David Morrell - Desperate Measures

“You mean in addition to the fact that you have money?”

“The money’s part of it. I don’t have to work for a living. The point is, I’m a nurse because I want to be. Because I need to be. And right now…”

“Yes?”

“My conscience wouldn’t bear what might happen to you if you fail. You need help.”

Pittman’s chest became tight with emotion. He touched her arm. “Thank you.”

“Hey, if I don’t hang around, who’s going to change the bandage on your hand?”

Pittman smiled.

“You ought to do that more often,” Jill said.

Self-conscious, Pittman felt his smile lose its strength.

Jill glanced toward East End Avenue. “I’d better find a pay phone and tell the hospital that I won’t be coming to work. They’ll still have time to get a replacement.”

But after she made the call and stepped from the booth, Jill looked perplexed.

“What’s wrong?”

“My supervisor in intensive care-she said the police had been in touch with her.”

“They must have checked your apartment and connected you with the hospital.”

“But she said somebody else called her as well, one of my friends, telling her I was all right but that I wouldn’t be coming in.”

“ What friend?”

“A man.”

Pittman’s muscles contracted. “Millgate’s people. Trying to cover everything. If you did show up at the hospital tonight, you would never have gotten to the sixth floor. But your supervisor wouldn’t be worried enough to call the police when you didn’t show up-because your ‘friend’ told her you were okay.”

“Now I’m really scared.”

“And we still haven’t solved our problem. Where are you going to stay?”

“I’ve got a better idea.”

“What?”

“Let’s keep moving,” Jill said.

“All night? We’d collapse.”

“Not necessarily. You need to go to the library, but it won’t be open until tomorrow.”

“Right.” Pittman was mystified.

“Well, they’ve got libraries in other cities. Instead of waiting until tomorrow, let’s use the time. We’ll be able to sleep on the train.”

“Train?”

“I take the overnight when I go skiing there.”

Pittman continued to look perplexed.

“Vermont.”

Pittman suddenly, tensely understood. A chill swept through him. “Yes. Where Professor Folsom told us it was. Grollier Academy. Vermont.”

A sleeper car wasn’t available. Not that it made a difference-Pittman was so exhausted that he was ready to sleep anywhere. Shortly after the train left Penn Station, he and Jill ate sandwiches and coffee that she had bought in the terminal. She had also been the one who bought the tickets; he didn’t want anyone to get a close look at him. For the same reason, he chose a seat against a window in an area that had few passengers. The photo of him that the newspapers and television were using didn’t show him as he now looked. Still, he had to be careful.

Soon the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of wheels on rails became hypnotic. Pittman glanced toward the other passengers in the half-full car, assuring himself that they showed no interest in him. Then he peered toward the lights in buildings the train was passing. His eyelids felt heavy. He leaned against the gym bag-he’d retrieved it from Sean O’Reilly’s loft-and started to ask Jill how long the trip would take, but his eyelids kept sinking, and he never got the question out.

“Wake up.”

He felt someone nudging him.

“It’s time to wake up.”

Slowly he opened his eyes.

Jill was sitting next to him, her hand on his shoulder. Her face was washed. Her hair was combed. She looked remarkably alert, not to mention attractive for so early in the morning. “Guess what?” she asked. “You snore.”

“Sorry.”

“No problem. You must be exhausted. I’ve never seen anyone sleep so deeply in such uncomfortable conditions.”

“Compared to a park bench, this is the Ritz.”

“Do you remember switching trains?”

Pittman shook his head. The car was almost deserted. No one was close enough to overhear them.

“You do a convincing job of sleepwalking,” Jill said. “If we hadn’t had to board another train, I bet you wouldn’t even have gotten up to go to the bathroom.”

Pittman gradually straightened from where he’d been scrunched down on the seat. His back hurt. “Where are we?”

“A few miles outside Montpelier, Vermont.” Jill raised the shade on the window.

Although the sun was barely up, Pittman squinted painfully at a line of pine trees that suddenly gave way, revealing cattle on a sloping pasture. Across a narrow valley, low wooded mountains still had occasional patches of snow on them.

“What time is…?”

“Six-fifteen.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any coffee left from last night.”

“You’re dreaming.”

“In that case, wake me when this is over.”

“Come on,” Jill said. “Straighten yourself up. When this train stops, I want to hit the ground running.”

“Are you always this energetic so early in the morning?”

“Only when I’m terrified. Besides, when you’re used to working the night shift, this is late afternoon, not morning.”

“Not for me.” Pittman’s eyes felt gritty, as if sand had been thrown into them.

“Let me whisper something that might get you going.”

“It better be good.”

“Breakfast, and I’m paying.”

“You’re going to have to, since I don’t have any cash. But I’ll say this-you do have a way with words.”

“Montpelier? Sounds French.”

“The first settlers in this area were French.”

“And this is the capital of Vermont?” Pittman sat with Jill at a restaurant table that gave them a window view of New England buildings along a picturesque street. “It doesn’t feel as if many people live here.”

“Fewer than ten thousand. But then only about six hundred thousand people live in the entire state.”

“A good place to hide out.”

“Or to send students to a school that’s isolated enough that they won’t be contaminated by the outside world while they’re being taught to be aristocrats.”

Pittman sipped his coffee. “Do I detect a little anger?”

“More than a little. My parents tried to raise me that way-to think of myself as better than ordinary people. They’re still horrified that I’m a nurse. All those sick people. All that blood.”

“I get the feeling your background involves a lot more money than-”

“In polite society, this isn’t talked about.”

“I was never good at manners.”

“Millions.”

Pittman blinked and set down his coffee cup.

“I don’t know how much,” Jill said. “My parents won’t discuss it. We’re having a difference of opinion about how I should conduct my future. They’ve been trying to punish me by threatening to disinherit me.”

“So that’s what you meant about the trust fund from your grandparents.”

“They’re the ones who earned it. They could handle it without being jerks. But my parents think the money gives them some kind of divine right to look down on people.”

“Yes, you are angry.”

“I told you, I want to help people, not ignore them or take advantage of them. Anyway, my grandparents anticipated all this and let me be independent by establishing the trust fund for me.”

“We have a similar attitude. When I was a reporter-”

“Was? You still are.”

“No. I’m an obituary writer. But there was a time… before Jeremy died, before I fell apart… The stories I loved doing the best were the ones that involved exposing the corruption of self-important members of the Establishment, especially in the government. It gave me a special pleasure to help drag them down and force them to experience what life is like for all of us ordinary bastards of the world.”