Desperate Measures

3

Pittman woke slowly, groggily, his eyelids not wanting to open. At first he thought it was the bright sunlight through the room’s thin blind that had wakened him. Then he suspected it was the din of thruway traffic rattling the window. Sore from his exertion the night before, he sat up and rubbed his legs. Finally he left the warmth of the bed and relieved himself in the bathroom. When he returned to the bed, wrapping a blanket around him, he felt sufficiently awake to phone Burt. But when he reached toward the bedside phone, he noticed the red numbers on the digital clock beside it: 2:38.

Jesus, he thought, straightening. It’s not morning. It’s Friday afternoon. I slept almost ten hours.

The discovery made him feel out of control, as if he’d lost something-which he had, one of his remaining days. He hurriedly picked up the phone, read a card next to it that told him to press 9 for a long-distance call, then touched the numbers for the Chronicle.

The line made a faint crackling sound. The phone at the other end rang, and fifteen seconds later, the newspaper’s receptionist transferred the call to Burt’s office.

As usual, Burt’s crusty smoker’s voice was instantly recognizable. He didn’t need to announce as he always did, “Yeah, Forsyth here.”

“It’s Matt. Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t get in today. Something weird happened last night. I was at-”

“I can’t talk right now. I’m in a meeting.”

Pittman heard a click as the call was interrupted.

What the…?

Pittman frowned and slowly set down the phone.

Burt’s never that abrupt, he thought. Not to me. Man, he must really be pissed. He figures I let him down by not coming in.

Pittman picked up the phone again. He couldn’t tolerate the misunderstanding. Once more the receptionist transferred the call.

“Forsyth here.”

“This is Matt. Look, I said I was sorry. I swear to you it’s not my fault. I’ve got something I need to tell you about. Last night-”

“I don’t have time for that. I’m with some important people.”

For a second time, Burt broke the connection.

Pittman’s head throbbed. Frowning harder, he replaced the phone.

Yeah, he’s pissed all right. Important people. I get the point. For letting him down, he’s telling me as far as he’s concerned, I’m not important.

Pittman debated about calling a third time but reluctantly decided not to. Whatever’s bugging him, it’s obvious he isn’t going to let me settle it over the phone.

Troubled, aching, Pittman stood and reached for his clothes. They were damp but at least no longer soaked. Because he had hung his slacks, shirt, and suit coat on hangers, there were less wrinkles than he feared. Another plus was that the mud on them had caked; he was able to brush off most of it. His overcoat was a mess, however: torn and grimy. He crammed it into the wastebasket. Then he wet his rumpled sandy hair and combed it. Although he definitely needed a shave, the motel didn’t supply a shaving kit, so that would have to wait. Hungry but in a hurry, he remembered that he’d seen a McDonald’s down the street. No bags to pack. All he had to do was grab his key and leave.

Opening the door slightly, he peered out to see if anyone was watching his room. No one as far as he could tell. As he crossed the parking lot toward the motel’s office, he discovered that the air was chilly despite the bright sun. His damp socks and underwear made him uncomfortable.