to his trousers.
Spotlights bobbed, speeding nearer. With a final burst of energy, he
struggled across the sand trap. His shoes sank into the
drizzle-softened sand. He left a deep, wide trail. Jesus, even if they
don't have my overcoat as a target, they'll know from my tracks which
way I went when I reached the grass, he thought.
Tracks. Pittman's skin prickled as he realized that this might be his
only chance to save himself. The instant he raced out of the sand onto
the grass, he reversed his direction and hurried through the darkness
along the edge of the sand trap toward the top of the slope from which
he had leapt. As he ran through the drizzle, he yanked his balled
overcoat from beneath his suit jacket.
The whine of an engine sounded terribly close. Spotlights bobbed above
him. He came to where the grass dropped sharply toward the sand.
Careful not to disturb this section, he eased over the edge and lay
sideways where the sand met the almost-vertical, sharp downward angle of
the earth. There, he spread his sand-colored overcoat across his head
and suit jacket. He felt its weight on his lower thighs, almost
covering his knees. He bent his legs and drew them toward his body,
tucking them under the hem of the overcoat. His breathing sounded
hoarse. He strained to control it.
Please, he kept thinking. Please.
With his overcoat covering his head, he heard drizzle patter onto him.
He heard the whine of engines-close. The whine vanished abruptly, as if
the carts had come to a stop.
Vapor from Pittman's breath collected under the overcoat. Dank moisture
dribbled along his chin. The wet chill made him shiver, although he
compacted his muscles and struggled not to tremble.
Can't let them notice me.
He shivered for another reason, anticipating the impact of
Isn't that what you wanted? If they shoot you, they'll be doing you a
favor. But I want it to be my idea.
He silently prayed: If only his overcoat blended with the sand. If only
the men stared straight ahead instead of looking down at 4'There!
Pittman's heartbeat lurched.
"Tracks in the sand!"
"Toward that section of grass!"
Something made an electronic crackle: a walkie-talkie.
"Alpha to Beta! He's headed in your direction! He's reached the
northeast quadrant!" A garbled voice responded. The walkie-talkie made
an electronic squawk. The whine of the engines intensified. Beneath
the smothering, moisture-laden overcoat, Pittman heard the carts speed
away past the sand trap, toward the continuation of the grass.
His clothes soaked from the wet sand he lay upon, Pittman waited, not
daring to move. Despite the stifling buildup of carbon dioxide beneath
the overcoat, he forced himself to continue to wait. At last he
relented, slowly moving the coat. As he inched it off his face,
inhaling the fresh, cool air, he squinted toward the darkness, afraid
that he would see a man above him grin and aim a pistol.
But he saw only the slope of the earth above him, darkness, and drizzle
pelting his eyes. After the cloying stale air beneath the coat, the
rain made him feel clean. He eased upward ' came to a trembling crouch,
and saw the lights of the carts receding in the murky distance. Careful
to bunch his overcoat beneath his suit coat, he crept from the sand trap
and headed in the direction from which the carts had come. He was
soaked, chilled. But for all his discomfort and apprehension, a portion
of his mind was swollen with exultation.
Nonetheless, he still had to get out of the area, off this golf course,
away from the estate. The carts might return at any time. Although his
legs were unsteady, he managed to lengthen his stride and increase its
frequency.
Enveloped by the night and the rain, he almost faltered with increased
he might wander in a circle until his pursuers came upon him.
Immediately, in the distance to his left, he saw moving lights, but not
those on the carts. These were larger, brighter. Their beams probed
deeper through the rain. The headlights of a car, or maybe a truck.
They moved parallel to him, then disappeared.
A road.
"Car trouble."
"Man, look at you shiver," the motel clerk said. "Got soaked finding a
pay phone to call a tow truck. The garage says my car won't be ready
till the afternoon. I need a place to get dry."
guess you're not from around here." The clerk was paunchy, in his
forties. He had thick red beard stubble and strained features from
working all night.
Pittman shook his head. "I'm on the road a lot, selling college
textbooks. Left New Haven last night for a meeting in New York."
"Looks like you're not going to make it."
"I didn't have to be at the meeting till Monday. Figured I'd spend the
weekend having a good time. Shit. "
Pittman gave the clerk his credit card and filled out the registration
form, making sure to claim a New Haven address. He felt strange lying,
but he knew he had to. The clerk needed a reasonable explanation for
Pittman's drenched appearance, and the truth certainly wasn't
acceptable. "Here's your card back. Here's your key." Pittman sneezed.
