Desperate Measures

17

In the silence, Pittman suddenly felt isolated. Shoving his hands in his overcoat pockets for warmth, he walked along the side of the road. The shoulder was gravel, its sandy bed sufficiently softened by the rain that his shoes made only a slight scraping sound. There weren’t any streetlights. Pittman strained his eyes, but he could barely see the wall that loomed on his left. He came to a different shade of darkness and realized that he’d reached the barred gate.

Without touching it, he peered through. Far along a driveway, past trees and shrubs, lights glowed in what seemed to be a mansion.

What now? he thought. It’s two o’clock in the morning. It’s drizzling. I’m cold. I’m God knows where. I shouldn’t have gone to the hospital. I shouldn’t have followed the ambulance. I shouldn’t have…

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he studied the top of the gate, then shook his head. He was fairly certain that he could climb over it, but he was even more certain that there’d be some kind of intrusion sensor up there. Before Jeremy’s death and Pittman’s nervous breakdown, he had worked for a time on the newspaper’s Sunday magazine. One of his articles had been about a man whom Pittman had nicknamed “the Bugmaster.” The man was an expert in intrusion detectors and other types of security equipment-for example, eavesdropping devices, otherwise known as bugs, ergo the Bugmaster. Enjoying Pittman’s enthusiasm about information, the Bugmaster had explained his profession in detail, and Pittman’s prodigious memory for facts had retained it all.

A place this size, Pittman knew, was bound to have a security system, and as the Bugmaster had pointed out, you never go over a wall or a gate without first scouting the barriers to make sure you’re not activating a sensor. But at this hour, in the dark, Pittman didn’t see how he could scout anything.

So what the hell are you going to do? You should have gone back to Manhattan with the taxi driver. What did you think you’d accomplish by hanging around out here in the rain?

Through the bars of the gate, a light attracted Pittman’s attention.

Two of them. Headlights. Approaching along the driveway from the mansion. Pittman watched them grow larger, thought about hurrying along the road and hiding past the corner of the wall, then made a different decision and pressed himself against the wall right next to the gate.

He heard a smooth, well-tuned, powerful engine. He heard tires on wet concrete. He heard a buzz and then a whir. The gate’s motor had been activated by remote control. The gate was swinging open toward the inside of the estate, its sturdy wheels scraping on concrete.

The engine sounded louder. The headlights flashed through the open gate. Sooner than Pittman expected, the dark Oldsmobile that had escorted the ambulance surged through the opening, turned to the left in the direction the taxi had taken to go back to the city, and sped into the night.

Pittman was tempted to remain motionless until the car’s lights disappeared down the road. But he had something more immediate to occupy him, for abruptly he heard another buzz, another whir. The gate was closing-faster than he expected-and he sprinted to get through the opening before it was blocked.

The sturdy gate brushed past his coat. The lock snapped into place. The night became silent again.