Read Online Life Support by Tess Gerritsen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tess Gerritsen
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light blue eyes. "Do you need something, dear?" she asked.
"No, Mom. I just thought I'd help you pull a few weeds."
"Oh." Ellen smiled and lifted a dirt-stained hand to stroke back a tendril of hair off Toby's cheek. "Are you certain you know which ones to pull?"
"Why don't you show me?"
"Here." Gently, Ellen guided Toby's hand to a clump of green. "You can start with these."
And, side by side, mother and daughter knelt in the dirt and began to pull dandelions.
I Angus Parmenter turned up the speed on the treadmill and felt the moving belt give a little jerk under his feet. He accelerated his stride to a brisk six miles per hour. His pulse sped up as well, he could see it on the digital readout, mounted on the treadmill handgrips. 112. 116.
120. Had to get that heart rate up, the blood flowing. Push yourself!
Oxygen in, oxygen out. Get those muscles pumping.
On the movie screen mounted in front of him, the "boredombuster" video played scenes from the cobbled streets of a Greek village. But his gaze remained focused on the digital readout. He watched his pulse climb to 130. At last, target heart rate. He would try to keep it there for the next twenty minutes, give himself a good aerobic workout.
Then he would cool down, letting his pulse gradually drop to a hundred, then eighty, then down to his usual resting pulse of sixty-eight. After that, it was time for a session on the Nautilus, an upper-body workout, and afterward he'd hit the showers. By then it would be time for lunch, a low-fat, high protein, high-roughage meal served in the country club dining room. With the meal would come a few of his daily pills, vitamin E, vitamin C, zinc, selenium. An arsenal of magic remedies to keep the years at bay.
It all seemed to be working. At eighty-two years old, Angus Parmenter had never felt better in his life. And he was enjoying the fruits of his labors. He had worked hard for his fortune, harder than any of these whining kids would ever work in their lives. He had money, and he intended to live long enough to spend it, every last goddamn penny. Let the next generation earn their own fortunes. This was his time to play.
After lunch, there'd be a round of golf with Phil Dorr and Jim Bigelow, his friendly rivals. Then he had the option of riding the Brant Hill van into the city. Tonight they were planning a trip to the Wang Center for a performance of Cats. He'd probably skip that one. All those ladies might go wild over singing kitty cats, but not him, he'd seen the show on Broadway, and once was more than enough.
He heard the stationary bicycle begin to whir beside him and he glanced sideways. Jim Bigelow was frantically pedaling away.
Angus nodded. "Hey, Jim."
"Hello, Angus."
For a moment they sweated side by side, too focused on their exercise to speak. On the screen ahead, the video changed from a Greek village to a muddy road in a rain forest. Angus's heart rate remained steady at 130 beats per minute.
"Have you heard anything yet?" asked Bigelow over the whir of his bicycle. "About Harry?"
"Nope."
"I saw them ... the police ... they're dragging the pond." Bigelow was panting, having trouble talking and pedaling at the same time. His own fault, thought Angus. Bigelow liked his desserts, and he came to the gym only once a week. He hated exercise, hated healthy foods. At seventy-six, Bigelow looked his age.
"I heard ... at breakfast ... they haven't found him yet...." Bigelow leaned forward, his face a bright pink from exertion.
"That's the last I heard, too," said Angus.
"Funny. Not like Harry."
"No, it's not."
"Wasn't acting right . . . over the weekend. Did you notice?"
"What do you mean?"
"Had his shirt inside out. Socks didn't match. Not like Harry at all."
Angus kept his gaze straight ahead on the video screen. Jungle saplings parted before him. A boa constrictor slithered on a tree branch overhead.
"And did you notice . . . his hands?" panted Bigelow.
"What about them?"
"They were shaking. Last
"No, Mom. I just thought I'd help you pull a few weeds."
"Oh." Ellen smiled and lifted a dirt-stained hand to stroke back a tendril of hair off Toby's cheek. "Are you certain you know which ones to pull?"
"Why don't you show me?"
"Here." Gently, Ellen guided Toby's hand to a clump of green. "You can start with these."
And, side by side, mother and daughter knelt in the dirt and began to pull dandelions.
I Angus Parmenter turned up the speed on the treadmill and felt the moving belt give a little jerk under his feet. He accelerated his stride to a brisk six miles per hour. His pulse sped up as well, he could see it on the digital readout, mounted on the treadmill handgrips. 112. 116.
120. Had to get that heart rate up, the blood flowing. Push yourself!
Oxygen in, oxygen out. Get those muscles pumping.
On the movie screen mounted in front of him, the "boredombuster" video played scenes from the cobbled streets of a Greek village. But his gaze remained focused on the digital readout. He watched his pulse climb to 130. At last, target heart rate. He would try to keep it there for the next twenty minutes, give himself a good aerobic workout.
Then he would cool down, letting his pulse gradually drop to a hundred, then eighty, then down to his usual resting pulse of sixty-eight. After that, it was time for a session on the Nautilus, an upper-body workout, and afterward he'd hit the showers. By then it would be time for lunch, a low-fat, high protein, high-roughage meal served in the country club dining room. With the meal would come a few of his daily pills, vitamin E, vitamin C, zinc, selenium. An arsenal of magic remedies to keep the years at bay.
It all seemed to be working. At eighty-two years old, Angus Parmenter had never felt better in his life. And he was enjoying the fruits of his labors. He had worked hard for his fortune, harder than any of these whining kids would ever work in their lives. He had money, and he intended to live long enough to spend it, every last goddamn penny. Let the next generation earn their own fortunes. This was his time to play.
After lunch, there'd be a round of golf with Phil Dorr and Jim Bigelow, his friendly rivals. Then he had the option of riding the Brant Hill van into the city. Tonight they were planning a trip to the Wang Center for a performance of Cats. He'd probably skip that one. All those ladies might go wild over singing kitty cats, but not him, he'd seen the show on Broadway, and once was more than enough.
He heard the stationary bicycle begin to whir beside him and he glanced sideways. Jim Bigelow was frantically pedaling away.
Angus nodded. "Hey, Jim."
"Hello, Angus."
For a moment they sweated side by side, too focused on their exercise to speak. On the screen ahead, the video changed from a Greek village to a muddy road in a rain forest. Angus's heart rate remained steady at 130 beats per minute.
"Have you heard anything yet?" asked Bigelow over the whir of his bicycle. "About Harry?"
"Nope."
"I saw them ... the police ... they're dragging the pond." Bigelow was panting, having trouble talking and pedaling at the same time. His own fault, thought Angus. Bigelow liked his desserts, and he came to the gym only once a week. He hated exercise, hated healthy foods. At seventy-six, Bigelow looked his age.
"I heard ... at breakfast ... they haven't found him yet...." Bigelow leaned forward, his face a bright pink from exertion.
"That's the last I heard, too," said Angus.
"Funny. Not like Harry."
"No, it's not."
"Wasn't acting right . . . over the weekend. Did you notice?"
"What do you mean?"
"Had his shirt inside out. Socks didn't match. Not like Harry at all."
Angus kept his gaze straight ahead on the video screen. Jungle saplings parted before him. A boa constrictor slithered on a tree branch overhead.
"And did you notice . . . his hands?" panted Bigelow.
"What about them?"
"They were shaking. Last
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