"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 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.
&
nbsp; "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. "
David Morrell - Desperate Measures Page 36