Desperate Measures

  emotion held him in stasis. Then he squinted at Sean. "When my son

  died he began to say, then hesitated.

  Sean studied him, obviously curious about what Pittman intended to say.

  "When my son died, I can't describe how angry I was at the hospital, at

  his doctors. Jeremy's death wasn't their fault. It's just that I

  desperately needed somebody to be angry at. If somebody had made a

  mistake, then in a bizarre way Jeremy's death would have made sense.

  Medical carelessness. The alternative is to accept that Jeremy died

  because Of a cosnuc crapshoot, that he was unlucky, that he just

  happened to get a type of rare, untreatable cancer. That kind of

  thinking-diere's no pattern or point; the universe is arbitrary-can

  drive a person crazy. When I finally accepted that Jeremy's doctors

  weren't to blame, I still needed someone to be angry at. So I chose

  God. I screamed at God. I hated Him. But eventually I realized that

  wasn't doing any good, either, Because God wouldn't scream back, How

  could I possibly hurt Him? What good is it to be angry if you can't

  punish what you're angry at? My anger was useless. It wasn't going to

  bring Jeremy back. That's when I decided to kill myself.

  The reference caused Sean's gaze to narrow, his expression somber.

  "Anger." Pittman's jaw muscles hardened. "When I was with Millgate, he

  said something to me. A name. At least it sounded like a name.

  'Duncan.' Millgate said that several times. Then something about snow.

  Then a while later, he said, 'Grollier.' I didn't know what he meant,

  and I was too damned busy to ask him. All I wanted was to put

  Millgate's oxygen prongs back into his nostrils and get out of there.

  But the gunman who was waiting for me at my apartment sure thought it

  was important to find out if I'd repeated to anyone what Millgate had

  said to me. Anger.

  Pittman stood. "Stop running away? Hunt them? Yes. When Jeremy died,

  my anger was useless. But this time, it won't be. This time, I've got

  a purpose. This time, I intend to find someone to blame."

  Pittman stood across from the Emergency entrance to the hospital. It

  was shortly after midnight, and the same as two nights earlier, a

  drizzle created a misty halo around streetlights. His mind continued to

  reel from the trauma that so much had happened to him in the brief time

  since he had last been here. Chilled by the rain, he shoved his hands

  into the pockets of a wool-lined navy Burberry overcoat that Sean had

  pulled from a crate. In his right pocket, he touched the .45. It was

  the only thing that he had taken from the gym -bag, which he'd left with

  Sean at the loft. He peered up toward the pale light in the tenth-floor

  window of what had once been Jeremy's room. Determination overcaine his

  weariness. Necessity insisted. There were so many things he needed to

  learn, and one of them was why Millgate's people had taken the old man

  from the hospital that night. That was when everything had started.

  After waiting for a gap in traffic, Pittman crossed toward the hospital.

  At this late hour, the front lobby was almost deserted. The few people

  who were slumped in the imitation leather chairs in the lobby seemed to

  pay no attention as he headed toward the elevators. Nonetheless, he

  felt exposed.

  His nerves troubled him for another reason, for he knew memories he

  would have to fight when he got off the near the intensive-care ward on

  the sixth floor. He not to falter when he glanced toward the large area

  on his left, the intensive-care waiting room. A group of hauntedlooking

  men and women sat on uncomfortable metal chairs, their faces haggard,

  their eyes puffy, struggling to remain awake, waiting for news about

  their loved ones.

  Grin-dy recalling when he had been one of them, Pittman forced himself

  to concentrate on his purpose. Past the entrance to the children's

  intensive-care ward, he turned to the right and went down a short

  corridor to the door for adult intensive care. He had never been in

  that area, but he assumed that it wouldn't be much different from the

  children's area.

  Indeed, it was virtually identical. After pulling the door open, he

  faced a pungent-smelling, brightly lit ten-foot-long hallway, at the end

  of which was a counter on the left and glass cabinets behind it. The

  counter was covered with reports, the cabinets filled with equipment and

  medicines. Amid the hiss, wheeze, beep, and thump of life-support

  systems, doctors and nurses moved purposefully in and out of rooms on

  the right and beyond the counter, fifteen rooms all told, in each of

  which a patient lay in urgent need.

  Pittman knew the required procedures. Automatically he turned toward a

  sink on the left of the door, put his hands under a dispenser of

  disinfectant, and waited while an electronic eye triggered the release

  of an acrid-smelling red fluid. He swabbed his hands thoroughly, then

  put them beneath the tap, where another electronic eye triggered the

  release of water. A third electronic eye activated the hot-air

  dispenser that dried his hands. He reached for a white gown from a

  stack near the sink when a woman's grating voice stopped him. "May I

  help you? What are you doing here?"

