David Morrell - Desperate Measures

by Desperate Measures(lit)

  frantically opened it, then pulled the passenger seat forward, wishing

  that the Duster had four doors. Denning scurried into the front. Jill

  and the servant helped

  Mrs. Page into the back, throwing Pittman's gym bag and Jill's suitcase

  onto the floor. Pittman pushed the passenger seat back into place,

  hurried behind the steering wheel, slammed his door, started the car,

  and sped away from the curb. In the opposite lane, ten cars were backed

  up, headlights gleaming, drivers and passengers leaning out in

  confusion. But Pittman's lane was completely empty, the Rolls and the

  car that had hit it blocking traffic behind him.

  "Stay down!" Pittman yelled to Jill and the others. "If those gunmen

  are still in the area ... !"

  He sped through a murky intersection, steered sharply to avoid a

  pedestrian, shuddered, and turned on his headlights. In the sudden

  glare, flat-faced brick town houses with cars parked along curbs were a

  blur on either side of the Duster.

  "We got lucky!" Denning blurted. "The crowd scared them away!"

  "Maybe," Pittman said.

  "What do you mean maybe?" Denning peered behind him. "I don't see any

  headlights! No one's following us!"

  "I agree with you. I think we got away," Pittman said. "At least for

  now. What I meant was, I'm not sure they were scared by the crowd."

  Denning shook his head in confusion.

  "I have a hunch that if it suited their purposes," Pittman said, "they'd

  have shot us right there in the street. In the dark and the panic,

  who'd be able to identify them?"

  "Then why didn't they?"

  Tires protesting, Pittman swerved the Duster around a corner, speeding

  south on Thirty-fourth Street. Slow down, he warned himself. You can't

  let the police stop you. Sweating, he reduced speed and blended with

  traffic. "You didn't answer my question," Denning complained.

  "If you don't think they were frightened by the crowd, why didn't they

  shoot us when we got out of the Rolls? What do you mean, it didn't suit

  their purpose?"

  "The idea wasn't just to kill us all," Pittman said. "You're right. I

  am Matthew Pittman. The police want me for murdering Jonathan Millgate.

  But I swear to you, I didn't do anything to him. If anything, I was

  trying to help him." Pittman explained what had happened at the

  Scarsdale estate. "I've been on the run ever since. What Millgate told

  me is dangerous enough to all of them that they're desperate to kill me

  before I figure out what it means."

  Driving, Pittman stared nervously ahead, seeing the lights and traffic

  of Pennsylvania Avenue. "To prevent me from finding out, they also

  killed several people I went to for information. They made it look as

  if I had killed those people. That's why the newspapers create the

  impression I'm on a homicidal rampage. But I haven't killed anyone. No,

  that's wrong. I have to be totally honest with you. God help me, I did

  kill. I had to defend myself against a man in my apartment, against a

  man who tried to shoot me on a street in Manhattan, and against a man

  who threatened Jill in her apartment."

  "That's my real name," Jill told Mrs. Page. "Those men think I know

  something, too."

  "But the rest of us," Mrs. Page said. "Why would they want to-?"

  "Those men work for your father and presumably the other grand

  counselors," Pittman said. He reached Pennsylvania Avenue and turned to

  the right onto brightly lit M Street. Traffic was dense. "Your father

  knows how much you hate him. He knows you want to destroy him. You're

  a logical person for us to go to and ask for help."

  Denning objected. "You weren't aware of her. If it hadn't been for me

  "But Eustace Gable doesn't know that," Pittman said. "What he does know

  is that I'm a former reporter. He might have been afraid that I'd use

  my sources to about Mrs. Page and go to her-which is exactly what

  happened tonight. My guess is, he had a man watching the house in case

  we showed up. When we did, the man telephoned for help."

  Ahead, Pittman saw the gleaming lights of Francis Scott Key Bridge and

  steered left onto it, following traffic across the Potomac into

  Virginia. "I'm supposed to be on a killing spree, some kind of vendetta

  against the grand counselors. They'd have made it seem that I'd killed

  you. Why would I have done it? Who knows? The authorities think I'm

  insane, after all. Maybe, because I couldn't find Eustace Gable, I

  vented my rage on his daughter. But Eustace Gable was worried about his

  daughter. He sent men to see if she was safe. They caught me after I'd

  killed her. Shots were exchanged. Jill and I didn't survive. End of

  story. End of the threat to the grand counselors. And with no one to

  prove otherwise, the police would have gone along with that explanation.

  "

  "The police," . Page said. "We have to go to the police. "

  "You can," Pittman said. "I think they'll listen to you. With your

  money and prestige, they'll do their best to protect you. But your

  father will do everything in his power to discredit you, to make people

  think you're insane. Which is more acceptable to the authorities, that

  I'm a maniac or that your distinguished father was so determined to keep

  a secret that he didn't care if his daughter was killed?"

