"there ought to be a village up ahead."
Pittman squinted through the windshield, wishing he had sunglasses.
"There. Just above that break in the trees. See it?"
"A church steeple. Good. We're right on schedule."
The steeple was brilliant white, and as they entered the village, they
saw that not only the church but every building in town was the same
radiant color. The village green seemed even more green by contrast.
For a moment, even allowing for telephone poles and other evidence of
modern technology, Pittman had the sense that he'd been transported back
in time, that he was in a slower, more peaceful century.
Then the village was behind diem, and as Jill drove next to a brisk
stream filled with snowmelt, Pittman felt a sudden apprehension. He
opened his gym bag and took out the .45, which he'd reloaded with
ammunition from the container he had stored in, the bag.
Remembering a detail from a story he'd written about undercover police
officers, he put the .45 behind his back, beneath his belt, at the base
of his spine. It felt uncomfortable, but that didn't matter. He knew
that his sport coat would conceal it far better than if he carried it in
his overcoat pocket, where it would form a drooping, conspicuous bulge.
He would have to get used to the feel of metal against his back.
Last Wednesday night, I had the barrel of that gun in my mouth, he
thought, and now ... He opened Jill's purse.
"Hey, what do you think you're doing?,"
"Seeing if this fits."
He reached into the gym bag again and pulled out the other pistol, the
one he had taken from the gumnan in Jill's apartment. The gun was
almost the same size as the Colt .45, but its caliber was smaller: a
9-mm Beretta.
"You don't expect me to carry that," Jill protested. "I don't even know
how to use it."
"Nor did I until a couple of days ago. Learn as you need to-that's my
motto. " Jill's purse was a shoulder bag, made of leather. "Fits
perfectly," Pittman said.
"I'm telling you I'm not going to-"
"The first thing you need to know about this gun, Pittman said, "is that
the ammunition is stored in this spring-loaded device-it's called a
magazine-that's inserted into the bottom of the grip."
"Are you serious?" Jill squinted as the Duster emerged from a covered
bridge into dazzling sunlight. "Have you any idea how many people in
critical condition because of gunshot wounds I've had to try to keep
alive in intensive care? I don't. want to know anything about that
gun. I don't want it in MY purse. I don't want to have anything to do
with it."
Pittman studied her, then peered ahead. "The first turn the right past
the bridge."
"I know. It's On the sheet of directions the librarian gave us. I
remember what she said."
"I was just trying to be helpful.
"Look, I'm sorry. I don't mean to be snappy. It's just ... You scared
me with that business about the gun." jills voice was unsteady. "For a
while there, when we were on the train, I was able to forget how serious
this is. I wish I wasn't doing this. "
"Then turn around," Pittman said.
"What?"
"We'll go back to Montpelier and put you on the train back to New York.
I'll go out to the academy on my own. "Put me On the ... ? What good
would that do? Nothing's changed. Those men are still after me. I
can't go back to my apartment. You've convinced me that the police
wouldn't be able to protect me forever. I certainly can't depend on my
parents to get me through this. They're probably being watched. As for
my friends, I don't want to put them in danger- Being with you is the
safest place I can think of, and that's not saying much, but it's all
I've got."
"I've already fed a round into the firing chamber. To shoot this gun,
you don't need to cock it. All you have to do is Pull the trigger.
There's the gate." Pittman pointed toward a large elegant sign that
read: GROLLIER ACADEMY.
"I love its motto," Pittman said.
TO LEAD IS TO SERVE.
They veered from the road, following a paved lane up a treed . They
passed incline. A white wooden fence had an open gate a small building
that reminded Pittman of a sentry box at the entrance to a military
base, but no one was there, and Pittman assumed that the building was
for deliveries. At the top of the incline, the view was spectacular
enough to make Jill stop driving. On each side, fir trees stretched
along a ridge, rising toward mountains. But directly ahead and below,
the trees had been cleared, replaced by an impressive expanse of
grassland. In the valley, there were stables, horses in a pasture, an
equestrian rings, and a polo field. Adjacent were several football
fields. In the distance, an oval-shaped lake glinted with the
reflection of sunlight, and Pittman remembered the importance that
Professor Folsom had said the school placed on team rowing.
But Pittman's attention was mostly directed toward the buildings in the
center of the valley: a traditional white-steepled church, an imposing
pillared building that was probably the school's administration center,
fifteen other structures made of brick, covered with ivy.
"Dormitories and classroom buildings," Pittman said.
"Solid, efficient, functional. What the Establishment considers
roughing it."
Jill looked puzzled. "You really have a problem about privileged
society."
"To rephrase Will Rogers, I never met a rich person I liked.
