Desperate Measures (41 page)

“He’s gone.”

Mrs. Page stepped forward, ashen. “He
is
dead?”

“I mean he literally isn’t here. He’s gone. He left,” Jill said. “The nurse looked in on him at five
A.M
. His bed was empty. He’d pulled an IV needle from his arm. He’d turned off his heart monitor so it wouldn’t sound a warning
when he pulled the sensor pads from his chest. His clothes were in a cupboard in his room. He put them on and snuck out of
the hospital.”

“It’s a wonder he had the strength,” Pittman said. “What the hell did he think he was doing?”

George shook his head. “Last night, it was exhaustion. But if he’s not careful, he’ll give himself a heart attack.”

“Obviously he believes the risk is worth it,” Jill said. “To get back at them. The remaining two grand counselors. I can’t
imagine anything else that would have made him act so obsessively.”

“Damn it, now we’ve got a wild card out there,” Pittman said. “He’s so out of control, he scares me. God knows what he might
do to interfere with our plan.”

“But we can’t let him worry us,” Mrs. Page said. “We have to go ahead. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Pittman stepped forward. “Mrs. Page, how are your connections with the
Washington Post
? Do you think you can get someone in the obituary department to do us a favor?”

Eight hours later, in midafternoon, Pittman was back in Fairfax, Virginia, quickly passing through it, taking 29 west, then
15 north toward Eustace Gable’s estate. During his second telephone call to Gable, which Pittman had made exactly at ten as
promised, using a pay phone in Washington, Gable had given him instructions how to get to the estate. As Pittman drove toward
the rendezvous, squinting from the sun, he glanced toward his rearview mirror and was reassured to see that despite congested
traffic, the gray Ford van remained behind him, Jill visible behind the steering wheel. The van and the equipment inside it
had been rented using George’s credit card, and Pittman thought morbidly that George certainly deserved a bonus, the trick
being for all of them to stay alive so he could receive it. Pittman passed farms and strips of woods, the sunlight making
them seem golden, and he prayed that he would have a chance to see them again, to see Jill again. He thought about Jeremy,
and as much as he missed his son, he felt strangely close to him, as if Jeremy were with him, helping him. Give me strength,
son.

As instructed, Pittman came to a sign—
EVERGREEN COUNTRY CLUB
—then headed to the left, trees casting shadows from the sun. A mile later, he went right, along an oak-lined gravel road.
This time when he glanced toward his rearview mirror, he saw Jill stopping the van, parking it among bushes at the side of
the gravel road. She was doing what they had agreed upon. Nonetheless, he wished she didn’t have to. Until now he hadn’t felt
alone.

He rounded a curve and proceeded up a gentle rise flanked by April-lush fields, and he couldn’t help contrasting his increasing
fear with the peaceful setting. More, he couldn’t help contrasting his apprehension as he approached Gable’s estate with the
indifference to his safety that he had felt a week earlier when he had snuck into the estate in Scarsdale to find out why
Jonathan Millgate had been removed from the hospital.

Back then, Pittman’s only motive had been to get a story for Burt Forsyth, to relieve his obligations to his friend. Obsessed
with the need to commit suicide, Pittman had felt liberated from apprehension as he had crept through the rainy darkness,
circling the Scarsdale mansion, finding Millgate surrounded by a nurse, a doctor, and the grand counselors in a makeshift
hospital room off a deck above the five-stall garage. The effort had been easy, the sense of danger nonexistent, because Pittman
hadn’t cared what might happen to him. Prepared to kill himself, he had felt immune to any risks.

Not anymore.

At wide intervals, mansions were set back from the road. White wooden fences enclosed horses. Ahead on the left, Pittman saw
a high stone wall. He came to a closed metal gate and stopped within view of a security camera mounted to the left on top
of the wall. As instructed, he leaned out his driver’s window so that the camera could have a good look at him.

Immediately the gate whirred open. Pittman drove through, checking his rearview mirror, noting that the gate closed behind
him while he followed a paved lane through spacious grassland. The lane went over a hill, and on the other side, snuggled
into the slope, just below the crest on the right, was a distinctive, sprawling one-story complex that reminded Pittman of
homes designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. The main impression was of limestone, terraces, and beams, and the way it conformed
to the landscape, aided by plentiful trees and shrubbery, would make it invisible from the golf course below, Pittman guessed.

