Desperate Measures

by David Morrell

  leather, their spines stamped with gold numbers that indicated years,

  arranged chronologically, beginning with 1900.

  "I thought Caradine said the school went back a hundred and thirty

  years," Pittman said. "Where are the other yearbooks?"

  "Maybe the school only started the tradition at the turn of the

  century."

  Pittman shrugged. "Maybe. Millgate was eighty. Assuming he graduated

  when he was eighteen, his last semester at Grollier would have been .

  .."

  "The spring of '33," Jill said-. "How on earth did you do that so

  fast?"

  "I've always been good with numbers. All my money, you know," Jill

  said, joking to break the tension. "Of course, Millgate might have

  graduated when he was seventeen."

  "And the other grand counselors aren't all Millgate's age. Let's try a

  few years in each direction-1929 to 1936."

  "Fine with me," Jill said. "I'll take up to '32. You take the rest."

  "There's a table over here."

  Sitting opposite each other, they stacked the yearbooks and began to

  read.

  "At least the students are presented in alphabetical order. That'll

  save time," Jill said. Pittman turned a "We know that Millgate, Eustace

  Gable, and Anthony Lloyd went to school here. The other grand

  counselors are Winston Sloane and Victor Standish. But we also have to

  look for someone else."

  "Who?"

  "Duncan. The way Millgate said the name ... It had the same intensity

  as when he said 'Grollier.' I have to believe the two are connected. The

  trouble is, Duncan can be a first name as well as a last."

  "Which means we'll have to check every student's name in all these

  books." Jill frowned toward the stack. "How large a student body did

  Professor Folsom say Grollier had?

  Three hundred at one time? We've got a lot of names to read."

  They turned pages intently.

  "Dead," Pittman murmured.

  Jill looked at him, puzzled.

  "Old photographs always give me a chill," he said.

  "I know what you mean. Most of these students are dead by now. But

  here they are, in their prime." Pittman thought of how he coveted every

  photograph of his dead son. His mouth felt dry.

  "Eustace Gable," Jill said. "Found him. Nineteen twenty nine. A

  freshman."

  "Yes, I found him as a senior in 1933. Here's Anthony Lloyd. Nineteen

  thirty-three. A senior," Pittman said.

  "I've got him as a freshman in '29. And here's Millgate.

  "But that doesn't do us any good. We already knew they went to school

  here. "

  "Hey," Jill said. "Got another one."

  "Who?"

  "Winston Sloane. A freshman. Nineteen twenty-nine.

  "So I was right. He did go to school here, but the son of a bitch

  didn't include that in biographical facts he gave to researchers. He

  wanted it off the record."

  "Got another one," Jill said excitedly. "Victor Standish.

  "Every damned one of them."

  "We don't need the other books," Jill said. "The names are repeated

  from year to year. They entered in '29 and graduated in '33."

  "But what about Duncan? I didn't come across even one student with a

  first or last name of Duncan. What was Millgate trying to tell me.

  What's the connection between ... ?"

  A shadow loomed beyond the door's opaque glass window. Although Pittman

  wasn't looking in that direction, he sensed the brooding presence and

  turned just as the door came open. The stranger who entered took long,

  forceful steps. He wore the gray slacks, navy blazer, and red striped

  tie that were Grollier's uniform. He was tall, rigidly straight, in his

  fifties, with a pointed jaw, a slender patrician nose, and an imperious

  gaze.

  "Would you mind telling me what you're doing?"

  Pittman stood. "Why, yes. I'm planning to write a book about your

  school, and-"

  "You didn't answer my question. What are YOU doing?" Pittman looked at

  Jill in feigned confusion. "Research. At the moment, we're looking at

  yearbooks."

  "Without permission."

  "Mr. Caradine, the librarian, said we could"

  "Mr. Car-adine doesn't have the authority to give you permission.

  "Perhaps you could tell me who-"

  The man's eyes flashed. "Only I can. I'm the academy's headmaster. "

  "Ah. Mr. Bennett." Pittman remembered the name that the boyoutside

  had mentioned. "We wanted to speak with you, but since it was lunchtime

  and you weren't in your office, we thought we'd come over here in the

  meanwhile. "

  "It wouldn't have done you any good. There are procedures that must be

  followed, letters to be submitted, applications to be filed."

  "Letters? Applications? But you just said that you're the only one who

  can give permission for-"

  "I said I'm the academy's headmaster. I have a board of supervisors who

  must be consulted about the sort of breach of privacy you're

  suggesting."

  "But my book would be for the benefit of-"

  "I'm afraid I must ask you to leave."

