DESPERATE MEASURES
By: DAVID MORRELL
Fiction
First Blood (1972)
Testament (1975)
Last Reveille (19 7 7)
The Totem (1979)
Blood Oath (1982)
The Brotherhood of the Rose 1984)
Rambo (First Blood Part II 1985)
Rambo III 1988)
The Fifth Profession (1990)
The Covenant of the Flame (1991)
Assumed Identity (1993)
The Totem (complete and unaltered) (1994)*
Nonfiction
John Burtrum Introduction (1970)
Fireflies (1988)
A Time Warner Company
To Mel Parker, who is what every author dreams of a talented editor who
is also a friend.
Copyright 0 1994 by David Morrell All rights reserved.
Cover design by Jackie Merri Meyer
Warner Books, Inc. 1271 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020
Printed in the United States of America
Originally published in hardcover by Warner Books. First Warner Books
International Paperback Printing: March, 1995 First Printed in Paperback
in July, 1995
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
DESPERATE MEASURES
The pistol, a Colt .45 semiautomatic, was capable of holding seven
rounds in its magazine. But at the moment, it held only one, which
Pittman fed into the firing chamber by pulling back the slide on top of
the weapon. The well-oiled metal made a smooth snicking sound. Fourteen
years earlier, when Pittman had written his first newspaper story, it
had been about a retired policeman who had committed suicide. Pittman
had never forgotten a conversation he had overheard, the respectful
tones with which two patrolmen at a coffee machine in their precinct
headquarters had referred to their former comrade's death.
"Poor bastard, couldn't stand retirement."
"Drinking problem."
"Wife left him."
"Went out with style. Used his backup gun-a semiautomatic, Colt .45.
Just one round in it."
The reference had puzzled Pittman until he did some research and learned
that when fired, a semiautomatic pistol ejected the used empty cartridge
and chambered a new one. The hammer re-cocked itself. This feature
made rapid firing possible during an emergency. But the retired
policeman who had shot himself had evidently considered it unethical to
leave a loaded, cocked weapon next to his body after his suicide. There
was no way to predict who would find his body. His landlady perhaps, or
her ten-year-old son, who might foolishly pick up the gun. So, to avoid
the danger that someone might later get hurt, the retired policeman had
put only one round in the weapon. He knew that after the bullet was
discharged, the slide would remain back, the firing chamber empty, the
weapon completely safe.
"Went out with style."
Thus, Pittman, too, put only one round in his pistol. Weeks earlier,
he'd applied for a permit to have a firearm in his apartment. This
afternoon, after the authorities had determined that Pittman wasn't a
felon, had never been in a mental institution because of violent
behavior, etcetera, he had been allowed to go to the sporting-goods
store and take possession of the pistol, a .45, the same as the retired
policeman had used. The clerk had asked how many boxes of ammunition he
wanted. Pittman had responded that one would definitely be more than
sufficient.
"I guess that means you're just going to keep it at home for protection,
huh?"
"Yes, protection," Pittman had said.
(From nightmares, he had silently added.)
In his small third-floor apartment, with the door locked, he now sat at
his narrow kitchen table, studied the cocked pistol, and listened to the
din of evening traffic outside. The clock on the stove made a whirring
sound, one of its mechanical numbers changing from 8:11 to 8:12. He
heard humanized laughter from a television situation comedy vibrate
through the wall behind him. He smelled fried onions, the odor seeping
under his door from an apartment down the hall. He picked up the
weapon.
Although he had never, been trained to handle firearms, he had done his
customary research. He had also read about the anatomy of the human
skull, its soft spots. The temples, the hollows behind the ears, and
the roof of the mouth were the most obviously vulnerable. Pittman had
read about would be suicides who had shot themselves in the head, only
to give themselves a lobotomy instead of killing themselves.
Although infrequent, it most often happened when the barrel was aimed
toward the side of the forehead. Squeezing the trigger evidently caused
the barrel to move slightly away from the temple. The bullet struck and
was deflected by the thick plate of bone above the eyebrows. The
would-be suicide became a vegetable.
Not me, Pittman thought. He meant to do this completely.
