Desperate Measures

by David Morrell

  been trying to do that, as well: to distract him. And Burt's tactic had

  been effective. Because the crossword puzzle wasn't effective. The

  only words that kept coming into Pittman's mind were Jonathan Millgate.

  Pittman had once worked on a story about Millgate, back when he had been

  at the national affairs desk. Before Jeremy's death. Before ... Seven

  years ago, Jonathan Millgate had been rumored to be involved as a

  middleman in a covert White House operation whereby munitions were

  illegally supplied to right-wing governments in South America in

  exchange for the cooperation of those governments in fighting the war

  against drugs. It was further rumored that Millgate had received

  substantial fees from those South American governments and certain

  weapons manufacturers in exchange for acting as a go-between in the

  secret exchange.

  But Pittman had found it impossible to substantiate those rumors. For a

  man who had once been so much in the public eye, Millgate had become a

  remarkably private, guarded person. The last interview he'd given had

  been in 1968 after the Tet offensive against American forces in Vietnam.

  Millgate had spoken to a senior reporter for the Washington Post,

  expressing strong sympathy with the Nixon administration's policy of

  sending considerably more U.S. soldiers to Vietnam. Because Millgate

  was respected so much, his statement was interpreted to represent the

  opinion of other conservative political theorists, especially Millgate's

  fellow grand counselors. Indeed, the implication was that Millgate was

  endorsing a policy that he and the other four grand counselors had

  themselves formulated and privately urged the Nixon White House to

  adopt: heightening America's involvement in the Vietnam War. By the

  time Pittman became interested in Millgate because of the possible

  munitions scandal, Millgate's effect on presidential attitudes was so

  discreet and yet powerful that his reputation for diplomacy had achieved

  mythic status. But no government source could or would say anything

  about him. As a consequence, Pittman (full of energy, motivated, in his

  prime) had gone to Burt Forsyth and requested permission to investigate

  Millgate's legend.

  Pittman's telephone log eventually recorded one hundred attempts to call

  Millgate's business and government associates. Each executive had

  declined to be interviewed. Pittman had also contacted Millgate's law

  office in an attempt to make an appointment to interview him. Pittman

  was put on hold. He was switched from secretary to secretary. He was

  told to call numbers that were no longer in service. Pittman had phoned

  the Justice Department, hoping that the team investigating Millgate

  would give Pittman an idea of how they stayed in contact with him. He

  was told that the Justice Department had no need to remain in contact

  with Millgate, that the rumors about his receiving kickbacks because of

  his alleged involvement in a munitions scandal had been proven to lack

  substance, and that the investigation had been concluded in its early

  stages. "Can you tell me which attorney represented him in your initial

  discussions?"

  After a long pause, the man had answered, "No. I can not.'$

  "I didn't get your name when you picked up the phone. Who am I speaking

  to, please?"

  The connection had been broken.

  Pittman had gone to a computer hacker, about whom Pittman had written

  what the hacker considered to be a fair story about the hacker's motives

  for accessing top secret Defense Department computer files. "I wanted

  to show how easy it was, how unprotected those files were," the hacker

  had insisted. But despite his pleas that he'd been motivated by loyalty

  to his government, the hacker had gone to prison for five years.

  Recently released, bitter about how the government had treated him,

  delighted to see his defender again, the hacker had agreed to Pittman's

  request and, with greater delight, had used a modern to access telephone

  Company computer files in Massachusetts.

  "Unlisted number? No problem. As a matter of fact, check this-your

  dude's got four of them." Pittman had looked at the glowing computer

  screen and begun to write down the numbers.

  "Forget the pen-and-paper routine. I'll print out the dude's whole

  file."

  That was how Pittman had learned not only Millgate's private numbers but

  the addresses for his Boston mansion and his Martha's Vineyard estate,

  as well. Determined, he had phoned each of Millgate's private numbers.

  Each person on the other end had treated Pittman with deference until

  with shock they realized what he wanted.

  "I demand to know how you learned this number."

  "If you'd just let me speak to Mr. Millgate."

  "What newspaper did you say you worked for?"

  Fifteen minutes after Pittman's final attempt, he'd been summoned to

  Burt Forsyth's office.

  "You're off the Millgate story."

  "This is a joke, right?"

  "I wish it was. I just got a call from the Chronicle's publisher, who

  just got a call from somebody who must have a hell of a lot of

  influence. I'm under strict orders to give you strict orders to work on

  something else."

  "And you're actually going to give me those orders?"

