Desperate Measures

3

It had been a mistake, Pittman realized. He hadn’t imagined the intense effort that it would take for him to go through the motions, to pretend to be committed to his job. Even the simplest gestures, picking up his phone, writing notes, required an exertion of will that left him as exhausted as the marathons he used to run before Jeremy became ill.

He took four more calls, each requiring a greater effort, each more draining. Death by car accident, drowning, hanging, and old age. Hanging had been a method Pittman had considered. When he’d been a reporter, research on one of his stories had taught him that in males, hanging was rumored to have erotic side effects, its victims producing erections. Hanging also had the advantage of being less messy than a death by gunshot. But the trouble was, it wasn’t instantaneous. It didn’t guarantee results. The rope might slip, or someone might find you in time to resuscitate you. Then you’d have to go through the pain all over again.

Someone coughed.

Glancing up, Pittman saw a stocky, craggy-faced man in his fifties with a brush cut and bushy eyebrows. The man had his navy blazer draped over his shoulder, his muscular upper arms bulging against his rolled-up shirt sleeves. His striped tie was loosened and the top shirt button was open, exposing his bull-like neck. He gave the impression that he was out of uniform, that he belonged in the military. But like Pittman, Burt Forsyth had never been in the military. Burt had worked for the Chronicle since he’d gotten out of college, eventually becoming its editor.

“Glad you could make it.” Burt’s voice was even more gravelly than it had sounded last night.

Pittman shrugged.

“You look beat.”

“So people keep telling me,” Pittman said.

“I’d have thought your day off would have made you look rested.”

“Well, I had a lot of things to do.”

“I bet.” Burt’s gaze was piercingly direct.

Does he suspect? Pittman wondered.

“Considering how busy you are, I appreciate your making time for the Chronicle.”

“For you,” Pittman said.

“The same thing.”

When Jeremy had gotten sick, when Jeremy had died, when Pittman had collapsed, Burt Forsyth had always been there to provide reinforcement. “Need to go to the hospital to see your boy? Take all the time you need. Need to stay with him in intensive care? As long as you want. Your job? Don’t worry about it. Your desk will be waiting for you.” Burt had visited Jeremy in the hospital. Burt had arranged for the most valuable National Football League player to phone Jeremy. Burt had escorted Pittman to and from the mortuary. Burt had gotten drunk with Pittman. Although Pittman had tried to convince himself that he had paid back every debt, the truth was that Burt could never be repaid. Of all those who might have called last night, Burt was the one person Pittman could not refuse.

Burt studied him. “Got a minute?”

“My time is yours.”

“In my office.”

What now? Pittman thought. Is this where I get the lecture?