  If he cuts off one more of my sentences Pittman thought. "Whatever you

  want," Pittman said. "I'm sorry for the misunderstanding. Perhaps we

  could go back to your office and discuss the problem. "

  "Yes, there is a misunderstanding, but not the one you suspect. I did

  not mean leave this room. I meant leave the campus, " Bennett glared

  toward Pittman, pointing toward the open door.

  "Very well." Pittman worked to control himself. He was suddenly

  conscious that Jill stood next to him. "I'll write you a letter

  explaining what I want."

  "I doubt that the letter will accomplish anything."

  "I see."

  "Good day."

  "Good day.

  "Friendly place." Jill drove from the parking lot.

  "Yeah, I've been kicked out of a lot of spots, but never a prep school."

  Jill followed the paved section that flanked the square, passed several

  classroom buildings and the administration building, then headed along

  the lane through the valley. "is he still watching?" Pittman turned to

  look. "In front of the library building. I can feel him glaring all

  the way from here. Mr. Personality. "

  Jill steered past the stables, then reached open grassland. Elane began

  to rise. "What touched him off? Do you think he's really annoyed that

  we didn't ask permission from him instead of the librarian?"

  "Something tells me it wouldn't have done any good if we'd gone to see

  him first. This way, at least we got into the archives. Looks like

  we've got company."

  "I see it in the rearview mirror. A brown station wagon leaving the

  school. Millgate's people?" Jill tensed. I 'What if they were waiting

  in case we came here?"

  "I think they'd have moved against us before now."

  "Unless they didn't want to cause trouble at the school.

  All those kids. Too many witnesses. Maybe a few miles down the road,

  they'll catch up to us and ... "

  Jill crested the hill. The lane sloped sharply toward the building that

  reminded Pittman of a sentry's station. He lifted the back of his

  sports coat and p
ulled the .45 from behind his back.

  "What are you doing?" Jill asked nervously.

  "Just in case," Pittman said

  At once Jill was past the small building, driving through the open gate,

  reaching the country road.

  "No, don't turn left. Go the other way," Pittman said.

  "But left takes us back toward Montpelier." '-Thats the way they'll

  expect us to go. If Millgate's people are in that station wagon ... For

  now, they can't see us from the other side of the hill."

  Jill veered right, tires squealing, onto the narrow country road. She

  stepped on the accelerator so hard that Pittman was pressed against the

  back of his seat. He gripped the dashboard as she swung around a curve.

  Pine trees lined the road.

  "Take it easy."

  "There's nothing wrong with my driving."

  "that's not what I meant. You're doing great. But I want to get off

  the road. Look for a- There . Between those trees . "

  Faster than Pittman expected, Jill stamped on the brake, twisted the

  steering wheel, and jolted off the road onto a semiovergrown,

  wheel-rutted lane that disappeared among pine trees. Sunlight became

  shadows as the Duster scraped past bushes. The impact of lurching over

  a rock slammed Pittman harder against the seat. He stared through the

  rear window. "We're hidden from the road. Stop." The moment Jill did,

  Pittman shoved his driver's door open and hurried out. Stooping, doing

  his best not to expose himself, he chose an angle through the pine trees

  that would lead him back to the curve in the road. Sensing that he was

  close, he slowed, stepped carefully over a log, and crept among

  undergrowth. Immediately he came into sunlight and sank to the ground,

  seeing the road.

  Across from him, to his right, was the open gate that led to the

  academy. Beyond it, the station wagon came rapidly into sight at the

  top of the wooded hill. As it sped down toward the gate, Pittman saw

  two husky men in the vehicle. They didn't look happy.

  But to Pittman's surprise, the station wagon didn't pull out onto the

  road and speed toward Montpelier in pursuit of the Duster. Instead, it

  skidded to a stop at the gate. The two men got out angrily, swung the

  gate shut, and secured a chain and lock to it. With the gate fully in

  view, Pittman noticed a sign that he hadn't been able to see before: NO

  TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED. I bet they will, Pittman

  thought as the two men stalked back to the station wagon, slammed their

  doors shut behind them, and drove back up the hill, disappearing over it

  toward the school.

  Pittman waited to make sure that no one else was coming, then slowly

  stood. As he turned toward the forest, he saw Jill rise from bushes not

  far behind him.

  "I don't get it," she said. "If they were Millgate's people, wouldn't

  they have followed us?"

  "Maybe they were ordered not to leave the campus." Pittman entered the

  cover of the trees.

  "'Or maybe that's just Grollier's physical education staff," Jill' said.

