Desperate Measures

by David R. Morrell

  “Isn’t it wonderful,” Denning exclaimed.

  “What?”

  “Three dead. Two to go,” Denning said gleefully. “They’re dropping like flies, Vivian. It’s everything I dreamed of. They’re finally getting what they deserve. Stop,” he blurted to Pittman. “We have to find another pay phone.”

  Pittman didn’t know how to respond to Denning’s outburst.

  “Do what I tell you,” Denning insisted. “There. At that service station. Quickly. Pull over.”

  Puzzled, compelled by Denning’s emotion, Pittman obeyed. He stopped the Duster next to the air pump at the side of the gas station. Confused, he stood with the others next to the phone booth as Denning made his call.

  “Answering your own phone these days, are you, Eustace? Feeling that nervous, are you?… An old enemy. I’m calling to tell you how pleased I am to hear that Victor Standish died tonight. Thrilled. Ecstatic. The bastard deserved it. So do you. It’s enough to make me believe in God. Tell me, Eustace, do you suppose Victor’s death had anything to do with your secret? When people learn about Duncan Kline, you’ll be ruined. You’ll die in disgrace. I’ll dance on your grave, you son of a bitch.”

  Denning slammed down the phone, his eyes fierce, his frenzied expression made stark by the harsh fluorescent lights that glared from the gas station’s large window.

  The attendant came out, wiping grease from his hands. “Need some gas?”

  Pittman was so gripped by the hateful expression on Denning’s face that it took him a moment to respond to the attendant. “No. We just needed to use the phone.”

  “Your friend doesn’t look well.”

  “You’re right,” Pittman said. “He doesn’t.” Pittman was alarmed by Denning’s sudden pallor.

  “Need some rest.” Denning’s knees bent.

  Pittman grabbed him.

  “Too much has been happening,” Denning said. “Need to lie down.”

  “Oh God, should I call an ambulance?” the attendant asked.

  “No.” Pittman’s urgent thoughts were complicated. He wanted to make sure that Denning was all right. At the same time, he needed to get away from the gas station in case Gable had managed a trace on Denning’s call and sent men here. “My friend’s a nurse. We’ll get him into the car. She’ll check him. If I have to, I’ll take him to a doctor.”

  They rushed to put Denning into the backseat. The next thing, Pittman was behind the steering wheel. He slammed the door, started the Duster, and steered back into traffic. “How is he?”

  In the backseat, Jill was examining him. “His pulse is rapid but weak. Unsteady.”

  “What does that mean? Is he having a heart attack?”

  “I don’t know. He says he isn’t having sharp pains in his chest or down his left arm. It’s more like a hand on his chest. Sounds like angina. If I had some instruments, a blood-pressure cuff, I could… I don’t think you should take any chances. Get him to a hospital.”

  7

  They sat in the Emergency waiting room, squinting from the stark reflection of strong lights off white walls. Pittman squirmed on a metal chair, his bruised side aching, his legs continuing to feel stiff from having spent so much time in the car. Next to him, Mrs. Page looked considerably older, her taut face almost skeletal from fatigue.

  Pittman scanned the haggard faces of other people waiting for word about patients. It occurred to him that under different circumstances, being in a hospital would have intensified his preoccupation with Jeremy’s death. But now so much had happened, there was so much for him to brood about, Jeremy was only part of the welter of thoughts and feelings that he endured. He was amazed that he did not see this as a betrayal of Jeremy. If Jeremy wasn’t constantly in his thoughts, that had nothing to do with a reduction of love for his dead son, he realized. Rather, it meant that he knew he couldn’t grieve if he was dead. In contrast with his morass of despair a week ago, he understood that his primary responsibility was to remain alive—to keep Jeremy’s memory alive, to continue loving him. He had to do everything to survive.

  Jill was coming through a swinging door beside the nurse’s station. Her jeans and sweater looked rumpled. Her blue eyes were glazed with weariness as she tugged fingers through her long blond hair and came over.

