Desperate Measures

by David Morrell

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."

  "I've never had any trouble."

  "You've been lucky. Anybody see you?"

  Pittman almost mentioned the cook at the diner, but then he realized

  that if the detective talked to the cook, the cook would mention the box

  Pittman had left, and the detective might find the handgun. Pittman's

  permit allowed him to keep the .45 only in his apartment. It would look

  suspicious that he had hidden the weapon somewhere else.

  "Nobody saw me."

  "Too bad. That makes it difficult."

  "For what?"

  "Ok, I don't like your barging in here, and I don't like being

  questioned when I don't know what this is all about." Pittman couldn't

  hide his agitation. "Who's your superior at your precinct? What's his

  telephone number?"

  "Good idea. I think we ought to talk to him. Matter of fact, why don't

  we both go down and talk to him in person?"

  "Fine.

  "Good.

  "After I phone my lawyer-"

  "Oh?" the detective said. "You think you need a lawyer now?"

  "When the police start acting like the gestapo."

  "Aw." The detective shook his head. "Now you've hurt my feelings. Put

  on your shoes. Get a coat. Let's take a ride.

  "Not until you tell me what's going on. " Pittman couldn't get enough

  air.

  "You didn't go for a walk last night. You took a taxi up to an estate

  in Scarsdale and broke in."

  "I did what? That's crazy."

  The detective reached into his suit coat pocket and brought out an

  envelope. He squinted at Pittman, opened the envelope, and removed a

  sheet of paper.

  "What's this?"

  "A Xerox of a check," the detective said.

  Pittman's stomach cramped when he saw that it was a copy of the check he

  had written to the taxi driver the previous night. How the hell had the

  police gotten it?

  The detective's expression became more sour as he explained. "An

  ambulance driver heading from Manhattan to the Scarsdale estate last

  night says a taxi followed him all the way. He got suspicious and wrote

  down the ID number on the light on the taxi's roof. So after we were

  contacted about the break-in at the estate, we tracked down the cabbie.

  He sa
ys the guy who hired him to drive up to that estate wrote a check

  to pay for the ride. This check. With your signature at the bottom.

  With your name and address printed at the top."

  Pittman stared at the copy of the check.

  "Well, are you going to admit it, or are you going to make me go to the

  trouble of bringing you and the cabbie face-to-face so he can identify

  you?"

  Pittman exhaled tensely. Given what he intended to do seven days from

  now, what difference did it make? So I broke into a house to save an

  old man's life, he thought. Is that so big a crime? What am I trying

  to hide?

  All the same, he hesitated. "Yes. It was me."

  "There. Now don't you feel better?"

  "But I can explain."

  "Of course."

  "After I call my lawyer." Pittman passed the detective at the door to

  the bedroom and entered the living room, heading for the telephone.

  "We're not going to have to go through that, are we?" The detective

  stalked after him. "This is a simple matter."

  "And I want to keep it simple. that's why I want to call my lawyer. So

  there aren't any misunderstandings." Pittman picked up the phone. "I'm

  asking you not to do that," the detective said. "I have just a few

  questions. There's no need for an attorney. When you were with the old

  man, did he say anything?" Pittman shook his head. "I don't

  understand."

  "Did he say anything?"

  "What's that got to do with ? So what if ... ?"

  The detective stepped closer, his face stern. "Did ... the . old ...

  man ... say ... anything?"

  "Gibberish."

  "Tell me."

  Pittman continued to hold the phone. "It didn't make any sense. It

  sounded like Duncan something. Then something about snow. Then ... I

  don't know ... I think he said Grollier.

  The detective's features tightened. "Did you tell anybody else?"

  "Anybody else? What difference would ... ? Wait a minute. This

  doesn't feel right. What's going on here? Let me see your

  identification."

  "I already showed you."

  "I want to see it again."

  The detective shrugged. "This is all the identification I need.

  The detective reached beneath his suit coat, and Pittman stiffened, his

  pulse speeding at the sight of the gun the detective pulled out. The

  gun's barrel was unusually long. Pittman suddenly realized that it

  wasn't a barrel but a silencer attached to the barrel. Policemen didn't

  carry silencers.

  "You meddling shit, you give me any more trouble and I'll put a goddamn

  bullet up your nose. Who else did you tell?"

  The tip of the silencer snagged. As the man's gaze flickered down

  toward his suit coat, Pittman reacted without thinking, a reflexive

  response. Despite his self-destructive intentions, he had no control

  over his body's need to defend itself against sudden fear. Startled, in

  a frenzy, he swung the phone with all his might, cracking its plastic

  against the man's forehead.

