20
The intense young man with the stethoscope said something that Pittman couldn’t hear. The nurse said something in response. Then the two male attendants spoke. Again Pittman was too far away to make out what they were saying. The man with the stethoscope turned toward the grand counselors and seemed to explain something. One of the elderly diplomats, a gaunt-cheeked man with a white mustache, Winston Sloane, nodded wearily. Another, his narrow face pinched with wrinkles, Eustace Gable, asked a question. The man with the stethoscope answered. A third elderly diplomat, Anthony Lloyd, tapped his cane on the floor in a gesture of frustration. Although their faces were pale, their ancient eyes were fiery. With a final comment, Eustace Gable left the room. His associates solemnly followed.
The nurse approached the draperies. When she pulled a cord on the side, the draperies moved, then stopped. She pulled harder, but something prevented her from closing them all the way. From the deck, Pittman studied the room with increasing confusion. The four bodyguards went after the counselors, as did the two ambulance attendants, leaving only the man with the stethoscope and the female nurse. The latter dimmed the room’s lights, and now Pittman understood why there weren’t any arc lamps illuminating the sundeck. The group didn’t want the glare of the outside lights intruding on the room after it was put into comparative darkness. The red lights on the monitors were almost as bright as the muted glow of the lamps. In the dusky atmosphere, the patient was being encouraged to rest. But that was about all Pittman did understand, and as he crouched in the darkness beside the metal deck furniture, he wiped rain from his face, shivered from the cold, and asked himself what he should do.
You proved your suspicion. That was Jonathan Millgate they took from the hospital. You don’t know why, but you do know where they took him, and that’s all you can do for now. It’s time to go. You’ll get pneumonia if you stay in this rain much longer.
That final thought made Pittman smile with bitterness. You almost killed yourself tonight, and now you’re worried about catching pneumonia? Not yet. Your time isn’t up for another eight days.
And it won’t be pneumonia that kills you.
He watched the man with the stethoscope leave the dusky room. As the nurse continued inspecting Millgate’s monitors and tubes, Pittman turned toward the stairs that led down from the sundeck. He heard a noise that paralyzed him.
21
It came from directly below him, a combination of a drone and a rumble. The roof of the sundeck vibrated beneath Pittman’s wet shoes.
One of the motorized garage doors was being opened. Pittman’s heartbeat quickened. He crouched lower, making certain that he wouldn’t be a silhouette against the roofline. Nonetheless, he was able to see light spill from the garage, revealing raindrops on dark puddles as the door opened higher, then stopped, its motor becoming silent.
In the unnerving quiet, varied only by the hiss of the drizzle, Pittman suddenly heard the scrape of footsteps on concrete, the creak of car doors being opened, the echo of voices.
“… priest,” an elderly man’s brittle voice said, taut with emotion.
“Don’t worry,” a second elderly voice said. “I told you the priest never arrived. Jonathan never spoke to him.”
“Even so.”
“It’s been taken care of,” the second aged voice emphasized, reminding Pittman of the rattle of dead leaves. “It’s safe now. Secure.”
“But the reporters…”
“Have no idea where Jonathan is. Everything is under control. The best thing we can do is separate and get back to a pretense of normalcy.”
Throughout, Pittman heard the sound of people getting into a vehicle. Now he heard the thunk of car doors being closed, the sudden roar of an engine.
Headlights blazed. A dark limousine surged out of the garage and sped along the murky driveway, past trees and shrubs and toward the gate that led from the estate.
Pittman’s bent legs cramped. He began to stand, then flinched when he heard further voices.
“The taxi,” another aged voice said.
“If you’re correct that we were followed…” This voice was crusty, yet filled with phlegm.
Pittman couldn’t make out the rest of the sentence. What he heard instead was a louder rumbling drone as a second garage door rose. Other lights gleamed into the drizzle-misted night.
When the noise of the garage door stopped, Pittman strained to listen, hoping that the voices would continue.
“… a coincidence. A late commuter coming from Manhattan.”
“But in a taxi?”
“Perhaps the trains don’t run this late. There might be several explanations. Until we know for certain, I refuse to become alarmed.”
“But we saw the headlights go past the gate as we drove toward the house.”
“You heard me send Harold to look into the matter. If it was the same taxi, it had less than a minute’s head start before Harold went after it. And if the taxi came from Manhattan, it would be one of few, if any, in the area at this hour. Its city of origin would be marked on the vehicle. I’m certain that Harold would intercept it well before it reached the thruway.”
“You’ll keep me informed.”
“Of course. Relax. Look at how your hands are shaking. Be calm, my friend. You didn’t use to worry this much.”
“I didn’t have as much to lose.”
“Nor did we all.”
“Good night, Eustace.”
“Goodnight, Anthony.”
Despite the worry in their voices, the tone of the old men was strikingly affectionate.
Car doors thunked shut. An engine roared. Another dark limousine sped from the garage and along the murky driveway.
22
From above, crouching in the darkness of the sundeck, Pittman watched the taillights recede, then disappear, the sound of the limousines fading into the silence of the night. With a final droning rumble, all the garage doors descended, cutting off the lights inside. The gloom in the area intensified.
Pittman slowly straightened. His legs were stiff. His calves prickled as blood resumed its flow through arteries that had been constricted. He turned toward the French doors for a final look at Jonathan Millgate helpless in his bed, surrounded by monitors, bottles, and tubes.
Pittman’s pulse faltered.
Through the gaps in the draperies, what he saw seemed magnified by the glass panes in the French doors. At the same time, he felt as if he watched helplessly from a great distance. The nurse had left the room, leaving Millgate alone. She had shut the door. Millgate had not been asleep, contrary to what she evidently believed. Instead, he was attempting to raise himself.
Millgate’s features were twisted, agitated. The oxygen prongs had slipped from his nostrils. His IV tubes had become disengaged from the needle in each of his arms. He pawed with both hands, trying to grasp the railings on his bed with sufficient strength to raise himself. But he wasn’t succeeding. His face had become an alarming red. His chest heaved. Abruptly he slumped back, gasping.
Even at a distance, through the barrier of the French doors, Pittman 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.