Desperate Measures

21

It came from directly below him, a combination of a drone and a rumble. The roof of the sundeck vibrated beneath Pittman’s wet shoes.

One of the motorized garage doors was being opened. Pittman’s heartbeat quickened. He crouched lower, making certain that he wouldn’t be a silhouette against the roofline. Nonetheless, he was able to see light spill from the garage, revealing raindrops on dark puddles as the door opened higher, then stopped, its motor becoming silent.

In the unnerving quiet, varied only by the hiss of the drizzle, Pittman suddenly heard the scrape of footsteps on concrete, the creak of car doors being opened, the echo of voices.

“… priest,” an elderly man’s brittle voice said, taut with emotion.

“Don’t worry,” a second elderly voice said. “I told you the priest never arrived. Jonathan never spoke to him.”

“Even so.”

“It’s been taken care of,” the second aged voice emphasized, reminding Pittman of the rattle of dead leaves. “It’s safe now. Secure.”

“But the reporters…”

“Have no idea where Jonathan is. Everything is under control. The best thing we can do is separate and get back to a pretense of normalcy.”

Throughout, Pittman heard the sound of people getting into a vehicle. Now he heard the thunk of car doors being closed, the sudden roar of an engine.

Headlights blazed. A dark limousine surged out of the garage and sped along the murky driveway, past trees and shrubs and toward the gate that led from the estate.

Pittman’s bent legs cramped. He began to stand, then flinched when he heard further voices.

“The taxi,” another aged voice said.

“If you’re correct that we were followed…” This voice was crusty, yet filled with phlegm.

Pittman couldn’t make out the rest of the sentence. What he heard instead was a louder rumbling drone as a second garage door rose. Other lights gleamed into the drizzle-misted night.

When the noise of the garage door stopped, Pittman strained to listen, hoping that the voices would continue.

“… a coincidence. A late commuter coming from Manhattan.”

“But in a taxi?”

“Perhaps the trains don’t run this late. There might be several explanations. Until we know for certain, I refuse to become alarmed.”

“But we saw the headlights go past the gate as we drove toward the house.”

“You heard me send Harold to look into the matter. If it was the same taxi, it had less than a minute’s head start before Harold went after it. And if the taxi came from Manhattan, it would be one of few, if any, in the area at this hour. Its city of origin would be marked on the vehicle. I’m certain that Harold would intercept it well before it reached the thruway.”

“You’ll keep me informed.”

“Of course. Relax. Look at how your hands are shaking. Be calm, my friend. You didn’t use to worry this much.”

“I didn’t have as much to lose.”

“Nor did we all.”

“Good night, Eustace.”

“Goodnight, Anthony.”

Despite the worry in their voices, the tone of the old men was strikingly affectionate.

Car doors thunked shut. An engine roared. Another dark limousine sped from the garage and along the murky driveway.