Zero Cool

by Michael Crichton

  “We turn soon?”

  “Immediately. See the shack there? Turn left.”

  The Arab slowed the hearse and made the turn as they came to it. The car bounced off the asphalt highway onto a dirt road. They drove in silence for several minutes, and then the man said, “Look there.”

  An American station wagon was parked off to one side of the road.

  “Pull over.”

  The Arab pulled over. They got out of the hearse and walked in the cool night air to the station wagon. The keys were where they were supposed to be, beneath the seat.

  They returned to the hearse and opened the rear doors. The coffin, made of simple pine, was pulled out and carried by them to the station wagon. They slipped it into the back and covered it with a blanket.

  “Well,” the Arab said, wiping his hands on his trousers, “that’s done.”

  “Not quite. We must take care of the car.”

  “Back at the main road?”

  “Yes. It will appear more natural.”

  The Arab got behind the wheel of the hearse and drove it back to the highway. The other man followed in the station wagon. It was several minutes before they reached the asphalt. The Arab then turned left and drove down the road for several miles. The station wagon followed, and then blinked its high-beam lights.

  Abruptly, the Arab drove the hearse off the road into a gully. He got out, and the man parked the station wagon and came forward with the gun.

  “You do it,” the man said.

  Carefully, the Arab took the gun and shot at the hearse. He shattered the front windshield and the side window on the driver’s side, leaving a series of sharp, round holes in the glass. When he was satisfied, he stepped back and waited for the other man to sprinkle gasoline all over the inside of the car.

  “You know,” the Arab said, watching as the gas soaked the seats, “I wonder about this.”

  “Wonder? Why?”

  “Remember Edouardo? Remember what happened to him when he tried to—”

  “Edouardo. Edouardo was a fool.”

  “Yes, but the way he died …”

  “It does not matter, how you die.”

  “But those cuts. What could have done it?”

  “It does not matter,” the other man insisted. He nodded to the Arab. “Light the car.”

  The Arab struck a match, stepped back, and threw it into the hearse. Immediately, the gasoline caught; with a roar, the entire car burst into flames.

  “Come on,” the other man said. “The gas tank will explode soon.”

  They ran back to the station wagon, started it, and drove back toward the dirt road. They had not gone more than a hundred yards when the gasoline tank of the hearse blew with a sound like a heavy growl, and a rush of hot air.

  “There won’t be anything left,” the Arab said, looking back.

  “That’s the idea,” the other man said, and smiled slightly.

  8. A Shot in the Arm

  THE NOTICES ROSS HAD RECEIVED stated that registration was from nine to twelve in the Excelsion Hotel lobby. At nine thirty, they finished breakfast, and he walked with Angela up the street to the hotel, which was only a few blocks away.

  It was a warm, sunny day. Ross felt relaxed and good, a kind of lazy, easygoing feeling.

  A car pulled up, and two men jumped out. They grabbed Ross. One had a gun.

  Angela began to scream, very loudly. She shouted for the police, and one man struck her across the mouth while the other shoved Ross into the car. He struggled silently with the man for a moment, but he was losing ground, being pushed steadily toward the car. Inside the open door, he could see two other men waiting.

  Then it all went black.

  Cold water. He shook his head, felt dampness. Nausea. He was sick on a wooden floor. More cold water.

  “Come on. Get up.” A harsh, American voice.

  He was sick again. Dizzy, painful. His head throbbed.

  “Get up, get up.”

  Strong arms lifted him, dragged him, dropped him into a chair. He shook his head to clear it, to stop the terrible pain.

  “You’ll be all right. Open your eyes.”

  He did. The room was small. Three men. It began to spin. He smelled his vomit and felt sick again. He closed his eyes.

  “Come on, Mister. We haven’t got all day.”

  He took a deep breath, fighting the nausea and the dizziness. For a moment, he thought he would pass out, but then the feeling left him. He opened his eyes again. The room was steady. The three men were still there, and he recognized their faces—they were the relatives who had come to his room that first day, in Tossa del Mar. the relatives who had been at the sanatorium.

  “That’s better,” one said. He turned to another man. “Search him.”

  Ross was quickly frisked. They found nothing except the copy of the book, which he had stuck in his pocket before setting out that morning. He looked around the room. It could have been anywhere—small, wooden walls, wooden floor. No furniture, except the chair in which he sat. There was a telephone, ancient and battered, hanging on one wall.

  The book was handed over to the first man. He was pale, thin, mean-looking. Ross remembered him. He had been silent, impassive, at the earlier meetings.

  “Where’s Carrini?” Ross said.

  “Busy,” the man said. “As you can imagine.”

  “I can?”

  The thin man slapped him, casually but very hard. He seemed to think nothing of it.

  “Now then, Mister. Tell us, and tell us fast.”

  “Tell you what? Where am I?”

  He was slapped again. His cheek stung, and his head rocked with the blow.

  “Tell us,” the man said quietly, “where the body is.”

  “The body?”

  “Don’t be stubborn, Mister. We haven’t got all day.”

  “You mean this is a part-time job?”

  For that, he received another slap and a punch in the stomach.