From the moment that the gate had opened, allowing him onto the estate, Pittman had noted the absence of guards. To anyone
who might be watching from the road, there was nothing out of the ordinary. To all appearances, Pittman was an unremarkable
visitor who knew Eustace Gable well enough that the gate had been opened without delay. The closer Pittman came to the house,
taking a downward curve in the lane, proceeding to the right, passing fir trees, the more Pittman was struck by the lack of
activity on the property. Given the size of the estate, he would have expected gardeners at least, maintenance personnel,
someone to take care of the horses that came into view below him in a paddock next to a long, low stable rimmed by more fir
trees and made from limestone, matching the house. But the place seemed deserted. There weren’t any cars, which presumably
had been placed in a garage on the opposite side of the house.

Perhaps the lack of guards was intended to make him feel unthreatened, Pittman thought. To encourage him not to change his
mind. To lure him into a trap. But if the purpose was to lull him, the opposite effect had been achieved. Instead of lowering
his defenses, the eerie solitude intensified Pittman’s apprehension, sending warning signals throughout his body, compacting
his muscles.

He reached a circular driveway in front of the house, stopped the car, and got out, surveying the apparently deserted area.
He heard water trickling from somewhere, presumably a fountain. He heard a breeze whispering through the fir trees. A horse
whinnied.

A door opened, and Pittman, who had glanced toward the stable on the slope below him, whirled toward the house. An elderly
man, narrow-faced, with white hair, spectacles, and wrinkle-pinched features, stepped from a polished wooden doorway onto
a stone terrace. Tall and slender, he wore a dark blue three-piece suit that conformed to his rigidly straight posture. Pittman
recognized him from photographs and the incident at the Scarsdale estate. Eustace Gable.

“Four
P.M
. precisely. I admire punctuality.” Even at a distance, it was obvious that Gable’s chest heaved. “We have much to discuss.
Come in, Mr. Pittman.”

Pittman took one last look around and, seeing no threat, climbed steps to the terrace. He frowned when Gable offered his hand.

“This won’t do, Mr. Pittman. Rudeness is a poor way to begin a negotiation.”

“I’m not used to civility from people who want to have me killed.”

“The formalities matter,” Gable said. “Even when negotiating with the most bitter enemy, it is essential to be respectful
and courteous.”

“Sure. Right. But it sounds like hypocrisy to me.”

Gable coughed, raising a handkerchief to his mouth. The ripple of pain that crossed his wrinkled features made Pittman realize
how much effort it took for the old man to stand as straight as he did, to maintain the diplomatic bearing that had made him
famous in his prime.

Composing himself, Gable again held out his hand. “Ritual controls emotion. It encourages order.”

“Is that what you told yourself when you arranged for Jonathan Millgate to be murdered?”

Gable’s expression hardened, his wrinkles becoming like cracks in the deep grain of weathered wood.

“And Burt Forsyth?” Pittman said. “And Father Dandridge? I wouldn’t call their murders controlling emotion and encouraging
order.”

Gable inhaled with effort. “Order dictates necessity. I’m still waiting.

Pittman finally shook his hand with exaggerated indifference, but the slight gleam in Gable’s wizened eyes told Pittman that
the old man thought he had won an advantage. Gable gestured for Pittman to enter the house.

Pittman’s unease deepened. He almost turned away, wanting to get back to the car, to drive from the estate as fast as he could.
But he told himself that if Gable meant to have him killed here, an expert marksman with a sniper’s rifle could have done
it easily when Pittman was in the open, climbing the steps to the terrace in front of the house.

The plan, he thought. I have to go through with it. I can’t keep running. I’ve used up nearly all my resources. This might
be the only chance I get.

“You know my terms,” Pittman said.

“Ah, but you haven’t heard mine.” Gable’s thin lips formed a grimace that may have been a smile. “After you.”

His veins swelling from increased pressure, Pittman entered the house.

