Zero Cool

by Michael Crichton

  Ross got up from the table. “I appreciate your hospitality,” he said, “and your threats.”

  “Not threats, Doctor. I bear you no grudge. But you must understand I am determined. I want that stone—my ancestors have sought it for centuries, and now at last, it is within my grasp. The culmination of a search lasting hundreds of years is about to come to an end. It is an exciting prospect, a marvelous prospect I am eager to finish at last.”

  “And desperate,” Ross said.

  “Yes, desperate. Desperate as any man alive. I mean to have that stone, Doctor. I mean to return it to its rightful place, here, in this castle. And I will not rest until I have succeeded.”

  He smiled oddly, as if suddenly embarrassed by his outburst. “Well then,” he said. “It is late. Can you find your rooms by yourselves?”

  “Yes,” Angela said.

  “Then I bid you both good night and pleasant dreams.”

  They left, and looking back, Ross had a final glimpse of the little man, with his black beard and his incongruous child’s face, standing by the long dining room table in the vast room lighted by flickering candlelight.

  Ross sat alone in his room, lying on the bed fully dressed, thinking. The more he thought, the worse things seemed to be. He was quite certain now that the count had killed Carrini and the others. And that he had killed Hamid. How, Ross couldn’t imagine—those strange, slashing, bizarre cuts were something out of a nightmare.

  But if he had killed so many, he would not hesitate to kill again. Ross had no doubt that the count would kill him, and kill Angela, when it suited him.

  And it would suit him just as soon as Ross told him what Hamid had said before he died.

  He glanced around his room. It was pleasant, comfortable, appealing, with none of the aspects of a prison. He got up and went to the door, tried it. Unlocked. He shut the door again and returned to the bed.

  He wanted a drink. Across the room, on a dark heavy sideboard, were several bottles on a silver tray. He went over, poured three fingers of Scotch, and dropped in an ice cube from a silver ice bucket. He swirled the drink in the glass and wondered what to do.

  Then he heard something behind him. He turned. It was Angela, still wearing her dress.

  “Would you make me one, too?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He mixed another.

  “Why aren’t you in bed?” he said.

  “I can’t. I’m scared.”

  “Why?”

  “Aren’t you scared?”

  “No,” Ross said. “I rather like the count.”

  “I used to,” Angela said. “Until an hour ago.”

  Ross gave her the drink. “Listen,” he said, “I can save you a lot of trouble.”

  “How?”

  “Instead of making you sit there with a worried face, I’ll tell you all I know. Everything Hamid told me. Then you can run down to the count, and you can get to bed early.”

  “Peter, really—”

  “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  He waited a moment. She said nothing more, but sipped the drink.

  “Not very good,” he said. “You should have a whole speech prepared. About how frightened you are. About how you no longer like the count. About how you’ve seen what a heartless little guy he is. You should have a whole thing.”

  “Peter,” she said in a low voice, “I think he’s going to kill us.”

  “Ah, now there’s a touch. Nobody’s ever tried to kill me before.”

  “I’m serious. The count will kill us.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as you tell him what you know.”

  “That will be tomorrow. In the dungeon.”

  “And he’ll kill me.”

  “Pity.”

  “I’m serious, Peter.”

  “So am I.”

  “Peter, take me away from here.”

  “Now there’s a new one. You want me to lead you to the stone myself. We’ll slip out of the castle, slinking around dark corners, and miraculously, we’ll make it. Then I’ll lead you to the stone, and suddenly, who will appear but the count himself, with voice box alongside. And the machine gun.”

  “Peter, I swear. I’m serious.”

  “You keep saying that.” Ross went back and made himself another drink. “Like a broken record.” This time he poured five fingers. “You know, I used to be a simple doctor. Just a nice guy, minding my own business, reading X-rays, peddling pills, and sticking needles into people. Making people get well: very simple job. I didn’t know anything about gangsters, or professors, or counts, or emeralds.”

  “Peter.”

  “You want to know something funny? I’ve never fired a gun in my life. Not one. Not even in the army. Not even a BB gun. In fact, I haven’t even used a slingshot.”

  “I know him,” Angela said. “I’ve worked for him for nearly a year. I always thought he was basically nice, that his flashes of temper were just … whims. Now I know better.”

  She stood, standing very straight. She looked at him directly and said, “We have two choices. Either we try to get away tonight, or we wait to get shot in the morning. That’s all. Nothing else.”

  Ross gulped back his drink. “I vote for getting shot. I’ve been running for a week now. It’s tiresome. And exhausting. I hate traveling. I think it’s time to get shot.”

  “I really could have loved you,” she said.

  “Swell.”

  “I thought there was something to you. A strength, an inner power. A calmness.”

  “Nope. Just a show.”

  She came up to him and stood very close, her hands at her sides. For a long time, she said nothing, and then:

  “We had something, Peter.”

  “My friends call me Dr. Ross.”

  “We still have something.”

  “Nope. Just a mistake.”

  “It’s us,” she said. “We have something.”