  "My distinguished father," Mrs. Page said with disgust.

  "And there's always a risk that your father will arrange to have an

  accident happen to you while you're in protective custody," Pittman

  said. "Seven years ago, Jonathan Millgate arranged to have the Boston

  police arrest me for suspicion of burglary while I was investigating

  him. Two men working for him broke my jaw while I was in jail."

  "That's why we haven't given ourselves up," Jill said. "If Matt

  surrenders to the police and tries to tell his story, he doesn't think

  he'll be safe. He won't be believed."

  "The evidence is against me. My chances are a whole lot better if I

  stay free and do what I can to prove I'm innocent.

  "How?" Mrs. Page asked. "I've been thinking about that. But I can't

  do it alone. Will you help?"

  "Tell me what you need."

  "I'm still figuring out all the details. But I know this much right

  now. At your house, people saw the gun in my hand. They saw us put you

  in our car. They'll almost certainly have seen our Vermont license

  plates. What happened can be interpreted as a kidnapping. The police

  will be looking for us, and they'll be counting on our Vermont license

  plates to make it easy for them." Across the Potomac, opposite

  Washington, Pittman drove along Fort Myer Drive in Rosslyn, Virginia. "I

  need to find a nice big bar with a crowded parking lot."

  "Yes," Denning said. "I could use a stiff drink."

  "That's not exactly what I had in mind," Pittman said. "I want to steal

  somebody's Virginia license plates. After they're on, we're going to a

  pay phone. I want you to call your father, Mrs. Page. There are

  several things I want you to say to him."

  "But I don't have his private number. He refuses to give it to me."

  "No problem. I've got the num
ber," Pittman said.

  "You do? How?"

  "Someone I once interviewed gave it to me."

  The phone booth was outside a brightly lit convenience store. Pittman

  parked with other cars in front, and as people went in and out of the

  store, he remained in the buster, coaching Mrs. Page on what he wanted

  her to say.

  "Can you remember all that? Do you think you can do it?"

  "I'm going to enjoy this," Mrs. Page answered y, the tautness of her

  face emphasized by shadows in the car. It's exactly what I want to say

  to him."

  "I hope I'm not misleading you. You understand that this can put you in

  danger."

  "I'm already in danger. I need to protect myself. But I don't see why

  we have to use a pay phone. Why can't we rent a hotel room and use its

  phone? We'd be more comfortable. "

  "If your father's as obsessed about security as I think he is, he'll

  have equipment to trace the phone calls he receives. It's not that hard

  to do anymore. Look at Caller ID. it can be done instantly," Pittman

  said. "In that case, he'd send men to the hotel. Our room would be a

  trap."

  "Of course," Mrs. Page said. "I should have thought."

  "But you thought of it," Denning told Pittman. Pittman rubbed his brow,

  troubled. "The precaution just seemed obvious to me. " He was

  beginning to realize that he had a talent for being on the run. His

  head throbbed as he wondered what else he didn't know about himself.

  Jill came back from the store, handing Pittman coins from a five-dollar

  bill that she had changed. "We'll soon be out of cash."

  "I know. Thanks for the coins." He pointed. "What's in the paper

  bag?"

  "Coffee and doughnuts for everybody."

  "You'll never eat right again."

  "I just hope I get the chance to try."

  Pittman touched her hand, then turned to Mrs. Page. "So what do you

  think? Are you ready? Good. Let's do it." He escorted Mrs. Page to

  the phone booth, which was situated where they wouldn't be disturbed, a

  distance from the store's entrance. He pulled out a sheet of paper with

  the list of telephone numbers that he'd gotten from Brian Botulfson's

  computer. After putting coins into the box, he pressed the buttons for

  Eustace Gable's home and handed Mrs. Page the telephone.

  She stood in the booth and glared through the glass wall before her as

  if she was seeing her father. In a moment, she said, "Eustace Gable...

  . Oh, in this case, I think he'll want to be disturbed. Tell him it's

  his loving daughter. " Mrs. Page tapped her pointed fingernails

  impatiently against the glass of the phone booth. "Well, hello, Father

  dear. I knew you'd be concerned, so I thought I'd call to tell you that

  in spite of the goons who came to my house, I'm safe." She laughed

  bitterly. "What goons? The ones you hired to kill me, of course... .

  Stop. Don't insult my intelligence. Do you actually expect me to

  believe your denials? I know I've. disappointed you in a number of

  ways, not the least of which is that I'm not perfect. But you can take

  pride in this. You did not raise an idiot. I know what's happening,

  Father, and I'm going to do everything in my power to guarantee that

  you're stopped... . What am I talking about? Duncan Kline, Father....

