Desperate Measures

  "Then you're not suicidal?" Pittman looked at the baby. "Well?" Brian

  asked. "That's about the only thing that is true. The kitchen became

  silent, even the baby. "They say your son died."

  Pittman swallowed and avoided the issue. "I really need this favor,

  Brian. I'm in a lot of trouble that I don't deserve, and I want to set

  it right."

  "Why? I don't see why it should matter if you're planning to kill

  yourself

  "Yes. I've been contemplating suicide a lot.... I think"he swallowed

  again-"it's because all along I planned to go out cleanly. But suddenly

  everything has gotten very messy.

  Feeling pressure in his throat, Pittman spooned more apricots into the

  baby's mouth. Brian stared at him. "What the hell happened?"

  Pittman frowned toward the floor. Then he told Brian everything.

  Brian kept shaking his head, alternately bewildered and dismayed. "This

  is . .

  "I swear to you, it's the truth."

  "k, you can't do anything about this on your own. You have to go to the

  police. Tell them what you just told me."

  "If you have trouble believing me, would they?"

  "But you don't have a choice."

  "No. I don't think the police could keep me safe."

  "Man, oh man, do you realize what you sound like?"

  "Who was it said that paranoia was the only sane attitude to have these

  days?" Brian looked appalled. "And you expect me to .

  "Get me into some computer files that I otherwise wouldn't have access

  to.

  "Like?"

  "At my newspaper. I have to show ID and sign in to enter the building.

  A guard or someone else would recognize me. They'd call the police. But

  I know the passwords that allow access from an outside telephone."

  Brian looked somewhat less threatened. "That's not hard to do. In

  fact, it's almost a legitimate request. Under other circumstances, it

  would be legal."

  "Yes." Pittman had fed the baby and now was changing its diaper.

  "And that's all?"

  "Well ..."

  "There's something else.

  "I need to get into the computer system for the city's criminal

  records."

  "Jesus. "

  "Isn't there a way to route the call through a system of long-distance

  relays so the call can't be traced before I get the information I need?"

  "Yes, but ..." Pittman turned as someone opened the door.

  The woman-a redhead, severely thin, with stern features-looked alarmed

  at the sight of Pittman holding the baby. "What are ... ?"

  "Gladys, this is a friend of mine," Brian said.

  "Ed Gamer, " Pittman said, hoping that if he used a different name, she

  wouldn't associate him with the photographs of him on CNN or in the

  newspapers.

  Gladys marched to a kitchen counter, set down two bags of groceries, and

  took possession of her baby. Her pinched expression suggested that she

  felt Pittman wasn't worthy enough to have touched her offspring. "Ed

  Garner?" She squinted at Brian. "You never mentioned him before. "

  "Well, I .

  "We were buddies in college," Pittman said. "We loved to fool around

  with computers."

  "Computers? You weren't a hacker, I hope." Her voice had the grating

  sound of a knife being sharpened.

  "Never had the nerve."

  "Brian had too much nerve. He went to prison for it." Her eyes glared.

  "Anyway," Pittman said, trying to change the subject, "I heard Brian was

  living in this area. I've got relatives not far from here, so I figured

  I'd drop in. Brian was just about to show me some of the stuff he's

  doing for Nintendo. Wrinkles developed between Gladys's eyes. "Weren't

  you, Brian?" Pittman said.

  "If that's all right, Gladys. You can see the baby's been fed and

  changed."

  Gladys narrowed her steely gaze at him. "Just remember, we have to be at

  my mother's in an hour. "

  "I couldn't possibly forget-"

  Brian and Pittman went into the computer room. Brian shut the door. He

  looked angrily at Pittman.

  Pittman worried that the anger was directed at him, then understood its

  true target. He had an ally.

  Furious, Brian turned on the computer, then locked a phone into a

  modern. His cheeks were flushed. "Which system do you want to access

  first? Your newspaper's?"

  "Criminal records." Brian didn't react to the change in priorities.

  Instead, he touched buttons on his telephone.

