Authors: Michael Crichton
Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller, #Suspense, #Fantasy, #Science Fiction, #Adventure
S
tan Milgram
had begun the long trip to see his aunt in California, but he had only been driving for an hour before Gerard started to complain.
“It stinks,” Gerard said, perched in the backseat. “It stinks to high heaven.” He looked out the window. “What hellhole is this?”
“It’s Columbus, Ohio,” Stan said.
“Disgusting,” Gerard said.
“You know what they say,” Stan said. “Columbus is Cleveland without the glitter.”
The bird said nothing.
“You know what glitter is?”
“Yes. Shut up and drive.”
Gerard sounded cranky. And he shouldn’t be, Stan felt, considering how well the parrot had been treated the last couple of days. Stan had gone online to find out what greys ate, and had gotten Gerard some delicious apples and special greens. He had left the TV on in the pet shop at night, for Gerard to watch. And after a day, Gerard had stopped nipping at his fingers. He even allowed Stan to put him on his shoulder, without biting his ear.
“Are we almost there?” Gerard said.
“No. We’ve only been gone an hour.”
“How much farther is it?”
“We have to drive three days, Gerard.”
“Three days. That is twenty-four times three, that is seventy-two hours.”
Stan frowned. He had never heard of a bird that did math. “Where’d you learn that?”
“I am a man of many talents.”
“You’re not a man at all.” He laughed. “Was that from a movie?” Sometimes the bird repeated lines from movies, he was sure of it.
“Dave,” Gerard said, in a monotone, “this conversation can serve no purpose anymore. Good-bye.”
“Oh, wait, I know that one. It’s
Star Wars.
”
“Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.” It was a woman’s voice.
Stan frowned. “Some airplane movie…”
“They seek him here, they seek him there, those Frenchies seek him everywhere—”
“I know, that’s not a movie, that’s poetry.”
“Sink me!” Now he sounded British.
“I give up,” Stan said.
“So do I,” Gerard said, with an elaborate sigh. “How much farther is it?”
“Three days,” Stan said.
The parrot stared out the window at the passing city. “Well, they’re saved from the blessings of civilization,” he said, in a cowboy drawl. And he began to make the sounds of a plunking banjo.
Later in the day,
the parrot began to sing French songs, or maybe they were Arab songs, Stan couldn’t be sure. Anyway, some foreign language. It seemed he had gone to a live concert, or at least heard a recording of one, because he mimicked the crowd sounds, and the instruments tuning up, and the cheering as the performers came on, before he sang the song itself. It sounded like he was singing “Didi,” or something like that.
It was interesting for a while, kind of like hearing radio from a foreign country, but Gerard tended to repeat himself. On a narrow side road, they were stuck behind a woman driver. Stan tried to pass her once or twice, but never could.
After a while Gerard started to say,
“Le soleil c’est beau,”
and then make a loud sound like a gunshot.
“Is that French?” Stan asked.
More gunshots.
“Le soleil c’est beau.” Bang! “Le soleil c’est beau.” Bang! “Le soleil c’est beau.” Bang!
“Gerard…”
The bird said,
“Les femmes au volant c’est la lacheté personifié.”
He made a rumbling sound.
“Pourquoi elle ne dépasse pas?…Oh, ouì, merde, des travaux.”
The lady driver finally turned off to the right, but she was slow making the turn, and Stan had to brake slightly as he went past her.
“Il ne faut jamais freiner…Comme disait le vieux père Bugatti, les voitures sont faites pour rouler, pas pour s’arrêter.”
Stan sighed. “I don’t understand a word you are saying, Gerard.”
“Merde, les flics arrivent!”
He began to wail like a police siren.
“That’s enough,” Stan said. He turned on the radio. By now it was late afternoon. They’d passed Maryville and were heading toward St. Louis. Traffic was picking up.
“Are we almost there?” Gerard said.
Stan sighed. “Never mind.” It was going to be a long trip.
L
ynn sat
on the edge of the tub and used the washcloth gently to clean the gash behind his ear. “Dave,” Lynn said. “Tell me what happened.” She could see the cut was deep, but he wasn’t complaining.
