Desperate Measures

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Desperate Measures Page 36

by David Morrell


  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 alerted 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."

  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 braised 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."

  The Holiday Inn was west of Fa, 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 em braced.

  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. The 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 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. Wakeup!"

  "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."

  .1 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 .

  III 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."

  I "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 *. 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 sheet 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 hers around him, that his love

  gave him a reason to be.

  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. "

  ten. It's about Victor Standish. " His heart pounded fast again but

 

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