David Morrell - Desperate Measures

by Desperate Measures(lit)

  "What's wrong with this hospital?"

  "They don't have a machine he needs. Hurry. Please." Pittman gave the

  driver twenty dollars.

  The taxi sped forward. Pittman sat anxiously in the backseat, wiping

  rain from his forehead, catching his breath. What the hell was going

  on? he wondered. Although the oxygen mask had concealed the face of

  the patient on the gurney, Pittman had noticed man's wrinkled,

  liver-spotted hands, his slack-skinned neck, and his wispy white hair.

  Obviously old. That wasn't much to go on, but Pittman had the eerie

  conviction that the man on the gurney was Jonathan Millgate.

  "I thought you said they were taking your father to another hospital,"

  the taxi driver said.

  ' They are."

  'Not in New York City, they ain't. In case you haven't noticed, we just

  reached New Rochelle."

  Pittman listened to the rhythmic tap of the taxi's windshield wipers. As

  tires hissed on wet pavement, he concentrated to provide an explanation.

  "The ambulance has a two-way radio. Maybe they called ahead and the

  hospital they were going to didn't have the machine they needed. "

  4 Where I live over on Long Island, they've got plenty of good

  hospitals. I don't know why they didn't head there. What's wrong with

  your father, anyhow?"

  "Heart disease."

  "Yeah, my brother has a bad ticker. Thirty years of smoking. Poor

  bastard. Can hardly walk across the room. You better hope your

  father's strong enough to hang on, because it doesn't look like the

  ambulance is gonna stop here in New Rochelle. Christ, at this rate,

  we'll soon be in Connecticut." Headlights gleamed in the rain.

  ' 'I'd better let my dispatcher know what's going on," the driver said.

  "Listen, I'm sorry about your father and all, but buddy, this long a

  trip needs special arrangements. If we end up in Stamford or some

  damned place like that, I won't be able to get a fare to come back to

  the city. I'm going to have to charge you both ways."

  "I'll pay it."

  "How?" Rain tapped the roof.

  "What? I'm sorry ... I wasn't listening."

  "How are you gonna pay me? You got the cash? Rough estimate-we're

  talking over a hundred bucks."

  "Don't worry. You'll get paid."

  "But I do worry. I need to know if you've got the cash to- Wait a

  second. Looks like they figured out where they're going. "

  The sign at the turnoff heading north said SCARSDALE/

  WHITE PLAINS.

  "What's all those trees to the right?"

  "Looks like a park," Pittman said.

  "Or a damned forest. Man, we're wayout in the country. I knew I

  shouldn'ta done this. How am I gonna find a fare back to the city '

  from wayout here?"

  "We're not in the country. Look at those big houses on your left. This

  is some kind of expensive subdivision. There's a sign up ahead. Yeah.

  SAXON WOODS PARK AND GOLF CLUB. I told you we're not in the country."

  "Well, either the guys in that ambulance plan to take your father

  golfing or- Hold it. They're slowing down." So did the taxi driver.

  "They're turning off," Pittman said. "There, to the right."

  The driver kept going, passing a high stone wall and a gated driveway.

  As the red taillights of the ambulance and the Oldsmobile receded into

  the darkness, the gate-tall, made of wrought-iron bars-swung

  electronically back into place.

  "Funny how these days they make hospitals to look like mansions," the

  driver said. "What the hell's going on, buddy?"

  "I haven't the faintest idea."

  "I honestly don't know. My father's really sick. I expected ... "Say,

  this isn't about drugs, is it?" Pittman was too confused to answer.

  "I asked you a question."

  "It's not about drugs. You saw the ambulance leave the hospital. "

  "Sure. Right. Well, I don't plan to spend the rest of the night

  driving around Scarsdale. At least I think that's where we are. Ride's

  over, buddy. You've got two choices-head back with me or get out right

  now. Either way, you're paying both ways." The driver turned the taxi

  around.

  "Okay, let me out where they left the road," Pittman said.

  The driver switched off his headlights, stopping fifty yards from the

  gate. "In case it's not a good idea to advertise that you followed

  them."

  "I'm telling you, this isn't about drugs."

  "Yeah. Sure. You owe me a hundred and fifteen bucks."

  Pittman groped in his pockets. "I already gave you twenty. "

  "What are you talking about? That's supposed to be my tip. "

  "But I don't have that much cash."

  "What? I asked you earlier if-"

  "I've got a credit card."

  "That's useless to me! This cab ain't rigged to take it!"

  "Then I'm going to have to give you a check."

  "Give me a break! Do I look like the trusting type? The last time I

  took a check from a guy, it-"

  "Hey, I told you I don't have the cash. I'd give you my watch, but it

  isn't worth fifteen dollars."

