Desperate Measures
Page 16
Pittman's sudden weakness alarmed him. Light-headed, he feared that he
would lose his balance. He leaned against the coffee machine.
What did you expect? he told himself. The past two days, you've had
more exercise than you've had all year. You've been running all over
Manhattan. You got a few hours sleep on a park bench. You haven't had
enough to eat. You've been strung out from fear and adrenaline. It's a
wonder you managed to stay on your feet as long as you have.
But I can't collapse. Not here. Not now.
Why not? he joked bitterly. A hospital's a great place to collapse.
Have to get back to Sean. Have to go back to the loft.
But after Pittman concentrated to steady himself. and pushed away from
the coffee machine, he discovered that he wasn't steady at all. His
legs wavered more disturbingly. His stomach felt queasy. He gripped
the wall, afraid that the janitor at the end of the corridor would look
in his direction, see that he was in trouble, and call for help.
Have to get away from here.
Sure, and how far do you think you'll get? You're oozing sweat, pal.
You're seeing gray. If you go outside, you're to collapse on the
street. After the police find you, after they see the name on your
credit card and find that .45 in your coat pocket ...
Where, then?
His bitter joke echoed in his mind. A hospital's a great place to
collapse.
As the elevator rose, Pittman's light-headedness increased. When the
doors opened on the sixth floor, he strained to look natural and walked
toward the intensive-care area. If Jill Warren came out, or the female
doctor he'd spoken to earlier, he doubted that he'd have the strength to
explain convincingly why he had returned.
But Pittman didn't have another option. The intensive-care waiting room
was the only refuge he could think of that he knew he could get to. Its
lights had been dimmed. He veered left from the corridor, passed
several taut-faced people trying to doze on the uncomfortable chairs,
stepped over a man sleeping on the floor, and came to a metal cabinet in
back. The cabinet contained hospital pillows and blankets, Pittman
knew. He had found out the hard way when Jeremy had been rushed to
intensive care and Pittman had spent the first of many nights in the
waiting room. A staff member had told him about the pillows and
blankets but had explained that usually the cabinet was kept locked.
"Then why store the pillows and blankets in the cabinet if people can't
get to them?" Pittman had complained. "Because we don't want people
sleeping here."
So you force them to stay awake in those metal chairs?"
It's a hospital rule. Tonight I'll make an exception." The staff
member had unlocked the cabinet.
Now Pittman twisted the latch on the cabinet, found that it was locked,
and angrily pulled out the tool knife Sean O'Reilly had given him. His
hands trembled. It took him longer than it normally would have. But
finally, using the lock picks concealed in the knife, he opened the
cabinet.
Dizzy, nauseated, he lay among others in the most murky corner of the
waiting room, a pillow beneath his head, a blanket pulled over him.
Despite the hard floor, sleep had never come quicker or been more
welcome. As he drifted into unconsciousness, he was dimly aware that
others in the waiting room groped toward the pillows and blankets in the
cabinet that he had deliberately left open.
He was disturbed only once-an elderly man waking a frail woman. "She's
dead, May. Nothin' they could do."
Daylight and voices woke him. Those who'd remained all night in the
waiting room were rousing themselves. Others, whose friends or
relatives had evidently just been admitted to intensive care, were
trying to acquaint themselves with their new surroundings.
Pittman sat up wearily, concentrated to clear his head, and stood slowly
with effort. The combination of the hard floor and his previous day's
exertion made his muscles ache. After he folded the blanket and put it
and the pillow into the cabinet, he draped his overcoat over an, arm,
concealing the heavy bulge of the .45 in his right pocket.
A hospital volunteer brought in a cart of coffee, orange juice, and
doughnuts. Noticing a sign that said PAY WHAT YOU CAN, Pittman couldn't
find any more change in his pockets. Sean O'Reilly had lent him twenty
dollars, and Pittman guiltily put in one of those dollars, drank two
cups of orange juice, ate two doughnuts, and suddenly was afraid that he
would throw up. In a washroom down the hall, he splashed cold water on
his face, looked at his pasty complexion in the mirror, touched his
beard stubble, and felt demoralized. How can I possibly keep going? he
thought.
suicide that he had almost conmiitted four nights earlier bother trying?
I'm in so much trouble, I can never get out of it, he thought. Even if
I do get out of it, Jeremy will still be dead. What's the point?
Nothing's worth what I'm going through.