“They came after us, Mom!” Jamie was excited, moving his arms. He was covered in dust and had bruises on his stomach and shoulders, but was otherwise not badly hurt. “We didn’t do anything! Sixth-graders! Evil dudes!”
“Jamie,” she said, “let Dave tell me. How did you get this cut?”
“Billy swung the board at him,” Jamie said. “We didn’t do anything!”
“You didn’t do anything?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You mean this happened for no reason at all?”
“Yes, Mom! I swear! We were just walking home! They came after us!”
“Mrs. Lester called,” Lynn said quietly. “Her son came home covered in excrement.”
“No, it was poo,” Jamie said.
“How did that—”
“Dave threw it! He was great! They were beatin’ us and he threw it and they ran away! He never missed!”
Lynn continued to clean the cut gently. “Is that true, Dave?”
“They hurted Jamie. They beated him and kicked him.”
“So you threw…poo at them?”
“They hurted Jamie,” he said again, as if it explained everything.
“No kidding,”
Henry said, when he came home later. “He threw feces? That’s classic chimp behavior.”
“Maybe, but it’s a problem,” Lynn said. “They say he’s disruptive in class. He’s getting into scrapes on the playground. He’s bitten other children. Now he’s thrown feces…” She shook her head. “I don’t know how to be a parent to a chimpanzee.”
“Half-chimp.”
“Even quarter-chimp, Henry. I can’t make him understand that he can’t behave this way.”
“But they pick on him, right?” Henry said. “And these older kids, they were sixth-graders? Skateboarders? Those kids are in and out of reform school. And what’re six-graders doing bothering with second-graders, anyway?”
“Jamie says the kids make fun of Dave. They call him Monkeyboy.”
“You think Dave picked this fight?”
“I don’t know. He’s aggressive.”
“This happened at the playground. I bet there’s a security camera there.”
“Henry,” she said, “you’re not understanding what I am telling you.”
“Yes, I am. You believe Dave started this. And I have the feeling some bullying dumb-ass kid—”
That was when they heard the gunshot in the backyard.
T
raffic crawled.
The 405 Freeway was a river of red lights in the night. Alex Burnet sighed. Sitting beside her, Jamie said, “How much farther is it?”
“It’s going to be a while, Jamie.”
“I’m tired.”
“See if you can lie back and rest.”
“I can’t. It’s boring.”
“It’s going to be a while,” she said again. She flipped open the new cell phone, found the number she had entered for her old childhood friend. She didn’t know whom else to call. Lynn was always there for her. When Alex and her husband were breaking up, she and the baby had gone down to see Lynn and Henry. The little kids, both named Jamie, played together.
Alex had stayed there a week.
But now, she was having trouble getting Lynn on the phone. At first, she worried she didn’t have the right number. Then she thought there was something wrong with her cheap cell phone. But then she got the answering machine, and now—
“Hello? Hello, who is this?”
“Lynn, it’s Alex. Listen I—”
“Oh, Alex! I’m really sorry, I can’t talk now—”
“What?”
“Not now. I’m sorry. Later.”
“But what—”
She heard the dial tone.
Lynn had already hung up.
She stared forward at the red lights of the creeping freeway.
“Who’s that?” her son asked.
“Aunt Lynn,” she said. “But she couldn’t talk. They just sounded busy.”
“So are we still going there?”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
She pulled off the freeway
at San Clemente and started to look for a motel. For some reason, she was strangely disoriented by the fact that she could not see Lynn. She hadn’t realized that she’d been counting on it.
“Where’re we going, Mom?” Jamie sounded anxious.
“We’ll stay at a motel.”
“What motel?”
“I’m looking.”
He stared at her. “Do you know where it is?”
“No, Jamie. I’m looking.”
They passed one, a Holiday Inn, but it was too big, and it looked exposed. She found a Best Western, unobtrusive, on Camino Real, and pulled in. She told Jamie to stay in the car while she went into the lobby.
A pimply, gangly kid stood behind the counter. He was tapping his fingers on the polished granite surface, humming a little to himself. He seemed restless. “Hi,” Alex said. “Do you have a room for tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’d like one.”
