Michael Crichton – Prey

“Dad. Would you please just help me?”

The pot roast had another half hour to go. I put down the knife and went into Eric’s room. I looked in all the usual places, the back of his closet where clothes were kicked into a heap (I would have to talk to Maria about that), under the bed, behind the bed table, in the bottom drawer in the bathroom, and under the piles of stuff on his desk. Eric was right. It wasn’t in his room. We headed toward the family room. I glanced in at the baby’s room as I passed by. And I saw it immediately. It was on the shelf beside the changing table, right alongside the tubes of baby ointment. Eric grabbed it. “Hey, thanks Dad!” And he scampered off. There was no point in asking why it was in the baby’s room. I went back to the kitchen and resumed chopping my green beans. Almost immediately:

“Daa-ad!”

“What?” I called.

“It doesn’t work!”

“Don’t shout.”

He came back to the kitchen, looking sulky. “She broke it.”

“Who broke it?”

“Amanda. She drooled on it or something, and she broke it. It’s not fair.”

“You check the battery?”

He gave me a pitying look. “ ’Course, Dad. I told you, she broke it! It’s not fair!”

I doubted his MP3 player was broken. These things were solid-state devices, no moving parts. And it was too large for the baby to handle. I dumped the green beans on the steamer tray, and held out my hand. “Give it to me.”

We went into the garage and I got out my toolbox. Eric watched my every move. I had a full set of the small tools you need for computers and electronic devices. I worked quickly. Four Phillips head screws, and the back cover came off in my hand. I found myself staring at the green circuit board. It was covered by a fine layer of grayish dust, like lint from a clothes dryer, that obscured all the electronic components. I suspected that Eric had slid into home plate with this thing in his pocket. That was probably why it didn’t work. But I looked along the edge of the plastic and saw a rubber gasket where the back fitted against the device. They’d made this thing airtight… as they should.

I blew the dust away, so I could see better. I was hoping to see a loose battery connection, or a memory chip that had popped up from heat, anyway something that would be easy to fix. I squinted at the chips, trying to read the writing. The writing on one chip was obscured, because there seemed to be some kind of-

I paused.

“What is it?” Eric said, watching me.

“Hand me that magnifying glass.”

Eric gave me a big glass, and I swung my high-intensity lamp low, and bent over the chip, examining it closely. The reason I couldn’t read the writing was that the surface of the chip had been corroded. The whole chip was etched in rivulets, a miniature river delta. I understood now where the dust had come from. It was the disintegrated remains of the chip. “Can you fix it, Dad?” Eric said. “Can you?”

What could have caused this? The rest of the motherboard seemed fine. The controller chip was untouched. Only the memory chip was damaged. I wasn’t a hardware guy, but I knew enough to do basic computer repairs. I could install hard drives, add memory, things like that. I’d handled memory chips before, and I’d never seen anything like this. All I could think was that it was a faulty chip. These MP3 players were probably built with the cheapest components available.

“Dad? Can you fix it?”

“No,” I said. “It needs another chip. I’ll get you one tomorrow.”

“ ’Cause she slimed it, right?”

“No. I think it’s just a faulty chip.”

“Dad. It was fine for a whole year. She slimed it. It’s not fair!” As if on cue, the baby started crying. I left the MP3 player on the garage table, and went back inside the house. I looked at my watch. I would just have time to change Amanda’s diaper, and mix her cereal for dinner, before the pot roast came out.

By nine, the younger kids were asleep, and the house was quiet except for Nicole’s voice, saying, “That sounds pretty serious. That sounds pretty serious. That sounds… pretty serious.” She was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at herself and reciting her lines.

I’d gotten voice mail from Julia saying she’d be back by eight, but she hadn’t made it. I wasn’t about to call and check up on her. Anyway, I was tired, too tired to work up the energy to worry about her. I’d picked up a lot of tricks in the last months-mostly involving liberal use of tinfoil so I didn’t have to clean so much-but even so, after I did the cooking, set the table, fed the kids, played airplane to get the baby to eat her cereal, cleared the table, wiped down the high chair, put the baby to bed, and then cleaned up the kitchen, I was tired. Especially since the baby kept spitting out the cereal, and Eric kept insisting all through dinner that it wasn’t fair, he wanted chicken fingers instead of the roast.

I flopped down on the bed, and flicked on the TV.

There was only static, and then I realized the DVD player was still turned on, interrupting the cable transmission. I hit the remote button, and the disc in the machine began to play. It was Julia’s demo, from several days before.

The camera moved through the bloodstream, and into the heart. Again, I saw that the liquid of blood was almost colorless, with bouncing red cells. Julia was speaking. On the table, the subject lay with the antenna above his body.

“We’re coming out of the ventricle, and you see the aorta ahead… And now we will go through the arterial system…”

She turned to face the camera.