You can't let the bastards destroy you. Remember what you told
yourself-it has to be your idea, not theirs. if you kill yourself now,
you'll be giving them what they want. You'll be letting them win. Don't
let the sons of bitches have that satisfaction.
A short, dreary-looking man whom Pittman recognized from the waiting
room came into the washroom, took off his shirt, chose the sink next to
Pittman, opened a travel kit, lathered his face, and began to shave.
"Say, you wouldn't have another one of those disposable razors, would
you?" Pittman asked.
"Do what I did, buddy. Go down to the shop in the lobby and buy one."
St. Joseph's hadn't benefited from the renovation that, thanks to an
influx of Yuppies during the eighties, had taken place in other parts of
SoHo. Although small, the church's architecture resembled a cathedral,
but its sandstone exterior was black with soot, its stained-glass
windows grimy, its interior badly in need of painting. Pittman stood at
the rear of the church, smelled incense, listened to an organ that
sounded as if it needed repair, and surveyed the impressive amount of
worshipers who, unmindful of the bleak surroundings, had come for Sunday
Mass. The front of the church wasn't bleak, though. A golden chalice
gleamed on the altar. Candles glowed. A tall, intense priest wearing a
crimson vestment read from the Gospel, then delivered a sennon about
trusting in God and not giving in to despair.
Right, Pittman thought bleakly. He sat in a pew in back and watched the
continuation of the first Mass he'd attended in many years. He had
never gone to church on a regular basis, but after Jeremy had died, his
indifference had turned to rejection. As a consequence, he couldn't
account for his impulse when the time came for communion and he followed
parishioners toward the altar. He told himself that he wanted a closer
look at the priest, for an assistant at the church's had told Pittman
that Father Dandridge would be conducting this particular Mass.
Coming near to him, Pittman s
aw that the priest was in his middle
fifties and that his strong features had deep lines of strain. He had a
jagged scar across his chin, and his left hand was welted from what
looked like the consequence of a long-ago fire. When Pittman received
communion, the emptiness inside him felt immense.
The priest ended the Mass. "Go in peace."
Not just yet, Pittman thought.
As the parishioners left, he made his way toward the front of the
church, went through a door on the right, and found himself in the
sacristy, the room next to the altar where objects needed for Mass were
customarily stored.
The priest was taking off his vestments, setting them on a counter, when
he noticed Pittman enter. Deliberate movements and cordlike sinews
visible on the priest's forearms suggested a man who kept his mind and
body in condition and control. He became still, watching Pittman
approach. "May I help you?" the priest asked.
"Father Dandridge?"
"That's correct.
"I need to speak to you."
"Very well." The priest waited.
As Pittman hesitated, the priest cocked his head. "You look nervous. Is
this a personal matter something for confession?"
"No. Yes. I mean, it is personal, but ... What I need to speak to you
about-" Pittman felt apprehensive about the reaction he would get-"is
Jonathan Millgate."
The priest's dark eyes assessed him. "Yes, I remember you from the
Mass. The anguish on your face as you came up for communion. As if the
weight of the entire world were on your shoulders."
"That's how it feels."
'Understandably. If what the newspapers say about you is true, Mr.
Pittman."
ic. It had never occurred to Pittman that the priest would be able to
identify him. Nerves quickening, he swung toward the door, about to
flee.
"No," Father Dandridge said. "Please. Don't go. Be calm. "
Something in the priest's voice made Pittman hesitate.
"I give you my word," Father Dandridge said. "You have nothing to fear
from me. "
Pittman's stomach cramped. "How did you know ... ?"
"Who you are?" Father Dandridge gestured, inadvertently drawing
Pittman's attention to his scarred left hand. "Jonathan Millgate and I
had a special relationship. It shouldn't be surprising that I would
have read every newspaper article and watched every television report I
could find to learn more about what happened to him. I have studied
your photograph many times. I recognized you immediately."
Pittman couldn't seem to get enough air. "It's important that you
believe this. I didn't kill him."
"Important to me or you?"
"I tried to save him, not harm him. " Pittman was suddenly conscious of
the amplifying echo in the small room. He glanced nervously toward the
archway that led to the altar.
Father Dandridge gazed in that direction, as well. The church was
almost empty. A few elderly men and women remained kneeling, their
heads bowed in prayer.
"No one seems to have heard you," Father Dandridge said. "But the next
Mass is scheduled to begin in half an hour. The church will soon be
full." He pointed toward two men who entered at the back of the church.