Hearing Gable shut the door behind him, Pittman noted that the inside had walls and beamed ceilings made from various tropical
woods of varying colors, mahogany and teak among others. The lighting system was recessed but remarkably bright. The temperature
was unusually warm. Passing a thermostat in a stone-floored corridor, Pittman saw that it was set at eighty degrees. Even
on the coldest winter day, he would have considered that temperature excessive. But given that this was a mild day in late
April, Pittman had to conclude that Gable was using the heat to combat his evident illness. Similarly, the bright lights suggested
that Gable’s vision might be fading. To Pittman’s fear and anger, the unexpected emotion of pity was added, and Pittman urgently
subdued it, knowing that Gable would take every advantage he could. For all Pittman knew, the bright lights and the excessive
temperature were part of a carefully designed stage setting that would allow Gable to manipulate him.

Proceeding along the hallway, heading left, the direction that Gable indicated, Pittman listened to the old man’s labored
footsteps. An open door led to a spacious room with a wall-length window that provided a view of the ponds and sand traps
of the golf course at the bottom of the slope.

But Pittman’s attention was primarily directed toward two men who waited for him. One of them he recognized. A gaunt-cheeked
elderly man sitting nervously on a sofa had a neatly trimmed white mustache, wore a dark three-piece suit almost identical
to Gable’s, and was recognizable from photographs, particularly because of a distinctive cleft in his chin that had deepened
with age: the other remaining grand counselor, Winston Sloane.

The second man was in his thirties, six feet tall, well built, with strong features emphasized by his short haircut. His gray
suit looked less carefully tailored than Gable’s and Sloane’s. Indeed, the jacket seemed slightly too large and had a bulge
on the left side. As Pittman studied the man, who stood in the middle of the room, it occurred to him that he knew this man
also, or at least had seen him before. Last night, the man had been with the group who had attacked Mrs. Page’s house.

Pittman turned to Gable. “I didn’t know that we wouldn’t be alone.”

“It doesn’t do to negotiate unless all interested parties are in attendance. May I present my colleague—Winston Sloane.”

With effort, Sloane tried to stand.

“No need,” Pittman said.

Gable pointed toward the second man. “And this is my assistant, Mr. Webley.”

Pittman nodded, giving no indication that he recognized the man.

“I’m sure you won’t mind if Mr. Webley performs a security check,” Gable continued.

For a moment, Pittman wasn’t sure what Gable was talking about. “You’re saying you want this man to search me?”

“We’re here on good faith. There shouldn’t be any need for weapons.

“Then why is your assistant armed?”

Webley’s eyes narrowed.

“Because his duties require him to be armed. I do hope this isn’t going to be a problem,” Gable said.

Pittman raised his arms.

Webley reached for something on a chair behind him and came over with a handheld metal detector, tracing its wand along the
contours of Pittman’s body.

It beeped when it came to the base of Pittman’s spine. Webley groped behind the sport coat and removed Pittman’s .45.

Gable made a tsking sound. “How can we negotiate on a basis of trust when you bring a weapon to our meeting?”

“Force of habit. For the last week, I’ve gotten used to needing protection.”

“Perhaps after this afternoon, you won’t need it anymore.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Webley continued to scan Pittman’s body with the metal detector. It beeped several more times. “Keys and coins. His belt buckle.
A pen,” Webley told Gable.

“Examine the pen. Check him thoroughly. Be certain that he isn’t wearing a microphone.”

Webley did so. “Nothing unusual.”

“Very well. Be seated, Mr. Pittman. Let’s discuss your proposal.”

“Why?” Winston Sloane asked. “I don’t see what purpose this so-called negotiation will serve. Our best course is to telephone
the police and have this man arrested for murdering Jonathan.”

“A week ago, I would have agreed with you,” Gable said. “In fact, I did agree. We all agreed.” He cleared his throat and turned
to Pittman. “As you must have concluded by now, our original intention was to blame you for what we were forced to do to Jonathan.
Your history of animosity toward Jonathan and your suicidal impulses made you an excellent candidate. No one would believe
your denial, for which you would have no proof. Not that we wanted you to have a chance to deny anything. We made arrangements
to have you killed before the police could take you into custody.”