David Morrell - Desperate Measures

Pittman hoped he seemed just one of many Sunday-morning strollers. In contrast with the week’s cool, rainy weather, the day was warm and bright. Joggers and bicyclists sped past street musicians and portrait painters, indigents and street vendors. Near the Washington Arch, students with New York University T-shirts played with a Frisbee while a beard-stubbled man holding a bottle in a paper bag stumbled past them.

Pittman didn’t pay attention to any of it. Concealed in his overcoat pocket, his hand continued to throb against a handkerchief that he had wrapped around it to staunch the flow of blood. Obviously he was hurt worse than he’d thought. He felt light-headed again, but this time he was sure it was from the blood he’d lost. He had to get to a hospital. But a hospital wouldn’t give him treatment unless he showed ID and filled out an information form. If the receptionist recognized his name or if the police alerted the hospitals to be on the lookout for someone with a bleeding hand… No. He had to find another way to get medical help.

And then what? he kept insisting to himself. Where will you go after that? Father Dandridge was supposed to have all your answers, and now he’s dead and you don’t know anything more than when you started.

Why did they kill him? Pittman thought urgently. If they were after me, why didn’t they wait until I left the church?

Because they wanted both of us. They must have been watching him. They were looking for any sign that he was going to act on what Millgate had told him in earlier confessions. And when I showed up, they assumed we were working together.

But what did Father Dandridge know that was so important?

Grollier, the prep school Millgate had attended.

It must have some significance. Damn it, somebody’s worried enough to kill anybody I come in touch with who might know anything about the thoughts that tortured Millgate in his final hours.

Final hours.

Pittman suddenly knew where he had to go next.

“Detective Logan,” he said to the intercom.

A buzzer sounded, electronically unlocking the outside door.

Pittman stepped through, noting the attractive wood paneling in the Upper West Side apartment building. He took the elevator to the fifth floor. He’d been worried that the woman’s phone number wouldn’t be listed or that she wouldn’t be home after he checked the phone book and came here. As he knocked on the door, he worried as well that she wouldn’t be receptive, but when she opened the door, using her left hand to keep her housecoat securely fastened, squinting at him through sleepy eyes, she looked puzzled more than upset.

Silhouetted by sunlight streaming through a living room window behind her, Jill Warren murmured, “Don’t you know it’s the middle of the night?”

That was something Pittman had hoped for-that instead of going out to enjoy the day, she would be home, sleeping after she finished her night shift at the hospital.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Jill yawned, reminding Pittman of a kitten pawing at its face. Although her long blond hair was tangled and her face was puffy from just having been wakened, Pittman thought she was beautiful.

“You need to ask me more questions?”

“A little more than that, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I need help.” Pittman withdrew his bloodstained hand from his overcoat pocket.

“My God.” Jill’s eyes came fully open. “Hurry. Come in.” She gripped his arm, guiding him through the doorway, quickly closing it. “The kitchen’s this way. I wondered why you looked so pale. I thought maybe you hadn’t gotten any sleep. But… Here, put your hand in the sink.”

As Pittman wavered, she hurriedly brought a chair from the kitchen table and made him sit beside the sink while she pulled off his overcoat.

The.45 concealed in its right pocket thunked against the chair and made Jill frown.

“Look, I know this is an imposition,” Pittman said. “If I’m interrupting anything… If someone’s here and…”

“Nobody.”

At the hospital, Pittman had noted that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Nonetheless, he’d been concerned that she might be living with someone. Her roommate might have gone out for the day to avoid making noise, to let her sleep.

“I live alone,” Jill said. “This handkerchief is stuck to your wound. I’m going to run cool water over it and peel it off. How did you-? Good. It’s coming off. Does that hurt?”

“No.”

“Sure. That’s why your face turned gray. This looks like a cut.”

“Broken glass.”

“Deep. You should have gone to the hospital instead of coming here.”

“Your apartment was closer.”

“You need stitches.”

“No,” Pittman said.

Jill frowned at him, then returned her attention to Pittman’s hand. “Which do you object to, the hospital or the stitches?”

Pittman didn’t answer.

Jill rinsed the crusted blood off the hand, then directed a gentle flow of water into the cut. “Keep your hand under the water. I have to get bandages and disinfectant.”

Then she was gone. Pittman worried that she might decide to run from the apartment.

To his relief, he heard her opening drawers in another room.

He stared at the blood welling from his hand, the water diluting it, pink fluid flowing down the drain. Weary, he looked away, feeling oddly at a distance as he scanned the small, bright, neatly arranged kitchen. A pot holder in the shape of a cat seemed more amusing than it should have been.

“Your face is grayer,” Jill said with concern, hurrying back. “I can’t imagine what you’re smiling about. Do you feel delirious?”

“A little off balance.”

“For God sake, don’t fall off the chair.” Jill put her arms around him, leaning past him, over the sink.

He felt her breasts against his back but was too tired to respond with anything but gratitude that she was taking care of him.

Gently she washed his hand, blotted it with a towel, applied amber disinfectant to the cut, put a dressing on a gauze pad, and wrapped a bandage around the hand. Blood soaked through the first layer. Jill bandaged faster, adding layer after layer.

“You’d better hope this stops the bleeding, or you’ll be going to the hospital whether you like it or not,” she said.

Pittman stared at the thick padding around his hand. A portion of it turned pink, but it didn’t spread.

“One more layer for good luck.” Jill wrapped it again. “Now let’s get you into the living room and up on the sofa.”

“I’m fine,” Pittman said. “I can do it myself.”

“Yeah, sure, right.” Jill lifted him, putting an arm around him as his knees bent.

The sunlit living room turned shadowy for a moment. Then Pittman was on the sofa.

“Lie down.”

“Look, I really am sorry.”

“Put your feet on this pillow. I want them higher than your head.”

“I wouldn’t have come here if there was any other way to-”

“Stop talking. You sound out of breath. Lie still. I’m going to get you some water.”

Pittman closed his eyes. The next thing he knew, Jill was cradling his head, helping him to drink.

“If you don’t feel queasy after this, I’ll get you some juice. Do you think you could eat? Would you like something bland like toast?”

“Eat?”

“You make it sound like a new idea.”

“The last time I… You could say my meals have been irregular.”

Jill frowned harder. “Your overcoat’s torn. Your pants have dirt on them, as if you’ve been crawling on the ground. What’s going on? How did you get hurt?”