"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."
"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 inform
ation, 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.
The sundeck was disturbingly unilluminated. Pittman didn't understand.