As Pittman continued to lie wearily, rigidly on the bed in the dark hotel room, it occurred to him that Denning’s rage and the grand counselors’ fear were mirror images, that Denning and the grand counselors were unwittingly destroying themselves because of their obsession with the past.
But not me, Pittman thought. What I’m doing isn’t a disguised version of a death wish. It isn’t a version of the suicide I attempted a week ago. Indeed he was struck by the irony that suicide, which had seemed reasonable and inevitable to him, now was shocking when someone else committed it. I want to live. Oh God, how I want to live. I never believed I’d feel that way again.
Pittman’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted as he felt Jill move beside him. Surprising him, she sat up. He was able to see her shadowy silhouette in the darkness.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Sure you did. You were mumbling.”
“Mumbling?… I thought you were asleep.”
“I thought you were asleep.”
“Can’t.”
“Me, either. What were you mumbling? Something about you want to live.”
“I must have been thinking out loud.”
“Well, I applaud your motive. In a week, you’ve certainly come a long way from putting a pistol into your mouth to wanting to live.”
“I was thinking about Denning.”
“Yes. We ought to phone the hospital and find out how he is.”
“I was thinking how thrilled he was to know that three of the grand counselors were dead.”
“That’s what put him in the hospital.”
“Exactly. And there’s no guarantee that the two remaining grand counselors won’t wind up in the hospital or worse because of this also. I was thinking that I might as well be dead if Eustace Gable and Winston Sloane don’t survive. Because, in that case, I won’t have any way to prove that I’m innocent. Everything’s happening so fast. I don’t know if I’ve got enough time. I have to…”
“What?”
“I used to be a reporter. It’s what I do best—interviewing people. I think it’s the only way to save us.”
2
Shortly after dawn, feeling a chill in the air, seeing vapor come out of his mouth, Pittman parked next to a pay phone outside a coffee shop. Sparse traffic sounded eerie as he got out of the car, Jill following, and stepped into the booth. After studying the list of telephone numbers that he had used last night, he put coins in the box and pressed numbers.
A male voice, with the haughty obsequiousness of a servant to the powerful and rich, answered after two rings. “Mr. Gable’s residence.”
“Put him on.”
“Who may I say is calling, sir?”
“You’re supposed to say it’s too early to disturb him.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“It’s barely six in the morning, but you didn’t take long to answer the phone. It’s like you’ve been on duty for quite a while. Are things a little frantic over there?”
“I really don’t know what you’re implying, sir. If you wish to speak with Mr. Gable, you’re going to have to tell me who you are.”
“The man he’s been trying to have killed.”
The line became silent.
“Go ahead,” Pittman said. “Let him know.”
“As you wish, sir.”
Pittman waited, looking at Jill, whose lovely face normally glowed with health but now was wan from stress and fatigue.
Thirty seconds later, a man’s voice, aged and frail, like wind through dead leaves, came on the line. “Eustace Gable here.”
“Matthew Pittman.”
Again the line became silent.
“Yes?” Gable sounded as if he was having trouble breathing. “I’ve been reading about you in the newspapers.”
“You don’t seem surprised that I’m calling.”
“At my age, I’m not surprised by anything,” Gable said. “However, I don’t understand the way you identified yourself to my assistant.”
“I can see where it might be confusing, depending on how many other people you’re trying to have killed.”
Gable stifled a cough. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Not over the phone at least. I can understand that. It’s what I’d expect from a diplomat famous for conducting secret meetings. All the same, I do think we ought to talk, don’t you?”
“Perhaps. But how, if not on the phone?”
“In person.”
“Oh? Given that you murdered my friend and colleague, I’m not certain that I’d feel safe in your presence.”
“The feeling’s mutual. But as you know, I didn’t murder him. You did.”
“Honestly, Mr. Pittman. First you fantasize that I’m trying to have you killed. Now you’re fantasizing that I killed my friend.”
“No one else is on this line, so you can save the disinformation.”
“I always assume that someone else is on the line.”
“Does that prevent you from negotiating?”
Gable stifled another cough. “I’m proud to say that in my entire career, I have never turned down a request to negotiate.”
“Then listen. Obviously things have gotten way out of hand. You never expected me to stay alive this long. You never expected so many other people to become involved.”
The only sound was Gable’s labored breathing.
“You’ve destroyed my life,” Pittman said. “But I know enough to be able to destroy yours. Let’s call it a stalemate. I think it’s in our mutual best interests if I disappear. With a retirement fund. A million dollars and a passport that gives me a safe name.”
“That’s a substantial retirement fund.”
“But that’s my price. Also a safe passport for Jill Warren.”
“Passports are difficult.”
“Not with your contacts in the State Department. Think about it. I disappear. Your cover-up works. No more problems for you.”
“If I agree to the meeting you propose, I want it completely understood that I don’t admit any involvement in your false accusations about cover-ups and murders. We’re discussing hypothetical matters.”
“Whatever makes you feel good, Mr. Gable.”
“I’ll need time to consider the implications.”
“And I’ve been on this line too long. I’ll call back at ten A.M.”