  Burt had squinted at the smoke he blew from his cigarette in those days,

  smoking in the building had not been forbidden. "You've got to know

  when to be rigid and when to bend, and this is a time to bend. It's not

  as if you had anything solid. Admit it, you were on a fishing

  expedition, hoping you'd find a story. To tell the truth, you were

  taking more time than I'd expected. And there's something else to be

  considered. It's been suggested that you broke the law in the way you

  obtained Millgate's telephone numbers. Did you?" Pittman hadn't

  answered. "Work on this story instead." Pittman had been angry at Burt

  for several days, but the object of his anger had shifted when there

  turned out to be a certain synchronicity between the police-brutality

  assignment Pittman was given and what happened next. On his free time

  over the weekend, Pittman had gone to Boston, intending to stake out

  Millgate's mansion in the hope that he would see Millgate leave.

  Pittman's plan was to follow Millgate's limousine until he could find a

  place that allowed him to approach Millgate with questions. One minute

  after Pittman parked on the mansion's tree-lined street, a police car

  stopped behind him. One hour later, he was being questioned as a

  burglary suspect at police headquarters. Two hours later, he was in a

  holding cell, where two prisoners picked a fight with him and beat him

  so badly that he needed a thousand dollars' worth of dental work.

  Visiting Pittman in the hospital, Burt had shaken his head. "Stubborn."

  The wires that secured Pittman's broken jaw had prevented him from

  answering.

  Pittman finished his second Jack Daniel's and glanced across the

  almost-deserted tavern toward the bartender, who still seemed startled

  that he'd actually had a legitimate customer. A man carrying a bulging


  paper bag came in, looked around the shadowy interior, raised his

  eyebrows at the sight of Pittman, got a shrug and a nod from the

  bartender, and proceeded toward a room in the back.

  Pittman considered ordering another bourbon, then glanced at his watch

  and saw that it was almost 1:30 in the afternoon. He'd been sitting

  there brooding for longer than he'd realized. He hadn't thought about

  Millgate in quite a while-years since well before Jeremy had become ill.

  Pittman's jaw had healed. He'd pursued other assignments. Millgate had

  managed to make himself invisible again. Out of sight, out of mind. The

  only reminder had been periodic twinges in Pittman's jaw during

  especially cold weather. Sometimes when he fingered the line where his

  jaw had been broken, he would recall how he had tried to investigate the

  two prisoners who had beaten him. They'd been admitted to his cell a

  half hour after he'd been placed there. The charges against them had

  been public drunkenness, but Pittman hadn't smelled any alcohol on their

  breath when they had beaten him. Subsequent to the beating, they had

  been mistakenly released from jail, a mix-up in paperwork. Their names

  had been common, their addresses temporary, and Pittman had never been

  able to contact them or investigate their backgrounds to find out if

  Millgate had been responsible for the beating.

  As he left the murky bar, his head aching from the harsh assault of

  afternoon sunlight, Pittman felt searing anger intrude on his cold

  despair. He had always resented aristocrats and their supposition that

  money and social stature made them the equivalent of royalty. He

  resented the disdain with which they felt themselves unaccountable for

  their actions. During his peak as a national affairs reporter, his best

  stories had been exposes of criminal activity by those in high places,

  and Jonathan Millgate would have been the highest target Pittman had

  ever brought down.

  I should have been more persistent.

  Pittman's flare of anger abruptly died. Ahead, at a noisy intersection

  where pedestrians were stopped for a red light, he noticed a tall, lanky

  boy with long hair, slight shoulders, and narrow hips moving his feet

  slightly to the beat of imagined music. The boy looked to be about

  fifteen. He wore a rumpled denim jacket that had an emblem of a rock

  star. His jeans were faded. His running shoes, high-topped, were dyed

  green and had names written on them. From the back, the boy reminded

  Pittman so much of Jeremy that he felt as if a hand had squeezed his

  heart. Then the boy turned his head to speak to a companion, and of

  course, the boy looked nothing at all like Jeremy, whose jaw had not

  been as strong as this boy's and whose complexion hadn't been as clear

  and whose teeth had needed braces. Imperfect physically, but perfect as

  a son. It wasn't just that Jeremy had never gotten into trouble, or

  that his grades had been excellent, or that he had been respectful. As

  important as these things were, what Pittman missed most about Jeremy

  was his captivating personality. The boy had been blessed with a

  wonderful sense of humor. He had always been so much fun to be around,

  never falling to make Pittman feel that life was better because of his

  son.

  But not anymore, Pittman thought.

  The brief angry fire he'd felt when thinking about Millgate no longer

  had significance. That was from another time, another life-before

  Jeremy had become ill. Pittman resented what Burt was trying to do. It

  was an insult to Jeremy's memory for Burt to assume that an assignment

  about Jonathan Millgate could distract Pittman from his grief.

