David Morrell - Desperate Measures

Where , then?

His bitter joke echoed in his mind. A hospital’s a great place to collapse.

As the elevator rose, Pittman’s light-headedness increased. When the doors opened on the sixth floor, he strained to look natural and walked toward the intensive-care area. If Jill Warren came out, or the female doctor he’d spoken to earlier, he doubted that he’d have the strength to explain convincingly why he had returned.

But Pittman didn’t have another option. The intensive-care waiting room was the only refuge he could think of that he knew he could get to. Its lights had been dimmed. He veered left from the corridor, passed several taut-faced people trying to doze on the uncomfortable chairs, stepped over a man sleeping on the floor, and came to a metal cabinet in back.

The cabinet contained hospital pillows and blankets, Pittman knew. He had found out the hard way when Jeremy had been rushed to intensive care and Pittman had spent the first of many nights in the waiting room. A staff member had told him about the pillows and blankets but had explained that usually the cabinet was kept locked.

“Then why store the pillows and blankets in the cabinet if people can’t get to them?” Pittman had complained.

“Because we don’t want people sleeping here.”

“So you force them to stay awake in those metal chairs all night?”

“It’s a hospital rule. Tonight I’ll make an exception.” The staff member had unlocked the cabinet.

Now Pittman twisted the latch on the cabinet, found that it was locked, and angrily pulled out the tool knife Sean O’Reilly had given him. His hands trembled. It took him longer than it normally would have. But finally, using the lock picks concealed in the knife, he opened the cabinet.

Dizzy, nauseous, he lay among others in the most murky corner of the waiting room, a pillow beneath his head, a blanket pulled over him. Despite the hard floor, sleep had never come quicker or been more welcome. As he drifted into unconsciousness, he was dimly aware that others in the waiting room groped toward the pillows and blankets in the cabinet that he had deliberately left open.

He was disturbed only once-an elderly man waking a frail woman. “She’s dead, May. Nothin’ they could do.”

Daylight and voices woke him. Those who’d remained all night in the waiting room were rousing themselves. Others, whose friends or relatives had evidently just been admitted to intensive care, were trying to acquaint themselves with their new surroundings.

Pittman sat up wearily, concentrated to clear his head, and stood slowly with effort. The combination of the hard floor and his previous day’s exertion made his muscles ache. After he folded the blanket and put it and the pillow into the cabinet, he draped his overcoat over an arm, concealing the heavy bulge of the.45 in his right pocket.

A hospital volunteer brought in a cart of coffee, orange juice, and doughnuts. Noticing a sign that said PAY WHAT YOU CAN, Pittman couldn’t find any more change in his pockets. Sean O’Reilly had lent him twenty dollars, and Pittman guiltily put in one of those dollars, drank two cups of orange juice, ate two doughnuts, and suddenly was afraid that he would throw up. In a washroom down the hall, he splashed cold water on his face, looked at his pasty complexion in the mirror, touched his beard stubble, and felt demoralized. How can I possibly keep going? he thought.

The suicide that he had almost committed four nights earlier beckoned.

Why bother trying? I’m in so much trouble, I can never get out of it, he thought. Even if I do get out of it, Jeremy will still be dead. What’s the point? Nothing’s worth what I’m going through.

You can’t let the bastards destroy you. Remember what you told yourself-it has to be your idea, not theirs. If you kill yourself now, you’ll be giving them what they want. You’ll be letting them win. Don’t let the sons of bitches have that satisfaction.

A short, dreary-looking man whom Pittman recognized from the waiting room came into the washroom, took off his shirt, chose the sink next to Pittman, opened a travel kit, lathered his face, and began to shave.

“Say, you wouldn’t have another one of those disposable razors, would you?” Pittman asked.

“Do what I did, buddy. Go down to the shop in the lobby and buy one.

St. Joseph’s hadn’t benefited from the renovation that, thanks to an influx of Yuppies during the eighties, had taken place in other parts of SoHo. Although small, the church’s architecture resembled a cathedral, but its sandstone exterior was black with soot, its stained-glass windows grimy, its interior badly in need of painting.

Pittman stood at the rear of the church, smelled incense, listened to an organ that sounded as if it needed repair, and surveyed the impressive amount of worshipers who, unmindful of the bleak surroundings, had come for Sunday Mass. The front of the church wasn’t bleak, though. A golden chalice gleamed on the altar. Candles glowed. A tall, intense priest wearing a crimson vestment read from the Gospel, then delivered a sermon about trusting in God and not giving in to despair.

Right, Pittman thought bleakly. He sat in a pew in back and watched the continuation of the first Mass he’d attended in many years. He had never gone to church on a regular basis, but after Jeremy had died, his indifference had turned to rejection. As a consequence, he couldn’t account for his impulse when the time came for communion and he followed parishioners toward the altar. He told himself that he wanted to get a closer look at the priest, for an assistant at the church’s rectory had told Pittman that Father Dandridge would be conducting this particular Mass.

Coming near to him, Pittman saw that the priest was in his middle fifties and that his strong features had deep lines of strain. He had a jagged scar across his chin, and his left hand was welted from what looked like the consequence of a long-ago fire.

When Pittman received communion, the emptiness inside him felt immense.

The priest ended the Mass. “Go in peace.”

Not just yet, Pittman thought.

As the parishioners left, he made his way toward the front of the church, went through a door on the right, and found himself in the sacristy, the room next to the altar where objects needed for Mass were customarily stored.

The priest was taking off his vestments, setting them on a counter, when he noticed Pittman enter. Deliberate movements and cordlike sinews visible on the priest’s forearms suggested a man who kept his mind and body in condition and control. He became still, watching Pittman approach.

“May I help you?” the priest asked.

“Father Dandridge?”

“That’s correct.”

“I need to speak to you.”

“Very well.” The priest waited.

As Pittman hesitated, the priest cocked his head. “You look nervous. Is this a personal matter… something for confession?”

“No. Yes. I mean, it is personal, but… What I need to speak to you about-” Pittman felt apprehensive about the reaction he would get-“is Jonathan Millgate.”

The priest’s dark eyes assessed him. “Yes, I remember you from the Mass. The anguish on your face as you came up for communion. As if the weight of the entire world were on your shoulders.”

“That’s how it feels.”

“Understandably. If what the newspapers say about you is correct, Mr. Pittman.”

Panic. It had never occurred to Pittman that the priest would be able to identify him. Nerves quickening, he swung toward the door, about to flee.

“No,” Father Dandridge said. “Please. Don’t go. Be calm.”