  The man lurched backward. Blood streaked his brow. He cursed,

  struggling to focus his vision, raising the pistol.

  Terrified, Pittman struck again, smashing the man's nose. More blood

  flew. The man fell backward. He walloped onto a coffee table,

  shattered its glass top, crashed through, and slammed against the floor,

  his upturned head ramming against the metal rim of the table. Staring

  at the pistol in the man's hand, Pittman raised the. phone to strike a

  third time, only to discover that he'd stretched the extension cord to

  its limit. Trembling, he dropped the phone and searched desperately

  around for something else with which to hit the man. He grabbed a lamp,

  about to throw it down at the man's head, when at once he realized that

  the man wasn't moving.

  The man's eyes were open. So was his mouth. His head was propped

  against the far metal rim of the coffee table. His legs, bent at the

  knees, hung over the near rim. . Holding the lamp high, ready to throw

  it, Pittman stepped closer. The man's chest wasn't moving.

  Dear God, he's dead.

  Time seemed to have accelerated. Simultaneously Pittman felt caught

  between heartbeats, as if time had been suspended. For seconds that

  could have been minutes, he continued to stare down at the man with the

  gun. Slowly he set the lamp back on its table. He knelt beside the

  man, his emotions in chaos.

  How did ... ? I didn't hit him hard enough to ...

  Christ, he must have broken his neck when he smashed through the glass.

  His head hid the metal side of the table.

  Then Pittman noticed the blood pooling on the floor under the man-a lot

  of it.

  Afraid that the man would spring into motion and aim the gun at him,

  Pittman touched the corpse's arm and shifted the body. He swallowed

  bile when he saw that a long shard of glass had been jabbed into the

  man's back, between his shoulder blades.

  Pittman's face felt clammy.

  He was thirty-eight years old. He had never been in the military. Apart

  from the previous night and the Saturday seven years earlier when the

  two men had broken his jaw, his only experience with violence had been

  through people he had interviewed who were acquainted with violence,

  either as victims, criminals, or police officers.

  And now he had killed a man. Appalled by the blood on the telephone, he

  gingerly set it on its receptacle.

  What am I going to ... ?

  Abruptly he worried that somebody had heard the crash. He swung toward

  the wall behind which the neighbor's television blared-people laughing,

  an announcer saying something about a trip to Jamaica, people

  applauding, a game show. He expected to hear urgent footsteps, the

  neighbor pounding on the door.

  Instead, what he heard was the TV announcer giving out a prize on the

  game show. No matter the noise from the television, his apartment

  seemed eerily quiet.

  What if I was wrong and he really is a policeman?

  Breathing with effort, Pittman opened the man's suit coat and took out

  the police identification that the man had shown him. A card next to

  the badge said that the detective's name was William Mullen. The

  photograph on the ID matched the face of the dead man. But as Pittman

  examined it, he was unnerved to discover that the photograph had been

  pasted over another photograph, which didn't look anything like the

  corpse. Pittman checked the man's wallet, and in addition to almost

  four hundred dollars, he found a driver's license in the name of Edward

  Halloway, residence in Alexandria, Virginia. Pittman had never heard of

  any New York City policeman who lived several states away. This

  definitely wasn't a cop. What the hell was he, then?

  The phone rang. Pittman stared. The phone rang a second time. Who

  would-? The phone rang a third time. Should I-? The phone rang a

  fourth time. Suppose it's Burt. Pittman picked it up. Listening, he

  said nervously, "Hello. Pause. Click. Jesus.

  In a rush, Pittman entered his bedroom, grabbed a brown sport coat, and

  pulled his suitcase from his closet. Instantly he put
the suitcase back

  and took out the gym bag he had used when he had still been a runner. He

  had once interviewed a security specialist, who was an expert in

  blending with a crowd. One of the hard things, the expert had said, was

  to find something that would hold weapons or equipment but not be

  conspicuous. A suitcase was too bulky, and besides, anybody who carried

  a suitcase into any public building other than a transportation terminal

  attracted attention.

  Conversely, while a briefcase looked more natural, especially if you

  were well dressed, it wasn't big enough. But a reasonably attractive

  gym bag was ideal. Enough people went to exercise after work that a gym

  bag appeared natural, even if the person carrying it wore a suit,

  although casual clothes were obviously better.

  And a gym bag held a lot.

  Trembling, Pittman put a fresh pair of underwear and socks into the bag.

  He shoved in an extra shirt, a tie, his black sweat suit, his running

  shoes, his electric razor, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and shampoo. What

  else?

  is isn't summer camp you're going to. You have to get here fast. That

  phone call was probably from someone with the gunman.