  “Gee,” he said, “and you were so polite before. People are funny.”

  Someone hit him again, knocking him to the floor. His head began to spin once more, and he vomited.

  “Maybe we should take it easy,” a voice said. “He’s no good to us—”

  “He knows. I’m sure he knows.”

  Ross looked back up and wiped his chin. “I don’t know anything.”

  “Then what are you doing with this?” the thin man demanded. He held up the book.

  “I bought it yesterday.”

  “So you know, eh?”

  “No.”

  “You wouldn’t buy this book if you didn’t.”

  “I don’t. I was trying to find out. The book didn’t help.”

  “The hell. You’d better—”

  Silence. A sudden, dead silence in the room. Ross looked behind him and saw Carrini standing just inside the door.

  “Well,” Carrini said. “Well, well. Is this what we have come to?

  “Boss,” the thin man said, “he’s being stubborn, and—”

  “And you decided to work him over.”

  “It was the only way—”

  “It wasn’t,” Carrini said quietly. “And it leaves marks. Did you ever think of that? This man is a doctor, and he’s attending a conference here. We can’t have him walking around with bruises. That wouldn’t do at all.”

  The thin man looked confused.

  “Sit down, Rico,” Carrini said. “We will talk about you later.”

  He stepped forward to Ross. “I am sorry to inconvenience you, Doctor.”

  “That’s all right,” Ross said. “I don’t get enough exercise, anyway. Nothing like a beating to keep a man in shape, eh?”

  Carrini sighed. “I must apologize for these men. They mean well—”

  “I noticed.”

  “—but they lack finesse. As you may have gathered, the reason for bringing you here is to ask you some questions.”

  “I’ve been trying to tell them I don’t
know anything.”

  Carrini nodded reasonably. “That’s quite possible.”

  He reached into his pocket and brought out a syringe and ampul. He set them on the table.

  “Would you roll up your sleeve, please?”

  “What is that?”

  “Sodium amytal solution. I trust you understand.”

  “Listen, I don’t—”

  “I am afraid,” Carrini said, “that we must insist.”

  Strong hands gripped him. He felt himself held tightly; his sleeve was rolled up and a tourniquet placed on his arm. There was a cool alcohol swab, and then a prick of a needle.

  “Good,” Carrini said, stepping back. The tourniquet was released.

  “Now, Doctor. Please count backward for us. From one hundred.”

  “Go to hell,” Ross said.

  Carrini smiled. Ross waited for the drug to take effect, but nothing was happening. The four men were staring at him, but nothing was happening.

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

  One of the others smiled sheepishly. “Aftershave.”

  “It smells terrible.”

  “It was free,” another man said. “They gave it away.”

  “Gave it away? Where?”

  “Free samples. In the hotel. This girl was handing them out.”

  “What kind of girl?”

  A shrug. “Some blonde.”

  Carrini said, “Well, don’t wear it again. It stinks to high heaven.” He turned to Ross. “Will you count now?”

  “Go to hell,” Ross said. He could see perfectly well. There was no blurring, no fuzziness, no slowness. Carrini was there, and he could see him well. Very well.

  “What?”

  “Go to hell”

  Carrini leaned close. “I can’t hear you.”

  “I said …”

  Ross stopped. He couldn’t remember. It was funny, but he just couldn’t remember what he had meant to say. Very funny how you wanted to say something and you knew you wanted to say something but you couldn’t remember …

  “What?”

  Ross shook his head. He did not want to talk. He was becoming sleepy. Very, very sleepy. He felt his body sag and go heavy. It was good to close his eyes, to shut away the bright light. Inside his head, it was peaceful and serene. Everything was gentle.

  When Carrini spoke again, his voice was resonant, deep and thoughtful, and gentle and serene.

  “The body,” Carrini said, “has been stolen …”

  Inside his head, Ross heard the words echo: stolen, stolen, stolen …

  “Where is it being taken …”

  Where, where, where, where …

  “Answer me …”

  Answer, answer, answer …

  The words were colored red. Floating through the air, red-colored words, vibrant and beautiful.

  “Answer me …”

  He took a deep breath, seeing the air rush into his lungs, seeing his blood turn red with oxygen, feeling himself grow strong to speak, and he said:

  “Portugal …”

  “Where?”

  “Port-u-gal …”

  “How do you know?”

  “She.”

  She had told him. She had told him all about it, she had overheard everything, and she had told him.

  “Who?”

  “The girl … Karin…”

  “She is wrong,” Carrini said. “Tell us where.”

  “Portugal …”

  And then it became very dark. He could see nothing and hear nothing. But he knew questions were coming, because his ears tingled, and he knew he was answering, because his jaw was vibrating and moving. But he could not hear the questions, and he could not hear the answers. It was all too dark to hear.

  In his half-sleep, he recognized that they did not believe him. They were unhappy with his answers, and this made him sad, because he wanted them to believe him, to realize that he was telling them and was doing his best.

  And still later, there were screams, and screeches, and a leathery slapping sound, and a strong hot wind. But it might have been a dream. It all might have been a dream.

