Desperate Measures (9 page)

He turned the room's thermostat to seventy-five, then stripped off his wet clothes. After arranging his trousers, shirt, and suit coat on hangers, he left the closet door open in hopes they would dry. He put his soaked shoes near the baseboard radiator, draped his socks and underwear over the back of a chair, and twisted the hot-water faucet on the bathtub.

For an instant, he was afraid that the water would be only tepid. Instead, it sent steam billowing around him. He leaned over the gushing tap, luxuriating in the heat. Only when the tub was nearly full did he add any cold water, just enough so he wouldn't scald himself as he settled into the exquisitely hot bath. He slid down until the steaming water came up to his chin. The tub was so full that water trickled into the overflow drain. By shifting sideways, he managed to tuck his knees under so he was almost completely submerged.

He exhaled with pleasure and felt heat penetrate his skin, his muscles, his bones, dissipating the heavy chill that had gathered at his core. Gradually his arms and legs stopped quivering. He closed his eyes and realized that he hadn't enjoyed a physical sensation so much since ... His mind balked but finally permitted the thought.... since the night Jeremy had died. He had felt so guilty being alive while Jeremy was dead that he hadn't been able to tolerate even the simplest, most basic of pleasures. The taste of a good meal had become repugnant-because Jeremy would never again be able to enjoy that sensation. The soothing feel of clean sheets, the freshness of a morning breeze, the comfort of sunlight streaming through a window: Any positive sensation was abhorrent -because Jeremy would never be able to share them.

And one of the sensations that had made Pittman feel especially guilty was the warmth of a shower. Jeremy had enjoyed spending what had seemed to Pittman (before Jeremy got sick) an undue amount of time in the shower. After Jeremy's death Pittman had suddenly discovered that he felt repelled the thought of a shower. Since he needed to clean himself, had moderated the problem by keeping the temperature of the water as neutral as he could manage. Just because he had to bathe didn't mean that he had to enjoy it.

Now, for the first time since Jeremy's death, Pittman was surprised to discover that he was allowing himself to experience a pleasurable sensation. He told himself that the sensation was necessary, that he absolutely needed to get warm. After all, he had once done a story about participants in a wilderness survival course, and one of the dangers that the instructors had kept emphasizing was that of becoming wet and chilled and dying from hypothermia. So, yes, he could grudgingly allow a positive sensation under this circumstance.

But the truth was, his enjoyment wasn't just tolerated; he relished it. For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, he appreciated the feelings of his body.

But thoughts of Jeremy caused a black pall of gloom to sink over his mind again. He found it bleakly ironic that despite his eagerness to commit suicide, his escape from the estate had prompted him to endure such intense fear for his life.

You should have let them do you a favor and shoot you.

No. Pittman angrily echoed a thought from a few hours earlier. It has to be my idea, not theirs. When I go out, it'll be my way, at a time and place of my own choosing. I've got my own deadline, eight days from now, and I damned well intend to stick to it, Not sooner.

His anger became melancholy as he remembered the reason that he hadn't already killed himself. I promised Burt. For what Burt did for Jeremy.

Then melancholy became confusion as thoughts about Burt reminded Pittman of why he had followed the ambulance.

He imagined the questions that Burt would demand answers for.

Why had Millgate been taken from the hospital? Why had he been driven to the estate in Scarsdale? Why had the guards at the estate not just pursued Pittman but instead tried to kill him?

As soon as Pittman was off the property, the risk the guards thought he posed would have been at an end. Pittman could understand them wanting to capture him and turn him over to the police. But to want to kill him? Something was very wrong.

After draining the tub and refilling it with more hot water, Pittman finally felt that the chill within him had been smothered. He pulled the plug and got out of the tub to towel himself vigorously. Again he caught himself enjoying a sensation and checked the impulse. After wrapping himself with a blanket, he turned off the lights and peered past the blind on the room's window. It looked out onto the motel's rain-puddled parking lot. He saw a car come in and worried that it might be the police, who, alerted by the guards at the estate, would be out looking for him.

But the car didn't have any dome lights on its roof and it wasn't marked. Pittman wondered then if the car might belong to the estate, that this might be some of the guards searching the area for him, talking to clerks at various motels. Only when he saw a woman get out of the car and enter a room on the other side of the parking lot did his tension ease.

The police. At the golf course, he hadn't heard any sirens. Did that mean the police had not been alerted? he wondered. How would the guards have explained shooting at a prowler after the prowler had reached a public area?

And the guards, would they still be hunting him? They might check the local motels, sure. But wasn't it more logical of them to assume that their quarry would want to get as far as possible? besides, they don't know who I am or what I look like.

Pittman's knees buckled from fatigue. Shivering, he crawled into bed and gradually became warm again. He told himself that he would sleep for a couple of hours. Burt usually got to the newspaper around eight. Pittman would call, tell Burt what had happened, and get instructions.

I'd better tell the desk clerk to wake me around eight, Pittman thought. In the dark, he reached for the telephone. But his arm felt weighted down. He drifted.

Pittman woke slowly, groggily, his eyelids not wanting to open. At first he thought it was the bright sunlight through the room's thin blind that had wakened him. Then he suspected it was the din of ffimway rattling the window. Sore from his exertion the night before, he sat up and rubbed his legs. Finally he left the warmth of the bed and relieved himself in the bathroom. When he returned to the bed, wrapping a blanket around him, he felt sufficiently awake to phone Burt. But when he reached toward the bedside phone, he noticed the red numbers on the digital clock beside it: 2:38.

Jesus, he thought, straightening. It's not morning. It's Friday afternoon. I slept almost ten hours.

The discovery made him feel out of control, as if he'd lost something-which he had, one of his remaining days. He hurriedly picked up the phone, read a card next to it that told him to press 9 for a long-distance call, then touched the numbers for the Chronicle.

