Read Online Desperate Measures by David R. Morrell - Free Book Online
Authors: David R. Morrell
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thought he heard Millgate’s strident effort to breathe.
Before Pittman realized, he stepped closer to the window. The warning buzzer on the heart monitor should have alerted the
nurse, he thought in dismay. She should have hurried back by now.
But as Pittman stared through the window, he was close enough that he knew he would have been able to hear an alarm, even
through the glass. Had the sound been turned off? That didn’t make sense. He studied the pattern of blips on the monitor.
From so many days of watching Jeremy’s monitors and insisting that the doctors explain what the indicators said, Pittman could
tell from Millgate’s monitor that his heartbeat was far above the normal range of 70 to 90 per minute, disturbingly rapid
at 150. Its pattern of beats was becoming erratic, the rhythm of the four chambers of his heart beginning to disintegrate.
A crisis would come. Soon. Millgate’s color was worse. His chest heaved with greater distress. He clutched at his blankets
as if they were crushing him.
He can’t get his breath, Pittman thought.
The oxygen. If he doesn’t get those prongs back into his nostrils, he’ll work himself into another heart attack.
The son of a bitch is going to die.
Pittman had a desperate impulse to turn, race down the steps, surge toward the estate’s wall, scurry over, and run, keep running,
never stop running.
Jesus, I should never have done this. I should never have come here.
He pivoted, eager to reach the stairs down from the sundeck. But his legs wouldn’t move. He felt as if he were held in cement.
His will refused to obey his commands.
Move. Damn it, get out of here.
Instead, he looked back.
In agony, Millgate continued to struggle to breathe. His pulse was now 160. Red numbers on his blood-pressure monitor showed
170/125. Normal was 120/80. The elevated pressure was a threat to anyone, let alone an eighty-year-old man who’d just had
a heart attack that placed him in intensive care.
Clutching his chest, gasping, Millgate cocked his head toward the French doors, his anguished expression fixed on the windows.
Pittman was sure Millgate couldn’t see him out in the darkness. The dim lights in the room would reflect off the panes and
make them a screen against the night. Even so, Millgate’s tortured gaze was like a laser that seared into Pittman.
Don’t look at me like that! What do you expect? There’s nothing I can do!
Yet again Pittman turned to flee.
23
Instead, surprising himself, Pittman reached into his pants pocket and took out his keys and the tool knife—similar to a Swiss
army knife—that he kept on his key ring. He removed two pieces of metal from the end of the knife. He was fully prepared to
shoot himself to death in eight days. But there was no way he was going to stay put and watch while someone else died—or run
before it happened and try to convince himself that he didn’t have a choice. Millgate was about to go into a crisis, and on
the face of it, the most obvious way to try to prevent that crisis was to reattach his IV lines and put the oxygen prongs
back into his nostrils.
Maybe I’m wrong and he’ll die anyhow. But by God, if he does, it won’t be because I didn’t try. Millgate’s death won’t be
my responsibility.
Thinking of the .45 in the box at the diner, Pittman thought, What have I got to lose?
He stepped to the French doors and hesitated only briefly before he put the two metal prongs into the lock. The tool knife
from which he had taken the prongs had been a gift from a man about whom Pittman had once written an article. The man, a veteran
burglar named Sean O’Reilly, had been paroled from a ten-year prison sentence, one of the conditions being that he participate
in a public-awareness program to show homeowners and apartment dwellers how to avoid being burglarized. Sean had the slight
build of a jockey, the accent of an Irish Spring commercial, and the mischievously
Before Pittman realized, he stepped closer to the window. The warning buzzer on the heart monitor should have alerted the
nurse, he thought in dismay. She should have hurried back by now.
But as Pittman stared through the window, he was close enough that he knew he would have been able to hear an alarm, even
through the glass. Had the sound been turned off? That didn’t make sense. He studied the pattern of blips on the monitor.
From so many days of watching Jeremy’s monitors and insisting that the doctors explain what the indicators said, Pittman could
tell from Millgate’s monitor that his heartbeat was far above the normal range of 70 to 90 per minute, disturbingly rapid
at 150. Its pattern of beats was becoming erratic, the rhythm of the four chambers of his heart beginning to disintegrate.
A crisis would come. Soon. Millgate’s color was worse. His chest heaved with greater distress. He clutched at his blankets
as if they were crushing him.
He can’t get his breath, Pittman thought.
The oxygen. If he doesn’t get those prongs back into his nostrils, he’ll work himself into another heart attack.
The son of a bitch is going to die.
Pittman had a desperate impulse to turn, race down the steps, surge toward the estate’s wall, scurry over, and run, keep running,
never stop running.
Jesus, I should never have done this. I should never have come here.
He pivoted, eager to reach the stairs down from the sundeck. But his legs wouldn’t move. He felt as if he were held in cement.
His will refused to obey his commands.
Move. Damn it, get out of here.
Instead, he looked back.
In agony, Millgate continued to struggle to breathe. His pulse was now 160. Red numbers on his blood-pressure monitor showed
170/125. Normal was 120/80. The elevated pressure was a threat to anyone, let alone an eighty-year-old man who’d just had
a heart attack that placed him in intensive care.
Clutching his chest, gasping, Millgate cocked his head toward the French doors, his anguished expression fixed on the windows.
Pittman was sure Millgate couldn’t see him out in the darkness. The dim lights in the room would reflect off the panes and
make them a screen against the night. Even so, Millgate’s tortured gaze was like a laser that seared into Pittman.
Don’t look at me like that! What do you expect? There’s nothing I can do!
Yet again Pittman turned to flee.
23
Instead, surprising himself, Pittman reached into his pants pocket and took out his keys and the tool knife—similar to a Swiss
army knife—that he kept on his key ring. He removed two pieces of metal from the end of the knife. He was fully prepared to
shoot himself to death in eight days. But there was no way he was going to stay put and watch while someone else died—or run
before it happened and try to convince himself that he didn’t have a choice. Millgate was about to go into a crisis, and on
the face of it, the most obvious way to try to prevent that crisis was to reattach his IV lines and put the oxygen prongs
back into his nostrils.
Maybe I’m wrong and he’ll die anyhow. But by God, if he does, it won’t be because I didn’t try. Millgate’s death won’t be
my responsibility.
Thinking of the .45 in the box at the diner, Pittman thought, What have I got to lose?
He stepped to the French doors and hesitated only briefly before he put the two metal prongs into the lock. The tool knife
from which he had taken the prongs had been a gift from a man about whom Pittman had once written an article. The man, a veteran
burglar named Sean O’Reilly, had been paroled from a ten-year prison sentence, one of the conditions being that he participate
in a public-awareness program to show homeowners and apartment dwellers how to avoid being burglarized. Sean had the slight
build of a jockey, the accent of an Irish Spring commercial, and the mischievously
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