  “No we don’t.”

  They stared at each other for a long time, and he looked at her eyes, which were very clear and very blue. And something happened. He took her and kissed her hard, until he was out of breath. Finally, he pushed back.

  “So I made a mistake,” he said. “To err is human.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, then said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “No. I love you.”

  “Is that different?”

  “You bet it is.”

  “Then kiss me again. I’ve never been kissed by a man who loved me.”

  16. Escape

  THEY SAT ON THE BED, and Angela sketched quickly on a pad of paper. Ross drank Scotch—his third, but he felt he needed it. The more Angela talked, the more he felt he needed it.

  “We’re here,” she said, pointing to the sketch, “on the second floor. The count’s bedroom is at the far end of the hall, so he won’t hear us. We go down these stairs here, and around the corner, and we’re on the first floor. That should be simple enough, though when the lights are out, it’s very dark.”

  “Who else is in the house?”

  “Joaquim. He sleeps in the west wing, off over here. Along with the other servants: the cook, the maid, and the chauffeur.”

  “Nobody else at this end?”

  “No. Not usually.”

  “Can we be certain of that?”

  “No. We can’t be certain of anything.”

  “All right,” he said, looking at the map. “We go down the stairs. Then what?”

  “We go to the kitchen, over here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s where the keys are. There is a Porsche convertible in the garage. That’s the fastest car. We can get the keys in the kitchen, and then slip through the house over to here, and go into the garage.”

  “Couldn’t we go outside? It would be faster and quieter. We could get directly to the garage.”

  “No,” she said.

>   “Why not?”

  “Because of the dog. He’s roaming the grounds at night. And the count keeps him hungry in the evenings.”

  “Nice,” Ross said.

  “I saw what he did to a burglar once,” Angela said. “The man was in the hospital for ten weeks.”

  “Stop trying to encourage me.”

  “We’ll be safe if we go through the house,” she said. “There’s only one possible difficulty.”

  “Yes?”

  “The garage doors may have been left open. In that case, the dog may be sleeping inside the garage.”

  “Can’t you charm him?”

  “No one can,” Angela said, “except the count. Around anyone else, he’s vicious.”

  “Nice.”

  She folded up the sketch of the house. “Is it all clear?”

  “What about the gates out front? Will they be locked?”

  “Probably not. We’ll have to keep our fingers crossed.”

  “Okay,” Ross said. He stood up. “Let’s go.” He went to the closet, opened his suitcase, and rummaged through it. “There’s one thing that might help us, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This.” He held it up, a thin, metallic tube.

  “What is it?”

  “Flashlight. For looking down throats. I brought it with me, by accident.”

  “Lucky,” she said.

  “So far,” he said.

  They left the room and tiptoed out into the hall. It was empty; a single light burned at the far end.

  “That’s his room,” Angela whispered. “We go this way.”

  She led him down a dark passage which smelled of musty wood and dank stone. They came to the steps, cut of limestone. The centers were worn into scoops after centuries of use. Ross nearly slipped.

  “Careful,” she whispered. “Better turn on the light.”

  Ross clicked on the pencil beam. It gave sufficient illumination to get them down to the floor below. They faced a second hall, on the ground floor, Ross raised his beam and swung it around. He paused at the stuffed head of a wild boar.

  “Very lifelike.”

  “Sssshhhh.”

  He turned off the light. Angela seemed to know exactly where they were going. They followed the hallway to the end, feeling their way in the darkness, touching the stone. There, they paused and waited, listening to the sound of their own tense breathing. They heard nothing. Ross was about to move forward, but Angela held him back.

  “Wait,” she hissed.

  He waited, and then he heard. It was low, the sound of a man humming. They listened, until they were sure it was approaching them. They moved back as they saw the first glimmer of light in the adjoining hallway.

  “Must be Joaquim,” Angela whispered.

  They stepped back, moving into a doorway, out of sight. The light came closer; the humming became louder. It was tuneless, mindless, relaxed. They saw the light; it moved, a hand lantern, swinging loosely.

  Closer.

  Ross sucked in his breath.

  Still closer.

  Now the hallway was brightly lit by the swinging lantern, and they could hear footsteps. The humming grew still louder.

  Then Joaquim passed, his massive shadow trailing behind him. He continued down the hallway, past them.

  Ross gave a slow sigh.

  “Close,” Angela whispered. “Wait.”

  They remained crouched in the shadows of the doorway for five minutes, and then they heard Joaquim return. Apparently, he was making the late rounds. Ross waited until he had passed a second time, still humming, still casting a massive shadow, then he moved out.

  “No. Wait.”

  Ten more minutes passed. Nothing happened. Finally, Angela stepped out of the doorway.

  “Let’s go.”

  They headed down the hallway, silently, their feet on the stone floors. Angela ducked to the right, and Ross followed. They entered a black room of great dimensions. He could tell that by listening to her voice.

  “The kitchen,” she whispered. “They keep the keys on the far wall, on a board. Wait here.”

  “Want my light?”

