Desperate Measures

by David Morrell

  chin is from shrapnel. The scars on my hand are from a fire I helped to

  put out. When I say I'm proud of these scars, it's because they remind

  me of what a privilege it was to serve beside such brave men. Of two

  hundred, only fifty survived by the time reinforcements were able to

  come. None of those who died was older than twenty-one. And I blame

  Jonathan Millgate for those deaths, just as I blame him for the entire

  forty-seven thousand men who died in battle in that war. A hundred and

  fifty thousand men were wounded. Thousands of other lives were

  destroyed because of the psychological effects of the war. And why?

  Because Millgate and his four colleagues"-the priest twisted his lips in

  contempt-"the Waited grand counselors-advised the President and the

  nation that the domino theory was something worth dying for, that if we

  didn't keep the Communists out of View, the rest of Southeast Asia would

  fall to them. A quarter of a century later, communism is a crumbling

  philosophy, and southeast Asia is becoming ever more capitalistic, even

  though South Vietnam was taken over by the Communists. The war made no

  difference. But Jonathan Millgate and the other grand counselors became

  obscenely rich because of their relationship with the arms industry that

  inevitably profited from the war the grand counselors insisted was

  necessary.

  "And now Millgate was being investigated for a nuclear weapons scandal,"

  Pittman said. "Is that why he wanted so desperately to talk to you

  before he died? His associates were determined to keep him away from

  you. They felt you were a problem.

  Father Dandridge squinted. "When I came back from Vietnam, I harassed

  Jonathan Millgate at every opportunity. I organized demonstrations

  against him. I tried to shame him in every way I could. I believe I

  was one of the reasons he stopped being a diplomat and retired from

  public view. Of course, he still manipulated government policy, but at

  least he was forced to do it from comparative hiding. Then to MY

  surprise, six months ago, he phoned me. He asked permission to come and

  see me. Suspicious, I agreed, and when he arrived, I discovered that he

  was having a crisis of conscience. He wasn't a Catholic, but he felt a

  desperate need to bare his soul. He wanted me to be his confessor."

  "His confessor? After all the trouble you'd made for him?"

  "He wanted to confess to someone whom he could not intimidate."

  "But what was so important that he needed to confess?"

  Father Dandridge shook his head. "You know I'm bound, at the risk of my

  soul, never to reveal whathear in confession. "

  Pittman breathed out with effort. "Then I came here for nothing.

  "Duncan Grollier. Are you sure that's the name you heard Pittman

  nodded. "Except . "What?"

  "He mentioned Duncan several times. Then snow. Then Grollier. Could

  Snow be someone's last name?"

  "I don't know. But in this case, Grollier isn't. It's the name of the

  prep school Millgate went to. That's a matter of Public record. I'm

  not violating any confidence by telling you. In conscience, it's all I

  can tell you. But itought to be enough."

  "What are you talking about? Enough? I don't understand.

  The bullet struck Father Dandridge's right eye. Pittman was so startled

  by the sudden eruption of blood and jellylike tissue that he recoiled,

  gasping. At first he wasn't even sure what had happened. Then stumbling

  back, he saw the spray of brain and blood that spewed onto the lawn from

  the rear of Father Dandridge's head.

  Pittman wanted to scream, but terror paralyzed his voice. He bumped

  against a statue and flinched as a bullet blasted chunks from the stone.

  Although he hadn't heard any shots, it seemed that the bullets were

  coming from the door through which heand Father Dandridge had entered

  the garden. Using the statue for cover, Pittman pulled the .45 from his

  overcoat, tried to control his trembling hands, cocked the pistol, and

  understood that he'd be foolish to show himself in order to aim at the

  door.

  The garden became eerily silent. The gunman must have used a silencer,

  Pittman thought. No one in the church knows what happened. No one will

  send for help.

  But another Mass is due to start, Pittman realized. When the priest

  enters the sacristy to put on his vestments, he'll see the gunman

  peering out toward this garden.

  The priest will call for help-and be shot.

  I can't let that happen! I have to get out of here!

  Pittman heard a creaking noise as if the door to the garden was being

  opened wider. His hands were slick with sweat. He clutched the .45

  harder.

  Shoot!

  But I don't have a target!

  The noise will bring help.

  Not in time.

  There weren't any other doors out of the garden. By the time Pittman

  reached the brick wall and tried to climb it, he knew he'd be shot.

  It may have been Pittman's imagination, but he thought he heard a

  footstep.

  He glanced around in a frenzy. His pulse raced. He thought he heard

  another footstep.