3
Mrs. Page opened the door the moment Pittman knocked on it. Her designer dress was wrinkled and looked out of place in a motel early in the morning. Otherwise, she appeared alert and determined, her skin-tucked face severe with intensity. “Did you watch the morning news?”
“About Standish’s suicide?” Pittman nodded.
“He was always the weakest of the five. My father was the strongest. We have to keep putting pressure on him.”
“This morning, I started again.”
“How?” Mrs. Page asked quickly.
Pittman explained.
“Be careful. My father is a master of manipulation.”
“And arrogant about it. I’m counting on that,” Pittman said. “I’m hoping that it’s inconceivable to him that someone could outmanipulate him.”
“But can you? You’re taking a tremendous risk.”
“If I could think of another way, I’d do it. We can’t just hide. We have to keep pushing them. We have to go back to Washington. I’ve got several stops to make. In particular, I need to see two other people I once interviewed.”
“Who?”
“A security expert and a weapons specialist. I’ll explain as we drive.”
“But what if they remember you?” Mrs. Page asked. “If they connect you with the newspaper stories and television reports…”
“I interviewed them at least five years ago. I was heavier. I had a mustache. There’s a good chance they won’t recognize me. But even if the risk was greater, I’d still have to take it. I can’t make this plan work without their
help.”
As they spoke, Pittman walked to the next door and knocked on it. When George came out, they went down concrete steps to where Jill was waiting at the car.
“Give me your room keys. I’ll leave them at the desk and check everybody out,” George said.
“Fine. We’ll meet you at the restaurant down the street,” Jill said.
“Restaurant?” Mrs. Page looked horrified. “That’s not a restaurant.”
“Okay, it’s a Roy Rogers. Think of it as a broadening experience. We’re so pressed for time, we’ll have to eat takeout as we drive.”
“Time. Yes. We have to make time for something else,” Mrs. Page insisted. “We have to see about Bradford. We have to go to the hospital.”
4
Amid the drone of fluorescent lights and the pungent odor of antiseptics, Pittman frowned in response to Jill’s frown as she came back from speaking to a nurse at the counter outside the cardiac-care unit.
“What’s the matter?” Pittman’s hands suddenly felt cold. “Don’t tell me he died.”
“He’s gone.”
Mrs. Page stepped forward, ashen. “He is dead?”
“I mean he literally isn’t here. He’s gone. He left,” Jill said. “The nurse looked in on him at five A.M. His bed was empty. He’d pulled an IV needle from his arm. He’d turned off his heart monitor so it wouldn’t sound a warning when he pulled the sensor pads from his chest. His clothes were in a cupboard in his room. He put them on and snuck out of the hospital.”
“It’s a wonder he had the strength,” Pittman said. “What the hell did he think he was doing?”
George shook his head. “Last night, it was exhaustion. But if he’s not careful, he’ll give himself a heart attack.”
“Obviously he believes the risk is worth it,” Jill said. “To get back at them. The remaining two grand counselors. I can’t imagine anything else that would have made him act so obsessively.”
“Damn it, now we’ve got a wild card out there,” Pittman said. “He’s so out of control, he scares me. God knows what he might do to interfere with our plan.”
“But we can’t let him worry us,” Mrs. Page said. “We have to go ahead. Why are you looking at me like that?”
Pittman stepped forward. “Mrs. Page, how are your connections with the Washington Post? Do you think you can get someone in the obituary department to do us a favor?”
5
Eight hours later, in midafternoon, Pittman was back in Fairfax, Virginia, quickly passing through it, taking 29 west, then 15 north toward Eustace Gable’s estate. During his second telephone call to Gable, which Pittman had made exactly at ten as promised, using a pay phone in Washington, Gable had given him instructions how to get to the estate. As Pittman drove toward the rendezvous, squinting from the sun, he glanced toward his rearview mirror and was reassured to see that despite congested traffic, the gray Ford van remained behind him, Jill visible behind the steering wheel. The van and the equipment inside it had been rented using George’s credit card, and Pittman thought morbidly that George certainly deserved a bonus, the trick being for all of them to stay alive so he could receive it. Pittman passed farms and strips of woods, the sunlight making them seem golden, and he prayed that he would have a chance to see them again, to see Jill again. He thought about Jeremy, and as much as he missed his son, he felt strangely close to him, as if Jeremy were with him, helping him. Give me strength, son.
As instructed, Pittman came to a sign—EVERGREEN COUNTRY CLUB—then headed to the left, trees casting shadows from the sun. A mile later, he went right, along an oak-lined gravel road. This time when he glanced toward his rearview mirror, he saw Jill stopping the van, parking it among bushes at the side of the gravel road. She was doing what they had agreed upon. Nonetheless, he wished she didn’t have to. Until now he hadn’t felt alone.
He rounded a curve and proceeded up a gentle rise flanked by April-lush fields, and he couldn’t help contrasting his increasing fear with the peaceful setting. More, he couldn’t help contrasting his apprehension as he approached Gable’s estate with the indifference to his safety that he had felt a week earlier when he had snuck into the estate in Scarsdale to find out why Jonathan Millgate had been removed from the hospital.
