David Morrell - Desperate Measures

He scurried down a slope, out of their line of fire. To his right, through the rain, he saw lights trying to overtake him. To his left, he saw the same. His legs were so fatigued, they wanted to buckle. His heaving lungs protested.

Can’t keep this up much longer.

He fought to muster energy.

Have to keep going.

Too late, he saw the light-colored patch ahead of him. The grass dropped sharply. Unable to stop, he hurtled out into space, flailed, and jolted down into another sand trap. The impact dropped him to his knees. He struggled upright, feeling the heaviness of wet sand clinging 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 diminished 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 a bullet.

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-

“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 dread when it occurred to him that without a way to keep his bearings, 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.”

“I 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.