Desperate Measures (22 page)

At last, he was ready to ask his crucial question. As he and Jill stood and prepared to leave, he said, "Thank you, Professor. You've been very kind. I appreciate your time."

"Not at all. I hardly get any visitors, especially since my wife died. She's the one kept me active. And of course, students don't come to visit as they once did."

"I wonder if you could answer something else for me. I have a friend who's looking for a good prep school for his son. Wants him to be on track for Harvard or Yale. My friend was thinking perhaps of Grollier."

"Grollier Academy? In Vermont? Well, if your friend isn't wealthy and doesn't have a pedigree, he'll be disappointed.

"It's that exclusive?" Jill asked.

"Its entire student body is fewer than three hundred. It accepts only about seventy boys as new students each year, and those slots are usually reserved when each student is born. The room, board, and tuition is fifty thousand dollars a year, and of course, parents are expected to contribute generously to the academy's activities."

"That's too rich for my friend," Pittman said.

Professor Folsom nodded. "I don't approve of education based on wealth and privilege. Mind you, the education the academy provides is excellent. Too restrained and conservative for my taste, but excellent nonetheless."

"Restrained? Conservative?"

"The curriculum doesn't allow for individual temperaments. Instead of allowing the student to grow into his education, the education is imposed upon him. Latin. Greek. World history, with an emphasis on Britain. Philosophy, particularly the ancients. Political science. European literature, again emphasizing Britain. Very little American literature. Perhaps that's why my enthusiasm is restrained. Economics. Algebra calculus. And of course, athletics. The boy who goes to Grollier Academy and doesn't embrace athletics, in particular football and rowing-team sports-will soon find himself rejected.

"By the other students?" Jill asked.

"And by the school," Professor Folsom said, looking older, tired. "The purpose of Grollier Academy is to create Establishment team players. After all, nonconformist behavior isn't considered a virtue among patrician society. The elite favor caution and consensus.

Intellectually and physically, the students of Grollier Academy undergo disciplines that cause them to think and behave like members of the special society they're intended to represent."

"It sounds like programming," Pittman said.

"In a sense, of course, all education is," Professor Folsom said. "And Grollier's preparation is solid. Various graduates have distinguished themselves." He mentioned several ambassadors, senators, and governors, as well as a President of the United States. "And that doesn't include numerous major financiers. "

"I believe Jonathan Millgate went there," Pittman said.

"Yes, Grollier's alumni include diplomats, as well. Eustace Gable. Anthony Lloyd.

The names were totally unexpected. Pittman felt shocked. "Eustace Gable? Anthony Lloyd?"

"Advisers to various Presidents. Over the course of their careers, they achieved so many diplomatic accomplishments that eventually they became known as the grand counselors. "

Pittman tried to restrain his agitation. "What a remarkable school. " "For a particular type of patrician student."

Outside the apartment building, the shadows were thicker, cooler. Shivering but not from the temperature, Pittman walked to the end of the cul-de-sac and went UP steps to a promenade that overlooked the East River. -,Grollier Academy. Not just Jonathan Millgate, but Eustace Gable and Anthony Lloyd."

"The grand counselors," Jill said. Pittman turned. "I had no idea. Do you suppose the others went there, as well-Winston Sloane and Victor Standish?

"But even if they did, what would that prove?"

"Yes." pittmans forehead throbbed. "What's SO important about Grollier Academy that the other grand counselors were willing to kill Millgate and blame me for his murder and kill Father Dandridge and ... ? All to prevent anyone from knowing why Millgate was fixated on his prep school.

"

"Or maybe we're completely wrong. It could be Millgate was in fact rambling." at. "No," Pittman said emphatically. "I can't believe that.

If I did, I'd be lost. I'd have to give up. I wouldn't know how to keep going." He shivered again and put on his overcoat, feeling the weight of the gun in each pocket, repelled by the conditions of his life. "Even as it is ... "what now?

What are we going to do about you? It'll soon be dark. You can't go back to your apartment, and you can't use your credit card to rent a room. The name on your card would help the men looking for you find where you're staying.

"Where were you going to spend the night?"

Pittman didn't reply, ."me other nights," Jill asked. "Where-?"

"A park bench and the floor of the intensive-care waiting room. * "Dear God "Maybe the police aren't such a bad idea. Call them.

Maybe they can protect you.

"But for how long? I told you, I'd be terrified that they'd let down their guard. No. I'm staying with you," Jill said.

"In the long run, I'm not sure that would be smart."

"But in the short run, it's the option that scares me the least.

Besides, there's something you still haven't figured out about me," Jill said.

"You mean in addition to the fact that you have money?"

"The money's part of it. I don't have to work for a living.

The point is, I'm a nurse because I want to be. Because I need to be. And right now " Yes?"

"My conscience wouldn't bear what might happen to you if you fail. You need help."

Pittman's chest became tight with emotion. He touched her arm. "Thank you."

"Hey, if I don't hang around, who's going to change the bandage on your hand?"

Pittman smiled.

"You ought to do that more often," Jill said.

Self-conscious, Pittman felt his smile lose its strength.

Jill glanced toward East End Avenue. "I'd better find a pay phone and tell the hospital that I won't be coming to work. They'll still have time to get a replacement."

But after she made the call and stepped from the booth, Jill looked perplexed.

"What's wrong?"

"My supervisor in intensive care-she said the police had been in touch with her."

"They must have checked your apartment and connected you with the hospital."

"But she said somebody else called her as well, one of my friends, telling her I was all right but that I wouldn't be coming in."

