Micro - Michael Crichton

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is almost ready,” Erika said.

      He brought the phone to the table, set it beside his plate. Erika wrinkled her nose; she didn’t like phones at meals. She was scooping eggs onto his plate, saying, “I followed my grandmother’s recipe, with milk and flour—”

      The phone rang.

      He grabbed it. “Hello?”

      “Peter?” A woman’s voice. “Peter Jansen?”

      “Yes, speaking.”

      “It’s Alyson Bender,” she said. “From Nanigen.” He had an image of the blond woman with her arm around Eric’s waist. “Listen,” she said, “how soon can you get over here to Hawaii?”

      “We’re scheduled to fly tomorrow,” he said.

      “Can you come today?”

      “I don’t know, I—”

      “It’s important.”

      “Well, I can check the flights—”

      “Actually, I took the liberty of booking you on one that leaves in two hours. Can you make it?”

      “Yes, I think—what’s this about?”

      “I’m afraid I have some disturbing news, Peter.” She paused. “It’s about your brother.”

      “What about him?”

      “He’s missing.”

      “Missing?” He felt dazed; he didn’t understand. “What do you mean, missing?”

      “Since yesterday,” Alyson said. “There was a boating accident. I don’t know if he told you that he bought a boat, a Boston Whaler? Anyway, he did, and he was out yesterday, on the north side of the island, and he had mechanical difficulties…there was big surf, crashing against the cliffs. The engines lost power, the boat drifted in…”

      Peter felt light-headed. He pushed the plate of eggs away. Erika was watching him, her face pale. “How do you know this?” he said.

      “There were people on the cliffs, they saw the whole thing.”

      “And what happened to Eric?”

      “He tried to start the engines. He couldn’t. The surf was high, the boat was going to be smashed on the cliffs. He dived into the ocean and swam…for shore. But the currents…he never made it to shore…” She took a breath. “I’m very sorry, Peter.”

      “Eric’s a good swimmer,” Peter said. “Strong swimmer.”

      “I know. And that’s why we continue to hope he’ll return,” she said. “But, uh, the police have told us that, well…The police would like to talk to you, and go over everything with you, as soon as you get here.”

      “I’m leaving now,” he said, and hung up. Erika had gone to the bedroom and brought his bag, already packed for the following day.

      “We’d better go,” she said, “if you’re going to make that flight.” She put her arm around his shoulder, and they headed downstairs to the car.

       Chapter 4

      Makapu‘u Point, Oahu

      27 October, 4:00 p.m.

      It was said to be a tourist spot: Makapu‘u Point, high cliffs on the northeastern tip of Oahu, with a spectacular view of the ocean in all directions. But once there, Peter was not prepared for the barren desolation of the place. A harsh wind whipped the scrubby green brush at his feet, and tugged at his clothes, forcing him to lean forward as he walked. He had to speak loudly: “Is it always like this?”

      The policeman beside him, Dan Watanabe, said, “No, sometimes it’s very pleasant. But the trades kicked up last night.” Watanabe wore Ray-Bans. He pointed to a lighthouse off to the right. “That’s Makapu‘u Lighthouse,” he said. “Automated years ago. Nobody lives there anymore.”

      Directly ahead, they looked down the black lava cliffs at surging ocean two hundred feet below. The surf boomed, smashing against the rocks. Peter said, “Is this where it happened?”

      “Yes,” Watanabe said. “The boat ran aground over there—” he pointed to the left—“but the Coast Guard got it off the rocks this morning, before it broke up in the surf.”

      “So his boat was somewhere offshore when it got into trouble?” Peter looked out at the ocean, which was rough, high swells and whitecaps.

      “Yes. He was drifting in the water for a while, witnesses said.”

      “Trying to start the engine…”

      “Yes. And drifting toward the surf.”

      “And what was the mechanical difficulty?” Peter said. “I understand it was a new boat.”

      “Yes. Couple of weeks old.”

      “My brother was experienced with boats,” Peter said. “My family always had a boat on Long Island Sound, we were out there every summer.”

      “These waters are different,” Watanabe said. “You’re looking at deep ocean.” He pointed. “Nearest land out there is three thousand miles away, the mainland. But that’s not the point. It’s pretty clear what got your brother in trouble was ethanol.”

      “Ethanol?” Peter said.

      “State of Hawaii puts ten percent ethanol into all the gas that’s sold here, but the ethanol screws up small engines. There’s cut-rate gas dealers who put way too much ethanol in their gas—up to thirty percent. It clogs fuel lines, and anything rubber or neoprene can turn to gunk. It’s caused a hell of a mess on boats. People have to put in new steel fuel tanks and lines. Anyway, we think that’s what happened to your brother. The carburetors were clogged, the fuel pump might have failed. Whatever it was exactly, he couldn’t restart the engines in time.”

      Peter was staring down at the water below. Greenish nearest the shore; then, farther out, deep blue, with whitecaps blown by wind.

      “How are the currents here?” he said.

      “Depends,” Watanabe said. “A good swimmer can manage on most days. The problem is finding a place to get out of the water without getting cut up on lava. Ordinarily you’d swim west, try to make it to Makapu‘u Beach over there.” He pointed to a sandy strip half a mile away.

      “My brother was a strong swimmer,” Peter said.

      “So I heard, but the witnesses said they couldn’t see him after he dived in the water. There was big surf that day, and he disappeared into the foam. They lost sight of him right away.”

      “How many people saw him?”

      “Two. There was a couple picnicking, right by the edge of the cliff. There were some hikers, too, and some other people, but we haven’t been able to locate them. What do you say we get out of this wind?” He started back up the hill; Peter followed. “I think that finishes our work here,” Watanabe said. “Unless of course you want to see the video.”

      “What video?”

      “The picnicking couple shot some video, once they realized the boat was in trouble. They recorded about fifteen minutes of tape, including the jump from the boat. I didn’t know if you wanted to see that or not.”

      “I want to see it,” Peter said.

      They were on the second floor of the police station, looking at a tiny screen on a video camera. It was noisy in the station, and busy, and Peter had difficulty focusing on the screen. The first images showed a man of about thirty, sitting on the green grassy hillside, eating a sandwich; then a woman of roughly the same age, drinking a Coke and laughing, waving the camera away.

      “That’s

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