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Authors: David R. Morrell
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he noticed a light patch in the lawn ahead and used it as a destination. At once the ground gave away, a sharp slope that caused him to tumble in alarm, falling, rolling.
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?
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?
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