"What friend?" "A man. I

Pittman's muscles contracted. "Millgate's people. Trying to cover everything. If you did show up at the hospital tonight, you would never have gotten to the sixth floor. But your supervisor wouldn't be worried enough to call the police when you didn't show up because your 'friend' told her you were okay.

"Now I'm really scared."

"And we still haven't solved our problem. Where are you going to stay?" "I've got a better idea."

"What?"

"Let's keep moving," Jill said.

"All night? We'd collapse."

"Not necessarily. You need to go to the library, but it won't be open until tomorrow."

"Right." Pittman was mystified.

"Well, they've got libraries in other cities. Instead of waiting until tomorrow, let's use the time. We'll be able to sleep on the train."

"Train?"

"I take the overnight when I go skiing there." Pittman continued to look perplexed.

"Vermont. "

Pittman suddenly, tensely understood. A chill swep through him. "Yes. Where Professor Folsom told us it was Grollier Academy. Vermont."

A sleeper car wasn't available. Not that it made a differencePittman was so exhausted that he was ready to sleep anywhere. Shortly after the train left Penn Station, he and Jill ate sandwiches and coffee that she had bought in the terminal. She had also been the one who bought the tickets; he didn't want anyone to get a close look at him. For the same reason, he chose a seat against a window in an area that had few passengers. The photo of him that the newspapers and television were using didn't show him as he now looked. Still, he had to be careful.

Soon the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of wheels on rails became hypnotic. Pittman glanced toward the other passengers in the half-full car, assuring himself that they showed no interest in him. Then he peered toward the lights in buildings the train was passing. His eyelids felt heavy. He leaned against the gym bag-he'd retrieved it from Sean O'Reilly's loft-and started to ask Jill how long the trip would take, but his eyelids kept sinking, and he never got the question out.

"Wake up,. He felt someone nudging him. ,Its time to wake up." Slowly he opened his eyes.

Jill was sitting next to him, her hand on his shoulder. Her face was washed. Her hair was combed. She looked remarkably alert, not to mention attractive for so early in the morning. "Guess what?" she asked. "You snore." so"

"No problem. you must be exhausted. I've never seen. anyone sleep so deeply in such uncomfortable conditions ,Compared to a park bench, this is the'Ritz."

"Do you remember switching trains?"

Pittman shook his head. The car was almost deserted, No one was close enough to overhear them.

"You do a convincing job of sleepwalking?" Jill said. "If we hadn't had to board another train, I bet you wouldn't even have gotten up to go to the bathroom."

Pittman gradually straightened from where he'd been scrunched down on the seat. His back hurt. , 'Where are we?"

"A few miles outside Montpelier, Vermont." Jill raised the shade on the window.

Although the sun was barely up, Pittman squinted painfull at a line of pine trees that suddenly gave way, revealing cattle on a sloping pasture. Across a narrow valley, low woo mountains still had occasional patches of snow on them.

"What time is ... ?"

"Six-fifteen. "

"I don't suppose there's any coffee left from last night.," "You're dreaming."

"in that case, wake me when this is over."

"Come on," Jill said. "Straighten yourself up. When this train stops, I want to hit the ground running."

"Are you always this energetic so early in the morning?"

"Only when I'm terrified. Besides, when you're used to working the night shift, this is late afternoon, not morning.

"Not for me." Pittman's eyes felt gritty, as if sand had been thrown into them.

"Let me whisper something that might get you going. "It better be good."

"Breakfast, and I'm paying."

"You're going to have to, since I don't have any cash. But I'll say this-you do have a way with words.

,-montpelier? Sounds French."

"The first settlers in this area were French."

',And this is the capital of Vermont?" Pittman sat with Jill at a restaurant table that gave them a window view of New England buildings along a picturesque street. "It doesn't feel as if many people live here."

"Fewer than ten thousand. But then only about six hundred thousand people live in the entire state."

"A good place to hide out."

"Or to send students to a school that's isolated enough that they won't be contaminated by the Outside world while they're being taught to be aristocrats."

Pittman sipped his coffee. "Do I detect a little anger?"

,'More than a little. My parents tried to raise me that wayto think of myself as better than ordinary people. They're still horrified that I'm a nurse. All those sick people. All that blood.

"I get the feeling your background involves a lot more money than-" "In polite society, this isn't talked about."

"I was never good at manners."

"Millions.

Pittman blinked and set down his coffee cup.

"I don't know how much," Jill said. "My parents won't discuss it. We're having a difference of opinion about how I should conduct my future. They've been trying to punish me by threatening to disinherit me."

"So that's what you meant about the trust fund from your grandparents. "

"They're the ones who earned it. They could handle it without being jerks. But my parents think the money gives them some kind of divine right to look down on people."

"Yes, you are angry."

"I told you, I want to help people, not ignore them or take advantage of them. Anyway, my grandparents anticipated all this and let me be independent byestablishing the trust fund for me.

"We have a similar attitude. When I was a reporter-" "Was? You still are."

"No. I'm an obituary writer. But there was a time ... before Jeremy died, before I fell apart ... The stories I loved doing the best were the ones that involved exposing the corruption of self-important members of the Establishment, especially in the government. It gave me a special pleasure to help drag them down and force them to experience what life is like for all of us ordinary bastards of the world."

"Drag aristocrats like Jonathan Millgate down?" "I sure tried my damnedest."

"Be careful. If you talk like that to the wrong person, you could be providing a motive for why you might have wanted to-"