“Then I’m going to have to give you a check.”
“Give me a break! Do I look like the trusting type? The last time I took a check from a guy, it-”
“Hey, I told you I don’t have the cash. I’d give you my watch, but it isn’t worth
“A check,” the driver muttered. “This fucking job.”
After Pittman wrote the check and gave it to him, the driver studied the address at the top of the check. “Let me see your driver’s license.” He wrote down Pittman’s Social Security number. “If this check bounces, buddy…”
“I promise it won’t.”
“Well, if it does, I’m gonna come to your apartment and break both your legs.”
“Just make sure you cash it before a week from Saturday.”
“What’s so special about a week from Saturday?”
“I won’t be around.” Pittman got out of the car, thankful that the rain had lessened to a mist, and watched the taxi pull away in the darkness. A distance down the road, the driver switched his headlights on.
17
In the silence, Pittman suddenly felt isolated. Shoving his hands in his overcoat pockets for warmth, he walked along the side of the road. The shoulder was gravel, its sandy bed sufficiently softened by the rain that his shoes made only a slight scraping sound. There weren’t any streetlights. Pittman strained his eyes, but he could barely see the wall that loomed on his left. He came to a different shade of darkness and realized that he’d reached the barred gate.
Without touching it, he peered through. Far along a driveway, past trees and shrubs, lights glowed in what seemed to be a mansion.
What now? he thought. It’s two o’clock in the morning. It’s drizzling. I’m cold. I’m God knows where. I shouldn’t have gone to the hospital. I shouldn’t have followed the ambulance. I shouldn’t have…
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he studied the top of the gate, then shook his head. He was fairly certain that he could climb over it, but he was even more certain that there’d be some kind of intrusion sensor up there. Before Jeremy’s death and Pittman’s nervous breakdown, he had worked for a time on the newspaper’s Sunday magazine. One of his articles had been about a man whom Pittman had nicknamed “the Bugmaster.” The man was an expert in intrusion detectors and other types of security equipment-for example, eavesdropping devices, otherwise known as bugs, ergo the Bugmaster. Enjoying Pittman’s enthusiasm about information, the Bugmaster had explained his profession in detail, and Pittman’s prodigious memory for facts had retained it all.
A place this size, Pittman knew, was bound to have a security system, and as the Bugmaster had pointed out, you never go over a wall or a gate without first scouting the barriers to make sure you’re not activating a sensor. But at this hour, in the dark, Pittman didn’t see how he could scout anything.
So what the hell are you going to do? You should have gone back to Manhattan with the taxi driver. What did you think you’d accomplish by hanging around out here in the rain?
Through the bars of the gate, a light attracted Pittman’s attention.
Two of them. Headlights. Approaching along the driveway from the mansion. Pittman watched them grow larger, thought about hurrying along the road and hiding past the corner of the wall, then made a different decision and pressed himself against the wall right next to the gate.
He heard a smooth, well-tuned, powerful engine. He heard tires on wet concrete. He heard a buzz and then a whir. The gate’s motor had been activated by remote control. The gate was swinging open toward the inside of the estate, its sturdy wheels scraping on concrete.
The engine sounded louder. The headlights flashed through the open gate. Sooner than Pittman expected, the dark Oldsmobile that had escorted the ambulance surged through the opening, turned to the left in the direction the taxi had taken to go back to the city, and sped into the night.
Pittman was tempted to remain motionless until the car’s lights disappeared down the road. But he had something more immediate to occupy him, for abruptly he heard another buzz, another whir. The gate was closing- faster than he expected-and he sprinted to get through the opening before it was blocked.
The sturdy gate brushed past his coat. The lock snapped into place. The night became silent again.
18
Pittman found that he was holding his breath. Despite the expansive grounds ahead of him, he felt a spasm of claustrophobia. The darkness seemed to smother him. At once the cold drizzle sharpened his senses, bracing him. He inhaled and glanced around, reassured that no threat emerged from the shadows.
You expected guards?
No, but…
Dogs maybe?
Right.
Wouldn’t they have followed the car? Wouldn’t you have seen them by now?
Maybe. Maybe not. They might be trained not to follow cars.
So what’s the worst that can happen? If there
But what if the dogs are trained to attack?
This isn’t a top secret military installation. It’s a Scarsdale estate. Relax. And anyway, so what if the dogs are trained to attack? Do you think being killed by a couple of Dobermans would be any worse than shooting yourself with a.45?
Yes.
What standards you have.
Chilled by the rain, Pittman moved forward. At first he was tempted to approach the mansion through the cover of the trees. But then he decided there wasn’t any need-the night and the gloomy weather provided him with sufficient cover. Following the murky driveway, he came around a shadowy curve and discovered that he was closer to the mansion than he expected.
Next to a sheltering fir tree, he studied his destination. The building was high, wide, made of brick, with numerous gables and chimneys. There were several lights in windows on the ground floor, less on the second story. From this angle, he could see a five-stall garage on the left. The garage had a sundeck on top, with two sets of French doors leading off the deck into a second-story room that was lit, although Pittman couldn’t see what was in there. Mostly what attracted his attention was the private ambulance, parked, its lights off, apparently empty, in front of the stone steps that led up to the mansion’s large front door.
Now what? Pittman thought.
He shrugged. With eight days to live, what difference did it make? In an odd way, he felt liberated. After all, what did he have to lose? Knowing when he was going to die gave him a feeling of immunity.
He stepped from the fir tree and concentrated to maintain his balance on wet, slippery grass as he crept down a dark slope toward the mansion. Moving cautiously toward the lights of the mansion, taking advantage of shrubs, a fountain, a gazebo to give him cover, he came closer to the illuminated windows. The drenched grass had soaked his shoes and socks, chilling his feet, but he was too involved in studying the windows to care. Curtains had been drawn, forcing him to cross the driveway where it ran parallel to the front of the mansion. He felt exposed by the drizzle-shrouded glare of arc lights as he darted toward bushes beneath the front windows.
Moisture dripped from the branches onto his overcoat. Again in shadows, he crouched tensely, moved through an opening in the bushes on the left side of the front doors, then warily straightened, able to see through a gap in the curtains at one window. He saw a portion of a luxuriously appointed oak-paneled living room. The room