“The images you have seen are fleeting, but we can allow the camera to cycle through for as much as half an hour, and we can build up highly detailed composites of anything we want to see. We can even pause the camera, using a strong magnetic field. When we are finished, we simply shunt the blood through an intravenous loop surrounded by a strong magnetic field, removing the particles, and then send the patient home.”

The video image came back to Julia. “This Xymos technology is safe, reliable, and extremely easy to use. It does not require highly trained personnel; it can be administered by an IV nurse or a medical technician. In the United States alone, a million people die each year from vascular disease. More than thirty million have diagnosed cardiovascular disease. Commercial prospects for this imaging technology are very strong. Because it is painless, simple, and safe, it will replace other imaging techniques such as CAT scans and angiography and will become the standard procedure. We will market the nanotech cameras, the antenna, and monitor systems. Our per-test cost will be only twenty dollars. This is in contrast to certain gene technologies that currently charge two to three thousand dollars a test. But at a mere twenty dollars, we expect worldwide revenues to exceed four hundred million dollars in the first year. And once the procedure is established, those figures will triple. We are talking about a technology that generates one point two billion dollars a year. Now if there are questions…” I yawned, and flicked the TV off. It was impressive, and her argument was compelling. In fact, I couldn’t understand why Xymos was having trouble getting their next round of funding. For investors, this should be a slam dunk.

But then, she probably wasn’t having trouble. She was probably just using the funding crisis as an excuse to stay late every night. For her own reasons.

I turned out the light. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark, I began to see fleeting images. Julia’s thigh, over another man’s leg. Julia’s back arched. Julia breathing heavily, her muscles tensed. Her arm reaching up to push against the headboard. I found I couldn’t stop the images.

I got out of bed, and went to check the kids. Nicole was still up, emailing her friends. I told her it was time for lights out. Eric had kicked off his covers. I pulled them back up. The baby was still purple, but she slept soundly, her breathing gentle and regular.

I got back into bed. I willed myself to go to sleep, to think of something else. I tossed and turned, adjusted the pillow, got up for a glass of milk and cookies. Eventually, finally, I fell into a restless sleep.

And I had a very strange dream.

Sometime during the night, I rolled over to see Julia standing by the bed, undressing. She was moving slowly, as if tired or very dreamy, unbuttoning her blouse. She was turned away from me, but I could see her face in the mirror. She looked beautiful, almost regal. Her features looked more chiseled than I remembered, though perhaps it was just the light. My eyes were half-closed. She hadn’t noticed I was awake. She continued to slowly unbutton her blouse. Her lips were moving, as if she were whispering something, or praying. Her eyes seemed vacant, lost in thought.

Then as I watched, her lips turned dark red, and then black. She didn’t seem to notice. The blackness flowed away from her mouth across her cheeks and over her lower face, and onto her neck. I held my breath. I felt great danger. The blackness now flowed in a sheet down her body until she was entirely covered, as if with a cloak. Only the upper half of her face remained exposed. Her features were composed; in fact she seemed oblivious, just staring into space, dark lips silently moving. Watching her, I felt a chill that ran deep into my bones. Then a moment later the black sheet slid to the floor and vanished.

Julia, normal again, finished removing her blouse, and walked into the bathroom. I wanted to get up and follow her, but I found I could not move. A heavy fatigue held me down on the bed, immobilizing me. I was so exhausted I could hardly breathe. This oppressive sense of fatigue grew rapidly, and overwhelmed my consciousness. Losing all awareness, I felt my eyes close, and I slept.

DAY 4

6:40 A.M.

The next morning the dream was still fresh in my mind, vivid and disturbing. It felt utterly real, not like a dream at all.

Julia was already up. I got out of bed and walked around to where I had seen her the night before. I looked down at the rug, the bedside table, the creased sheets and pillow. There was nothing unusual, nothing out of order. No dark lines or marks anywhere. I went into the bathroom and looked at her cosmetics, in a neat line on her side of the sink. Everything I saw was mundane. However disturbing my dream had been, it was still a dream. But one part of it was true enough: Julia was looking more beautiful than ever. When I found her in the kitchen, pouring coffee, I saw that her face did indeed look more chiseled, more striking. Julia had always had a chubby face. Now it was lean, defined. She looked like a high-fashion model. Her body, too-now that I looked closely-appeared leaner, more muscular. She hadn’t lost weight, she just looked trim, tight, energetic.

I said, “You look great.”

She laughed. “I can’t imagine why. I’m exhausted.”

“What time did you get in?”

“About eleven. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No. But I had a weird dream.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes, it was-”

“Mommy! Mommy!” Eric burst into the kitchen. “It’s not fair! Nicole won’t get out of the bathroom. She’s been in there for an hour. It’s not fair!”

“Go use our bathroom.”

“But I need my socks, Mommy. It’s not fair.”

This was a familiar problem. Eric had a couple of pairs of favorite socks that he wore day after day until they were black with grime. For some reason, the other socks in his drawer were not satisfactory. I could never get him to explain why. But putting on socks in the morning was a major problem with him.