“Just for yourself?”
“No, for me and my son.”
He glanced out the door at Jamie. “He under twelve?” He was still clicking his fingernails.
“Yes, why?”
“If he goes to the pool, you gotta accompany him.”
“That’s fine.”
Still tapping the counter. She gave him a credit card and he swiped
it, all the while tapping out a beat with his other hand. It was getting on her nerves. “Can I ask you why you do that?”
He began to sing in a monotone. “Trouble’s where I’m going, and trouble’s where I’ve been.” He thumped the counter. “’Cause trouble is my middle name and trouble is my sin.” He smiled. “It’s a song.”
“That’s very unusual,” she said.
“My dad used to sing it.”
“I see.”
“He’s dead now.”
“I see.”
“Killed himself.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Shotgun.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Want to see it?”
She blinked. “Maybe some other time.”
“I keep it right here,” he said, nodding to the underside of the counter. “Not loaded, of course.” Tapping, singing. “Trouble is the only place I’ve been…”
“I’ll just sign in,” Alex said. He gave her back her card, and she filled out the form. Still clicking, all the time. She thought about going elsewhere, but she was tired. Jamie was waiting. She had to feed him, buy some new clothes for him, a toothbrush, all that.
“There you go,” the kid said, giving her the room keys.
It wasn’t until she was back in her car, driving to a parking spot near the room, that she remembered she was not supposed to have used her credit card.
Too late now.
“Mom, I’m hungry.”
“I know, honey. We’ll get something.”
“I want a burger.”
“Okay, we can do that.”
She drove through the parking lot and back onto the street. Better to get him fed before they went to the room.
T
here were two more
gunshots as Lynn ran into the backyard. Her daughter, Tracy, was screaming, Dave was up in the tree yelling and shaking the branches, and Jamie lay on the ground with blood pouring from his head. She felt sick. She started forward, and Tracy screamed, “Mom! Stay down!”
The gunshots seemed to be coming from the street. Whoever it was was shooting through their wooden slat fence. There was the sound of distant sirens. She could not take her eyes off Jamie. She started to move toward him.
More gunshots, and snapping of leaves in the tree. They were shooting at Dave. Dave was whooping and growling, shaking the branches angrily. He yelled, “You dead! You dead, boy!”
“Dave, be quiet,” she shouted. She started crawling toward Jamie. Tracy was shouting into the cell phone, giving the address to 911. Jamie was moaning on the grass. He was all she saw. She hoped that Henry had gone out the front door and would see who it was, and would not get hurt. It was obviously someone trying to get Dave.
The sirens were louder. She heard shouts and running footsteps on the street. Some car had pulled up, bright lights shining through the slats of the fence, casting streaks of shadow.
Overhead, Dave gave a war whoop and was gone. Tracy was yelling. Lynn got to Jamie. The blood was thick around his head.
“Jamie, Jamie…”
She got to her knees, turned him over gently. He had a huge gusher on his forehead. Red blood pouring down one side of his face.
He smiled weakly. “Hi, Mom.”
“Jamie, where are you hit?”
“Not…”
“Where, Jamie?”
“I fell. From the tree.”
She had the edge of her skirt in her hand, was cautiously wiping the wound. She saw no bullet hole. Just a huge abrasion, bleeding profusely.
“Honey, you weren’t shot?”
“No, Mom.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t me, anyway. He was after Dave.”
“Who was?”
“Billy.”
Lynn looked up at the tree overhead. Branches gently swaying in the light of the headlamps.
Dave was gone.
Dave’s first jump
landed him on the sidewalk, and he began running after the fleeing Billy Cleever, who was heading down the street, running home. Dave could move swiftly when he wanted to, loping on all fours. He ran parallel to the sidewalk, staying on the grass, because the concrete hurt his knuckles. He was growling continuously, as he closed in on Billy.
At the end of the block, Billy turned and saw Dave bearing down on him. He held his gun in two shaking hands and fired a shot, then another. Dave kept coming. Along the street, people were looking out their windows. All the windows glowed blue from the TV sets inside.
