No! Pittman thought. We’re boxed in!
Drivers got out of the cars. Alarmed by the din of the multiple collisions, men and women hurried out of houses on both sides of the street. Pedestrians watched in shock. The sidewalks became rapidly crowded. Horns blaring, cars lined up in each direction, blocked by the accidents.
“What are we going to do?” Denning whimpered.
“One thing’s sure. We’re not going anywhere in the Rolls,” Jill said.
“Get out of the car,” Pittman said.
“They’ll shoot us,” the servant said.
“We can’t stay here. Hurry. Everybody out.” Pittman helped Denning rise from where he’d been thrown to the floor. “Are you all right? Mrs. Page, what about you?” Pittman shoved his door open. “Mrs. Page, I asked if you’re all right.”
Stunned, slumped in the front seat, Mrs. Page groaned.
Jill leaned over, examining her.
Outside the car, Pittman rushed forward and opened the passenger door. “How is she?”
The drivers of the cars that blocked the Rolls crowded toward Pittman.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?” a man yelled. “You came out of nowhere.”
“She’s shaken up,” Jill said. “But I don’t see any bleeding.”
“We have to get away from here!” Denning wailed.
Pittman spun to study the driveway next to the mansion. Past the commotion of numerous onlookers, he saw solemn-faced men wearing windbreakers running down the shadowy driveway, dispersing into the crowd.
“Jesus, buddy!” a bystander said, stumbling back in terror, pointing toward Pittman’s right hand.
Pittman didn’t understand why the man behaved as he did. Then, squinting down at his right hand, Pittman saw that he still clutched the pistol he had taken from Jill.
The panicked man who’d seen the pistol bumped against the driver of one of the cars that had struck the Rolls. Now the driver, too, saw the pistol and reacted the way the first man had, stumbling to get away.
“Jesus, he’s got a gun!” somebody yelled.
A woman screamed.
The crowd around Pittman bumped into one another in a frenzied effort to get away from the gun.
Pittman kept darting his gaze past them, toward the driveway and sidewalk at Mrs. Page’s mansion. The solemn-faced men wearing windbreakers were no longer in view. He scanned the panicked bystanders, afraid that the gunmen might be using them for cover, stalking nearer.
“She’s all right,” Jill said abruptly behind him.
Pittman spun, seeing Mrs. Page next to Jill.
“Let’s get out of here!” Denning yelled.
“The Duster.” Pittman ran toward the front of the mansion where he had parked it. He pulled out his car keys and unlocked the driver’s door, frantically opened it, then pulled the passenger seat forward, wishing that the Duster had four doors.
Denning scurried into the front. Jill and the servant helped Mrs. Page into the back, throwing Pittman’s gym bag and Jill’s suitcase onto the floor. Pittman pushed the passenger seat back into place, hurried behind the steering wheel, slammed his door, started the car, and sped away from the curb. In the opposite lane, ten cars were backed up, headlights gleaming, drivers and passengers leaning out in confusion. But Pittman’s lane was completely empty, the Rolls and the car that had hit it blocking traffic behind him.
“Stay down!” Pittman yelled to Jill and the others. “If those gunmen are still in the area… !”
He sped through a murky intersection, steered sharply to avoid a pedestrian, shuddered, and turned on his headlights. In the sudden glare, flat-faced brick town houses with cars parked along curbs were a blur on either side of the Duster.
“We got lucky!” Denning blurted. “The crowd scared them away!”
“Maybe,” Pittman said.
“What do you mean maybe?” Denning peered behind him. “I don’t see any headlights! No one’s following us!”
“I agree with you. I think we got away,” Pittman said. “At least for now. What I meant was, I’m not sure they were scared by the crowd.”
Denning shook his head in confusion.
“I have a hunch that if it suited their purposes,” Pittman said, “they’d have shot us right there in the street. In the dark and the panic, who’d be able to identify them?”
“Then why didn’t they?”