The line made a faint crackling sound. The phone at the other end rang, and fifteen seconds later, the newspaper's receptionist transferred the call to Burt's office.

As usual, Burt's crusty smoker's voice was instantly recognized. He didn't need to announce as he always did, "Yeah, here.

'It's Matt. Listen, I'm sorry I didn't get in today. Something weird happened last night. I was at-"

"I can't talk right now. I'm in a meeting."

Pittman heard a click as the call was interrupted. What the ... ?

Pittman frowned and slowly set down the phone.

Burt's never that abrupt, he thought. Not to me. Man, he must really be pissed. He figures I let him down by not coming in.

Pittman picked up the phone again. He couldn't tolerate the misunderstanding. Once more the receptionist transferred the call.

"Forsyth here."

"This is Matt. Look, I said I was sorry. I swear to you it's not my fault. I've got something I need to tell you about. Last night-"

"I don't have time for that. I'm with some important people. For a second time, Burt broke the connection.

Pittman's head throbbed. Frowning harder, he replaced the phone. Yeah, he's pissed all right. Important people. I get the point. For letting him down, he's telling me as far as he's concerned, I'm not important.

Pittman debated about calling a third time but reluctantly decided not to. Whatever's bugging him, it's obvious he isn't going to let me settle it over the phone.

Troubled, aching, Pittman stood and reached for his clothes. They were damp but at least no longer soaked. Because he had hung his slacks, shirt, and suit coat on hangers, there were less wrinkles than he feared. Another plus was that the mud on them had caked; he was able to brush off most of it. His overcoat was a mess, however: torn and grimy. He crammed it into the wastebasket. Then he wet his rumpled sandy hair and combed it. Although he definitely needed a shave, the motel didn't supply a shaving kit, so that would have to wait. Hungry but in a hurry, he remembered that he'd seen a McDonald's down the street. No bags to pack. All he had to do was grab his key and leave.

Opening the door slightly, he peered out to see if anyone was watching his room. No one as far as he could tell. As he crossed the parking lot toward the motel's office, he discovered that the air was chilly despite the bright sun. His damp socks and underwear made him uncomfortable.

Important people. During the Metro ride into the city, Pittman kept assessing what Burt had told him. The clack-'clack-clack of the train on the rails became like a mantra and helped Pittman to focus his concentration. Important people.

Maybe Burt had been telling the truth. A week from today, the Chronicle would close its doors. There had to be all kinds of complicated arrangements to make. It was possible that the owner and the publisher and God knew who all were in Burt's office discussing the direction the newspaper should take in its final days.

But wouldn't people that important make Burt go to their office rather than want to meet in his?

Pittman reversed the direction of his thoughts and again suspected that Burt was angry at him.

In rush-hour traffic outside Grand Central Station, Pittman couldn't find an empty cab, so he decided to use the subway. His intention had been to go to the Chronicle, but his watch now showed eight minutes after five. The sun was low behind skyscrapers. The air had turned cold, and Pittman's damp clothes made him shiver again. Burt wouldn't be at the office now anyway, he thought. He'd be on his way to the bar where he always went after work.

I'm not going to sit in that bar and have my teeth chatter all the time I'm trying to explain. What I need firstare dry clothes.

Pittman got out of the subway at Union Square, still couldn't find an empty cab, and walked all the way to his apartment on West Twelfth Street. The air was colder, the light paler as he hurried along. He unlocked the door to the vestibule of his building. Then he unlocked the farther door. that allowed him past the mailboxes into the ground-floor corridor of the building itself.

As usual, the smell of cooking assailed him. Also as usual, the elevator wheezed and creaked, taking him to the third floor. As usual, too, the television was blaring in the apartment next to esiea disscouragement, unlocked the door, stepped in, shut and locked the door, and turned to discover a man sitting in his living room, reading a magazine.

Pittman hurriedly thought of an acceptable explanation. "Yeah, a waiter spilled water on my jacket and pants and .

The detective nodded. "Same thing happened to me two weeks ago. Not water, though. Linguini. You'd better change. Leave the door to your bedroom open a bit. We can talk while you get dry clothes. Also, you look like you could use a shave."

"I've been trying to grow a beard," Pittman lied. In the. bedroom, listening to the detective's voice through the slightly open door, he nervously took off his clothes, threw them in a hamper, then grabbed fresh underwear and socks Pittman's heartbeat faltered. "What the ... from his bureau drawer.

The man set down the magazine. "Is your name Matthew Pittman?" "What the hell do you think you're ... ?"

The man was in his late thirties. Thin, he had short brown hair, a slender face, a sharp chin. He wore a plain gray suit and shoes with thick soles. "I'm with the police department. " He opened a wallet to show his badge and ID. He stood, his expression sour, as if he'd much sooner be doing something else. "Detective Mullen. I'd like to ask you a few questions.

"How did you get in here?"

"I asked the super to let me in."

Pittman felt pressure in his chest. "You can't just ... You don't have a right to ... Damn it, have you got a warrant or something?"

"Why? Have you done something that makes you think I'd need a warrant?" "No. I .

"Then why don't you save us both a lot of time. Sit down. Let's discuss a couple of things.

"What things? I still don't . .

"You look cold. Your clothes look like they've been wet.

He had just put on a pair of brown slacks when he saw the detective standing at the door.

"I wonder if you could tell me where you were last night."

Feeling threatened, his nipples shrinking, Pittman reached for a shirt. "I was home for a while. Then I went for a walk. "

The detective opened the door wider, making Pittman feel even more threatened. "What time did you go for the walk?"

"Eleven. "

"And you came back ... ?" "Around one."

The detective raised his eyebrows. "Kind of dangerous to be out walking that late."