  Past a lilac bush on his right, he saw a ground-level window that led to

  the church's basement. Nauseated by fear, he shot blindly from the side

  of the statue toward where he thought he had heard the footstep. He

  lunged toward the opposite side of the statue and fired again and again,

  this time showing himself but unable to aim steadily. He saw a I man

  dive behind the bench upon which Father Dandridge lay. He saw another

  man duck back into the sacristy. And he realized he had only four

  bullets left. The way he was shaking, he might use them all without

  hitting either gunman.

  Move!

  Firing again to cover himself, he charged to his right toward the lilac

  bush and the window behind it. Chest heaving, he hit the ground, clawed

  toward the window, and slammed his pistol at the glass, breaking it. The

  force made the window open. It hadn't been secured. As the window

  tilted inward on hinges, Pittman thrust himself through the opening. He

  fell into darkness, twisting, plummeting. With an impact that knocked

  his breath from him, he landed on a bench, then toppled painfully onto

  the floor. He winced. Broken glass from the window impaled his left

  hand, deep, burning. He pulled out the glass, alarined by the flow of

  blood and the searing pain, scrambled desperately to his feet, and ran.

  From the open window, a man shot into the dark room.

  Pittman's eyes adjusted to the shadows enough to see a doorway ahead. He

  fired toward the window, heard a moan, jerked the door open, and surged

  into a brightly lit room, where he blinked in dismay at a group of women

  setting out pastries for what looked like a bake sale. Their mouths

  fell open in shock. A woman dropped a cake. A baby started wailing.

  Another woman shrieked-but not before Pittman heard noises behind him,

  the two men climbing down into the room.

  "Get out of the way!" Pittman ordered the women. He raised his gun,

  the sight of which made them scurry. At once he slammed the door behindr />
  him, saw that it didn't have a lock, and grabbed one of the tables,

  dragging it toward the door, hoping to brace the door shut.

  A shot from behind the door splintered wood. Pittman fired back. Only

  one more bullet. As women screamed, he raced toward stairs at the end

  of the large room. Above him, he heard a commotion in the church.

  He reached the stairs, expecting the gunmen to knock the door open and

  fire at him. But as he hurried up, he risked a glance behind him and

  saw that the door remained closed. Too many witnesses. They're not

  taking chances. they're climbing out the window. They're going over

  the wall.

  Hearing numerous hurried footsteps at the top of the stairs, Pittman

  shoved the .45 into his pocket. Frantic parishioners charged down the

  steps toward him.

  "A man with a gun! Down there!" Pittman showed them the hand that he'd

  cut on the broken glass. in greater pain, he clutched it, trying to

  stop the flow of blood. "He shot me!

  'Call the police."

  "A doctor. I need a doctor." Sweating, Pittman pushed his way through

  the crowd.

  The crowd began to panic.

  "What if he shoots someone else?"

  "He might kill all of us!"

  Abruptly reversing its direction, the crowd charged up the stairs. The

  press of bodies made Pittman feel suffocated. Their force carried him

  up. A door loomed. Someone banged it open. The crowd surged into the

  street, taking Pittman with them. A few seconds later, he was enveloped

  by the confusion of hundreds of panicked churchgoers.

  As a siren approached, Pittman shoved his bleeding hand into his

  overcoat pocket. He stayed with a group of frightened men and women who

  hurried away. By the time the flashing lights of the first police car

  arrived, he was turning a corner, hailing a taxi.

  "What's all the trouble down there?" the driver asked.

  "A shooting."

  "At a church? God help us."

  "Somebody better."

  "Where do you want to go?"

  A damned good question, Pittman thought. In desperation, he told the

  driver the first nearby location he could think of. "Washington

  Square."

  Pittman hoped he seemed just one of many Sunday-morning strollers. In

  contrast with the week's cool, rainy weather, the day was warin and

  bright. Joggers and bicyclists sped past street musicians and portrait

  Painters, indigents and street vendors. Near the Washington Arch,

  students with New York University T-shirts played with a Frisbee while a

  beard-stubbled man holding a bottle in a paper bag stumbled past them.

  Pittman didn't pay attention to any of it. Concealed in his overcoat

  pocket, his hand continued to throb against a handkerchief that he had

  wrapped around it to staunch the flow of blood. obviously he was hurt

  worse than he'd thought. He felt light-headed again, but this time he

  was sure it was from the blood he'd lost. He had to get to a hospital.

  But a hospital wouldn't give him treatment unless he showed ID and

  filled out an information form. If the receptionist recognized his name

  or if the police alerted the hospitals to be on the lookout for someone

  with a bleeding hand ... No. He had to find another way to get medical

  help.