The retired policeman whose example he followed had chosen to place the
barrel of his gun inside his mouth-no way of flinching and moving the
barrel away from its target-and he had chosen an extremely powerful
handgun, a .45.
Pittman had gotten a drink at a bar on the way to the sporting-goods
store and at two other bars on the way back home. He kept a bottle of
Jack Daniel's in the cupboard next to the refrigerator, but he had not
had anything to drink since he had locked his door behind him. He
didn't want anyone to think, on the basis of a medical examiner's
report, that drunkenness had led him to behave irrationally. More, he
wanted to be clearheaded. He wanted to approach his last act with
maximum focus.
A question of procedure occurred to him. How could- he justify the mess
he would make? By process of elimination, he had decided that his
self-inflicted death would have to be by means of a bullet. But here at
the kitchen table? His blood on the wood, the floor, the refrigerator,
possibly the ceiling?
Pittman shook his head, stood, held the .45 carefully, and walked toward
the bathroom. He concentrated to maintain his balance, climbed into the
bathtub, pulled the shower curtain closed, sat down in the cold white
tub, and now he was ready.
The .45's gun oil smelled sweet as he brought the pistol toward his
mouth. He opened his lips, felt a moment's revulsion, then placed the
hard, greasy barrel within his mouth. The barrel was wider than he had
anticipated. He had to stretch the corners of his mouth. The
bitter-tasting metal scraped against his bottom front teeth,'making him
shiver.
Now.
He had thought about nothing except his suicide ever since he had
applied for the permit to buy his gun. The waiting period had given him
a chance to test his resolve. He had exhausted every argument for and
against. He had been in such emotional agony that every p
ortion of his
brain screamed for release, for an end to his pain.
He tightened his finger on the trigger, but the trigger's resistance was
more than he had expected. He had to squeeze harder.
The phone rang.
He frowned.
The phone rang again.
He tried to concentrate.
The phone rang a third time, Pittman wanted desperately to ignore it,
but as the phone persisted, he reluctantly realized that he would have
to answer it. This decision had nothing to do with second thoughts, a
need to give himself time to change his mind. Rather, it was a need to
leave no loose ends-no debts unpaid, no favors unreturned, no slights
unapologized. His will was in order, his slim assets going to his
ex-wife, along with a note of explanation. His work obligations had
ended yesterday, the conclusion of the two weeks' notice he had given
his employer. He had even arranged for his funeral.
Then who would be phoning him? he wondered . A wrong number? A
salesman? What if there was some final detail to which he had not
attended? He had done his best to round off his life.
The phone kept ringing. He got out of the tub and went into the living
room, grudgingly picking up the phone.
"Hello?" It was such an effort to speak.
"Matt, this is Burt." There wasn't any need for Burt to identify
himself. His cigarette smoke-ravaged throat made his distinctive voice
constantly hoarse and gravelly.
"You took so long, I wasn't sure you were home."
"In that case, why did you let the phone keep ringing?"
"Your answering machine wasn't on," Burt said.
"Even when it's on, I'm sometimes home-"
"well, how would I know that if you never answered?"
Pittman felt detached from the conversation, as if drugged "What do you
want, Burt?"
"A favor."
"Sorry. Can't do it."
"Don't turn me down till you hear the favor."
"It doesn't make a - - . Burt, we're even. We don't owe each other
anything. Let's leave it at that."
"You make it sound like just because you quit, we'll never see each
other again. Hey, we'll keep owing each other plenty. Yesterday was
your last day, so you probably haven't heard. They gave us the word
this morning. The Chronicle will close its doors a week from Friday."
Burt's voice seemed to come from far away. Pittman felt groggy. "What?"
,We realized the newspaper was in bad shape. Not this bad, though.
Bankrupt. Couldn't find a buyer. In-depth stories can't compete with
TV news and USA Today. So the owners are liquidating. Nine days from
now, after a hundred and thirty-eight years, the final issue hits the
stands."
"I still don't ..."
"I want you to come back to work, Matt. We were understaffed to begin
with. Now ... Look, I've spent thirty years of my life on the
Chronicle. I don't want it to go out like it's garbage, Please, come
back and give me a hand. It's just nine days, Matt. The obit
department's as important as any department we've got. Next to the
comics and the sports, that's what most readers turn to first. I don't
have time to break in a new guy, and I couldn't find one anyhow, not
when we're going to be out of business a week from Friday and some
bastards are taking off work, looking for other jobs. Be a buddy, Matt.