Billy turned to run, and Dave caught him and slammed his head into a traffic signpost. It rang with the impact. Billy tried to turn, but he was terrified. Dave held him firmly and smashed his head into the concrete. He would have killed him for sure, but the sound of approaching sirens made him pause and look up.
In that moment, Billy kicked, scrambled to his feet, and ran up the driveway of the nearest house. He climbed into a car parked in the driveway. Dave chased him. Billy slammed the door and locked it just as Dave landed on the windshield. He slid over the surface of the hood, peering into the interior.
Billy aimed his gun but he was too shaken, too terrified to fire. Dave dropped down to the passenger side, tried the door, yanking again and again at the handle. Billy was gasping for breath, watching him.
Then Dave dropped down again, completely out of sight.
The sirens came closer.
Billy realized
his predicament slowly. The police were coming. He was locked in the car with a gun in his hand, his blood and fingerprints smeared all over it. Powder marks and a red cut where the hammer had nipped him. He didn’t know how to shoot, not really. He had just wanted to scare them, is all.
The police were going to find him here. Trapped in this car.
Cautiously, he peered out the passenger window, trying to see Dave.
Black and screaming, Dave leapt up and slammed against the window. Billy screamed and jumped back. The gun fired, hitting the dashboard, plastic splinters cutting into his arm, the car filling with smoke. He dropped the gun onto the floorboard, leaned back in the seat. He was gasping for breath.
Sirens. Closer.
Maybe they would find him here, but it was self-defense. That would be obvious. Monkeyboy was a vicious animal. The police would take one look at him and realize that everything Billy had done was self-defense. He had to protect himself. The monkey kid was vicious. He looked like an ape and he acted like an ape. He was a killer. He belonged behind bars in a zoo…
Flashing red lights sweeping the roof of the car. The sirens stopped. Billy heard a bullhorn. “This is the police. Come out of the car now. Very slow with your hands where we can see them.”
“I can’t!” he yelled. “He’s out there!”
“Come out of the car now!” the voice boomed. “With your hands up.”
Billy waited awhile, then came out, holding his hands high, blinking in the bright spotlight of the police cars. A cop came up and shoved him onto the ground. He snapped handcuffs on him.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Billy said, his face pushed in the grass. “It was that kid Dave. He’s under the car.”
“There’s nobody under the car, son,” the cop said, lifting him to his feet. “Just you. Nobody else. Now: you going to tell us what this is about?”
His father came.
Billy knew he was going to get a beating. But his father didn’t give any indication of that. He asked to see the gun. He asked Billy where the bullets were. Billy said he was shooting at a vicious kid who was attacking him.
Billy’s father just nodded, his face bland. But he said he would follow the cops down to the station, when they took Billy there to book him.
Henry said,
“I think we have to admit, it just isn’t working.”
“What do you mean?” Lynn said, running her fingers through Dave’s hair. “This isn’t Dave’s fault, you said so yourself.”
“I know. But there seems to be trouble all the time. Biting, fighting…Now gunshots, for God’s sake. He’s endangering all of us.”
“But it’s not his fault, Henry.”
“I’m worried about what will happen next.”
“You could have thought of that earlier,” she said, in a sudden burst of anger. “Like four years ago, when you decided to do your experiment. Because now it’s a little too late to be having regrets, don’t you think? He’s our responsibility, and he’s staying with us.”
“But—”
“We’re his family.”
“They were shooting at Jamie.”
“Jamie’s all right.”
“But
shooting
…”
“It was some crazy kid. Sixth-grader. The police have him.”
“Lynn, you’re not listening.”
She glared at him. “What do you think, that you can quietly get rid of him, like a Petri dish that didn’t turn out right? You can’t just dump Dave in the biotrash. You’re the one who’s not listening. Dave is a living, thinking sentient being, and you made him. You are the reason why he exists on this earth. You don’t have the right to abandon him just because he’s inconvenient or has trouble at school.” She paused to catch her breath. She was very angry. “Anyway, I’m not giving him up,” she said. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“But—”
“Not now, Henry.”
Henry knew that tone. He shrugged and left.
“Thank you,” Dave said, bending his head so she could run her fingers through the fur on his neck. “Thank you, Mom.”