Tires protesting, Pittman swerved the Duster around a corner, speeding south on Thirty-fourth Street. Slow down, he warned himself. You can’t let the police stop you. Sweating, he reduced speed and blended with traffic.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Denning complained. “If you don’t think they were frightened by the crowd, why didn’t they shoot us when we got out of the Rolls? What do you mean, it didn’t suit their purpose?”
“The idea wasn’t just to kill us all,” Pittman said. “You’re right. I am Matthew Pittman. The police want me for murdering Jonathan Millgate. But I swear to you, I didn’t do anything to him. If anything, I was trying to help him.” Pittman explained what had happened at the Scarsdale estate. “I’ve been on the run ever since. What Millgate told me is dangerous enough to all of them that they’re desperate to kill me before I figure out what it means.”
Driving, Pittman stared nervously ahead, seeing the lights and traffic of Pennsylvania Avenue. “To prevent me from finding out, they also killed several people I went to for information. They made it look as if I had killed those people. That’s why the newspapers create the impression I’m on a homicidal rampage. But I haven’t killed anyone. No, that’s wrong. I have to be totally honest with you. God help me, I did kill. I had to defend myself against a man in my apartment, against a man who tried to shoot me on a street in Manhattan, and against a man who threatened Jill in her apartment.”
“That’s my real name,” Jill told Mrs. Page. “Those men think I know something, too.”
“But the rest of us,” Mrs. Page said. “Why would they want to—?”
“Those men work for your father and presumably the other grand counselors,” Pittman said. He reached Pennsylvania Avenue and turned to the right onto brightly lit M Street. Traffic was dense. “Your father knows how much you hate him. He knows you want to destroy him. You’re a logical person for us to go to and ask for help.”
Denning objected. “You weren’t aware of her. If it hadn’t been for me…”
“But Eustace Gable doesn’t know that,” Pittman said. “What he does know is that I’m a former reporter. He might have been afraid that I’d use my sources to learn about Mrs. Page and go to her—which is exactly what happened tonight. My guess is, he had a man watching the house in case we showed up. When we did, the man telephoned for help.”
Ahead, Pittman saw the gleaming lights of Francis Scott Key Bridge and steered left onto it, following traffic across the Potomac into Virginia. “I’m supposed to be on a killing spree, some kind of vendetta against the grand counselors. They’d have made it seem that I’d killed you. Why would I have done it? Who knows? The authorities think I’m insane, after all. Maybe, because I couldn’t find Eustace Gable, I vented my rage on his daughter. But Eustace Gable was worried about his daughter. He sent men to see if she was safe. They caught me after I’d killed her. Shots were exchanged. Jill and I didn’t survive. End of story. End of the threat to the grand counselors. And with no one to prove otherwise, the police would have gone along with that explanation.”
“The police,” Mrs. Page said. “We have to go to the police.”
“You can,” Pittman said. “I think they’ll listen to you. With your money and prestige, they’ll do their best to protect you. But your father will do everything in his power to discredit you, to make people think you’re insane. Which is more acceptable to the authorities, that I’m a maniac or that your distinguished father was so determined to keep a secret that he didn’t care if his daughter was killed?”
“My distinguished father,” Mrs. Page said with disgust.<
br />
“And there’s always a risk that your father will arrange to have an accident happen to you while you’re in protective custody,” Pittman said. “Seven years ago, Jonathan Millgate arranged to have the Boston police arrest me for suspicion of burglary while I was investigating him. Two men working for him broke my jaw while I was in jail.”
“That’s why we haven’t given ourselves up,” Jill said. “If Matt surrenders to the police and tries to tell his story, he doesn’t think he’ll be safe. He won’t be believed.”
“The evidence is against me. My chances are a whole lot better if I stay free and do what I can to prove I’m innocent.”
“How?” Mrs. Page asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that. But I can’t do it alone. Will you help?”
“Tell me what you need.”