If not for me, for the paper. Hell, you worked here fourteen years. You
must have some feeling for this place. "
Pittman stared at the floor.
"Matt?"
Pittman's muscles cramped from emotional pain.
"Matt? Are you there?"
Pittman studied his gun. "Your timing's lousy, Burt."
"But will you do it?"
"You don't know what you're asking."
"Sure I do. For you to be my friend."
.'Damn you, Burt."
Pittman set down the phone. In anguish, he waited for it to ring again,
but it stayed silent. He set down the pistol, went over to the bourbon
bottle next to the refrigerator, and poured himself a drink. No ice, no
water. He quickly drank it and poured himself another.
Under the circumstances, it struck Pittman as ironic that he worked in
the obituary department of a dying newspaper. His desk, one of many,
separated by waist-high partitions, was on the fourth floor, across from
and midway between the elevator and the men's room. Although the
Chronicle was understaffed, movement and noise surrounded Pittman,
being tapped. Arts and Entertainment was behind him, Home Tips on his
left, the Community Service Calendar on his right. He felt a gray haze
distance him from everything.
"You look awful, Matt."
Pittman shrugged.
"You been sick?"
"A little."
"What's happening to the Chronicle will make you even sicker. "
"Yeah, so I heard."
The tubby man from Business placed both hands on the front of Pittman's
desk and loomed down. "Maybe You also heard the damned pension might be
in trouble. And ... But how could you have heard? I forgot you quit
two days ago.
Saw it coming, huh? Gotta give you credit. Hope you made a deal, a few
weeks' extra pay or .
"No. " Pittman cleared his throat. "Actually I didn't know anything
about it.
"Then why ... ?"
"I just got tired."
The man looked blank. "Tired. What are you doing back here?"
Pittman was having grave difficulty concentrating. "Came back to help.
Only a week from tomorrow. Everything will be over then. " Already the
time felt as if it would be an eternity.
"Well, if I were you and I had money in the bank which I assume you must
have or you wouldn't have quit. I wouldn't be wasting my time here. I'd
be looking for another job."
Pittman didn't know what to say to that.
The tubby man leaned so close to Pittman's desk that his Open sport coat
covered the phone, which suddenly rang. In surprise, the man peered
down toward the hidden source of the ringing. He straightened.
Pittman picked up the phone.
The call, from what sounded like a middle-aged woman, her voice strained
with emotion, was about a seventy-five-year-old man (Pittman guessed it
was the woman's father) who had died at his home.
Pittman reached for a form and wrote down the deceased's full name. "Did
you wish to specify the cause of death?"
"Excuse me?" The woman sounded breathy, as if she'd been crying. "This
has been such a strain. What do you mean specify'?"
"Did you wish to be exact and say why he died, ma'am?
Perhaps you wish to say 'after a lengthy illness.' Or perhaps you don't
wish to give any cause of death at all."
"He had cancer."
The statement struck Pittman as if an icy blade had knocked him off
balance. Unprepared, he suddenly had mental images of Jeremy. Robust,
with thick, long, windblown red hair, playing football. Frail,
hairless, dead in an equipment crammed room in a hospital int
ensive-care
unit.
"I'm Sorry.
"at?"
Pittman's throat constricted. "I lost a son to cancer. I'm sorry. "
An awkward pause made the line seem to hum.
"A lengthy illness," the woman said. "Don't say he had cancer. "
Other details: surviving relatives, former occupation, time and place
for - the funeral.
"Donations?" Pittman asked.
"For what? I don't understand."
"Sometimes close relatives of the deceased prefer that, instead of
flowers, a donation be sent to a favorite charity. In this case,
perhaps the Cancer Society."
"But wouldn't that be the same as saying he had cancer?"
"Yes, I suppose it would."
"A lengthy illness. My father died from a lengthy illness. I don't
want to get involved in the rest of it. If I mention the Cancer
Society, every charity in town will be calling me. Is that all you