  I ought to tell him to stuff it. No. Keep your word. When you end

  this, it has to be cleanly. You can't be obligated to anyone.

  In the old days, Pittman would have gone to the area, formerly in the

  basement, where back issues of the newspaper were stored on microfilm.

  The master index would have contained file cards for "Millgate" and

  "Grand counselors,' , and from them, Pittman would have learned which

  issues and pages of the newspaper to read on microfilm. That section of

  the newspaper where the microfilm was kept had been traditionally called

  the morgue, and although computer files had replaced microfilm, death

  was so much on Pittman's mind that he still thought of himself as

  entering a morgue when he sat at his desk, turned on his computer

  terminal, and tapped the keys that would give him access to the

  newspaper's data files.

  Given Millgate's secretive lifestyle, it wasn't surprising that there

  wasn't much information: only a few small items since Pittman had

  researched Millgate seven years earlier. Millgate and the other four

  grand counselors-still retaining immense political power, even though

  they no longer had direct ties with the government-had been feted at a

  White House dinner, where the President had given Millgate the Medal of

  Freedom, America's highest civilian honor. Mill gate had accompanied

  the President on Air Force One to an international conference on world

  economics in Geneva. Millgate had established an institute for the

  study of post-Communist reconstruction in Russia. Millgate had

  testified before a Senate confirmation committee about his high regard

  for a Supreme Court nominee, who also happened to be the son of one of

  the grand counselors.

  The phone rang.

  Pittman picked it up. "Obituaries."

  A fifty-two-year-old woman had been killed in a fire, he learned. She

  was unmarried, without children, unemployed, not a member of any

  organization. Aside from her brother, to whom Pittman was speaking,

  there weren't any surviving relatives. Thus, the obituary would be

  unusually slight, especially because the brother didn't want his name

  mentioned for fear people to whom his sister owed money would come

  looking for him.

  The barrenness of the woman's life made Pittman more despondent. Shaking

  his head, dejected, he finished the call, then frowned at his watch. It

  was almost three o'clock. The gray haze that customarily surrounded him

  seemed to have thickened. The phone rang again. This time, Burt

  Forsyth's gravelly voice demanded, "How's the Millgate obit coming?"

  "Has he ... ?"

  "Still in intensive care."

  "Well, there isn't much. I'll have the obit finished before I go home."

  "Don't tell me there isn't much," Burt said. "We both know better. I

  want this piece to be substantial. Seven years ago, you wouldn't have

  given up so easily. Dig. Back then, you kept complaining about how you

  couldn't find a way to see Millgate. Well, he's a captive interview

  this time. Not to mention, there'll be relatives or somebody waiting at

  the hospital to see how he's doing. Talk to them. For Christ sake,

  figure out how to get into his room and talk to him."

  Pittman stood across from the hospital for quite a while. The building

  was soot gray. The mid-April day had been warm, but as the sun

  descended behind sky-scrapers, made Pittman cross his arms and hug

  himself.

&nbs
p; This was the same hospital where Jeremy had died . Pittman had come to

  the corner across from the Emergency entrance, the same corner where he

  had often stood late at night after visiting Jeremy. From this corner,

  he had been able to see the window of Jeremy's room on the tenth floor.

  Gazing up through the darkness for several hours, he had prayed that

  Jeremy wouldn't be wakened by the need to vomit because of his

  chemotherapy.

  Amid the din of traffic, Pittman now heard a siren. An ambulance veered

  from the busy street and rushed to a stop beneath the portal at the

  Emergency entrance. Attendants leapt out and urgently removed a patient

  on a gurney. Pedestrians glanced toward the commotion but kept walking

  swiftly onward.

  Pittman swallowed, squinted up toward what he still thought of as

  Jeremy's window, and turned away. Jonathan Millgate was in that

  hospital, in the adult intensive-care ward that was just down the

  sixth-floor hallway from the children's intensive-care ward, where

  Jeremy had died. Pittman shook his head. He couldn't tolerate going

  into the hospital, couldn't make himself go up to that floor, couldn't

  bear exposing himself to the torment on the faces of people waiting to

  hear about their loved ones. It would be all he could do not to imagine

  that he was one of them, not to sit down with them and wait as if for

  news of Jeremy.

  It would be far too much.

  So he went home. Rather than take a taxi, he walked. He needed to fill

  the time. As dusk increasingly chilled him, he stopped for several

  drinks-to fill the time. The elevator to his third-floor apartment

  creaked and wheezed. He locked himself in his apartment, heard laughter

  from a television show vibrate through thin walls from the apartment