Desperate Measures

20

The intense young man with the stethoscope said something that Pittman couldn’t hear. The nurse said something in response. Then the two male attendants spoke. Again Pittman was too far away to make out what they were saying. The man with the stethoscope turned toward the grand counselors and seemed to explain something. One of the elderly diplomats, a gaunt-cheeked man with a white mustache, Winston Sloane, nodded wearily. Another, his narrow face pinched with wrinkles, Eustace Gable, asked a question. The man with the stethoscope answered. A third elderly diplomat, Anthony Lloyd, tapped his cane on the floor in a gesture of frustration. Although their faces were pale, their ancient eyes were fiery. With a final comment, Eustace Gable left the room. His associates solemnly followed.

The nurse approached the draperies. When she pulled a cord on the side, the draperies moved, then stopped. She pulled harder, but something prevented her from closing them all the way. From the deck, Pittman studied the room with increasing confusion. The four bodyguards went after the counselors, as did the two ambulance attendants, leaving only the man with the stethoscope and the female nurse. The latter dimmed the room’s lights, and now Pittman understood why there weren’t any arc lamps illuminating the sundeck. The group didn’t want the glare of the outside lights intruding on the room after it was put into comparative darkness. The red lights on the monitors were almost as bright as the muted glow of the lamps. In the dusky atmosphere, the patient was being encouraged to rest. But that was about all Pittman did understand, and as he crouched in the darkness beside the metal deck furniture, he wiped rain from his face, shivered from the cold, and asked himself what he should do.

You proved your suspicion. That was Jonathan Millgate they took from the hospital. You don’t know why, but you do know where they took him, and that’s all you can do for now. It’s time to go. You’ll get pneumonia if you stay in this rain much longer.

That final thought made Pittman smile with bitterness. You almost killed yourself tonight, and now you’re worried about catching pneumonia? Not yet. Your time isn’t up for another eight days.

And it won’t be pneumonia that kills you.

He watched the man with the stethoscope leave the dusky room. As the nurse continued inspecting Millgate’s monitors and tubes, Pittman turned toward the stairs that led down from the sundeck. He heard a noise that paralyzed him.