  "You know the criminal-records number by heart?" Pittman asked in

  amazement.

  "No. This is a friend of mine. I don't hack any more, but I keep in

  touch with friends who do. This guy's possessed about eavesdropping on

  the police. And he never talks on the phone. I always have to go

  through his computer. 11 Words appeared on Brian's computer screen.

  YOU HAVE REACHED THE STARSHIP ENTERPRISE.

  "He's also crazy about Star Trek." Brian tapped letters on his

  keyboard.

  MR. SPOCK TO CAPTAIN KIRK.

  "Spock's my code name," Brian said. Words appeared in response.

  KIRK HERE. WHAT IS YOUR PASSWORD? Brian typed more letters.

  TRIBBLES. New words appeared on the screen.

  PROCEED, MR. SPOCK. Brian typed:

  TOP SECRET MESSAGE FROM STARFLEET COMMAND.

  FEAR THAT KLINGONS MAY TRY TO INTERCEPT TRANSMISSION.

  The response came quickly.

  ACTIVATE SCRAMBLER.

  Brian turned on a machine next to the phone.

  SCRAMBLER ACTIVATED.

  For the next few minutes, Pittman watched with fascination as Brian

  tapped his keyboard, read and responded to queries on his screen, and

  finally wrote down a series of numbers. "Got it."

  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 t
hought so, " a steely voice said behind them.

  and Brian spun toward the noise.

  she must have been listening at the door. She had 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 modern. "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 with 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 Botalfson, " 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

  understanding. 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.

  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

  soonto-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.

  similar gray haze weighed upon him now. Instinctive had propelled him

  into motion. Adrenaline had fueled 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.

  No. You've got to keep trying, a voice inside him said. It sounded

  like Jeremy.

  How? I don't even have enough money to take the train back to

  Manhattan. Come on, Dad. All those years of running. Don't tell me

  you don't have what it takes to do a little more walking.

  It took three hours. Even though Pittman had switched from his street

  shoes to the, jogging shoes that he'd put in his gym bag, his feet ached

  and his leg muscles protested. Weak from exertion and hunger, he

  reached Grand Street on Manhattan's Lower East Side, looking for the

  address that he'd gotten from Sean O'Reilly's computer file.

  He studied the busy street, wary of police surveillance. After all,

  Gladys Botulfson might have changed her mind. If Brian had said

  something to infuriate her further, she might have decided to call the

  police and teach her husband a lesson. Of course, the police wouldn't

  know where Pittman had gone unless Brian confessed which file he had

  accessed. But would he? Or would Brian's anger toward Gladys prompt

  him to defy her?

  That wasn't the only thing that bothered him. What if the address Sean

  O'Reilly had given the authorities was out of date or else a lie?

  Suppose he wasn't there?

  The latter worry intensified when Pittman finally reached the address

  and discovered that it wasn't an apartment building but a restaurant

  instead, a sign in the front window announcing PADDY'S.

  Shit. Now what am I supposed to do?

  Needing to get off the street, he did his best to hide his nervousness

  when, unable to think of an alternative, he enter-ed the restaurant.

  He barely noticed its Irish decor-green tablecloths, shamrocks on the

  menus, a large map of Ireland on one wall. What he did notice was the

  handful of late-afternoon customers, most of them at the bar.

  A few looked in his direction, then returned their attention to their

  Pittman's appro
ached the man who was muscular, wore a green apron, and

  stood behind the cash register. "What'll it be?"

  "I'm looking for a friend of mine. Sean O'Reilly." The bartender used

  a towel to wipe the counter. "I heard he was staying at this address,"

  Pittman said, "but this is a restaurant. I don't see . 'How?' "%at?"

  "How did you get this address?"

  "My parole officer's the same as his. Look, is Sean around?"

  The man kept wiping the counter.

  "Sean and I go back to when he was doing those publicservice

  announcements for the police department," Pittman said. "When he was

  telling people how to keep their homes safe from burglars."

  "So? What do you want him for?"

  "Old times. I've got some stories to tell him." Pittman drew his key