Desperate Measures

MAY YOU PROSPER. SPOCK TO KIRK. OUT.

Brian pressed other numbers on his telephone. “I’m routing this through Fairbanks, Alaska, and Key West, Florida. Even then, the call can be traced. If the criminal-records computer senses an intrusion, I’ll have to unplug right away.”

“How will you know?”

“That’ll tell me.” Brian pointed to another machine beside the telephone.

He pressed more numbers and nodded toward the screen. “Okay, we’re in. What do you want to know?”

“Access the file for Sean O’Reilly.” Pittman spelled the name.

O’Reilly had been the master thief whom Pittman had interviewed some years ago. The tool knife with its lock picks that Pittman had used to get into Jonathan Millgate’s room had been a gift from O’Reilly.

“There,” Brian said.

Pittman read the screen. Earlier, when he had tried to find Brian’s name in the phone book, he had also looked for O’Reillys, with no success. Either O’Reilly was back in prison, had moved to another area, or…

“Yes.” Pittman picked up a pencil and notepad.

According to O’Reilly’s file, he’d been released from prison three months previously-on parole-which meant that he was required to keep the authorities informed about where he was staying.

The address was on the Lower East Side. Pittman quickly wrote it down, tore off the piece of paper, and put it into his pocket.

“Now what other computer files do you want?” Brian asked.

“I thought so,” a steely voice said behind them.

Pittman and Brian spun toward the noise.

Gladys must have been listening at the door. She had thrown it open.

She stormed in. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute. You can’t stay out of trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“You are hacking. What’s the matter with you? Do you like prison so much that you want to go back there?”

“You’re mistaken,” Pittman said. “I was showing Brian some work I’ve been doing.”

“Get out of my house.”

“We accessed my files at-”

“Don’t lie to me. Your name isn’t Ed Garner. It’s Matthew Pittman. CNN just did a story on you. I recognized your picture.” Gladys yanked the phone from the modem. “I’m calling the police.”

As words vanished from the screen, she raised the phone to her ear and pressed 911.

“Gladys,” Brian objected.

From another room, the baby started crying.

“Please,” Pittman said.

Gladys spoke to the phone, “My name is Gladys Botulfson. I live at-”

Pittman pressed the disconnect button. “You’re doing something stupid, Gladys.”

“I don’t want any killer near my baby.”

“You don’t understand.”

They stared at each other.

The phone began to ring.

Gladys flinched.

“That’ll be the police,” Pittman said. “They have an automatic record of the phone number of anyone who calls them.”

Gladys tried to pry his hand from the disconnect button.

Pittman used his other hand to grip her wrist. “Don’t do it. Think. How would you like your baby’s father to go to prison again.”

“What?”

The phone kept ringing.

“Aiding a fugitive,” Pittman said. “Helping him illegally access computer files. Brian could be put away until your baby starts high school.”

Gladys’s eyes bulged.

The phone rang again.

Pittman took the receiver away from her and lifted the disconnect button. “Hello?… Yes, Gladys Botulfson lives here.… I know she called. We were having a bit of a quarrel, I’m afraid. She… Here. Let me put her on.”

Pittman stared at her, then handed her the phone.

Gladys squinted toward the wailing baby, then toward Brian, finally toward Pittman. Her lips were so pursed that the skin around them was white.

She parted them. “This is Gladys Botulfson,” she said to the phone. “I’m sorry for troubling you. What my husband says is true. We were having a fight. I thought I’d scare him if I called the police.… Yes, I understand it’s a serious offense to abuse the emergency number. It won’t happen again.… We’re calmer now. No, I don’t need any help. Thank you.”

Gladys set down the phone. She rubbed her wrist where Pittman had gripped it. Her voice was disturbingly flat. “Get out.”

Pittman picked up his gym bag. “Brian, thanks for letting me get into the newspaper’s computer files.” His look toward Brian was direct and meaningful: Don’t let her know what files we really accessed.

“Sure.”

“I won’t tell you again,” Gladys said.

“A pleasure to meet you.”

Pittman left the apartment and shut the door behind him. When he got in the elevator, he could still hear Gladys’s loud, accusing voice from behind Brian’s door.

24

Pittman had hoped to borrow money from Brian, but that had obviously been out of the question. With a dollar bill, a dime, and a nickel in his pocket, he proceeded dismally toward where he could catch the train back to Manhattan, although he didn’t know why, since he didn’t have enough cash to buy a token. The more he walked, the more tired and hungry he became. He felt defeated.

Ahead, cars at a funeral home caused him to suffer the depressing memory of Jeremy’s funeral-the closed coffin, Jeremy’s photograph in front of it; the mourners, most of them classmates from Jeremy’s school; Burt next to Pittman (and now Burt was dead); Pittman’s argument with his soon-to-be ex-wife. (“It’s your fault,” she’d insisted. “You should have taken him to the doctor sooner.”)

Pittman recalled how, after the funeral, there’d been a somber reception back at the mortician’s, coffee and sandwiches, final commiserations. But Pittman had been so choked with grief that he hadn’t been able to force himself to respond to the condolences. He had taken a sandwich that someone had given him, but the rye bread and paperlike sliced turkey had stuck in his throat. He’d felt surrounded by a gray haze of depression.

A similar gray haze weighed upon him now. Instinctive fear had propelled him into motion. Adrenaline had fueled him. The strength and endurance that adrenaline created had finally dwindled, however. In their place were lethargy and despair. Pittman didn’t know if he could go on.

He told himself that he’d been foolish to believe that he could disentangle himself from the mess that he had fallen into.

Perhaps I should go to the police. Let them try to figure things out.

And if someone gets through police security to kill you?

What difference does it make? I’m too tired to care.

You don’t mean that.

Don’t I? Death would be welcome.