Desperate Measures

9

Pittman finished his second Jack Daniel’s and glanced across the almost-deserted tavern toward the bartender, who still seemed startled that he’d actually had a legitimate customer. A man carrying a bulging paper bag came in, looked around the shadowy interior, raised his eyebrows at the sight of Pittman, got a shrug and a nod from the bartender, and proceeded toward a room in the back.

Pittman considered ordering another bourbon, then glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost 1:30 in the afternoon. He’d been sitting there brooding for longer than he’d realized. He hadn’t thought about Millgate in quite a while-years-since well before Jeremy had become ill. Pittman’s jaw had healed. He’d pursued other assignments. Millgate had managed to make himself invisible again. Out of sight, out of mind. The only reminder had been periodic twinges in Pittman’s jaw during especially cold weather. Sometimes when he fingered the line where his jaw had been broken, he would recall how he had tried to investigate the two prisoners who had beaten him. They’d been admitted to his cell a half hour after he’d been placed there. The charges against them had been public drunkenness, but Pittman hadn’t smelled any alcohol on their breath when they had beaten him. Subsequent to the beating, they had been mistakenly released from jail, a mix-up in paperwork. Their names had been common, their addresses temporary, and Pittman had never been able to contact them or investigate their backgrounds to find out if Millgate had been responsible for the beating.

As he left the murky bar, his head aching from the harsh assault of afternoon sunlight, Pittman felt searing anger intrude on his cold despair. He had always resented aristocrats and their supposition that money and social stature made them the equivalent of royalty. He resented the disdain with which they felt themselves unaccountable for their actions. During his peak as a national affairs reporter, his best stories had been exposes of criminal activity by those in high places, and Jonathan Millgate would have been the highest target Pittman had ever brought down.

I should have been more persistent.

Pittman’s flare of anger abruptly died. Ahead, at a noisy intersection where pedestrians were stopped for a red light, he noticed a tall, lanky boy with long hair, slight shoulders, and narrow hips moving his feet slightly to the beat of imagined music. The boy looked to be about fifteen. He wore a rumpled denim jacket that had an emblem of a rock star. His jeans were faded. His running shoes, high-topped, were dyed green and had names written on them. From the back, the boy reminded Pittman so much of Jeremy that he felt as if a hand had squeezed his heart. Then the boy turned his head to speak to a companion, and of course, the boy looked nothing at all like Jeremy, whose jaw had not been as strong as this boy’s and whose complexion hadn’t been as clear and whose teeth had needed braces. Imperfect physically, but perfect as a son. It wasn’t just that Jeremy had never gotten into trouble, or that his grades had been excellent, or that he had been respectful. As important as these things were, what Pittman missed most about Jeremy was his captivating personality. The boy had been blessed with a wonderful sense of humor. He had always been so much fun to be around, never failing to make Pittman feel that life was better because of his son.

But not anymore, Pittman thought.

The brief angry fire he’d felt when thinking about Millgate no longer had significance. That was from another time, another life-before Jeremy had become ill. Pittman resented what Burt was trying to do. It was an insult to Jeremy’s memory for Burt to assume that an assignment about Jonathan Millgate could distract Pittman from his grief.

I ought to tell him to stuff it.

No. Keep your word. When you end this, it has to be cleanly. You can’t be obligated to anyone.