“I’m still figuring out all the details. But I know this much right now. At your house, people saw the gun in my hand. They saw us put you in our car. They’ll almost certainly have seen our Vermont license plates. What happened can be interpreted as a kidnapping. The police will be looking for us, and they’ll be counting on our Vermont license plates to make it easy for them.” Across the Potomac, opposite Washington, Pittman drove along Fort Myer Drive in Rosslyn, Virginia. “I need to find a nice big bar with a crowded parking lot.”
“Yes,” Denning said. “I could use a stiff drink.”
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” Pittman said. “I want to steal somebody’s Virginia license plates. After they’re on, we’re going to a pay phone. I want you to call your father, Mrs. Page. There are several things I want you to say to him.”
“But I don’t have his private number. He refuses to give it to me.”
“No problem. I’ve got the number,” Pittman said.
“You do? How?”
“Someone I once interviewed gave it to me.”
4
The phone booth was outside a brightly lit convenience store. Pittman parked with other cars in front, and as people went in and out of the store, he remained in the Duster, coaching Mrs. Page on what he wanted her to say.
“Can you remember all that? Do you think you can do it?”
“I’m going to enjoy this,” Mrs. Page answered grimly, the tautness of her face emphasized by shadows in the car. “It’s exactly what I want to say to him.”
“I hope I’m not misleading you. You understand that this can put you in danger.”
“I’m already in danger. I need to protect myself. But I don’t see why we have to use a pay phone. Why can’t we rent a hotel room and use its phone? We’d be more comfortable.”
“If your father’s as obsessed about security as I think he is, he’ll have equipment to trace the phone calls he receives. It’s not that hard to do anymore. Look at Caller ID. It can be done instantly,” Pittman said. “In that case, he’d send men to the hotel. Our room would be a trap.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Page said. “I should have thought.”
“But you thought of it,” Denning told Pittman.
Pittman rubbed his brow, troubled. “The precaution just seemed obvious to me.” He was beginning to realize that he had a talent for being on the run. His head throbbed as he wondered what else he didn’t know about himself.
Jill came back from the store, handing Pittman coins from a five-dollar bill that she had changed. “We’ll soon be out of cash.”
“I know. Thanks for the coins.” He pointed. “What’s in the paper bag?”
“Coffee and doughnuts for everybody.”
“You’ll never eat right again.”
“I just hope I get the chance to try.”
Pittman touched her hand, then turned to Mrs. Page. “So what do you think? Are you ready? Good. Let’s do it.” He escorted Mrs. Page to the phone booth, which was situated where they wouldn’t be disturbed, a distance from the store’s entrance. He pulled out a sheet of paper with the list of telephone numbers that he’d gotten from Brian Botulfson’s computer. After putting coins into the box, he pressed the buttons for Eustace Gable’s home and handed Mrs. Page the telephone.
She stood in the booth and glared through the glass wall before her as if she was seeing her father. In a moment, she said, “Eustace Gable…. Oh, in this case, I think he’ll want to be disturbed. Tell him it’s his loving daughter.” Mrs. Page tapped her pointed fingernails impatiently against the glass of the phone booth. “Well, hello, Father dear. I knew you’d be concerned, so I thought I’d call to tell you that in spite of the goons who came to my house, I’m safe.” She laughed bitterly. “What goons? The ones you hired to kill me, of course…. Stop. Don’t insult my intelligence. Do you actually expect me to believe your denials? I know I’ve disappointed you in a number of ways, not the least of which is that I’m not perfect. But you can take pride in this. You did not raise an idiot. I know what’s happening, Father, and I’m going to do everything in my power to guarantee that you’re stopped…. What am I talking about? Duncan Kline, Father…. What’s the matter? All of a sudden, you don’t seem to have anything to say. When I was young, you always interrupted everything I tried to tell you. Now you’re finally listening. My, my. Duncan Kline, Father. Grollier Academy. The snow. You murdered Jonathan Millgate to keep it a secret. But I’m going to let your secret out. And damn you, I hope you spend the rest of your life suffering. For what you did to Mother.”
