello, Sandra.” He stood, feeling suddenly awkward, aware that Jane was watching him closely “Join us? Jane Mitchell, Sandra Callarini.”

  The girls exchanged slight nods and cold, appraising glances.

  “No, I can’t, thanks. I’m here with friends.”

  “Ah.”

  “I just came by to say hello.”

  “How have you been, Sandra?”

  “All right. It’s off, you know.”

  Raynaud shook his head. “I hadn’t heard.”

  “Yes. I called it off yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” She extended her hand. “Let’s have lunch some time.”

  As he shook her hand, feeling the slight squeeze, he said, “I’d like that very much.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Sandra.”

  “Miss Mitchell.”

  “Miss Callarini.”

  Sandra went back to her table; as Raynaud sat down, Jane said, “Very pretty. Was she number four hundred seventy-four?”

  “No.”

  “A friend?”

  “She was Richard’s fiancée.”

  “Ah. He has good taste.”

  “He has money.”

  After dinner, they went back to the lobby. Raynaud glanced toward the stairs, and back at Jane. She shook her head; he paid the bill, and they headed back in the car toward London. Jane looked out the window at the spires of Cambridge as they left.

  She lit a cigarette and said, “Do you know Reggie Stone?”

  “No.”

  “He’s a photographer. Fashion. With a very large ear for gossip. He told me all about Lucienne Pierce. Richard’s stepmother.”

  “What about her?”

  “Do you know who her latest lover is?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Somebody named Charles Raynaud,” she said.

  “Incredible,” he said.

  She shook her head and smoked the cigarette. “I know quite a bit about Charles Raynaud,” she said. “In college, I knew a girl from Texas. Her father was an oil millionaire. Her name was Lisa Barrett. Father named J. D. Barrett. An art collector.”

  “Oh,” Raynaud said.

  “So you see, I knew about you, from the start. Last week, when you were in Mexico. I knew all about you.”

  “Terrible.”

  “And now I want to know,” she said, “what’s going on with you and Richard Pierce.”

  He was silent a long time, driving the car, thinking about the hotel room, about London, and Paris, everything.

  “You really want to know?”

  “I really do.”

  He sighed. “I was brought here as a dupe,” he said. “By Lucienne Pierce. She arranged for me to spend time with her stepson Richard, whom I had known years before. She gave me a song and dance about protecting Richard; she offered me a lot of money. Obviously she doesn’t intend to ever pay off. She is carefully arranging a huge scandal involving Richard, me, you, and probably several other people. She is setting it up, and then arranging for it to explode. The idea is to get Richard jailed for twenty years or so.”

  “That means murder.”

  “Yes. And meantime, Richard knew all along what was happening. He hired me in order to arrange a kind of reverse play—set up a murder attempt by me, using fake bullets. He also arranged several other murders, very inept. Hired a man to do it.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “It is. But you forget the stakes: half a billion dollars.”

  “And you?” Jane said. “What is your plan?”

  “I have no plan.”

  “Why did you take me to Cambridge today?”

  “For the same reason I beat up Richard yesterday.”

  “To force the issue?”

  “Yes,” he said. “To fo
rce the issue.”

  “When will it happen?”

  “Probably,” Raynaud said, “tonight.”

  “How?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said.

  15. STIMULUS

  JONATHAN BLACK SAT IN his flat and glanced at his watch. It would not be long now. Within an hour, the trigger, the mental firing mechanism, would be activated. And the emotional charge would be discharged.

  The scotch would taste sweet, nothing more. Richard would never know what had hit him. He would react unreasonably, in a furious, uncontrollable rage.

  Quite satisfying.

  There only remained to provide the direction for that rage, and he was certain that his plans would be adequate. The fury would be channeled, directed, concentrated.

  And Richard would never know what had hit him.

  16. RESPONSE

  RICHARD PIERCE SAT NAKED in the living room, beneath the painting of the enormous hamburger, and tickled Dominique. He was very drunk, drunker than he could remember, so drunk he could hardly talk, but he didn’t give a damn. Dominique was laughing, pleading for mercy, trying to roll away from him. Finally she did, and fell on the floor.

  He laughed and patted the sofa alongside him. “Come on back.”

  She rubbed her bottom where she had fallen, and pouted. “No.”

  “Come on.”

  “No.”

  “Coward.”

  Still rubbing: “Look who’s talking.”

  He stared at her in stony silence. “What,” he said slowly, working to form the words, “what, pray tell, do you mean by that remark?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bloody hell. Tell me.”

  “I mean nothing.”

  “Listen, you little bitch—”

  “Don’t call me a bitch.” He reached out and grabbed her arm.

  “You’re hurting,” she said.

  “Tell me.”

  “I was in the beauty parlor today,” she said, standing up and pulling her arm free. She rubbed it. “Everybody was talking.”

  “Oh?”

  “About you and Charles.”

  “I want to forget that. It was all her fault.”

  “They talked about you,” Dominique said.

  “Me?”

  “They said things that were not nice. I want another drink.”

  “You can’t have one.”

  “I want one, Richard.”

  “Listen, Snapper, you don’t get a drink unless I say so. That’s the way it is. Now come over here.”

  “And do what?”

  “Earn it. Play the flute.”

  “Ugh.”