Desperate Measures

by David Morrell

  use to me. I'm sure the police are watching my friends and my ex-wife

  to see if I contact them, but they'll never think about people I've met

  as a reporter."

  Nonetheless, Pittman felt nervous. He quelled his emotion and stepped

  forward.

  In the building's shiny, well-maintained lobby, a uniformed doorman

  greeted them. "May I help you?"

  "Professor Folsom. Do you know if he's in?"

  "He just got back from his afternoon walk. Is he expecting you?"

  Pittman breathed easier. He had been afraid that Professor Folsom might

  not live here anymore or, worse, that the elderly professor might have

  died. "Please tell him I'm a reporter. I'd like to talk to him about

  the Walt Whitman manuscript he discovered. "

  "Certainly, sir.

  They waited while the doorman walked toward a telephone on a counter at

  the side of the lobby.

  "Whitman manuscript?" Jill whispered. "What on earth does Whitman have

  to do with-?

  The doorman came back. "Professor Folsom says he'd be pleased to see

  you. " The doorman gave the apartment number and directed them past a

  fireplace toward an elevator in a corridor at the rear of the lobby.

  "Thanks. "

  "Whitman?" Jill repeated after they got in the elevator.

  "Professor Folsom is an expert on him. He used to teach American

  literature at Columbia University. He's been retired for about fifteen

  years. But age hasn't slowed him down. He kept doing research, and

  five years ago he came across a Whitman manuscript, or what he believes

  is a Whitman manuscript, in some papers he was examining. There was a

  controversy about it. Was the manuscript authentic? Was it really a

  new Whitman poem? Some scholars said no. It seemed a good

  human-interest story, so I did an article about it. Foisom's quite a

  guy."

  "But won't he remember you? Won't he call the police?"

  "Why would he make the connection between a reporter who spoke to him

  five years ago and a man in the news this week? Besides, he doesn't

  have a television, and he thought it amusing that I was a newspaper

  reporter."

  "Why?'

  "He seldom reads newspapers."

  "But how does he get any news?"

  "He doesn't. He's a fanatic about history, not current events. He's

  also an expert in American education. I doubt there's a college or prep

  school he doesn't know about."

  The elevator stopped at the fifteenth floor, and Pittman knocked on

  Folsom's door.

  A tall, slender, stoop-shouldered elderly man peered out. He wore a

  brown herringbone sport coat, a white shirt, and a striped yellow tie.

  His skin was pale. His short beard and long hair were startlingly

  white. His trifocal glasses had wide metal frames, which only partially

  hid the deep wrinkles around his eyes.

  "Professor, my name's Peter LOgan. This is my friend Jill."

  "Yes. The doorman explained that You were a reporter." Professor

  Folsom's voice was thin and gentle

  "I'm doing a follow-up on the Whitman manuscript You discovered. At the

  time, there was a controversy. I'm curious how it was resolved."

  "You honestly believe your readers would care?"

  "I care."

  "Come in, please. I always enjoy talking about Whitman. As Professor

  Folsom led them across a foyer, they passed an immaculately preserved

  walnut side table. Open doors on each side of the foyer showed similar

  well-cared-for antiques.

  "That's quite a collection," Pittman said.

  "Thank you."

  They entered the living room, and here there were even more antiques.

  "They're exclusively American," Professor Folsom explained with

  pleasure. "From the mid- and late nineteenth century. That secretary

  desk was owned by Nathaniel Hawthorne. That hutch was Emerson's. That

  rocking chair was Melville's. When my wife was still alive"-he glanced

  fondly toward a photograph of a pleasant-looking elderly woman on the

  wall-"we made a hobby of collecting them.

  "Nothing that was owned by Whitman?"

  "The old fox traveled lightly. But I managed to find several items. I

  keep them in my bedroom. In fact, the bed itself belonged to him."

  Professor Folsom looked delighted with himself. "Sit down. Would you

  like some tea?"

  "Tea would be nice," Jill said.

  For the next half hour, they discussed poetry and manuscripts with one

  of the most ingratiating people Pittman had ever met. In particular,

  the old man's sense of peace was remarkable. Pittman felt envious.

  Remembering Folsom's reference to his deceased wife, he wondered how it

  was possible to reach such advanced years and not be worn down by

  despair'

  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."

  AK

  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 ,Comp
ared 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.,"