  “Any news?” Pittman asked.

  “They’re still doing tests, but so far it doesn’t look as if he had a coronary.” Jill slumped in the chair beside him. “For the moment, the theory is exhaustion. The doctor wants to keep him overnight for observation.”

  “He’ll be safe here. No one will think to look for him in a Fairfax hospital.”

  “Provided he keeps his mouth shut.”

  “Oh, I think he feels helpless enough that he won’t want to make more phone calls. He won’t advertise where he is.”

  Mrs. Page roused herself, her voice dry. “But he’s not the only one who’s exhausted.” She turned to her servant. “George, you’ve been good to stay with me. I think, however, that it’s time you looked after yourself. You need to rest. Your family will be wondering where you are. Call them and reassure them. Then go home.”

  George hesitated. “Do you think that’s wise, ma’am? To go home? The men looking for you might be watching where I live. They might interrogate me to find out where you are.”

  “But you won’t know where I’ve gone,” Mrs. Page said.

  “George has a point,” Pittman said. “Even if he doesn’t know where you are, they’d still have to torture him to find that out. He’d be in danger the same as the rest of us.”

  “I’d like to come along, ma’am. From the looks of things, you need my help more than ever.”

  8

  The Holiday Inn was west of Fairfax, off Route 29. Pittman chose it because it was close to where the two remaining grand counselors had their estates. For a moment, he’d been confused about how he was going to pay for the rooms. He and Jill had very little money left. He couldn’t use his or Jill’s credit card. Similarly, the group couldn’t use Mrs. Page’s—her name was familiar in the Washington area and was almost certain to attract attention. The police and Eustace Gable would have alerted the credit card companies, stressing that they needed to be informed if and where anyone used her card.

  The difficulty had appeared insurmountable until Pittman realized that the one person most likely to be invisible was Mrs. Page’s servant. It would take the police and the remaining grand counselors quite a while to discover George’s name. In the meantime, the group absolutely needed to rest.

  They waited in the shadows of a parking lot while George went into the motel’s brightly lit lobby and made the arrangements. The rooms were on the outside, on the second floor, in back, and after Pittman trudged up a flight of concrete steps, an arm around Jill, he turned to Mrs. Page and George.

  “It isn’t a good idea to be in one place too long. We ought to be out of here by seven tomorrow morning.”

  Mrs. Page looked surprised by the schedule, obviously not used to getting up that early, but she didn’t say a word, only braced her shoulders and nodded.

  “Remember, we can’t make any phone calls from here,” Pittman said.

  This time, both George and Mrs. Page nodded.

  “Sleep well,” Pittman added.

  “How I wish,” Mrs. Page said.

  After watching George and Mrs. Page go into their rooms, Pittman unlocked the one he and Jill had requested. They carried in the gym bag and suitcase, set them on the carpeted floor, then shut and locked the door, not bothering to examine the clean and functional room. Instead, they turned to each other, studied each other’s weary features, and tenderly embraced.

  They held each other for what seemed a long time. As tired as he was, Pittman felt as if he could stand and hold Jill all night long.

  But then his knees became unsteady. Taking Jill’s hand, he sat with her on the side of the bed. “The worst part is that I’m actually beginning to think we can get out of this,” he said. “To hope. Th
e last time I hoped for something, really hoped, with all my heart, it didn’t work out.”

  Jill stroked the side of his face. “We’ll get out of this. It’ll happen. We’ll make it happen.”

  “Sure.” But Pittman’s tone was less than positive. He kissed her softly on the cheek, then stood and removed his sport coat. His .45, which he hadn’t had time to reload, was in his gym bag. But the 9 mm that he had taken from Jill was wedged behind his belt at his spine. With relief, he pulled it free and set it on the counter that supported the television. His back hurt from where the sharp edges of the weapon had pressed into his skin.

  Jill pointed toward the television. “Maybe we should have a look at CNN. There might be some news about what happened to Victor Standish.”