  What's the matter? All of a sudden,'you don't seem to have anything to

  say. When I was young, you always interrupted everything I tried to

  tell you. Now you're finally listening. My, my. Duncan Kline, Father.

  Grollier Academy. The snow. You murdered Jonathan Millgate to keep it

  -a secret. But I'm going to let your secret out. And damn you, I hope

  you spend the rest of your life suffering. For what you did to Mother."

  Mrs. Page set the telephone on its receptacle, stared at it, exhaled,

  and turned to Pittman. "That was extremely satisfying.

  "You'll have plenty of other chances. I want to put pressure on your

  father, on all of them," Pittman said. "But right now, we need to get

  back to the car and drive out of this area-in case your father did trace

  the call."

  Twenty seconds later, Pittman watched the lights of the convenience

  store recede in his rearview mirror. "We'll drive for a couple of

  miles, then use another pay phone.!"

  "Right. Now it's my turn to make a call," Jill said. "To Winston

  Sloane. I can't wait. It feels so good to be confronting them."

  At last it was Pittman's turn. He stopped the car at a phone booth on

  the edge of a shopping mall's deserted parking lot in Fairfax, Virginia.

  Standing in the booth's light, he studied the list of phone numbers, put

  coins in the box, and pressed numbers.

  The phone on the other end rang only once before a man answered, his

  deep voice somewhat strained. "Standish residence. "

  "I need to speak to him."

  The voice hesitated. "Who's calling, please?"

  "Just put him on. I'm certain he's still awake, because I'm certain he

  just received calls from Eustace Gable or Winston Sloane, probably both

  of them."

  "How do you know that, sir?"

  It wasn't the type of question that Pittman expected a servant to ask.

  Just as the voice had hesitated a short while earlier, now Pittman

  hesitated. His plan depended in part on the likelihood that the grand

  counselors would feel pressured by the phone calls, that they would

  contact one another and feel even more pressure when they learned that

  each had been called in a similar manner but by different people. The

  message to them was clear. You failed to keep your secret;

  more and more people know what you did in the past and what you've done

  to hide it. With luck, the grand counselors would overreact, make

  mistakes, and ...

  The deep, voice interrupted Pittman's thoughts. "Sir, are you still

  there? I asked, how did you know that Mr. Standish received telephone

  calls from Eustace Gable and Winston Sloane?"

  "Because I want to talk to him about the same matter they wanted to talk

  to him about," Pittman said.

  "And what is that?" The voice sounded more strained.

  "Look, I'm tired of this. Tell him Duncan Kline, Grollier Academy. Tell

  him he can talk to me about it or he can talk to the police."

  "I'm afraid I don't understand. Duncan Kline? Grollier Academy?"

  In the background on the other end of the line, Pittman heard other

  voices, the sound of people moving around. What the hell's going on?

  Pittman thought. "Who am I speaking to?" the voice insisted. "I get

  the feeling you're not a servant."

  "Mr. Standish won't speak with you unless he knows who's calling. If I

  could have your name .

  In the background, Pittman heard a man call out, "Lieutenant. "You're

  with the police," Pittman said.

  "The police, sir? What makes you think that? All I need is your name

  and I'll ask Mr. Standish if-"

  "Damn it, what's happened?" 11 Nothing, sir. "

  "Of course. That's why you're having a police convention at his house.

  "

  "Just a few guests."

  "Stop the bullshit! I assume you're trying to trace this call.

  't bother. I'm going to hang up if you do
n't answer my questions.

  What's happened?"

  "I'm afraid there's been an accident," the voice on the phone said.

  "Victor Standish is dead?" Jill leaned forward, startled, as

  Pittman drove quickly from the pay phone in the shopping mall's deserted

  parking lot.

  "How?" Mrs. Page asked in astonishment.

  "The policeman wouldn't say." Pittman merged with traffic on Old Lee

  Highway. "I'm surprised he told me even that much. Obviously he hoped

  to keep me on the line until he had the number I was calling from and

  could send a cruiser there. Behind him, Pittman heard a

  fast-approaching siren. He peered tensely toward his rearview mirror

  and saw the flashing lights of a police car speeding through the glare

  of traffic.

  "Maybe I didn't hang up soon enough."

  The cruiser switched lanes, taking advantage of a break in traffic,

  increasing speed. Unexpectedly, it veered off the highway.

  Pittman's cramped hands were sweaty, sticking the steering wheel. "I

  think I've had enough adrenaline for one night."

  "I'm glad to hear I'm not the only one who feels exhausted Mrs. Page

  said. "I could use a chance to lie down. "

  "Isn't it wonderful," Denning exclaimed.

  428 429

  "What?"