Desperate Measures

13

A knock on the door made Pittman flinch. He frowned toward Jill. “Are you expecting anyone?”

Jill looked puzzled. “No.”

“Did you lock the door after I came in?”

“Of course. This is New York.”

Again someone knocked.

Pittman mustered the strength to stand. “Bring my overcoat. Put those bandages under the sink in the kitchen. As soon as I’m out of sight in the closet, open the door, but don’t let on that I’m here.”

The third knock was louder. “Open up. This is the police.”

Jill turned toward Pittman.

“The police,” he said. “Maybe. But maybe not. Don’t tell them I’m here.” Apprehension overcame his unsteadiness. He took the overcoat Jill gave him. “Pretend you were sleeping.”

“But what if it is the police and they find you?”

“Tell them I scared you into lying.”

Someone knocked even harder, rattling the door.

Jill raised her voice. “Just a moment.” She looked at Pittman.

He gently touched her arm. “You have to trust me. Please. Don’t tell them I’m here.”

As he hurried toward the closet, he didn’t let Jill see the.45 he took from his overcoat pocket. Heart pounding, he entered, stood between coats, and closed the door, waiting in darkness, feeling smothered.

After a moment during which he assumed Jill was hiding any further indication that he had come to the apartment, Pittman heard her put the chain on the main door, then unlock the dead bolt. He imagined her opening the door only to the slight limit of the chain, peering through a gap in the doorway.

“Yes? How can I help you?”

“What took you so long?”

“You woke me up. I work nights. I was sleeping.”

“Let us in.”

“Not until I see your ID.”

Startled, Pittman heard a crash, the sound of wood splintering, the door being shoved open, the chain being yanked out of the doorjamb.

Heavy footsteps pounded into the hallway. The door was slammed shut. Someone locked it.

“Hey, what are you-?”

“Where is he, lady?”

“Who?”

“Pittman.”

“Who?”

“Don’t look so damn innocent. We know he came up here. One of our men was watching this place and called us. After Pittman went to the priest, we figured he might be making the rounds to anybody else who’d talked to Millgate before he died. And we were right.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I checked the bedroom,” another voice said. “Nothing.”

“Is there a back way out of here, lady?”

“No one in the bathroom,” a third voice said.

“Answer me, lady. Damn it, is there a back way out of here?”

“You’re hurting me.”

“He’s not in this closet.”

“Check the one in the hall.”

“Where is he, lady?”

As Jill screamed, Pittman heard footsteps approach the closet.

A heavy set man yanked the door open, exhaled at the sight of Pittman, raised a pistol with a silencer, and lurched back as Pittman shot him.

The gun’s report was amplified so loudly by the confines of the closet that Pittman’s ears rang fiercely. He surged from the closet and aimed the.45 at two husky men in the living room, one of whom was twisting Jill’s arm so severely that she’d sunk to her knees, her face contorted with pain.

They both had silenced pistols, but as they spun, startled, the frenzied look on Pittman’s face made them freeze.

“Raise your hands!” Pittman screamed.

Seeing the outraged expression on his face, staring at the.45’s barrel, they obeyed. Jill fell away.

“Take it easy,” one man said. “The way you’re shaking, that gun might go off on its own.”

“Right,” the other man said. “Don’t make it any worse for yourself. We’re police officers.”

“In your dreams. Keep your hands up. Drop the guns behind you.”

They seemed to calculate their chances.

“Do it!” Pittman tensed his finger on the.45’s trigger.

The guns thunked onto the floor.

Pittman walked past Jill, picked up one of the silenced pistols, and shook less violently-because after he’d left the church, there had been only one bullet left in the.45, and he had used it on the man who had opened the closet door. There’d been no time to grab that man’s pistol. In order to catch the remaining gunmen off guard, he’d been forced to threaten them with an empty weapon, first making sure to press the lever that closed the.45’s ejection slide so they wouldn’t realize the weapon was empty, easing it shut so they wouldn’t hear a noise.

The men had slammed and locked the main door after they entered.

Now someone else was banging on the door, a frail, worried voice asking, “Jill? Are you all right?”

Pittman frowned at her. “Who is it?”

“The old man who lives next door.”

“Tell him you’re not dressed or else you’d open the door. Tell him you had the TV too loud.”

As Jill moved down the hall, Pittman ordered the men, “Open your jackets. Lift them by the shoulders.” Two years ago, he’d done a story about training techniques at the police academy. An instructor had invited him to participate in a session about subduing hostile prisoners. He strained to remember what he’d learned.

When the men lifted their jackets, Pittman walked around them. He didn’t see any other weapons. That didn’t mean there weren’t any, however. “Down on your knees.”

“Listen, Pittman.”

“I guess you don’t think I’d shoot you the same as I shot your buddy.”

“No, I’m a believer.”

“Then get down on your knees. Good. Now cross your ankles. Link your fingers behind your necks.”

As the men assumed that awkward position, Jill returned.

“Did your neighbor believe you?”

“I think so,” Jill said.

“Wonderful.”

“No. He says when he heard the shot, before he knocked on my door, he called the police.”

“Jesus,” Pittman said. “You’d better hurry. Put on some clothes. We have to tie these men up and get out of here.”

“We?”

“You heard what they said. After I went to the priest, they figured I might go to anyone else who had talked to Millgate before he died.”

“What priest?”

“The one you told me about. Father Dandridge. Look, I don’t have time to explain. The priest is dead. They killed him. And I’m afraid they think you know too much. You might be next.”

“The police will protect me.”

“But these men said they were the police.”

Jill stared at the gunmen on the floor, her eyes wide with understanding.