He came to a stop on his back. The wind had been knocked from him. He breathed heavily, wiped wet sand from his face, and stood.
Sand. That explained why this section of the ground had been pale. But why would ... ?
A tingle ran through him. My God, it's a golf course. There'd been a sign when the taxi driver brought him into the subdivision: SAXON WOODS
PARK AND GOLF CLUB.
I'm in the open. If they start shooting again, there's no cover. Then what are you hanging around for?
As he oriented himself, making sure that he wasn't running back toward the wall, he saw lights to his left. Specterlike, they emerged from the wall. Pittman had heard one of his pursuers talk about a gate. They'd reached it and come through. His first instinct was to conclude that they had found flashlights somewhere, probably from a shed near the gate. But there was something about the lights.
The tingle that Pittman had felt when he realized that he was on a golf course now became a cold rush of fear as he heard the sound of motors. The lights were too big to come from flashlights, and they were in pairs like headlights, but Pittman's hunters couldn't be using cars. Cars would be too losing traction, spinning their wheels until they got in the soft wet grass. Besides, the motors sounded too and whiny to belong to cars.
Jesus, they're using golf carts, Pittman realized, his chest tightening. Whoever owns the estate has private carts and access to the course from the back of the property. Golf carts don't have headlights. Those are handheld spotlights.
The carts spread out, the lights systematically covering various sections of the course. As men shouted, Pittman spun away from the lights, darted from the sand trap, and scurried into the rainy darkness.
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 remained. 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 any exercise at all, unless nervous pacing counted. But adrenaline spurred him, and his body remembered. It wouldn'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 wayout here? Burt wouldn't have known if you hadn't bothered.
No. But I'd have known. I promised Burt I'd do my best. 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 lifted 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 bush, 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 ... when ... he escaped, he would need the coat to help keep him warm.
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 blue suit. In the rainy blackness, he hoped he would disappear 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, fled, 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. The whine vanished abruptly, as if the carts had come to a stop.
Vapor from Pittman's breath collected under the overcoat. Dank moisture dribbled along his chin. The wet chill made him shiver, although he compacted his muscles and struggled not to tremble.
Can't let them notice me.
He shivered for another reason, anticipating the impact of Isn't that what you wanted? If they shoot you, they'll be doing you a favor. But I want it to be my idea.
He silently prayed: If only his overcoat blended with the sand. If only the men stared straight ahead instead of looking down at 4'There! Pittman's heartbeat lurched.
"Tracks in the sand!"
"Toward that section of grass!"
Something made an electronic crackle: a walkie-talkie.
"Alpha to Beta! He's headed in your direction! He's reached the northeast quadrant!" A garbled voice responded. The walkie-talkie made an electronic squawk. The whine of the engines intensified. Beneath the smothering, moisture-laden overcoat, Pittman heard the carts speed away past the sand trap, toward the continuation of the grass.
His clothes soaked from the wet sand he lay upon, Pittman waited, not daring to move. Despite the stifling buildup of carbon dioxide beneath the overcoat, he forced himself to continue to wait. At last he relented, slowly moving the coat. As he inched it off his face, inhaling the fresh, cool air, he squinted toward the darkness, afraid that he would see a man above him grin and aim a pistol.
But he saw only the slope of the earth above him, darkness, and drizzle pelting his eyes. After the cloying stale air beneath the coat, the rain made him feel clean. He eased upward ' came to a trembling crouch, and saw the lights of the carts receding in the murky distance. Careful to bunch his overcoat beneath his suit coat, he crept from the sand trap and headed in the direction from which the carts had come. He was soaked, chilled. But for all his discomfort and apprehension, a portion of his mind was swollen with exultation.
Nonetheless, he still had to get out of the area, off this golf course, away from the estate. The carts might return at any time. Although his legs were unsteady, he managed to lengthen his stride and increase its frequency.
Enveloped by the night and the rain, he almost faltered with increased dread when it occurred to him that without a way to keep his bearings, he might wander in a circle until his pursuers came upon him. Immediately, in the distance to his left, he saw moving lights, but not those on the carts. These were larger, brighter. Their beams probed deeper through the rain. The headlights of a car, or maybe a truck. They moved parallel to him, then disappeared.
A road.
"Car trouble."
"Man, look at you shiver," the motel clerk said. "Got soaked finding a pay phone to call a tow truck. The garage says my car won't be ready till the afternoon. I need a place to get dry." guess you're not from around here." The clerk was paunchy, in his forties. He had thick red beard stubble and strained features from working all night.
Pittman shook his head. "I'm on the road a lot, selling college textbooks. Left New Haven last night for a meeting in New York."
"Looks like you're not going to make it."
"I didn't have to be at the meeting till Monday. Figured I'd spend the weekend having a good time. Shit. "
Pittman gave the clerk his credit card and filled out the registration form, making sure to claim a New Haven address. He felt strange lying, but he knew he had to. The clerk needed a reasonable explanation for Pittman's drenched appearance, and the truth certainly wasn't acceptable. "Here's your card back. Here's your key." Pittman sneezed. "Man, you need to get out of those wet clothes."
"That's all I've been thinking of."
The name had been appealing: Warm Welcome Motel. Pittman had found it among several other motels a half hour after he'd hurried, shivering, from the golf course area. Houses had been dark, streetlights widely separated. Whenever he saw headlights, he had darted toward the shelter of bushes or a backyard before he could be seen. He'd had a vague idea of which way the thruway was. Fear had spurred him.
Now, as he locked the motel door behind him, the last of his energy drained from him. He sank into a lumpy chair and sipped the cardboard cup of bitter but wonderfully hot coffee that he'd bought from a noisy machine at the end of the concrete-block hallway. The room's carpet was green and worn. He didn't care. The walls were an unappealing yellow. He didn't care about that, either, or about the hollow beneath the dingy orange cover of the mattress on the bed. All he cared about was heat. Need to get warm. His teeth chattered. Need a hot bath.