David Morrell - Desperate Measures

“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.”

“The man in my apartment,” Pittman said.

Gable nodded. “We bribed a policeman to let our own man take his place and wait there.”

Sloane’s cheeks became alarmingly flushed. “You’re telling him too much.”

“Not at all,” Gable said. “If we’re to accomplish anything, we have to be candid. Correct, Mr. Pittman?”

“That’s why I’m here. To be candid. To find a way out of this.”

“Precisely.”

“What I don’t understand,” Pittman said, “is why you needed to blame anyone for Jonathan Millgate’s death. He was old. He was sick. He was on oxygen. If you’d taken away his life-support system, let him die, and then hooked him up to the support system again, his death would have seemed natural. No one would have been the wiser.”

“That’s what I wanted,” Sloane insisted, his cheeks even redder.

“And at the start, you were right,” Gable said patiently. “Try to remember the sequence. As Jonathan’s health dwindled, he became more afraid of dying. He’d been flirting with religion for the past several years. That priest, that damnable priest. I never understood Jonathan’s attitude toward Father Dandridge. The priest hounded us during the Vietnam years. He organized demonstrations and called press conferences to criticize every policy we made about Vietnam. It was because of Father Dandridge that Jonathan left public life. The priest’s interference made it impossible for Jonathan to function effectively in the government. And yet two decades later, Jonathan asked the priest to be his personal confessor.”