Desperate Measures

4

Amid the drone of fluorescent lights and the pungent odor of antiseptics, Pittman frowned in response to Jill’s frown as she came back from speaking to a nurse at the counter outside the cardiac-care unit.

“What’s the matter?” Pittman’s hands suddenly felt cold. “Don’t tell me he died.”

“He’s gone.”

Mrs. Page stepped forward, ashen. “He is dead?”

“I mean he literally isn’t here. He’s gone. He left,” Jill said. “The nurse looked in on him at five A.M. His bed was empty. He’d pulled an IV needle from his arm. He’d turned off his heart monitor so it wouldn’t sound a warning when he pulled the sensor pads from his chest. His clothes were in a cupboard in his room. He put them on and snuck out of the hospital.”

“It’s a wonder he had the strength,” Pittman said. “What the hell did he think he was doing?”

George shook his head. “Last night, it was exhaustion. But if he’s not careful, he’ll give himself a heart attack.”

“Obviously he believes the risk is worth it,” Jill said. “To get back at them. The remaining two grand counselors. I can’t imagine anything else that would have made him act so obsessively.”

“Damn it, now we’ve got a wild card out there,” Pittman said. “He’s so out of control, he scares me. God knows what he might do to interfere with our plan.”

“But we can’t let him worry us,” Mrs. Page said. “We have to go ahead. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Pittman stepped forward. “Mrs. Page, how are your connections with the Washington Post? Do you think you can get someone in the obituary department to do us a favor?”