Free Next by Michael Crichton Page B

I call you back?”
    “Your dad had a car accident last night,” she said. “And…he died.”
    “What?” He felt suddenly dizzy. Tom leaned against the rat cages, took a shallow breath. Now Josh was giving him a concerned look. “What happened?”
    “His car hit an overpass around midnight,” his mother said. “They took him to Long Beach Memorial Hospital, but he died early this morning.”
    “Oh God. Are you at home?” Tom said. “You want me to come over? Does Rachel know?”
    “I just got off the phone.”
    “Okay, I’ll come over,” he said.
    “Tom, I hate to ask you this,” she said, “but…”
    “You want me to tell Lisa?”
    “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to reach her.” Lisa was the black sheep of the family. The youngest child, just turned twenty. Lisa hadn’t talked to her mother in years. “Do you know where she is these days, Tom?”
    “I think so,” he said. “She called a few weeks ago.”
    “To ask for money?”
    “No, just to give me her address. She’s in Torrance.”
    “I can’t reach her,” his mother said.
    “I’ll go,” he said.
    “Tell her the funeral is Thursday, if she wants to come.”
    “I’ll tell her.”
    He flipped the phone shut and turned to Josh. Josh was looking concerned and sympathetic. “What was it?”
    “My father died.”
    “I’m really sorry…”
    “Car crash, last night. I need to go tell my sister.”
    “You have to leave now?”
    “I’ll stop by the office on my way out and send Sandy in.”
    “Sandy can’t do this. He doesn’t know the routine—”
    “Josh,” he said, “I have to go.”
     
    Traffic was heavy on the 405. It took almost an hour before he found himself in front of a ratty apartment building on South Acre in Torrance, pushing the buzzer for apartment 38. The building stood close to the freeway; the roar of traffic was constant.
    He knew Lisa worked nights, but it was now ten o’clock in the morning. She might be awake. Sure enough, the buzzer sounded, and he opened the door. The lobby smelled strongly of cat piss. The elevator didn’t work, so he took the stairs to the third floor, stepping around plastic sacks of garbage. A dog had broken one sack open, and the contents spilled down a couple of steps.
    He stopped in front of apartment 38, pushed the doorbell. “Just a fucking minute,” his sister called. He waited. Eventually, she opened the door.
    She was wearing a bathrobe. Her short black hair was pulled back. She looked upset. “The bitch called,” she said.
    “Mom?”
    “She woke me up, the bitch.” She turned, went back into the apartment. He followed her. “I thought you were the liquor delivery.”
    The apartment was a mess. Lisa padded into the kitchen, and poked around the pans and dishes stacked in the sink, found a coffee cup. She rinsed it out. “You want coffee?”
    He shook his head. “Shit, Lise,” he said. “This place is a pigsty.”
    “I work nights, you know that.”
    She had never cared about her surroundings. Even as a child, her room was always a mess. She just didn’t seem to notice. Now Tom looked through the greasy drapes of the kitchen window at the traffic crawling past on the 405. “So. How’s work going?”
    “It’s House of Pancakes. How do you think it’s going? Same every fucking night.”
    “What did Mom say?”
    “She wanted to know if I was coming to the funeral.”
    “What’d you say?”
    “I told her to fuck off. Why should I go? He wasn’t my father.”
    Tom sighed. This was a long-standing argument within the family. Lisa believed she was not John Weller’s daughter. “You don’t think so, either,” she said to Tom.
    “Yeah, I do.”
    “You just say whatever Mom wants you to say.” She fished out a cigarette butt from a heaping ashtray, and bent over the stove to light it from the burner. “Was he drunk when he crashed?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “I bet he was shitfaced. Or on those steroids he used, for his bodybuilding.”
    Tom’s