  “No,” she whispered, and moved off.

  “Be careful.”

  She seemed to know her way around; after a few moments, she whispered, “Okay, I have them. Come over here. But be careful—there’s a table in the middle of the room.”

  “Can’t I use my light?”

  “No. Windows.”

  Ross moved forward in the darkness, gingerly. He kept his hands in front of him. He had no idea where the table was; he had never been in the kitchen before. He moved forward carefully, feeling each step.

  Then it happened.

  He struck the table with full force. It was lower than the level of his hands, and he caught it at the waist. There was a loud clattering of pots and pans.

  Outside, the dog barked angrily.

  “Now you’ve done it!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Come on! We’ve got to get out of here. Let’s move.”

  He flicked on his light. He heard running feet inside the house, heavy feet.

  Outside, the Doberman was still barking.

  “We’ve got to run for it,” Angela said. She threw open the door. He saw the lawn, the fountain—now quiet—and the red Mercedes in the driveway.

  “Where’s the garage?”

  “Over there.”

  She was running. He followed. The dog barked, somewhere in the distance. He felt the night wind and his feet crunching on the gravel drive.

  In the castle, a window was flung open, spilling light outside. A voice said, “Who’s there?”

  They ran.

  It seemed miles to the garage. It took hours to get there. Ross was panting, gasping for breath. The gravel of the drive seemed to suck at his shoes, holding him back, making him slip. He fell once, the hard stones striking his face. He scrambled to his feet as the sound of the dog grew louder in his ears.

  “Come on, come on,” Angela said.

  He reached the garage. The Porsche was there, the top down. She jumped in behind the wheel and flicked on the lights. He got in beside her, and as he did, he saw a hammer and screwdriver on the concrete beside the car.

  Oh, Christ, he thought, they’ve jimmied the car.

  Then the ignition caught, the motor roared to life, and she started to put it in gear. Ross grabbed the hammer, slammed the door shut, and she roared down the drive.

  The dog came up, with lightning speed, its jaws wide.

  Before Ross could do anything, it had fixed on his hand, sinking the teeth deep. Angela shifted to second. The car gained speed, but the dog kept pace, holding firm.

  With a vicious swing, Ross brought the hammer down on the dog’s head, striking between the ears. The dog shuddered, gripped tighter, and held on.

  He swung again, and heard bone crunch. The dog gave a moan, went limp, and released its grip.

  The wind was tugging at his hair. He pulled his hand back in; it was bleeding.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  “What happened to the dog?”

  “Dead, I hope.”

  He tore his shirt and wrapped it around his hand. The punctures were deep, and it hurt.

  “I think we’re going to make it,” Angela said.

  She increased speed. They roared off, toward the gate.

  The count was screaming, hopping up and down. “Are they going? Are they going?”

  Joaquim ran up and picked up the count, scooping him up bodily, holding him in the crook of his arm.

  “Yes, sir. They’re going.”

  From his vantage point, the count squinted, watching the receding red lights of the Porsche.

  “They are. Right on schedule. Do you think we frightened them?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Good,” the count said. He watched, cradled like a small child watching a parade, until the car was gone. Then he shoo
k himself impatiently.

  “Put me down,” he said.

  The count and Joaquim, looking like father and son, walked down the drive toward the fallen body of the dog. They stopped and stood over it for a moment. Then the count bent over and touched the dog’s head. He removed his fingers and felt the blood.

  “Poor Franco.”

  “Yes.”

  “Still, I suppose it was worth it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The count lifted up the lifeless head, looked at it, touching the jaws, the sharp teeth,

  “He was a good dog,” he said. “Kill them both as soon as you know the truth.”

  Joaquim nodded solemnly.

  They went back inside.

  17. Granada

  “WHERE NOW?” ROSS SAID.

  They had passed the gates of the castle and were moving swiftly down the road, toward the city of Granada, brightly lit, stretching across the plain below. The night was cool.

  “Anywhere you say.”

  “A motel?”

  “I don’t think we dare,” she said.

  “We have to stay nearby,” Ross said.

  “Why?”

  “Tell you later.” He bent over and turned on the map light beneath the dashboard. He checked his hand quickly, examining the wound.

  “How is it?” Angela said.

  “Not good.”

  “There’s a doctor I know,” she said, “in town.”

  “Can we trust him?”

  “Probably. He works for the British consulate.”

  Ross flexed his fingers, which had already begun to swell.

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s go see him.”

  They drove into town, and Angela parked before a modest house in the west end. When the doctor answered the door in his pajamas, he was in a bad mood, but he agreed to treat Ross.

  “Nasty,” the doctor said, holding the hand in the light in his office. “Very nasty. Wolf?”

  “Just a dog,” Ross said. “Damnedest thing, we were just walking down the street back to our car, and a lady was walking her dog, and all of a sudden—”

  “What kind of dog?” the doctor said, swabbing with alcohol. Ross winced. “Sorry,” he said.

  “A cocker spaniel,” Ross said. “It looked like.”