  9. A Little Bit Tired

  HE AWOKE LIKE A MAN suffocating beneath a hundred very heavy blankets. He struggled, pushing them aside one by one, rising slowly to the surface and to cool air. He struggled for a long time, and then he felt a mild breeze and lay back, gasping for breath, and his eyes closed.

  He rested that way for a long time. How long, he did not know, but then he began to smell a strange, sick-sweet odor. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the ceiling.

  The ceiling was whitewashed, with a diagonal crack running through the plaster. But that was not what caught his eye. What he saw were the red streaks: they were everywhere, in a long, haphazard pattern. Dark red and ugly looking. Like welts on a ceiling.

  Odd.

  He glanced over at the wall and saw more streaks. A mad painter, gone berserk, flinging his brush wildly around the room—that was the way it looked. Except that this was not paint.

  He sat up and looked around him. For a moment, he could not believe it; it was like an illusion, an elaborately posed and grisly still life.

  In one corner, Carrini. His body slashed and torn, his clothes shredded, his neck cut through, his face ripped almost beyond recognition. He lay propped against the wall, in a spreading pool of his own blood.

  In other parts of the room, the other three men. Each had died the same violent death. One man had his stomach torn open; another, his arms and shoulders; the third had deep slashes in the skull which had opened to expose white bone. And there was blood everywhere.

  Ross felt sick and retched dryly; he had a wave of dizziness and closed his eyes until the world stopped spinning. When he opened them again, the men were still there. The men, and the walls, and the blood. He could not imagine who had done such a thing. He could not imagine how or when it had happened. Apparently, he had slept through it all.

  And he was untouched. Strange, that the others should be killed but he permitted to live.

  He explored his body, feeling for broken bones, but he was apparently all right. He felt weak and had a splitting headache, but that was all. After a few minutes, he stood, leaning on a chair.

  More dizziness. He waited, and it passed.

  He walked out of the room and found himself in a warehouse. It was a long, giant room, filled with cardboard boxes, which apparently contained furniture for export to Italy. He walked to the far end of the warehouse and found another door, which led out to the street.

  He walked until he saw a cab. It was eleven o’clock; only an hour and a half had passed since the men had picked him up and pushed him into the car. It seemed like years. He got into the cab and returned to his hotel. He would have to clean himself up before he registered. And he wanted to see Angela.

  In the hotel, the concierge rushed up to him.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  Ross was feeling better. Weak, but better. “Yes.”

  “Was it an accident?”

  “What?”

  The concierge gestured vaguely to his clothes. “An accident?”

  “Yes,” Ross said. “I fell, and a car …”

  “You wish a doctor?”

  “I think so,” he said touching his forehead. “I may need X-rays.”

  “If you go to your room, I will call the doctor. He is very good. Trained in New York,” the concierge said. Ross went to his room.

  “Well howdy.”

  Ross closed the door behind him. The cowboy, still dressed in his leather and fringes, lay casually on the bed.

  “Hello,” Ross said.

  He was not surprised to see him. Nothing would have surprised him. Not now.

  “You look a tad beat-up, boy,” the cowboy said.

  “I’m a little bit tired,” Ross said.

  “Get into a scrape?”

  “You might say so.” He dropped into a chair. “Where’s Ange
la?”

  “Is that your girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “I asked her to leave for a while, so’s we could be alone.” The cowboy smiled. “Mighty fine piece of woman, if I say so myself. Mighty fine.”

  “I’m glad you like her.”

  “Oh, I do, I do. I never exaggerate, where women are concerned.”

  “That’s good,” Ross said. He sighed. “And what are you and I going to do, now that we’re alone?”

  “Just talk.”

  “You don’t want to beat me up?”

  “Heck no, son.”

  “It’s the thing to do,” Ross said. “Everyone’s trying it.”

  “Heck no, I just want a peaceable chat.”

  Ross sighed. “Chat away. Going to introduce yourself first?”

  “You can call me Tex.”

  “You’re joking,” Ross said.

  “Nope. Tex. Everybody does. Natural enough: that’s my name.”

  Tex gave a laugh, a big, booming, hearty laugh.

  “You can call me Doc,” Ross said.

  “I like that,” Tex said, nodding seriously.

  “Okay, Tex. What’s on your mind?”

  “Just a chat.”

  “I suppose you’re playing the game, too?”

  “What game’s that?”

  “Body, body, who’s got the body,” Ross said.

  Tex smiled. “You’re a sharpie, boy. I knew it from the start.” He paused. “That why you were beat up?”

  “Right.”

  “Damned shame. I told you to be careful.”

  “I was doing my best,” Ross said.

  “Oh, don’t take it to heart. I’m sure those fellas didn’t mean anything personal.”

  “I’m sure,” Ross said. “Were they friends of yours?”

  “Hell no,” Tex said.

  There was a short silence. Tex stared at Ross for a moment, then said, “What finally happened to them?”

  “Them?”

  “The fellas who beat you up.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you’re hardly scratched. Just a bruise or two.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m wondering why you got blood caked an inch thick on your shoes.”

  “It’s their blood,” Ross said.

  “Their blood?”

  “I killed them,” Ross said. “All twelve of them.”

  “Now son, you’re pulling my leg.”