"Man, you need to get out of those wet clothes."
"That's all I've been thinking of."
The name had been appealing: Warm Welcome Motel. Pittman had found it
among several other motels a half hour after he'd hurried, shivering,
from the golf course area. Houses had been dark, streetlights widely
separated. Whenever he saw headlights, he had darted toward the shelter
of bushes or a backyard before he could be seen. He'd had a vague idea
of which way the thruway was. Fear had spurred him.
Now, as he locked the motel door behind him, the last of his energy
drained from him. He sank into a lumpy chair and sipped the cardboard
cup of bitter but wonderfully hot coffee that he'd bought from a noisy
machine at the end of the concrete-block hallway. The room's carpet was
green and worn. He didn't care. The walls were an unappealing yellow.
He didn't care about that, either, or about the hollow beneath the dingy
orange cover of the mattress on the bed. All he cared about was heat.
Need to get warm. His teeth chattered. Need a hot bath.
He turned the room's thermostat to seventy-five, then stripped off his
wet clothes. After arranging his trousers, shirt, and suit coat on
hangers, he left the closet door open in hopes they would dry. He put
his soaked shoes near the baseboard radiator, draped his socks and
underwear over the back of a chair, and twisted the hot-water faucet on
the bathtub.
For an instant, he was afraid that the water would be only tepid.
Instead, it sent steam billowing around him. He leaned over the gushing
tap, luxuriating in the heat. Only when the tub was nearly full did he
add any cold water, just enough so he wouldn't scald himself as he
settled into the exquisitely hot bath. He slid down until the steaming
water came up to his chin. The tub was so full that water trickled into
the overflow drain. By shifting sideways, he managed to tuck his knees
under so he was almost completely submerged.
He exhaled with pleasure and felt heat penetrate his skin, his muscles,
his bones, dissipating the heavy chill that had gathered at his core.
Gradually his arms and legs stopped quivering. He closed his eyes and
realized that he hadn't enjoyed a physical sensation so much since ...
His mind balked but finally permitted the thought.... since the night
Jeremy had died. He had felt so guilty being alive while Jeremy was
dead that he hadn't been able to tolerate even the simplest, most basic
of pleasures. The taste of a good meal had become repugnant-because
Jeremy would never again be able to enjoy that sensation. The soothing
feel of clean sheets, the freshness of a morning breeze, the comfort of
sunlight streaming through a window: Any positive sensation was
abhorrent -because Jeremy would never be able to share them.
And one of the sensations that had made Pittman feel especially guilty
was the warmth of a shower. Jeremy had enjoyed spending what had seemed
to Pittman (before Jeremy got sick) an undue amount of time in the
shower. After Jeremy's death Pittman had suddenly discovered that he
felt repelled the thought of a shower. Since he needed to clean
himself, had moderated the problem by keeping the temperature of the
water as neutral as he could manage. Just because he had to bathe didn't
mean that he had to enjoy it.
Now, for the first time since Jeremy's death, Pittman was surprised to
discover that he was allowing himself to experience a pleasurable
sensation. He told himself that the sensation was necessary, that he
absolutely needed to get warm. After all, he had once done a story
about participants in a wilderness survival course, and one of the
dangers that the instructors had kept emphasizing was that of becoming
wet and chilled and dying from hypothermia. So, yes, he could
grudgingly allow a positive sensation under this circumstance.
But the truth was, his enjoyment wasn't just tolerated; he relished it.
For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, he appreciated
the feelings of his body.
But thoughts of Jeremy caused a black pall of gloom to sink over his
mind again. He found it bleakly ironic that despite his eagerness to
commit suicide, his escape from the estate had prompted him to endure
such intense fear for his life.
You should have let them do you a favor and shoot you.
No. Pittman angrily echoed a thought from a few hours earlier. It has
to be my idea, not theirs. When I go out, it'll be my way, at a time
and place of my own choosing. I've got my own deadline, eight days from
now, and I damned well intend to stick to it, Not sooner.
His anger became melancholy as he remembered the reason that he hadn't
already killed himself. I promised Burt. For what Burt did for Jeremy.
Then melancholy became confusion as thoughts about Burt reminded Pittman
of why he had followed the ambulance.
He imagined the questions that Burt would demand answers for.
Why had Millgate been taken from the hospital? Why had he been driven
to the estate in Scarsdale? Why had the guards at the estate not just
pursued Pittman but instead tried to kill him?