  “Good idea.” Pittman turned on the set, inspected a list of television stations that was taped to the top, and used the remote control to switch to CNN. He watched thirty seconds of a story about a child being rescued from a well.

  “That boy looks as dirty as I feel,” Jill said.

  “How would you like to use the shower first?”

  “You certainly know the right things to say.” After briefly rubbing Pittman’s back, Jill took some things from her suitcase and went into the bathroom.

  Pittman listened to the scrape of shower curtain hooks, the spray of water into the hollow-sounding tub. He took his .45 and its box of ammunition from his gym bag, returned to the bed, and reloaded the pistol, continuing to watch CNN. An announcer summarized the day’s stock market activity. A commercial followed. Then there was a story about a seventy-year-old woman who was getting a Ph.D. in political science.

  Human-interest stuff, Pittman told himself, glancing at his watch. Almost midnight. The hard news won’t come on until the top of the hour.

  He took off his shoes and kneaded his stockinged feet against the carpet, feeling his rigid soles begin to relax.

  He must have dozed off. The next thing he knew, he was on his back on the bed and Jill was gently nudging him.

  “Uh.”

  “Sorry to wake you.” Jill tightened the towel wrapped around her. “But I think you’ll be a lot happier if you shower before you go to sleep.”

  “If I don’t fall asleep under the water and drown.”

  For the first time in a long while, Jill’s blue eyes twinkled. “Want some help?”

  “It’s a tempting offer. But I bet we’d slip in the tub and crack our heads.”

  “You sure are having visions of doom.”

  “Wonder why.” Pittman mustered the energy to stand, grabbed his gym bag, and went into the bathroom. He tried to remember the last time he’d been clean. The sharp hot water lancing at him was exquisite. Shampooing his hair, he felt as if he could never equal this luxury. For a moment, he remembered how he had hated the comfort of a shower after Jeremy’s death. Exhausted, he shut out the thought, allowing the shower to relax him.

  At last, after he’d toweled himself until his skin felt pleasantly irritated, he brushed his teeth, wrapped the remaining dry towel around him, and stepped out of the bathroom.

  After the steam in the bathroom, the comparatively cool air of the bedroom made his bare chest tingle. Unexpectedly, self-consciousness replaced his weariness. He was suddenly very aware that the room had only one bed, that Jill was sitting up in it, pillows propped behind her, covers pulled up to her bare shoulders, and that she looked self-conscious also. Her gaze flicked nervously from him to the droning television set.

  “Anything on the news?” Pittman tried to sound casual.

  She shook her head.

  “Nothing about Standish? Nothing about us?”

  “No.”

  Pittman approached the bed, and Jill visibly tensed.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” She stared at the television.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

  Pittman sat on his side of the bed. “Hey. Come on, talk to me.”

  “I…”

  “If we can’t be honest with each other, I guarantee we’ll never survive this.”

  “I made a mistake before you went into the shower,” Jill said.

  “Oh?” Pittman shook his head in confusion. “What was that?”

  “I joked about going in with you to help you shower.”

  “Yes. I remember. So what?”

  “Bad joke.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to be a tease. I don’t want to lead you on.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Jill said.

  The television kept droning. Pittman vaguely understood that the announcer was talking about an economic conference that was taking place in Geneva. But he didn’t take his gaze off Jill.

  “In Boston, we said certain things to each other. I love you.” Pittman felt as if he was being choked. “I don’t say that easily. I treat those words very seriously. To me, they’re a commitment.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Then you regret making the commitment, is that it?” Pittman asked. “It was a mistake? You confused depending on each other under stress with being in love? You want to correct the misunderstanding? You want to set the record straight?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Then I really don’t…”

  “I don’t want to take anything back. I love you,” Jill said. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” he managed to ask. When he touched her shoulder, he felt her sinews harden.

  “This room. This bed.” Her voice dropped. “I told you I don’t want to be a tease.”