  Pittman looked. A heavyset woman was marching down the hallway toward

  him. She was in her middle forties, had short gray hair that emphasized

  her strong Scandinavian features, and wore white shoes, white pants, and

  a white hospital top.

  Pittman couldn't tell if she was a doctor or a nurse. But he understood

  hospital mentality. If this woman was a nurse, she wouldn't mind being

  called a doctor. She would correct him, of course, but she wouldn't

  mind the error. On the other hand, if she was a doctor, she'd be

  furious to be called a nurse.

  "Yes, Doctor, I'm with the team investigating Jonathan Millgate's death.

  " Pittman opened a flip-down wallet and flashed fake police ID that Sean

  O'Reilly had given him.

  The woman barely looked at the ID. "Again? You people were here last

  night, asking questions, interrupting our schedule. " Pittman noticed

  that the woman hadn't connected him when he addressed her as doctor. "I

  apologize, Doctor. But we have some important new information we have to

  check. I need to speak with the nurse who was in charge of Mr.

  Millgate's care at the time he was taken from the hospital.

  Pittman tried not to show his tension. Pressured by time, he couldn't

  be sure that Millgate's nurse would be working this weekend. What he

  was counting on was that in a hospital, conventional weekends didn't

  apply. If each nurse took -off Saturday and Sunday, no one would be

  available to watch the patients. So schedules were staggered, some of

  the staff taking off Monday and Tuesday, others Wednesday and Thursday,

  et cetera. Conversely, nurses tended to have the same shift for several

  weeks in a row: seven to three, three to eleven, eleven to seven. That

  was why Pittman had waited after midnight-because he needed to speak

  with the who had been present when, at this time two nights ago,

  M
illgate had been whisked away.

  :,That would be Jill," the doctor said. 'Is she on duty tonight?"

  "Yes.

  Pittman didn't show his relief. "But she's too busy to talk to you

  right now."

  "I understand, Doctor. The patients come first. But I wouldn't be

  troubling you if this wasn't important. When she takes a break, do you

  think you could-?"

  "Please, wait outside, Mr....

  "Detective Logan."

  'When she has a moment, I'll ask Jill to speak with you.'

  It took forty minutes. Leaning against the wall in the corridor outside

  the intensive-care ward, Pittman identified with the forlorn people in

  the waiting room. His memory of the stress of that kind of waiting

  increased his own stress. His brow was clammy by the time the door to

  intensive care was opened. An attractive woman in her late twenties

  came out, glanced around, then approached him.

  She was about five feet five, and her loose white hospital uniform

  couldn't hide her athletic figure. She had long, straight blond hair, a

  beguiling oval face, and cheeks that were so aglow with health that she

  didn't need makeup.

  "Detective Logan?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm Jill Warren." The nurse shook hands with him. "Dr. Baker said

  you wanted to ask me some questions."

  "That's right. I wonder, could we go somewhere that isn't crowded?

  There's a coffee machine on the floor below us, near the elevator.

  Perhaps I can buy you a ... "

  "The floor below us? You sound as if you know this hospital fairly

  well."

  "I used to come here a lot. When my son was in intensive care. Pittman

  gestured toward the door to the children's

  "I hope he's all right now."

  "No... . He died."

  "Oh." Jill's voice dropped. "What did-?"

  "Bone cancer. Ewing's sarcoma."

  "Oh." Her voice dropped lower. "I shouldn't have ... I'm sorry for .

  "You couldn't have known. I'm not offended."

  "Do you still want to buy me that cup of coffee?"

  "Definitely."

  Pittman walked with her to the elevator. His tension lessened as they

  got in and the doors closed. The worst risk he'd taken in coming here

  was that the doctor who had seen him when Millgate was removed from the

  hospital would be on duty, recognize him, and call the police.

  Now Pittman's brow felt less clammy as he reached the lower floor, which

  was deserted except for a janitor at the far end of the corridor. Using

  the last of his change, he put coins in the machine. "How do you like

  your coffee? With cream? Sugar? Decaffeinated?"

  "Actually, I'd like tea." Jill reached past him, pressing a button.

  Pittman couldn't help noticing the elegant shape of her hand. The

  machine made a whining sound. Jill turned to him. "What do you need to

  ask me?" Steaming liquid poured into a cardboard cup.

  "I have to verify some information. Was Mr. Millgate alert before his

  associates showed up and took him from the hospital?"

  "Associates is too kind a word. Thugs would be more like it. Even the

  doctor who insisted on removing him."

  ""Did Millgate object?"