  "The football coach. The rowing instructor. Bennett might have told

  them to make sure we were off the property, and ve weren't, to give us

  some physical incentive."

  Pittman stepped over another log. "Until reinforcements . Bennett was

  testier than he needed to be. Someone might have warned him to be

  suspicious of visitors."

  "And now he'll make some phone calls."

  "Right," Pittman said. "But maybe they'll think we've really gone."

  "We haven't?" Jill frowned. "You mean you don't plan to go back to

  Montpelier?"

  "Where would we go from there?" Ahead, through the shadows of the

  trees, Pittman saw the gray Duster. "What other leads do we have?"

  "But what else can we do here? We found out that no one named Duncan,

  first or last name, went to school with the grand counselors. Millgate

  must have been rambling. Duncan and Grollier have nothing to do with

  each other."

  "No. I have to be sure." Pittman reached the Duster and leaned against

  its side. "I'm going back. Tonight."

  As Pittman climbed the slats in the chest-high wooden fence, a quarter

  moon in a cloudless Sky Provided sufficient illumination. He dropped to

  the other side and entered the darkness of trees. He wore sneakers and

  the dark sweat suit he had stored in his gym bag. In addition, he wore

  a black wool cap, jacket,'and gloves that he had bought, along with the

  knapsack, in a village ten miles farther along the road from the school.

  The jacket had roomy pockets, one of which contained his .45, the other

  a small flashlight.

  He crept through the trees and soon emerged again into moonlight,

  crouching on an open ridge, staring down a grassy slope toward the murky

  silhouettes of Grollier's buildings. The time was almost midnight, and

  lights were off in every structure except the administration building.

  Exterior lights illuminated the square and the front of every building.

  There wasn't any sign of activity.

  Nonetheless, Pittman waited, thinking, sensing. The weather report on

  the car radio had predicted a low of thirty-five degrees, and Pittman

  believed it, seeing frost come out of his mouth. He shivered, but only

  partially from the temperature, mostly from fear. He couldn't help

  contrasting how he had felt the night he entered the estate in Scarsdale

  with how he felt now. Back then, he'd been nervous but fatalistic. What

  did a man about to commit suicide have to lose? But now ... Yes?

  Pittman asked himself. What about now?

  You're scared. Which means you do have something to lose. Are you

  suddenly afraid of dying?

  Why? Jill? The thought came unexpectedly . What are you hoping for?

  Hope. Pittman realized that the word hadn't been part of his vocabulary

  in quite a while. And with hope came fear.

  He started down the grassy slope. The night was silent, making him

  conscious of a subtle breeze. His jogging shoes became wet, chilling

  his feet with moisture from the grass. He ignored the sensation,

  concentrating on the shadows of the equestrianring that he passed and

  then the football field. The buildings of the school were outlined

  against the mountains.

  He'd done enough newspaper stories about the military to be aware that

  someone with a sniper's rifle and a nightscope would have no trouble

  seeing him in the dark and killing him. With each step that brought him

  closer and with each second of awareness that he hadn't been shot, he

  gained confidence. Maybe the school is safe, he thought. Maybe it

  won't be as difficult as I feared.

  A horse whinnied from somewhere behind him, and he froze,

  self-conscious, worried that the noise would attract someone's

  attention. The second time the horse whinnied, Pittman came mobile

  again, hurrying forward, reaching the shadows at the back of one of the

  buildings.

  The night became quiet once more. Moving as rapidly as caution would

  allow, he skirted the perimeter of other buildings, taking care to avoid

  spotlights. When he came to the side of the square that was opposite
/>
  the ridge from where he had entered, he pressed himself against a

  classroom building, intensified his senses, and concentrated on every

  detail in the darkness around him. The fact that he'd gotten this close

  continued to encourage him. But fear persisted in making him tremble,

  and he knew he couldn't take anything for granted.

  Mustering his determination, he crept from the side of the classroom

  building and reached the library building. He didn't dare go to the

  front and expose himself to the spotlights. Instead, he approached the

  back door, turned the knob, and discovered that the door was locked.

  Remembering how the librarian had bragged that the school's successful

  honor system made it unnecessary for doors to be locked, Pittman

  realized the degree to which he and Jill had made enemy's headmaster

  nervous. Almost certainly, Bennett had been warned to watch Out for

  strangers. But why? Pittman thought. What are Millgate's people

  trying to hide?

  Earlier, when he'd been in the library building, Pittman hadn't Seen any

  indication of a security system. At least that was one thing he didn't

  have to worry about as he took out his tool knife and used its lock