  “Ah. I think I’m beginning to understand. This is about whether or not to have sex.”

  With disturbing intensity, Jill focused her eyes upon him.

  “You’re tired,” Pittman said. “I understand.”

  Pittman had never been looked at so directly.

  “Everything’s been happening too fast,” Jill said.

  “It’s okay. Really,” Pittman said. “No pressure. I figured things would happen when they were supposed to.”

  “You mean that?”

  When Pittman nodded, Jill visibly relaxed.

  “Making love shouldn’t be an obligation,” Pittman said. “It shouldn’t be something you feel you have to do because the circumstances put pressure on you. We’ll wait. When we’re both relaxed, when the time feels right…”

  “You want to know how confused I am?”

  Pittman didn’t understand.

  She took his hand, and immediately he did understand. He leaned toward her as she raised herself up toward him. His blanket fell at the same time the sheets that covered her slipped away. Their lips touched. Their bodies pressed against one another. Feeling her smooth breasts against his skin, Pittman thought that his heart had never pounded so hard and fast. At once he didn’t think about anything except how much he loved her.

  Much later, when time began again, Pittman became conscious that he lay beside her, that his arms were around her and hers around him, that his love gave him a reason to live.

  His buoyant mood was canceled as a man’s voice made him frown. “The television.”

  “Yes,” Jill murmured. “We forgot to turn it off.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Pittman sat up abruptly. “Listen. It’s about Victor Standish.” His heart pounded fast again but this time making him nauseous with shock, as he stared toward the chaotic scene of an ambulance and police cars in front of a mansion, emergency lights flashing while policemen made way for attendants bringing out a body bag on a gurney.

  A somber announcer was saying, “… verified that the distinguished diplomat Victor Standish died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

  SEVEN

  1

  No matter how desperately Pittman wanted to, he couldn’t sleep. The shock of learning about Standish’s suicide kept him and Jill
awake, watching CNN for further details until after 2:00 A.M. A summary of Standish’s long, distinguished career was punctuated by photographs of him and the other grand counselors, first as robust, steely-eyed, ambitious-looking young men, later as elderly icons of diplomacy standing with bolt-straight dignity despite their frail bodies, some of them bald, others with wispy white hair, their faces wrinkled, skin drooping from their necks, but their eyes communicating as much ambition as ever.

  When it became clear that the report wouldn’t be updated until the morning, Pittman reluctantly turned off the television. In the darkness of the hotel room, he lay tensely in bed, his eyes open, directed toward the murky ceiling. Beside him, Jill’s eventual slow, shallow breathing made him think that at least she had finally managed to shut off her mind and get some rest. But Pittman couldn’t stop the announcer’s words from echoing through his frantic memory: “… died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

  The suicide was totally alien to Pittman’s expectation. He strained to analyze the implications. The grand counselors had killed one of their own, Jonathan Millgate, in an effort to keep him from revealing information about them. The cover-up, which had involved using Pittman as a scapegoat, had gotten so out of hand that another grand counselor, Anthony Lloyd, had died from a stroke. Now a third grand counselor, Victor Standish, had shot himself, presumably because of fear. Earlier, Denning had said gleefully, “Three dead. Two to go.” But Pittman didn’t share Denning’s manic enthusiasm. True, Pittman was encouraged that a fissure of weakness had developed in what he had assumed was an armorlike resolution among the grand counselors. But if the tension was affecting them so extremely, there was every danger that the remaining two grand counselors, Eustace Gable and Winston Sloane, would succumb to age and desperation.

  Damn it, Pittman thought, I have to do something. Soon.

  When he and Jill had arrived in Washington that evening, one of his primary emotions had been rage, the urge to get even with the grand counselors for what they had done to him. But his encounter with Bradford Denning had made him realize the consequences of rage. The emotion had so distorted Denning’s approach to life that he had wasted his life. Indeed, tonight he had worked himself into such a frenzy that his rage had nearly killed him.