Mrs. Page set the telephone on its receptacle, stared at it, exhaled, and turned to Pittman. “That was extremely satisfying.”
“You’ll have plenty of other chances. I want to put pressure on your father, on all of them,” Pittman said. “But right now, we need to get back to the car and drive out of this area—in case your father did trace the call.”
Twenty seconds later, Pittman watched the lights of the convenience store recede in his rearview mirror. “We’ll drive for a couple of miles, then use another pay phone.”
“Right. Now it’s my turn to make a call,” Jill said. “To Winston Sloane. I can’t wait. It feels so good to be confronting them.”
5
At last it was Pittman’s turn. He stopped the car at a phone booth on the edge of a shopping mall’s deserted parking lot in Fairfax, Virginia. Standing in the booth’s light, he studied the list of phone numbers, put coins in the box, and pressed numbers.
The phone on the other end rang only once before a man answered, his deep voice somewhat strained. “Standish residence.”
“I need to speak to him.”
The voice hesitated. “Who’s calling, please?”
“Just put him on. I’m certain he’s still awake, because I’m certain he just received calls from Eustace Gable or Winston Sloane, probably both of them.”
“How do you know that, sir?”
It wasn’t the type of question that Pittman expected a servant to ask. Just as the voice had hesitated a short while earlier, now Pittman hesitated. His plan depended in part on the likelihood that the grand counselors would feel pressured by the phone calls, that they would contact one another and feel even more pressure when they learned that each had been called in a similar manner but by different people. The message to them was clear: You failed to keep your secret; more and more people know what you did in the past and what you’ve done to hide it. With luck, the grand counselors would overreact, make mistakes, and…
The deep, strained voice interrupted Pittman’s thoughts. “Sir, are you still there? I asked, how did you know that Mr. Standish received telephone calls from Eustace Gable and Winston Sloane?”
“Because I want to talk to him about the same matter they wanted to talk to him about,” Pittman said.
“And what is that?” The voice sounded more strained.
“Look, I’m tired of this. Tell him Duncan Kline, Grollier Academy. Tell him he can talk to me about it or he can talk to the police.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Duncan Kline? Grollier Academy?”
In the background on the oth
er end of the line, Pittman heard other voices, the sound of people moving around.
What the hell’s going on? Pittman thought.
“Who am I speaking to?” the voice insisted.
“I get the feeling you’re not a servant.”
“Mr. Standish won’t speak with you unless he knows who’s calling. If I could have your name…”
In the background, Pittman heard a man call out, “Lieutenant.”
“You’re with the police,” Pittman said.
“The police, sir? What makes you think that? All I need is your name and I’ll ask Mr. Standish if—”
“Damn it, what’s happened?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Of course. That’s why you’re having a police convention at his house.”
“Just a few guests.”
“Stop the bullshit! I assume you’re trying to trace this call. Don’t bother. I’m going to hang up if you don’t answer my questions. What’s happened?”
“I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” the voice on the phone said.
6
“Victor Standish is dead?” Jill leaned forward, startled, as Pittman drove quickly from the pay phone in the shopping mall’s deserted parking lot.
“How?” Mrs. Page asked in astonishment.
“The policeman wouldn’t say.” Pittman merged with traffic on Old Lee Highway. “I’m surprised he told me even that much. Obviously he hoped to keep me on the line until he had the number I was calling from and could send a cruiser there.”
Behind him, Pittman heard a fast-approaching siren. He peered tensely toward his rearview mirror and saw the flashing lights of a police car speeding through the glare of traffic. “Maybe I didn’t hang up soon enough.”
The cruiser switched lanes, taking advantage of a break in traffic, increasing speed. Unexpectedly, it veered off the highway.
Pittman’s cramped hands were sweaty, slicking the steering wheel. “I think I’ve had enough adrenaline for one night.”
“I’m glad to hear I’m not the only one who feels exhausted,” Mrs. Page said. “I could use a chance to lie down.”
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