Disclosure_ A Novel - Michael Crichton [131]
“Forget that phone,” Meredith’s voice said loudly, and then there was the sound of rustling, like fabric, and a sort of hissing sound, and a dull thunk as the phone was dropped. The momentary sharp crackle of static.
More rustling. Then silence.
A grunt. Rustling.
As he listened, he tried to imagine the action in the room. They must have moved over to the couch, because now the voices were lower, less distinct. He heard himself say, “Meredith, wait—”
“Oh God,” she said, “I’ve wanted you all day.”
More rustling. Heavy breathing. It was hard to be certain what was happening. A little moan from her. More rustling.
She said, “Oh God, you feel so good, I can’t stand the bastard touching me. Those stupid glasses. Oh! I’m so hot, I haven’t had a decent fuck—”
More rustling. Static crackle. Rustling. More rustling. Sanders listened with a sense of disappointment. He could not really create images for what was going on-and he had been there. This tape would not be persuasive to someone else. Most of it sounded like obscure noise. With long periods of silence.
“Meredith—”
“Oooh. Don’t talk. No! No . . .” He heard her gasping, in little breaths.
Then more silence.
Fernandez said, “That’s enough.”
Sanders put the player down and shut it off. He shook his head.
“You can’t tell anything from this. About what was really going on.”
“You can tell enough,” Fernandez said. “And don’t you start worrying about the evidence. That’s my job. But you heard her first statements?” She consulted her notepad. “Where she says, ‘I’ve wanted you all day’? And then she says, ‘Oh God you feel so good, I can’t stand the bastard touching me. Those stupid glasses, oh I’m so hot, I haven’t had a decent fuck.’ You heard that part?”
“Yes. I heard it.”
“Okay. Who is she talking about?”
“Talking about?”
“Yes. Who is the bastard she can’t stand touching her?”
“I assume her husband,” Sanders said. “We were talking about him earlier. Before the tape.”
“Tell me what was said earlier.”
“Well, Meredith was complaining about having to pay alimony to her husband, and then she said her husband was terrible in bed. She said, ‘I hate a man who doesn’t know what he’s doing.’ ”
“So you think ‘I can’t stand the bastard touching me’ refers to her husband?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t,” Fernandez said. “They were divorced months ago. The divorce was bitter. The husband hates her. He has a girlfriend now; he’s taken her to Mexico. I don’t think she means her husband.”
“Then who?”
“I don’t know.”
Sanders said, “I suppose it could be anybody.”
“I don’t think it’s just anybody. Listen again. Listen to how she sounds.”
He rewound the tape, held the player to his ear. After a moment, he put the player down. “She sounds almost angry.”
Fernandez nodded. “Resentful is the term I’d use. She’s in the midst of this episode with you, and she’s talking about someone else. ‘The bastard.’ It’s as if she wants to pay somebody back. Right at that moment, she’s getting even.”
Sanders said, “I don’t know. Meredith’s a talker. She always talked about other people. Old boyfriends, that stuff. She’s not what you’d call a romantic.”
He remembered one time when they were lying on the bed in the apartment in Sunnyvale, feeling a sort of relaxed glow. A Sunday afternoon. Listening to kids laughing in the street outside. His hand resting on her thigh, feeling the sweat. And in this thoughtful way she said, “You know, I once went out with this Norwegian guy, and he had a curved dick. Curved like a sword, sort of bent over to the side, and he—”
“Jesus, Meredith.”
“What’s the matter? It’s true. He really did.”
“Not now.”
Whenever this sort of thing happened, she’d sigh, as if she was obliged to put up with his excessive sensitivity. “Why is it that guys always want to think they’re the only ones?”
“We don’t. We know we’re not. Just not now, okay?”
And she’d sigh again . . .
Sitting in the restaurant, Fernandez