Desperate Measures

14

“Thank God, thank God,” was all he could say. The words came out between his urgent attempts to breathe, his chest heaving, falling, his body shaking as sweat streamed off his face and soaked his clothes.

The Duster skidded around a sharp corner. Expertly controlling the car, Jill immediately increased speed. The car’s headlights revealed the twists and turns of the tree-flanked two-lane road.

Quickly Pittman turned to see if headlights followed them.

“Not yet,” Jill said. “They have to go back and use the lane from the school. The gate’s two miles away. By the time they get onto this road…”

She reached another straightaway and again increased speed.

“Thank God,” Pittman continued to murmur. “When I didn’t see you, when I yelled but you didn’t answer…”

“I didn’t know what to do. I heard shooting from the school, then something that sounded like fire alarms.”

“Yes.” Pittman caught his breath, explaining.

“I heard car engines,” Jill said. “Then there was shooting among the trees, and suddenly you came over the fence, stumbling toward me, yelling. The flashlights behind you, those men chasing you… All I could think of was that I had to distract them. You told me that to fire the pistol I didn’t need to cock it. I only had to pull the trigger. I didn’t bother trying to aim. I just leaned out the car window, pointed the gun up, and started shooting. My God, it holds a lot of bullets.”

“Fifteen.”

“And it jerks, and my ears are ringing from the noise.… When I saw where you were, I pointed the gun away from you and aimed toward the fence.”

She braked, steered sharply around a curve, and pressed harder on the accelerator.

Pittman shook his head in amazement. “Where did you learn to drive like…?”

“My father’s a nut about Porsches. One of the few father-daughter things he ever did was teach me about racing. If this car had a clutch and a standard shift, I could really show you about gaining speed around curves.”

Pittman’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

“And you’re bleeding,” Jill said.

“What?”

“There’s blood smeared on your face, your hands, and your clothes. You must have scraped yourself on that wall or running through those trees. Or else…”

“Say it.”

“I hope you weren’t hit.”

“No. I don’t feel any pain.”

Jill stared ahead, speeding under a covered bridge.

“I said, I don’t feel any pain.”

“That’s not always a good sign.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes a wound traumatizes nerves in the area and stops them from sending messages.”

Shaking worse, Pittman felt along his legs, his torso, his arms. “Everything seems to be all right.” Surprising himself, he yawned and realized that he’d been doing so for quite a while. “What’s wrong with me? I’m worried I might have been shot and yet I can’t stop yawning.”

“Shock. The adrenaline’s wearing off. Your body’s telling you it needs a long rest.”

“But I don’t feel sleepy.”

“Right.” Jill turned on the car’s heater.

Pittman yawned again.

“Just to humor me,” Jill said, “why don’t you crawl in the backseat, stretch out as best you can, and close your eyes for a while?”

“The backseat. That reminds me.” With difficulty, Pittman squirmed into the darkness of the backseat and zipped open his gym bag.

“What are you doing?” Jill asked.

“Reloading. Hand me your pistol. I’ve got other magazines from the gunmen who were at your apartment. I’d better reload yours, too.”

Jill muttered something.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Guns. I swore I’d never touch one of the damned things. Now here I…”

The Duster’s slant-six engine roared as Jill drove faster.