Desperate Measures

6

At wide intervals, mansions were set back from the road. White wooden fences enclosed horses. Ahead on the left, Pittman saw a high stone wall. He came to a closed metal gate and stopped within view of a security camera mounted to the left on top of the wall. As instructed, he leaned out his driver’s window so that the camera could have a good look at him.

Immediately the gate whirred open. Pittman drove through, checking his rearview mirror, noting that the gate closed behind him while he followed a paved lane through spacious grassland. The lane went over a hill, and on the other side, snuggled into the slope, just below the crest on the right, was a distinctive, sprawling one-story complex that reminded Pittman of homes designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. The main impression was of limestone, terraces, and beams, and the way it conformed to the landscape, aided by plentiful trees and shrubbery, would make it invisible from the golf course below, Pittman guessed.

From the moment that the gate had opened, allowing him onto the estate, Pittman had noted the absence of guards. To anyone who might be watching from the road, there was nothing out of the ordinary. To all appearances, Pittman was an unremarkable visitor who knew Eustace Gable well enough that the gate had been opened without delay. The closer Pittman came to the house, taking a downward curve in the lane, proceeding to the right, passing fir trees, the more Pittman was struck by the lack of activity on the property. Given the size of the estate, he would have expected gardeners at least, maintenance personnel, someone to take care of the horses that came into view below him in a paddock next to a long, low stable rimmed by more fir trees and made from limestone, matching the house. But the place seemed deserted. There weren’t any cars, which presumably had been placed in a garage on the opposite side of the house.

Perhaps the lack of guards was intended to make him feel unthreatened, Pittman thought. To encourage him not to change his mind. To lure him into a trap. But if the purpose was to lull him, the opposite effect had been achieved. Instead of lowering his defenses, the eerie solitude intensified Pittman’s apprehension, sending warning signals throughout his body, compacting his muscles.

He reached a circular driveway in front of the house, stopped the car, and got out, surveying the apparently deserted area. He heard water trickling from somewhere, presumably a fountain. He heard a breeze whispering through the fir trees. A horse whinnied.

A door opened, and Pittman, who had glanced toward the stable on the slope below him, whirled toward the house. An elderly man, narrow-faced, with white hair, spectacles, and wrinkle-pinched features, stepped from a polished wooden doorway onto a stone terrace. Tall and slender, he wore a dark blue three-piece suit that conformed to his rigidly straight posture. Pittman recognized him from photographs and the incident at the Scarsdale estate. Eustace Gable.

“Four P.M. precisely. I admire punctuality.” Even at a distance, it was obvious that Gable’s chest heaved. “We have much to discuss. Come in, Mr. Pittman.”

Pittman took one last look around and, seeing no threat, climbed steps to the terrace. He frowned when Gable offered his hand.

“This won’t do, Mr. Pittman. Rudeness is a poor way to begin a negotiation.”

“I’m not used to civility from people who want to have me killed.”

“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.