Back then, Pittman’s only motive had been to get a story for Burt Forsyth, to relieve his obligations to his friend. Obsessed with the need to commit suicide, Pittman had felt liberated from apprehension as he had crept through the rainy darkness, circling the Scarsdale mansion, finding Millgate surrounded by a nurse, a doctor, and the grand counselors in a makeshift hospital room off a deck above the five-stall garage. The effort had been easy, the sense of danger nonexistent, because Pittman hadn’t cared what might happen to him. Prepared to kill himself, he had felt immune to any risks.
Not anymore.
6
At wide intervals, mansions were set back from the road. White wooden fences enclosed horses. Ahead on the left, Pittman saw a high stone wall. He came to a closed metal gate and stopped within view of a security camera mounted to the left on top of the wall. As instructed, he leaned out his driver’s window so that the camera could have a good look at him.
Immediately the gate whirred open. Pittman drove through, checking his rearview mirror, noting that the gate closed behind him while he followed a paved lane through spacious grassland. The lane went over a hill, and on the other side, snuggled into the slope, just below the crest on the right, was a distinctive, sprawling one-story complex that reminded Pittman of homes designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. The main impression was of limestone, terraces, and beams, and the way it conformed to the landscape, aided by plentiful trees and shrubbery, would make it invisible from the golf course below, Pittman guessed.
From the moment that the gate had opened, allowing him onto the estate, Pittman had noted the absence of guards. To anyone who might be watching from the road, there was nothing out of the ordinary. To all appearances, Pittman was an unremarkable visitor who knew Eustace Gable well enough that the gate had been opened without delay. The closer Pittman came to the house, taking a downward curve in the lane, proceeding to the right, passing fir trees, the more Pittman was struck by the lack of activity on the property. Given the size of the estate, he would have expected gardeners at least, maintenance personnel, someone to take care of the horses that came into view below him in a paddock next to a long, low stable rimmed by more fir trees and made from limestone, matching the house. But the place seemed deserted. There weren’t any cars, which presumably had been placed in a garage on the opposite side of the house.
Perhaps the lack of guards was intended to make him feel unthreatened, Pittman thought. To encourage him not to change his mind. To lure him into a trap. But if the purpose was to lull him, the opposite effect had been achieved. Instead of lowering his defenses, the eerie solitude intensified Pittman’s apprehension, sending warning signals throughout his body, compacting his muscles.
He reached a circular driveway in front of the house, stopped the car, and got out, surveying the apparently deserted area. He heard water trickling from somewhere, presumably a fountain. He heard a breeze whispering through the fir trees. A horse whinnied.
A door opened, and Pittman, who had glanced toward the stable on the slope below him, whirled toward the house. An elderly man, narrow-faced, with white hair, spectacles, and wrinkle-pinched features, stepped from a polished wooden doorway onto a stone terrace. Tall and slender, he wore a dark blue three-piece suit that conformed to his rigidly straight posture. Pittman recognized him from photographs and the incident at the Scarsdale estate. Eustace Gable.
“Four P.M. precisely. I admire punctuality.” Even at a distance, it was obvious that Gable’s chest heaved. “We have much to discuss. Come in, Mr. Pittman.”
Pittman took one last look around and, seeing no threat, climbed steps to the terrace. He frowned when Gable offered his hand.
“This won’t do, Mr. Pittman. Rudeness is a poor way to b
egin a negotiation.”
“I’m not used to civility from people who want to have me killed.”
“The formalities matter,” Gable said. “Even when negotiating with the most bitter enemy, it is essential to be respectful and courteous.”
“Sure. Right. But it sounds like hypocrisy to me.”
Gable coughed, raising a handkerchief to his mouth. The ripple of pain that crossed his wrinkled features made Pittman realize how much effort it took for the old man to stand as straight as he did, to maintain the diplomatic bearing that had made him famous in his prime.
Composing himself, Gable again held out his hand. “Ritual controls emotion. It encourages order.”
“Is that what you told yourself when you arranged for Jonathan Millgate to be murdered?”
Gable’s expression hardened, his wrinkles becoming like cracks in the deep grain of weathered wood.
“And Burt Forsyth?” Pittman said. “And Father Dandridge? I wouldn’t call their murders controlling emotion and encouraging order.”
Gable inhaled with effort. “Order dictates necessity. I’m still waiting.
Pittman finally shook his hand with exaggerated indifference, but the slight gleam in Gable’s wizened eyes told Pittman that the old man thought he had won an advantage. Gable gestured for Pittman to enter the house.
Pittman’s unease deepened. He almost turned away, wanting to get back to the car, to drive from the estate as fast as he could. But he told himself that if Gable meant to have him killed here, an expert marksman with a sniper’s rifle could have done it easily when Pittman was in the open, climbing the steps to the terrace in front of the house.
The plan, he thought. I have to go through with it. I can’t keep running. I’ve used up nearly all my resources. This might be the only chance I get.
Desperate Measures Page 32