Desperate Measures

6

“Victor Standish is dead?” Jill leaned forward, startled, as Pittman drove quickly from the pay phone in the shopping mall’s deserted parking lot.

“How?” Mrs. Page asked in astonishment.

“The policeman wouldn’t say.” Pittman merged with traffic on Old Lee Highway. “I’m surprised he told me even that much. Obviously he hoped to keep me on the line until he had the number I was calling from and could send a cruiser there.”

Behind him, Pittman heard a fast-approaching siren. He peered tensely toward his rearview mirror and saw the flashing lights of a police car speeding through the glare of traffic. “Maybe I didn’t hang up soon enough.”

The cruiser switched lanes, taking advantage of a break in traffic, increasing speed. Unexpectedly, it veered off the highway.

Pittman’s cramped hands were sweaty, slicking the steering wheel. “I think I’ve had enough adrenaline for one night.”

“I’m glad to hear I’m not the only one who feels exhausted,” Mrs. Page said. “I could use a chance to lie down.”

“Isn’t it wonderful,” Denning exclaimed.

“What?”

“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 alarmed 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.”