  "A check," the driver muttered. "This fucking job."

  After Pittman wrote the check and gave it to him, the driver the address

  at the top of the check. "Let me see your driver's license." He wrote

  down Pittman's Social Security number. "If this check bounces, buddy .

  "I promise it won't."

  "Well, if it does, I'm gonna come to your apartment and break both your

  legs."

  "Just make sure you cash it before a week from Saturday.

  "What's so special about a week from Saturday?"

  "I won't be around." Pittman got out of the car, thankful that the rain

  had lessened to a mist, and watched the taxi pull away in the darkness.

  A distance down the road, the driver switched his headlights on.

  In the silence, Pittman suddenly felt isolated. Shoving his hands in

  his overcoat pockets for warmth, he walked along the side of the road.

  The shoulder was gravel, its sandy bed sufficiently softened by the rain

  that his shoes made only a slight scraping sound. There weren't any

  streetlights. Pittman strained his eyes, but he could barely see the

  wall that loomed on his left. He came to a different shade of darkness

  and realized that he'd reached the barred gate.

  Without touching it, he peered through. Far along a driveway, past

  trees and shrubs, lights glowed in what seemed to be a mansion. What

  now? he thought. It's two o'clock in the morning. It's drizzling. I'm

  cold. I'm God knows where. I shouldn't have gone to the hospital. I

  shouldn't have followed the ambulance. I shouldn't have ...

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he studied the top of the gate,

  then shook his head. He was fairly certain that he could climb over it,

  but he was even more certain that there'd be some kind of intrusion

  sensor up there. Before Jeremy's death and Pittman's nervous breakdown,

  he had worked for a time on the newspaper's Sunday magazine. One of his

  articles had been about a man whom Pittman had nicknamed Bugmaster. "

  The man was an expert in intrusion detection and other types of security

  equipment-for example, snooping devices, otherwise known as bugs, ergo

  the
Bugmaster. Enjoying Pittman's enthusiasm about information, the

  Bugmaster had explained his profession in detail, and Pittman's

  prodigious memory for facts had retained it all.

  A place this size, Pittman knew, was bound to have a security system,

  and as the Bugmaster had pointed out, you never go over a wall or a gate

  without first scouting the barriers to make sure you're not activating a

  sensor. But at this hour, in the dark, Pittman didn't see how he could

  scout anything.

  So what the hell are you going to do? You should have gone back to

  Manhattan with the taxi driver. What did you think you'd accomplish by

  hanging around out here in the rain?

  Through the bars of the gate, a light attracted Pittman's attention.

  Two of them. Headlights. Approaching along the driveway from the

  mansion. Pittman watched them grow larger, thought about hurrying along

  the road and hiding past the corner of the wall, then made a different

  decision and pressed himself against the wall right next to the gate.

  He heard a smooth, well-tuned, powerful engine. He heard tires on wet

  concrete. He heard a buzz and then a whir. The gate's motor had been

  activated by remote control. The gate was swinging open toward the

  inside of the estate, its sturdy wheels scraping on concrete.

  The engine sounded louder. The headlights flashed through the open

  gate. Sooner than Pittman expected, the dark Oldsmobile that had

  escorted the ambulance surged through the opening, turned to the left in

  the direction the taxi had taken to go back to the city, and sped into

  the night.

  Pittman was tempted to remain motionless until the car's lights

  disappeared down the road. But he had something more immediate to

  occupy him, for abruptly he heard another buzz, another whir. The gate

  was closing-faster than he expected-and he sprinted to get through the

  opening before it was blocked.

  The sturdy gate brushed past his coat. The lock snapped into place. The

  night became silent again.

  Pittman found that he was holding his breath. Despite the expansive

  grounds ahead of him, he felt a spasm of claustrophobia. The darkness

  seemed to smother him. At once the cold drizzle sharpened his senses,

  bracing him. He inhaled and glanced around, reassured that no threat

  emerged from the shadows. You expected guards? No, but ... Dogs

  maybe? Right. Wouldn't they have followed the car? Wouldn't you have

  seen them by now?

  Maybe. Maybe not. They might be trained not to follow cars.

  So what's the worst that can happen? If there are dogs, they'll find

  you and corner you and bark until somebody comes. You'll be charged

  with trespassing. That's no big deal for a guy who's planning to kill

  himself eight days from now. But what if the dogs are trained to attack?

  This isn't a top secret military installation. It's a Scarsdale estate.

  Relax. And anyway, so what if the dogs are trained to attack? Do you

  think being killed by a couple of Dobermans would be any worse than

  shooting yourself with a .45?