As soon as Pittman was off the property, the risk the guards thought he
posed would have been at an end. Pittman could understand them wanting
to capture him and turn him over to the police. But to want to kill
him? Something was very wrong.
After draining the tub and refilling it with more hot water, Pittman
finally felt that the chill within him had been smothered. He pulled
the plug and got out of the tub to towel himself vigorously. Again he
caught himself enjoying a sensation and checked the impulse. After
wrapping himself with a blanket, he turned off the lights and peered
past the blind on the room's window. It looked out onto the motel's
rain-puddled parking lot. He saw a car come in and worried that it
might be the police, who, alerted by the guards at the estate, would be
out looking for him.
But the car didn't have any dome lights on its roof and it wasn't
marked. Pittman wondered then if the car might belong to the estate,
that this might be some of the guards searching the area for him,
talking to clerks at various motels. Only when he saw a woman get out
of the car and enter a room on the other side of the parking lot did his
tension ease.
The police. At the golf course, he hadn't heard any sirens. Did that
mean the police had not been alerted? he wondered. How would the
guards have explained shooting at a prowler after the prowler had
reached a public area?
And the guards, would they still be hunting him? They might check the
local motels, sure. But wasn't it more logical of them to assume that
their quarry would want to get as far as possible?
besides, they don't know who I am or what I look like.
Pittman's knees buckled from fatigue. Shivering, he crawled into bed
and gradually became warm again. He told himself that he would sleep
for a couple of hours. Burt usually got to the newspaper around eight.
Pittman would call, tell Burt what had happened, and get instructions.
I'd better tell the desk clerk to wake me around eight, Pittman thought.
In the dark, he reached for the telephone. But his arm felt weighted
down. He drifted.
Pittman woke slowly, groggily, his eyelids not wanting to open. At
first he thought it was the bright sunlight through the room's thin
blind that had wakened him. Then he suspected it was the din of ffimway
rattling the window. Sore from his exertion the night before, he sat up
and rubbed his legs. Finally he left the warmth of the bed and relieved
himself in the bathroom. When he returned to the bed, wrapping a
blanket around him, he felt sufficiently awake to phone Burt. But when
he reached toward the bedside phone, he noticed the red numbers on the
digital clock beside it: 2:38.
Jesus, he thought, straightening. It's not morning. It's Friday
afternoon. I slept almost ten hours.
The discovery made him feel out of control, as if he'd lost
something-which he had, one of his remaining days. He hurriedly picked
up the phone, read a card next to it that told him to press 9 for a
long-distance call, then touched the numbers for the Chronicle.
The line made a faint crackling sound. The phone at the other end rang,
and fifteen seconds later, the newspaper's receptionist transferred the
call to Burt's office.
As usual, Burt's crusty smoker's voice was instantly recognized.
He didn't need to announce as he always did, "Yeah, here.
'It's Matt. Listen, I'm sorry I didn't get in today. Something weird
happened last night. I was at-"
"I can't talk right now. I'm in a meeting."
Pittman heard a click as the call was interrupted.
What the ... ?
Pittman frowned and slowly set down the phone.
Burt's never that abrupt, he thought. Not to me. Man, he must really
be pissed. He figures I let him down by not coming in.
Pittman picked up the phone again. He couldn't tolerate the
misunderstanding. Once more the receptionist transferred the call.
"Forsyth here."
"This is Matt. Look, I said I was sorry. I swear to you it's not my
fault. I've got something I need to tell you about. Last night-"
"I don't have time for that. I'm with some important people.
For a second time, Burt broke the connection.
Pittman's head throbbed. Frowning harder, he replaced the phone. Yeah,
he's pissed all right. Important people. I get the point. For letting
him down, he's telling me as far as he's concerned, I'm not important.
Pittman debated about calling a third time but reluctantly decided not
to. Whatever's bugging him, it's obvious he isn't going to let me
settle it over the phone.
Troubled, aching, Pittman stood and reached for his clothes. They were
damp but at least no longer soaked. Because he had hung his slacks,
shirt, and suit coat on hangers, there were less wrinkles than he
feared. Another plus was that the mud on them had caked; he was able to
brush off most of it. His overcoat was a mess, however: torn and grimy.
He crammed it into the wastebasket. Then he wet his rumpled sandy hair
and combed it. Although he definitely needed a shave, the motel didn't