  And then what? he kept insisting to himself. Where will you go after

  that? Father Dandridge was supposed to have all your answers, and now

  he's dead and you don't know anything more than when you started.

  Did they kill him? Pittman thought urgently. If they were after me,

  why didn't they wait until I left the church?

  Because they wanted both of us. They must have been watching him. They

  were looking for any sign that he was going to act on what Millgate had

  told him in earlier confessions. And when I showed up, they assumed we

  were working together.

  But what did Father Dandridge know that was so important?

  Grollier, the prep school Millgate had attended.

  It must have some significance. Damn it, somebody's worried enough to

  kill anybody I come in touch with who might know anything about the

  thoughts that tortured Millgate in his final hours.

  Final hours.

  Pittman suddenly knew where he had to go next.

  "Detective Logan," he said to the intercom. A buzzer sounded,

  electronically unlocking the outside door.

  Pittman stepped through, noting the attractive wood paneling in the

  Upper West Side apartment building. He took the woman's elevator to the

  fifth floor. He'd been worried that her phone number wouldnt be listed

  or that she wouldn't be home after he checked the phone book and came

  here. As he knocked on the door, he worried as well that she wouldn't

  be receptive, but when she opened the door, using her left hand to keep

  her housecoat securely fastened, squinting at him through sleepy eyes,

  she looked puzzled more than upset.

  Silhouetted by sunlight streaming through a living room window behind

  her, Jill Warren murmured, "Don't you know its the middle of the night?"

  That was something Pittman had hoped for-that instead Of going out to

  enjoy the day, she would be home, sleeping after she finished her night

  shift at the hospital.

  "Sorry," he said. ,I didn't have a choice."

  Jill yawned, reminding Pittman of a kitten pawing at its face. Although

  her long blond hair was tangled and her face was puffy from just having

  been wakened, Pittman thought she was beautiful.

  "You need to ask me more questions?"

  "A little more than that, I'm afraid."

  "I don't understand."

  "I need help." Pittman withdrew his bloodstained hand from his overcoat

  pocket.

  "My God." Jill's eyes came fully open. "Huffy. Come in." She

  gripped his arm, guiding him through the doorway, quickly closing it.

  "The kitchen's this way. I wondered why you looked so pale. I thought

  maybe you hadn't gotten any sleep. But ... Here, put your hand in the

  sink." As Pittman wavered, she hurriedly brought a chair from the

  kitchen table and made him sit beside the sink while she pulled off his

  overcoat.

  The .45 concealed in its right pocket thunked against the chair and made

  Jill frown.

  "Look, I know this is an imposition," Pittman said. "If I'm

  interrupting anything ... If someone's here and .

  "Nobody

  At the hospital, PPittman had noted that she wasn't wearing a wedding

  ring. Nonetheless, he'd been concerned that she might be living with

  someone. Her roommate might have gone out for the day to avoid making

  noise, to let her sleep.

  "I live alone," Jill said. "This handkerchief is stuck to your wound.

  I'm going to run cool water over it andpeel it off. How did you-? Good.

  It's coming off. Does that hurt?"

  I "No.

  "Sure. That's why your face turned gray. This looks like a cut. "

  ."Broken glass."

  "Deep. You should have gone to the hospital instead of coming here. "

  "Your apartment was closer."

  "You need stitches."

  "No," Pittman said.

  Jill frowned at him, then returned her attention to Pittman's hand.
r />   "Which do you object to, the hospital or the stitches?"

  Pittman didn't answer.

  Jill rinsed the crusted blood off the hand, then directed a gentle flow

  of water into the cut. "Keep your hand under the water. I have to get

  bandages and disinfectant."

  Then she was gone. Pittman worried that she might decide to run from

  the apartment.

  To his relief, he heard her opening drawers in another room. He stared

  at the blood welling from his hand, the water diluting it, pink fluid

  flowing down the drain. Weary, he looked away, feeling oddly at a

  distance as he scanned the small, bright, neatly arranged kitchen. A

  pot holder in the shape of a cat seemed more amusing than it should have

  been.

  "Your face is grayer," Jill said with concern, hurrying back. "I can't

  imagine what you're smiling about. Do you feel delirious?"

  "A little off balance."

  "For God sake, don't fall off the chair." Jill put her arms around him,

  leaning past him, over the sink.

  He felt her breasts against his back but was too tired to respond with

  anything but gratitude that she was taking care of him.

  Gently she washed his hand, blotted it with a towel, applied amber

  disinfectant to the cut, put a dressing on a gauze pad, and wrapped a