Desperate Measures

by David Morrell

  to his trousers.

  Spotlights bobbed, speeding nearer. With a final burst of energy, he

  struggled across the sand trap. His shoes sank into the

  drizzle-softened sand. He left a deep, wide trail. Jesus, even if they

  don't have my overcoat as a target, they'll know from my tracks which

  way I went when I reached the grass, he thought.

  Tracks. Pittman's skin prickled as he realized that this might be his

  only chance to save himself. The instant he raced out of the sand onto

  the grass, he reversed his direction and hurried through the darkness

  along the edge of the sand trap toward the top of the slope from which

  he had leapt. As he ran through the drizzle, he yanked his balled

  overcoat from beneath his suit jacket.

  The whine of an engine sounded terribly close. Spotlights bobbed above

  him. He came to where the grass dropped sharply toward the sand.

  Careful not to disturb this section, he eased over the edge and lay

  sideways where the sand met the almost-vertical, sharp downward angle of

  the earth. There, he spread his sand-colored overcoat across his head

  and suit jacket. He felt its weight on his lower thighs, almost

  covering his knees. He bent his legs and drew them toward his body,

  tucking them under the hem of the overcoat. His breathing sounded

  hoarse. He strained to control it.

  Please, he kept thinking. Please.

  With his overcoat covering his head, he heard drizzle patter onto him.

  He heard the whine of engines-close. The whine vanished abruptly, as if

  the carts had come to a stop.

  Vapor from Pittman's breath collected under the overcoat. Dank moisture

  dribbled along his chin. The wet chill made him shiver, although he

  compacted his muscles and struggled not to tremble.

  Can't let them notice me.

  He shivered for another reason, anticipating the impact of

  Isn't that what you wanted? If they shoot you, they'll be doing you a

  favor. But I want it to be my idea.

  He silently prayed: If only his overcoat blended with the sand. If only

  the men stared straight ahead instead of looking down at 4'There!

  Pittman's heartbeat lurched.

  "Tracks in the sand!"

  "Toward that section of grass!"

  Something made an electronic crackle: a walkie-talkie.

  "Alpha to Beta! He's headed in your direction! He's reached the

  northeast quadrant!" A garbled voice responded. The walkie-talkie made

  an electronic squawk. The whine of the engines intensified. Beneath

  the smothering, moisture-laden overcoat, Pittman heard the carts speed

  away past the sand trap, toward the continuation of the grass.

  His clothes soaked from the wet sand he lay upon, Pittman waited, not

  daring to move. Despite the stifling buildup of carbon dioxide beneath

  the overcoat, he forced himself to continue to wait. At last he

  relented, slowly moving the coat. As he inched it off his face,

  inhaling the fresh, cool air, he squinted toward the darkness, afraid

  that he would see a man above him grin and aim a pistol.

  But he saw only the slope of the earth above him, darkness, and drizzle

  pelting his eyes. After the cloying stale air beneath the coat, the

  rain made him feel clean. He eased upward ' came to a trembling crouch,

  and saw the lights of the carts receding in the murky distance. Careful

  to bunch his overcoat beneath his suit coat, he crept from the sand trap

  and headed in the direction from which the carts had come. He was

  soaked, chilled. But for all his discomfort and apprehension, a portion

  of his mind was swollen with exultation.

  Nonetheless, he still had to get out of the area, off this golf course,

  away from the estate. The carts might return at any time. Although his

  legs were unsteady, he managed to lengthen his stride and increase its

  frequency.

  Enveloped by the night and the rain, he almost faltered with increased

  dread when it occurred to him that without a way to keep his bearings,

  he might wander in a circle until his pursuers came upon him.

  Immediately, in the distance to his left, he saw moving lights, but not

  those on the carts. These were larger, brighter. Their beams probed

  deeper through the rain. The headlights of a car, or maybe a truck.

  They moved parallel to him, then disappeared.

  A road.

  "Car trouble."

  "Man, look at you shiver," the motel clerk said. "Got soaked finding a

  pay phone to call a tow truck. The garage says my car won't be ready

  till the afternoon. I need a place to get dry."

  guess you're not from around here." The clerk was paunchy, in his

  forties. He had thick red beard stubble and strained features from

  working all night.

  Pittman shook his head. "I'm on the road a lot, selling college

  textbooks. Left New Haven last night for a meeting in New York."

  "Looks like you're not going to make it."

  "I didn't have to be at the meeting till Monday. Figured I'd spend the

  weekend having a good time. Shit. "

  Pittman gave the clerk his credit card and filled out the registration

  form, making sure to claim a New Haven address. He felt strange lying,

  but he knew he had to. The clerk needed a reasonable explanation for

  Pittman's drenched appearance, and the truth certainly wasn't

  acceptable. "Here's your card back. Here's your key." Pittman sneezed.

  "Man, you need to get out of those wet clothes."

  "That's all I've been thinking of."

  The name had been appealing: Warm Welcome Motel. Pittman had found it

  among several other motels a half hour after he'd hurried, shivering,

  from the golf course area. Houses had been dark, streetlights widely

  separated. Whenever he saw headlights, he had darted toward the shelter

  of bushes or a backyard before he could be seen. He'd had a vague idea

  of which way the thruway was. Fear had spurred him.

  Now, as he locked the motel door behind him, the last of his energy

  drained from him. He sank into a lumpy chair and sipped the cardboard

  cup of bitter but wonderfully hot coffee that he'd bought from a noisy

  machine at the end of the concrete-block hallway. The room's carpet was

  green and worn. He didn't care. The walls were an unappealing yellow.

  He didn't care about that, either, or about the hollow beneath the dingy

  orange cover of the mattress on the bed. All he cared about was heat.

  Need to get warm. His teeth chattered. Need a hot bath.

  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
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  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