26
Before Jeremy’s cancer had been diagnosed, Pittman had been a determined jogger. He had run a minimum of an hour each day and several hours on the weekend, mostly using the jogging path along the Upper East Side, next to the river. He had lived on East Seventieth at that time, with Ellen and Jeremy, and his view of exercise had been much the same as his habit of saving 5 percent of his paycheck and making sure that Jeremy took summer courses at his school, even though the boy’s grades were superior and extra work wasn’t necessary. Security. Planning for the future. That was the key. That was the secret. With his son cheering and his wife doing her best to look dutifully enthusiastic, Pittman had managed to be among the middle group that finished the New York Marathon one year.
Then Jeremy had gotten sick.
And Jeremy had died.
And Pittman and Ellen had started arguing.
And Ellen had left.
And Ellen had remarried.
And Pittman had started drinking heavily.
And Pittman had suffered a nervous breakdown.
He hadn’t run in over a year. For that matter, he hadn’t done any exercise at all, unless nervous pacing counted. But now adrenaline spurred him, and his body remembered. It didn’t have its once-excellent tone. It didn’t have the strength that he’d worked so hard to acquire. But it still retained his technique, the rhythm and length and heel-to-toe pattern of his stride. He was out of breath. His muscles protested. But he kept charging across the golf course, responding to a pounding in his veins and a fire in his guts, while behind him lights bobbed in the distance, motors whined, and men shouted.
Pittman’s effort was so excruciating that he cursed himself for ever having allowed himself to get out of shape. Then he cursed himself for having been so foolhardy as to get into this situation.
What the hell did you think you were doing, following the ambulance all the way out here? Burt wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t bothered.
No. But
For eight more days.
What about breaking into that house? Do you call that standard journalistic procedure? Burt would have a fit if he knew you did that.
What was I supposed to do, let the old man die?
As Pittman’s stiffening legs did their best to imitate the expert runner’s stride that had once been second nature to him, he risked losing time to glance back at his pursuers. Wiping moisture from his eyes, he saw the drizzle-haloed spotlights on the golf carts speeding toward him in the darkness.
Or some of the carts. All told, there were five, but only two were directly behind him. The rest had split off, one to the right, the other to the left, evidently following the perimeter of the golf course. The third was speeding on a diagonal toward what Pittman assumed was the far extreme of the course.
They want to encircle me, Pittman realized. But in the darkness, how can they be sure which way I’m going?
Rain trickled down his neck beneath his collar. He felt the hairs on his scalp rise when he suddenly understood how his pursuers were able to follow him.
His London Fog overcoat.
It was sand-colored. Just as Pittman had been able to see the light color of the sand trap against the darkness of the grass, so his overcoat was as obvious to his pursuers.
Forced to break stride, running awkwardly, Pittman desperately worked at the belt on his overcoat, untying it, then fumbling at buttons. One button didn’t want to be released, and Pittman yanked at it, popping it loose. In a frenzy, he had the coat open. He jerked his arm from one sleeve. He freed his other arm. His suit coat had been somewhat dry, but now drizzle soaked it.
Pittman’s first impulse was to throw the overcoat away. His next impulse, as he entered a clump of brush, was to drape the coat over a bush to provide a target for the men chasing him. That tactic wouldn’t distract them for long, though, he knew, and besides, if…
The brushy area was too small to be a good hiding place, so Pittman fled it, scratching his hands on bushes, and continued charging across the murky golf course.
Glancing desperately back over his shoulder, he saw the glare of the lights on the carts. He heard the increasingly loud whine of their engines. Rolling his overcoat into a ball and stuffing it under his suit jacket, he strained his legs to their maximum. One thing was in his favor. He was wearing a dark blue suit. In the rainy blackness, he hoped he would blend with his surroundings.
Unless the lights pick me up, he thought.
Ahead, a section of the golf course assumed a different color, a disturbing gray. Approaching it swiftly, Pittman realized that he’d reached a pond. The need to skirt it would force him to lose time. No choice. Breathing hard, he veered to the left. But the wet, slippery grass along the slope betrayed him. His left foot jerked from under him. He fell and almost tumbled into the freezing water before he clawed his fingers into the mushy grass and managed to stop himself.
Rising frantically, he remembered to keep his overcoat clutched beneath his suit jacket. With an urgent glance backward, he saw a beam of light shoot over the top of the slope down which he’d rolled. The whine of an engine was very close. Concentrating not to lose his balance again, Pittman scurried through the rainy darkness.
He followed the rim of the pond, struggled up the opposite slope, and lunged over the top just before he heard angry voices behind him. Something buzzed past his right ear. It sounded like a hornet, but Pittman knew what it was: a bullet. Another hornet buzzed past him. No sound of shots. His hunters must have put silencers on their handguns.
He scurried down a slope, out of their line of fire. To his right, through the rain, he saw lights trying to overtake him. To his left, he saw the same. His legs were so fatigued, they wanted to buckle. His heaving lungs protested.
Can’t keep this up much longer.
He fought to muster energy.
Have to keep going.
Too late, he saw the light-colored patch ahead of him. The grass dropped sharply. Unable to stop, he hurtled out into space, flailed, and jolted down into another sand trap. The impact dropped him to his knees. He struggled upright, feeling the heaviness of wet sand clinging to his trousers.
Spotlights bobbed, speeding nearer. With a final burst of energy, he struggled across the sand trap. His shoes sank into the drizzle-softened sand. He left a deep, wide trail. Jesus, even if they don’t have my overcoat as a target, they’ll know from my tracks which way I went when I reached the grass, he thought.
Tracks. Pittman’s skin prickled as he realized that this might be his only chance to save himself. The instant he raced out of the sand onto the grass, he reversed his direction and hurried through the darkness along the edge of the sand trap toward the top of the slope from which he had leapt. As he ran through the drizzle, he yanked his balled overcoat from beneath his suit jacket.
The whine of an engine sounded terribly close. Spotlights bobbed above him. He came to where the grass dropped sharply toward the sand. Careful not to disturb this section, he eased over the edge and lay sideways where the sand met the almost-vertical, sharp downward angle of the earth. There, he spread his sand-colored overcoat across his head and suit jacket. He felt its weight on his lower thighs, almost covering his knees. He bent his legs and drew them toward his body, tucking them under the hem of the overcoat. His breathing sounded hoarse. He strained to control it.
Please, he kept thinking. Please.
With his overcoat covering his head, he heard drizzle patter onto him. He heard the whine of engines-close.
