Read Online Desperate Measures by David R. Morrell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David R. Morrell
Ads: Link
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 to the room had been opened. Illumination from the hall spilled
in, silhouetting the nurse. She stood, paralyzed for a moment. Abruptly she dropped a tray. A teapot and cup crashed onto
the floor. She screamed.
And Pittman ran.
24
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 fir trees. Rapid footsteps clattered down the stairs from the sundeck.
“Stop!”
“Shoot him!”
Pittman reached the fir trees. A needled branch pawed his face, stinging him so hard that he didn’t know if the moisture on
his cheeks was rain or blood. He ducked, avoiding another branch.
“Where the—?”
“There! I think he’s over—!”
Behind Pittman, a bough snapped. Someone fell.
“My nose! I think I broke my fucking—!”
“I hear—!”
“In those bushes!”
“Shoot the son of a bitch!”
“Get him! If they find out we let somebody—!”
Another branch snapped. Behind him, Pittman’s hunters charged through the trees.
Just in time, Pittman stopped himself. He’d come to a high stone wall, nearly running into it at full force. Breathing deeply,
he fiercely studied the darkness to his left and then his right.
What am I going to do? he thought in a frenzy. I can’t assume I’ll find a gate. I can’t keep following the wall. Too obvious.
They’ll listen for the sounds I make. They’ll get ahead of me and behind me and corner me.
Turn back?
No! The police will soon arrive. The house has too many outside lights. I’ll be spotted.
Then what are you going to… ?
Pittman hurried toward the nearest fir tree and started to climb. The footsteps of his pursuers thudded rapidly closer. He
gripped a bough above him, shoved his right shoe against a lower branch, and hoisted himself upward along the trunk. Bark
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 to the room had been opened. Illumination from the hall spilled
in, silhouetting the nurse. She stood, paralyzed for a moment. Abruptly she dropped a tray. A teapot and cup crashed onto
the floor. She screamed.
And Pittman ran.
24
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 fir trees. Rapid footsteps clattered down the stairs from the sundeck.
“Stop!”
“Shoot him!”
Pittman reached the fir trees. A needled branch pawed his face, stinging him so hard that he didn’t know if the moisture on
his cheeks was rain or blood. He ducked, avoiding another branch.
“Where the—?”
“There! I think he’s over—!”
Behind Pittman, a bough snapped. Someone fell.
“My nose! I think I broke my fucking—!”
“I hear—!”
“In those bushes!”
“Shoot the son of a bitch!”
“Get him! If they find out we let somebody—!”
Another branch snapped. Behind him, Pittman’s hunters charged through the trees.
Just in time, Pittman stopped himself. He’d come to a high stone wall, nearly running into it at full force. Breathing deeply,
he fiercely studied the darkness to his left and then his right.
What am I going to do? he thought in a frenzy. I can’t assume I’ll find a gate. I can’t keep following the wall. Too obvious.
They’ll listen for the sounds I make. They’ll get ahead of me and behind me and corner me.
Turn back?
No! The police will soon arrive. The house has too many outside lights. I’ll be spotted.
Then what are you going to… ?
Pittman hurried toward the nearest fir tree and started to climb. The footsteps of his pursuers thudded rapidly closer. He
gripped a bough above him, shoved his right shoe against a lower branch, and hoisted himself upward along the trunk. Bark
Similar Books