“Eric,” I said, “we talked about this, you’re supposed to wear clean socks.”

“But those are my good ones!”

“Eric. You have plenty of good socks.”

“It’s not fair, Dad. She’s been in there an hour, I’m not kidding.”

“Eric, go choose other socks.”

“Dad…”

I just pointed my finger toward his bedroom.

“Shees.” He walked off muttering about how it wasn’t fair.

I turned back to Julia to resume our conversation. She was staring at me coldly. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“He came in talking to me, and you just took over. You took over the whole thing.”

Immediately, I realized she was right. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“I don’t get to see the children very much these days, Jack. I think I should be able to have my interaction without your taking control.”

“I’m sorry. I handle this kind of thing all day, and I guess-”

“This really is a problem, Jack.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“I know that’s what you said, but I don’t think you are sorry, because I don’t see you doing anything to change your controlling behavior.”

“Julia,” I said. Now I was trying to control my temper. I took a breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry it happened.”

“You’re just shutting me out,” she said, “and you are keeping me from my children-”

“Julia, God damn it, you’re never here!”

A frosty silence. Then:

“I certainly am here,” she said. “Don’t you dare say I am not.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. When are you here? When was the last time you made it for dinner, Julia? Not last night, not the night before, not the night before that. Not all week, Julia. You are not here.”

She glared at me. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, Jack. I don’t know what kind of game you are playing.”

“I’m not playing any game. I’m asking you a question.”

“I’m a good mother, and I balance a very demanding job, a very demanding job, and the needs of my family. And I get absolutely no help from you.”

“What are you talking about?” I said, my voice rising still higher. I was starting to have a sense of unreality here.

“You undercut me, you sabotage me, you turn the children against me,” she said. “I see what you’re doing. Don’t think I don’t. You are not supportive of me at all. After all these years of marriage, I must say it’s a lousy thing to do to your wife.” And she stalked out of the room, fists clenched. She was so angry, she didn’t see that Nicole was standing back from the door, listening to the whole thing. And staring at me, as her mother swept past.

Now we were driving to school. “She’s crazy, Dad.”

“No, she’s not.”

“You know that she is. You’re just pretending.”

“Nicole, she’s your mother,” I said. “Your mother is not crazy. She’s working very hard right now.”

“That’s what you said last week, after the fight.”

“Well, it happens to be true.”

“You guys didn’t used to fight.”

“There’s a lot of stress right now.”

Nicole snorted, crossed her arms, stared forward. “I don’t know why you put up with her.”

“And I don’t know why you were listening to what is none of your business.”

“Dad, why do you pull that crap with me?”

“Nicole…”

“Sor-ry. But why can’t you have a real conversation, instead of defending her all the time? It’s not normal, what she’s doing. I know you think she’s crazy.”

“I don’t,” I said.

From the backseat, Eric whacked her on the back of the head. “You’re the one who’s crazy,” he said.

“Shut up, butt breath.”

“Shut up yourself, weasel puke.”

“I don’t want to hear any more from either of you,” I said loudly. “I am not in the mood.” By then we were pulling into the turnaround in front of the school. The kids piled out. Nicole jumped out of the front seat, turned back to get her backpack, shot me a look, and was gone. I didn’t think Julia was crazy, but something had certainly changed, and as I replayed that morning’s conversation in my head, I felt uneasy for other reasons. A lot of her comments sounded like she was building a case against me. Laying it out methodically, step by step. You are shutting me out and keeping me away from my children.

I am here, you just don’t notice.

I’m a good mother, I balance a very demanding job with the needs of my family.

You are not supportive of me at all. You undercut me, you sabotage me.

You are turning the children against me.

I could easily imagine her lawyer saying these things in court. And I knew why. According to a recent article I had read in Redbook magazine, “alienation of affection” was currently the trendy argument in court. The father is turning the children against the mother. Poisoning their little minds by word and deed. While the Mom is blameless as always. Every father knew the legal system was hopelessly biased in favor of mothers. The courts gave lip service to equality, and then ruled a child needed its mother. Even if she was absent. Even if she smacked them around, or forgot to feed them. As long as she wasn’t shooting up, or breaking their bones, she was a fit mother in the eyes of the court. And even if she was shooting up, a father might not win the case. One of my friends at MediaTronics had an ex-wife on heroin who’d been in and out of rehab for years. They’d finally divorced and had joint custody. She was supposedly clean but the kids said she wasn’t. My friend was worried. He didn’t want his ex driving the kids when she was loaded. He didn’t want drug dealers around his kids. So he went to court to ask for full custody, and he lost. The judge said the wife was genuinely trying to overcome her addiction, and that children need their mother. So that was the reality. And now it looked to me as if Julia was starting to lay out that case. It gave me the creeps.

About the time I had worked myself into a fine lather, my cell phone rang. It was Julia. She was calling to apologize.

“I’m really sorry. I said stupid things today. I didn’t mean it.”

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