“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. 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
“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
