Read Online Desperate Measures by David R. Morrell - Free Book Online
Authors: David R. Morrell
Ads: Link
many visitors had been coming and going, the system had not yet been activated.
Pittman felt the final pin disengage. Turning the second metal prong, he pivoted the cylinder, and the lock was released. In a rush, he turned the latch and pulled the door open.
The opposite door was closed. No one could hear Pittman as he hurried into the dusky room. Millgate was losing strength, his effort to breathe less strenuous. Pittman reached him and eased the prongs for the oxygen tube into Millgate's nostrils.
The effect was almost magical. Within seconds, Millgate's color had begun to be less flushed. His agitation lessened. A few more seconds and the rise and fall of Millgate's chest became more regular, less frenzied. Throughout, Pittman was in motion. He grabbed the IV tubes that Millgate had inadvertently jerked from the needles in his arms. As Pittman inserted the tubes back onto the base of each needle, he noticed that liquid from the tubes had trickled onto the floor. How would the nurse account for that when she came back into the room? he wondered. Then he noticed the water tracks that he had brought in from the rain, the moisture dripping off his overcoat.
I have to get out of here.
A final look at the monitors showed him that Millgate's blood pressure, respiration rate, and heartbeat were becoming less extreme. The old guy's going to make it a while longer, Pittman thought. Relieved, anxious, he turned to leave the room.
But he was shocked as an aged clawlike hand grabbed his right wrist, making him gasp. Pittman swung in alarm and saw Millgate's anguished eyes staring at him.
Pittman clutched the old man's fingers and worked to pry them off, surprised by the ferocity of the -old man's grip.
Jesus, if he yells ...
"Duncan." The old man spoke with effort, his voice thin and crackly, like cellophane being crumpled. He's delirious. He doesn't know who he's talking to.
"Duncan." The old man seemed to plead.
He thinks I'm somebody else. I've been in here too long. I have to get out.
"Duncan." The old man's voice thickened, now sounding like crusted mud being stepped upon. "The snow."
Pittman released the old man's fingers.
"Grollier. " The old man's throat filled with phlegm, making a grotesque imitation of the sound of gargling.
To hell with this, Pittman thought, then swung toward the French doors.
He was suddenly caught in a column of light. The entrance the room had been opened. Illumination from the hall silhouetting the nurse. She stood, paralyzed for a minute. Abruptly she dropped a tray. A teapot and cup crashed onto the floor. She screamed. And Pittman ran.
Pittman's brief time in the room had made him feel warm. As he raced onto the sundeck, the night and the rain seemed much more chilling than they had only a few seconds earlier. He shivered and lunged through puddles, past the dark metal patio furniture and toward the stairs that led down from the deck. At once he was blinded, powerful arc lamps glaring down at him from the eaves of the mansion above the sundeck, reflecting off puddles. The nurse or a guard had switched on the lights. From inside the building behind him, Pittman heard shouts.
He ran harder. He almost lost his balance on the stairs. Gripping the railing, flinching from a sliver that rammed into his palm, he bounded down the wooden steps. At the bottom, he almost scurried in the direction from which he had come, toward the tree-lined driveway and. The gate from the estate. But he heard shouts from the front of the house, so he pivoted toward the back, only to recoil from arc lights that suddenly blazed toward the covered swimming pool and the flower gardens. There, too, he heard shouting.
With the front and rear blocked to him, Pittman charged to the side of the house, across concrete at the entrance to the large garage, over spongy lawn, toward looming dark trees. Rapid footsteps clattered down the stairs from the walk.
" Stop! "Shoot him!"
Pittman reached the fir trees. A needled
Pittman felt the final pin disengage. Turning the second metal prong, he pivoted the cylinder, and the lock was released. In a rush, he turned the latch and pulled the door open.
The opposite door was closed. No one could hear Pittman as he hurried into the dusky room. Millgate was losing strength, his effort to breathe less strenuous. Pittman reached him and eased the prongs for the oxygen tube into Millgate's nostrils.
The effect was almost magical. Within seconds, Millgate's color had begun to be less flushed. His agitation lessened. A few more seconds and the rise and fall of Millgate's chest became more regular, less frenzied. Throughout, Pittman was in motion. He grabbed the IV tubes that Millgate had inadvertently jerked from the needles in his arms. As Pittman inserted the tubes back onto the base of each needle, he noticed that liquid from the tubes had trickled onto the floor. How would the nurse account for that when she came back into the room? he wondered. Then he noticed the water tracks that he had brought in from the rain, the moisture dripping off his overcoat.
I have to get out of here.
A final look at the monitors showed him that Millgate's blood pressure, respiration rate, and heartbeat were becoming less extreme. The old guy's going to make it a while longer, Pittman thought. Relieved, anxious, he turned to leave the room.
But he was shocked as an aged clawlike hand grabbed his right wrist, making him gasp. Pittman swung in alarm and saw Millgate's anguished eyes staring at him.
Pittman clutched the old man's fingers and worked to pry them off, surprised by the ferocity of the -old man's grip.
Jesus, if he yells ...
"Duncan." The old man spoke with effort, his voice thin and crackly, like cellophane being crumpled. He's delirious. He doesn't know who he's talking to.
"Duncan." The old man seemed to plead.
He thinks I'm somebody else. I've been in here too long. I have to get out.
"Duncan." The old man's voice thickened, now sounding like crusted mud being stepped upon. "The snow."
Pittman released the old man's fingers.
"Grollier. " The old man's throat filled with phlegm, making a grotesque imitation of the sound of gargling.
To hell with this, Pittman thought, then swung toward the French doors.
He was suddenly caught in a column of light. The entrance the room had been opened. Illumination from the hall silhouetting the nurse. She stood, paralyzed for a minute. Abruptly she dropped a tray. A teapot and cup crashed onto the floor. She screamed. And Pittman ran.
Pittman's brief time in the room had made him feel warm. As he raced onto the sundeck, the night and the rain seemed much more chilling than they had only a few seconds earlier. He shivered and lunged through puddles, past the dark metal patio furniture and toward the stairs that led down from the deck. At once he was blinded, powerful arc lamps glaring down at him from the eaves of the mansion above the sundeck, reflecting off puddles. The nurse or a guard had switched on the lights. From inside the building behind him, Pittman heard shouts.
He ran harder. He almost lost his balance on the stairs. Gripping the railing, flinching from a sliver that rammed into his palm, he bounded down the wooden steps. At the bottom, he almost scurried in the direction from which he had come, toward the tree-lined driveway and. The gate from the estate. But he heard shouts from the front of the house, so he pivoted toward the back, only to recoil from arc lights that suddenly blazed toward the covered swimming pool and the flower gardens. There, too, he heard shouting.
With the front and rear blocked to him, Pittman charged to the side of the house, across concrete at the entrance to the large garage, over spongy lawn, toward looming dark trees. Rapid footsteps clattered down the stairs from the walk.
" Stop! "Shoot him!"
Pittman reached the fir trees. A needled
Similar Books
