Desperate Measures

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 make it happen.”

“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 watch CNN. An announcer summarized the day’s stock market activity. A commercial followed. Then there was a story about a seventy-year-old woman who was getting a Ph.D. in political science.

Human-interest stuff, Pittman told himself, glancing at his watch. Almost midnight. The hard news won’t come on until the top of the hour.

He took off his shoes and kneaded his stockinged feet against the carpet, feeling his rigid soles begin to relax.

He must have dozed off. The next thing he knew, he was on his back on the bed and Jill was gently nudging him.

“Uh.”

“Sorry to wake you.” Jill tightened the towel wrapped around her. “But I think you’ll be a lot happier if you shower before you go to sleep.”

“If I don’t fall asleep under the water and drown.”

For the first time in a long while, Jill’s blue eyes twinkled. “Want some help?”

“It’s a tempting offer. But I bet we’d slip in the tub and crack our heads.”

“You sure are having visions of doom.”

“Wonder why.” Pittman mustered the energy to stand, grabbed his gym bag, and went into the bathroom. He tried to remember the last time he’d been clean. The sharp hot water lancing at him was exquisite. Shampooing his hair, he felt as if he could never equal this luxury. For a moment, he remembered how he had hated the comfort of a shower after Jeremy’s death. Exhausted, he shut out the thought, allowing the shower to relax him.

At last, after he’d toweled himself until his skin felt pleasantly irritated, he brushed his teeth, wrapped the remaining dry towel around him, and stepped out of the bathroom.

After the steam in the bathroom, the comparatively cool air of the bedroom made his bare chest tingle. Unexpectedly, self-consciousness replaced his weariness. He was suddenly very aware that the room had only one bed, that Jill was sitting up in it, pillows propped behind her, covers pulled up to her bare shoulders, and that she looked self-conscious also. Her gaze flicked nervously from him to the droning television set.

“Anything on the news?” Pittman tried to sound casual.

She shook her head.

“Nothing about Standish? Nothing about us?”

“No.”

Pittman approached the bed, and Jill visibly tensed.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.” She stared at the television.

“You’re sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

Pittman sat on his side of the bed. “Hey. Come on, talk to me.”

“I…”

“If we can’t be honest with each other, I guarantee we’ll never survive this.”

“I made a mistake before you went into the shower,” Jill said.

“Oh?” Pittman shook his head in confusion. “What was that?”

“I joked about going in with you to help you shower.”

“Yes. I remember. So what?”

“Bad joke.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to be a tease. I don’t want to lead you on.”

“I’m confused.”

“You’re not the only one,” Jill said.

The television kept droning. Pittman vaguely understood that the announcer was talking about an economic conference that was taking place in Geneva. But he didn’t take his gaze off Jill.

“In Boston, we said certain things to each other. I love you.” Pittman felt as if he was being choked. “I don’t say that easily. I treat those words very seriously. To me, they’re a commitment.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Then you regret making the commitment, is that it?” Pittman asked. “It was a mistake? You confused depending on each other under stress with being in love? You want to correct the misunderstanding? You want to set the record straight?”

“No, not at all.”

“Then I really don’t…”

“I don’t want to take anything back. I love you,” Jill said. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

“Then what’s the problem?” he managed to ask. When he touched her shoulder, he felt her sinews harden.

“This room. This bed.” Her voice dropped. “I told you I don’t want to be a tease.”

“Ah. I think I’m beginning to understand. This is about whether or not to have sex.”

With disturbing intensity, Jill focused her eyes upon him.

“You’re tired,” Pittman said. “I understand.”

Pittman had never been looked at so directly.

“Everything’s been happening too fast,” Jill said.

“It’s okay. Really,” Pittman said. “No pressure. I figured things would happen when they were supposed to.”

“You mean that?”

When Pittman nodded, Jill visibly relaxed.

“Making love shouldn’t be an obligation,” Pittman said. “It shouldn’t be something you feel you have to do because the circumstances put pressure on you. We’ll wait. When we’re both relaxed, when the time feels right…”

“You want to know how confused I am?”

Pittman didn’t understand.

She took his hand, and immediately he did understand. He leaned toward her as she raised herself up toward him. His blanket fell at the same time the sheets that covered her slipped away. Their lips touched. Their bodies pressed against one another. Feeling her smooth breasts against his skin, Pittman thought that his heart had never pounded so hard and fast. At once he didn’t think about anything except how much he loved her.

Much later, when time began again, Pittman became conscious that he lay beside her, that his arms were around her and hers around him, that his love gave him a reason to live.

His buoyant mood was canceled as a man’s voice made him frown. “The television.”

“Yes,” Jill murmured. “We forgot to turn it off.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Pittman sat up abruptly. “Listen. It’s about Victor Standish.” His heart pounded fast again but this time making him nauseous with shock, as he stared toward the chaotic scene of an ambulance and police cars in front of a mansion, emergency lights flashing while policemen made way for attendants bringing out a body bag on a gurney.

A somber announcer was saying, “… verified that the distinguished diplomat Victor Standish died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”