"Is there somewhere we can talk?"
"I ask you again, do you want confession?"
"What I want is what you promised at the end of the Mass.
Peace. " Father Dandridge intensified his gaze, then nodded. "Come
with me."
The priest led the way toward a door at the back of the sacristy. When
he opened it, Pittman was amazed to look out toward a garden, its
well-kept appearance in contrast with the decay at the front of the
church. Neatly mowed grass was flanked by blooming lilacs, their
fragrance wafting through the open door. The rectangular area was
enclosed by a high brick wall. Father Dandridge motioned for Pittman to
precede him.
When Pittman didn't respond, the priest looked amused. ,.Suspicious of
me? You don't want to turn your back on me? How could I possibly hurt
you?"
"Lately, people have been finding ways." Keeping his hand on the .45
hidden in his overcoat pocket, Pittman glanced back through the arch
toward the church, which was rapidly being filled. He followed the
priest into the garden and shut the door.
The morning sun was warm and brilliant, emphasizing the jagged white
scar on Father Dandridge's chin. The priest sat on a metal bench. The
sound of the city's traffic seemed far away.
"Why should I believe that you didn't kill Jonathan Millgate?"
"Because if I did, I ought to be on the run. Why would I come to you?"
Father Dandridge raised his shoulders. "Perhaps you're as deranged as
the news reports say. Perhaps you intend to kill me, as well."
"No. I need your help."
"And how could I possibly help you? Why would I want to help you?"
"In the news reports, Millgate's people claim they took him from the
hospital to protect him from me, but that's not true," Pittman insisted.
"The real reason they took him is they didn't want to expose him to
reporters after the story broke about his supposed connection with
trying to buy nuclear weapons from the former Soviet Union."
"Even if you can prove what you say .
"I can."
"... it's irrelevant to whether or not you killed him."
"It's very relevant. Look, I followed him from the hospital, yes. But
I wasn't stalking him. I wanted to find out why he'd been taken. At
the estate in Scarsdale, the nurse and doctor who were supposed to be
caring for him left him alone. He became disconnected from his
life-support system. I managed to get into his room and help him."
"But a witness claims it happened the other way around, that you cut off
his oxygen and caused him to have a fatal heart attack."
"A nurse came in when I was putting the oxygen prongs into Millgate's
nostrils. She heard Millgate tell me something. I think that's what
all of this is about. His people were afraid of reporters asking him
questions. But I'm a reporter, and what Millgate told me may have been
exactly what they didn't want anybody to know. They tried to stop me,
but I got away, and .
Dandridge added, "So they decided to cut off JonaMillgate's life-support
system, to let him die to prevent him from ever telling anyone else.
Then they blamed his death on you so that even if you tried to use what
you were told, you wouldn't be believed."
"That's right," Pittman said, amazed. "That's the theory I'm trying to
prove. How did-?"
"When you hear enough confessions, you become proficient at
anticipating."
"This isn't confession!"
"What did Jonathan Millgate say to you?" Pittman's energy dwindled,
discouragement overcoming him. He rubbed the back of his neck. "That's
the problem. It doesn't seem that important. In a way, it doesn't even
make sense. But later a man tried to kill me at my apartment because of
what Millgate had told me."
"Now you tell me."
"A man's name." Pittman shook his
head in confusion. "And something
about snow."
"A name?"
"Duncan Grollier.
Father Dandridge concentrated, assessing Pittman. "Jonathan Millgate
was perhaps the most despicable man I have ever met."
"What? But you said that the two of you were friends."
Father Dandridge smiled bitterly. "No. I said that he and I had a
special relationship. I could never be his friend. But I could pity
him as much as I loathed his actions. I could try to save his soul. You
see, I was his confessor."
Pittman straightened with surprise.
"When you saw me in the sacristy, you couldn't help noticing my scars."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to .
"It's quite all right. There's no need to worry about my feelings. I'm
proud of these scars. I earned them in combat. During the Vietnam War.
I was a chaplain in I Corps. A base I was assigned to-close to the
demilitarized zone-came under siege. Bad weather kept reinforcements
from being brought in. We were under constant mortar bombardment. Of
course, as a noncombatant, I wasn't allowed to use a weapon, but I could
care for the wounded. I could crawl with. food and water and
ammunition. I could give dying men the last sacrament. The scar on my