David Morrell - Desperate Measures

Sure. And what about the man you killed in your apartment? If he’s still there, if his buddies haven’t moved him. Do you expect the police will take your word about what happened? As soon as they get their hands on you, they’ll put you in jail.

Is that so bad? At least I’ll be safe. The men at my apartment won’t be able to get at me.

What makes you sure? Seven years ago, two men broke your jaw while you and they were in custody in Boston. Security might fail again. And this time what happens to you could be lethal.

When Pittman entered the diner, he watched to see if anyone looked suspiciously toward him. No one seemed to care. Either they hadn’t seen the story about him on TV or else they didn’t make the connection with him. After all, no one here knew him by name, except for the cook who was usually on duty at this hour, and the cook knew Pittman only as Matt.

“How you doing, Matt?” the cook asked. “No show for several weeks, and now you’re back two nights in a row. We’ll get some weight back on you quick. What’ll it be tonight?”

Still dismayed that the police had arranged for his bank’s automated teller machine to seize his card, Pittman said, “I’m low on cash. Will you take a check for a meal?”

“You’ve always been good for it.”

“And an extra twenty dollars?”

“Hey, you don’t appreciate my cooking that much. Sorry.”

“Ten dollars?”

The cook shook his head.

“Come on.”

“You’re really that low?”

“ Worse than low.”

“You’re breaking my heart.” The cook debated. “Okay. For you, I’ll make an exception. But don’t let this get around.”

“Our secret. I appreciate this, Tony. I’m starved. Give me a salad, the meat loaf, mashed potatoes, plenty of gravy, those peas and carrots, a glass of milk, and coffee, coffee, coffee. Then we’ll talk about dessert.”

“Yeah, we will get some weight back on you. You sure that’s all?”

“One thing more.”

“What is it?”

“The box I gave you last night.”

Outside the diner, Pittman sought the cover of a nearby alley. Crouching in the darkness with his back to the street, he opened the box, took out the.45 and the carton of ammunition, and placed them in his gym bag.

He heard a threatening voice behind him. “What ya got in the bag, man?”

Looking over his shoulder, Pittman saw a street kid, tall, broad shoulders, steely eyes, late teens.

“Stuff.”

“ What stuff?” The kid flashed a long-bladed knife.

“ This stuff.” Pittman aimed the.45.

The kid put the knife away. “Cool, man. Damned good stuff.” He backed off, hurrying down the street.

Pittman put the gun back in the gym bag.

Madison Square Park was the site of Pittman’s favorite Steichen photograph, an evocative early-twentieth-century depiction of the Flatiron Building, where Broadway intersects with Fifth Avenue. The photograph showed a winter scene with snow falling on horse carriages, and to the left, taking up only part of the photograph but seeming to dominate the photo as much as the Flatiron Building did, were the bare trees of Madison Square Park.

Pittman positioned himself on Fifth Avenue about where he assumed that Steichen had stood with his tripoded camera. Although it was spring and not winter, the trees were still not fully leafed, and Pittman used the night to imagine that he’d been taken back in time, that the muffled clop of horses’ hooves had replaced the busy roar of traffic.

He had gotten to the park a half hour early. There’d been no other place to go. Besides, although the meal at the diner had given him back some energy, he was still tired from the exertion of the previous night and the considerable walking he’d done all day. Despite his fears, his body felt more fit than it had in over a year. His muscle aches were almost a pleasure. Even so, he had pushed his body to its limit. He needed to sit.

But not in plain view. After briefly pretending that he was Steichen, he left where he thought that the great photographer had placed his camera and retreated toward the trees, walkways, and benches of the park. At night, he became only one of the park’s many indistinct visitors, most of them homeless, lounging on the benches.

He thought, and he waited.

On schedule at eleven o’clock, Burt Forsyth got out of a taxi on Fifth Avenue. As the taxi drove away, merging with the headlights of traffic, Burt paused just long enough to light a cigarette, the glow from his lighter possibly intended as a beacon, something to attract Pittman’s attention and help Pittman recognize him.

Then Burt walked into the park, passing the war memorial flagpole. Obviously, Pittman thought, I’m supposed to go over to him. He doesn’t know where I am.

After staring behind Burt to see if anyone was following, Pittman stood from his shadow-obscured bench.

But as he approached, Burt’s expression intensified. He shook his head slightly, firmly in what seemed a warning. He gestured unobtrusively ahead and continued past Pittman.

Pittman did his best not to call out to Burt. I’m supposed to follow, is that it? In case we’ve got company? To be extracautious?

As casually as he could make it seem, Pittman took a path that ran parallel to the one Burt had chosen. Burt crossed the park, went up to Twenty-sixth Street, and proceeded to the right along it. Following, Pittman walked by a white marble court building, turned east onto Twenty-sixth Street, ignored the darkened expensive shops on his right, and concentrated on Burt ahead of him.

Halfway along the block, Burt abruptly stepped out of sight beneath a makeshift roof that protected the sidewalk in a construction area. When Pittman hurried to catch up to him, he saw that Burt was waiting in the shadows behind two Dumpsters and a jungle of metal scaffolds.

Pittman veered toward him.

“I don’t know what to do, Burt. The television news makes me look like a maniac.”

“I told you it was bad. What happened? How did you get into this mess?”

“I didn’t kill Millgate.”

“Then why were you seen running from his room?”

“There’s an innocent explanation.”

“Innocent? Your fingerprints are on his life-support system. What were you doing in-?”

“Burt, you have to believe me. This is all a big mistake. Whatever caused Millgate’s death, I had nothing to do with it.”

“Hey, I believe you. But I’m not the one you have to convince. How will you explain to the police about-?”

A sudden shadow made Burt turn from the scaffolding toward the sidewalk. Hearing a noise, Pittman glanced in that direction as well, seeing a man loom into view. The man was silhouetted by a streetlight, so Pittman couldn’t see his face, but he could see the oversized windbreaker the man wore.

The man made a gesture, pulling something out.

No! Pittman stumbled back. Trapped, he bumped against garbage cans.

Cornered, seeing the pistol the man was aiming, Pittman had no other defense except to raise his gym bag, preparing to throw it.

When the man fired, the pistol’s silencer reduced the sound of the shot so that it wasn’t any louder than a fist against a pillow.

The bullet hit the gym bag, bursting through, missing Pittman as he lost his balance, falling among garbage cans, striking concrete.

The gunman came into the shadows. Pittman stared up at him in panic, expecting the next bullet to be between his eyes. But a metallic clatter startled the gunman and made him swing toward Burt, who had stumbled against a section of scaffolding. The gunman shot him in the chest.