  "I guess I'm not making your job easy."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I got off the track right away. I didn't answer your first question.

  Yes, he was alert. Otherwise-to answer your second question-he wouldn't

  have been able to object." She sipped from the cardboard cup. "How's

  the tea?"

  "Scented hot water. These hospital machines. I'm used to it." Her

  smile was engaging.

  "Why did Millgate object? He didn't want to be moved?"

  "Yes and no. There's something about that night I still don't

  understand."

  "Oh?"

  "The men who came to get him insisted that he had to leave because

  there'd been a story about him on the late news. They told Millgate

  they had to get him away before reporters showed up."

  "Yes, the story was about a confidential Justice Department report that

  somehow became public. Millgate was being investigated for being

  involved in a covert scheme to buy nuclear weapons from the former

  Soviet Union."

  "Nuclear weapons? But that isn't what they said in the newspapers."

  Jill's eyes were such a pale blue they seemed almost translucent.

  "What who said?"

  "The men who came to get Millgate that night. In the newspapers, they

  said they took him away because they were afraid this obituary

  reporter-what's his name?"

  "Pittman. Matthew Pittman."

  "Yes, in the newspapers they said they were afraid Pittman would kill

  Millgate if Millgate stayed in the hospital, where Pittman could get at

  him. But that night, they never said anything about Pittman. All they

  seemed to care about was the report that Millgate was being

  investigated."

  Pittman felt tense again.

  "It's like they changed their story," Jill said.

  "And Millgate didn't think the news report about his being investigated

  was a good-enough reason to take him from the hospital?"

  "Not exactly." Pensive, Jill sipped her tea. Her solemn expression

  enhanced her features. "He was willing to go. Or to put it another

  way, he was passive. Melancholy. He didn't seem to care about leaving.

  'Do whatever you want,' he kept saying. 'It doesn't matter. None of it

  does. But don't take me yet.' That's what he was upset about. 'Not

  yet,' he kept saying. 'Wait. ' "

  "For what?"

  "A priest." Pittman's pulse sped as he remembered that at the Scarsdale

  estate he had overheard two of the grand counselors talking with concern

  while he crouched on the roof of the garage.

  "... priest, " an elderly man's brittle voice had said.

  "Don't worry, " a second elderly voice had said. told you the priest

  never arrived. Jonathan never spoke to him.

  "Even SO.

  "It's been taken care of," the second voice had entphasized, reminding

  Pittman of the rattle of dead leaves. "It's safe now. Secure.

  "Tell me about him," Pittman said quickly. "The priest. Do you know his

  name?"

  "Millgate mentioned one priest a lot. His name was Father . " Jill

  thought a moment. "Dandridge. Father Dandridge. When Millgate was

  brought to intensive care, he was certain he was going to die. He

  didn't have much strength, but the few words he got out were always

  about this Father Dandridge. Millgate told business associates who were

  allowed to visit that they had to send for him. Later he accused them

  of not obeying. In fact, he accused his son of lying to him about

  sending for the priest. There's a priest on duty at the hospital, of

  course. He came around to speak to Millgate. But it seems any priest

  wasn't good enough. It had to be Father Dandridge. I was on duty early

  Thursday morning when Millgate begged. the hospital priest to phone

  Father Dandridge at hisparish in Boston. I guess the hospital priest

  did.

  "What makes you think so?"

  "About an hour after Millgate was taken out of here Thursday night, a

  priest who called himself Father Dandridge came in to see him. He was

&nb
sp; very upset about not being able to hear Millgate's confession."

  "He came from a parish in Boston? Do you remember the name.

  "I'm afraid not."

  Pittman's spirit sank.

  "But you don't have to phone Boston to talk to him," Jill said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Father Dandridge made a point of telling me that he wasn't returning to

  Boston. Not until he had a chance to talk to Millgate. If I heard

  anything, the priest said, I was to call him at a rectory here in

  Manhattan. St. Joseph's. The priest said he'd be staying for the

  weekend. " Jill glanced at her watch. "Look, I'm sorry, but I've been

  off the ward too long. I have a patient who's due for his meds.

  "I understand. Thank you. You've helped me more than you can imagine."

  "If there's anything else you need to know .

  "I'll get back to you."

  set down the cardboard cup and walked quickly toward elevator.

  it took about twenty seconds for the doors to open, and as she waited,

  facing the doors, obviously aware that he watched her, Pittman was

  impressed that she didn't act self-conscious. After she got in the

  elevator, as the doors closed, for a fraction of an instant she smiled

  at him. Then she was gone, and the excitement that Pittman felt about

  what he had learned was replaced by exhaustion that weighed so heavily,

  his legs bent.