  Yes.

  What standards you have.

  Chilled by the rain, Pittman moved forward. At first he was tempted to

  approach the mansion through the cover of the trees. But then he

  decided there wasn't any need-the night and the gloomy weather provided

  him with sufficient cover. Following the murky driveway, he came around

  a shadowy curve and discovered that he was closer to the mansion than he

  expected.

  Next to a sheltering fir tree, he studied his destination. The building

  was high, wide, made of brick, with numerous gables and chimneys. There

  were several lights in windows on the ground floor, less on the second

  story. From this angle, he could see a five-stall garage on the left.

  The garage had a sundeck on top, with two sets of French doors leading

  off the deck into a second-story room that was lit, although Pittman

  couldn't see what was in there. Mostly what attracted his attention was

  the private ambulance, parked, its lights off, apparently empty, in

  front of the stone steps that led up to the mansion's large front door.

  Now what? Pittman thought.

  He shrugged. With eight days to live, what difference did it make? In

  an odd way, he felt liberated. After all, what did he have to lose?

  Knowing when he was going to die gave him a feeling of immunity.

  He stepped from the fir tree and concentrated to maintain his balance on

  wet, slippery grass as he crept down a dark slope toward the mansion.

  Moving cautiously toward the lights of the mansion, taking advantage of

  shrubs, a fountain, a gazebo to give him cover, he came closer to the

  illuminated windows. The drenched grass had soaked his shoes and socks,

  his feet, but he was too involved in studying the to care. Curtains had

  been drawn, forcing him to skirt the driveway where it ran parallel to

  the front of the mansion. He felt exposed by the drizzle-shrouded glare

  of arc lights as he darted toward bushes beneath the front windows.

  Moisture dripped from the branches onto his overcoat. Again in shadows,

  he crouched tensely, moved through an opening in the bushes on the left

  side of the front doors, then warily straightened, able to see through a

  gap in the curtains at one window. He saw a portion of a luxuriously

  appointed oak-paneled living room. The room didn't seem occupied.

  Quietly he shifted toward the next window, moving closer to the front

  door.

  The next window's curtains were open. He showed as little of his head

  as possible while he peered in. Immediately he realized that this

  window was part of the same living room that he'd just seen through the

  other window. But why would curtains in one window be closed, while the

  other curtains were not? He eased down out of sight, remembered the

  ambulance behind him in front of the mansion, and suspected that someone

  must have been waiting anxiously for the ambulance to arrive. When it

  had, that person had hurried from the room, too preoccupied to bother

  closing the curtains.

  But where had that person gone? A detail that Pittman had seen in the

  room now acquired significance. On a carved mahogany table in front of

  a fireplace, there had been several teacups and coffee mugs. Okay, not

  one person. Several. But where ... ?

  Pittman glanced to his right toward the mansion's front steps. They

  were wide, made of stone. A light blazed above impressive double doors

  and revealed a closed-circuit camera aimed toward the steps and the area

  in front of the entrance. If there were other closed-circuit cameras,

  Pittman hadn't seen them, but he had no intention of revealing himself

  to this one. The best way to proceed, he decided, was to double back,

  to go left instead of right, and circle the mansion in the reverse

  direction from the one in which he'd intended to go. The method would

  eventually lead him to the windows on the. right side of the entrance,

  but without forcing him to cross the front steps.

  He turned, stayed low, close to the mansion's wan, and shifted past the

  moisture-beaded shrubs, ignoring the two windows
that he'd already

  checked. He came to a third window, the drapes on this one completely

  closed. After listening intently and hearing no sounds, he concluded

  that the room was empty and moved farther along, rounding a corner of

  the mansion.

  Arc lights caused the drizzle to glisten. The lights were mounted on

  the side of the mansion and beneath the eaves of the sundeck that topped

  the multistall garage. Hugging the wall, Pittman crept ten feet along

  the side of the mansion, then reached the large garage, where it formed

  a continuation of the building. There weren't any windows, so Pittman

  didn't linger. Coming to the corner of the garage, he checked around it

  and saw that all five garage stalls were closed.

  Past the garage, he faced the back of the house. There, fewer arc

  lights illuminated the grounds. But they were bright enough for Pittman

  to see a large, covered, drizzle-misted swimming pool, a changing room,

  fallow flower gardens, more shrubs and trees, and, immediately to his

  right, stairs that went up to the sundeck on top of the garage. There

  had been lights beyond the French doors that led the sundeck into an

  upper-story room, he remembered. Deciding that he'd better inspect this

  area now rather than back after checking the windows on the ground

  floor, he started up the wooden steps.