"I'm rich."
"But you don't act rich.... I had an older brother,." Pittman said.
Jill looked as if she didn't understand the jump in topics.
"His name was Bobby. He taught me how to ride a bicycle, how to throw a
baseball. When I came home with a black eye from a fight in the school
yard, he showed me how to box. There wasn't anything Bobby couldn't do.
He was my idol. God, how I loved him."
"You keep using the past tense."
"He died in Vietnam."
"Oh.... I'm sorry. "
"He didn't want to go," Pittman said. "He didn't believe the war was
right. But my parents didn't have any money, and Bobby didn't have the
means to go to college and he couldn't get a draft deferment. I
remember him cursing about how all the rich kids got deferments but he
couldn't. All of his letters mentioned the same thing-how everybody in
his unit was part of the Disestablishment. Of course, Bobby used cruder
terms. He kept writing about a premonition he had, about how he was
sure he wouldn't be coming back. Well, he was right. Friendly fire
killed him. I used to go to the cemetery every day to visit him. I
remember thinking how easy it was for rich people to start wars when
their children wouldn't have to fight. Later, after I saved enough
money from working on construction to go to college, I realized
something else-those rich people got richer because of the they started.
That's why I became a journalist. To go those bastards. To get even
for my brother."
"I'm sorry," Jill repeated.
"So am I." Pittman stared down at his
bandaged hand. "I apologize. I didn't mean for all that to come out."
Jill touched his arm.
The buildings were situated along a square that reminded Pittman of a
parade ground. Pavement flanked each side of the square, and Jill
almost parked there, until she saw a lot next to what appeared to be the
administration building. Fifteen other cars were already parked there.
Pittman got out of the Duster, conscious of the .45 under his sport
coat. It dismally occurred to him that one mark of how far he had come
since his suicide attempt Wednesday night was that he thought of being
armed as ordinary.
Jill locked the car and came around to join him. Her sneakers, jeans,
and sweater were in a small suitcase in the backseat. The brown pumps,
sand-colored A-line skirt, forest green jacket, and yellow blouse that
she'd bought in Montpelier fit her perfectly. Pittman still wasn't used
to seeing her in clothes that weren't casual and loose. , The lines of
her legs were as elegant as those of her throat.
"Ready?"
Jill inhaled nervously and nodded, securing the strap of her purse to
her shoulder. "It's heavy."
"Just try to forget a weapon's in there."
"Easy advice from you. I still don't see why it couldn't stay in the
car."
"Because things keep turning out differently from the way
They walked from the parking lot and watched as the square, which had
been deserted except for a few groundskeepers, suddenly filled with
hurrying students a few seconds after a bell rang in several of the
buildings.
Wearing uniforms of gray slacks, navy blazers, and white shirts with red
striped ties, the boys moved with brisk determination from what seemed
to be classroom buildings, crossing toward a larger building opposite
the church.
"Fire drill?"
Jill glanced at her watch. "Noon. Lunchtime."
A boy of about fifteen stopped before them. Like the others, he had
brightly polished black shoes and neatly cut short hair. His gaze was
direct, his voice confident, his posture straight. "May I help you,
sir?"
"We were wondering where the school library is," Pittman said.
The boy pointed to Pittman's left. "In building four, sir. Would you
like to see Mr. Bennett?"
"Mr. Bennett?"
"The academy's director."
"No. There isn't any need to bother him. Thank you for your help.
"You're welcome, sir. " The boy turned and continued quickly toward the
building the other students were entering on the opposite side of the
square. Although they hurried, they managed to look like gentlemen.
"He'll be a credit to Washington insiders," Pittman said.
He and Jill walked in the direction the young man had indicated, reached
a brick building with the number 4 above its entrance, and left the
noon's intense sunlight, entering a cool, well-lit stairwell that
smelled sweetly of wax. Steps led down and up.
The building was eerily silent.
"I doubt very much that a library would be in the basement, " Jill said.
"Too much danger of moisture getting into the books."
Nodding in agreement, his footsteps echoing, Pittman went up to the
first floor. A hallway had several doors on each side. Many of the
doors were open. In one, study desks were equipped with computers. In
another, the desks had tape players and earphones, probably for language
study.
As Pittman approached a third door, an elderly man came out, holding a
key, about to close the door. He wore the same uniform that the
students had been wearing. Short and somewhat heavy, he looked to be
about sixty, with a saltand-pepper mustache and receding gray hair.
He peered over his glasses toward Pittman and Jill. "I was just going
to lunch. May I help you?"
"We were told that the library is in this building."
"That's correct." The man cleared his throat.
"Is that where you keep old yearbooks, things like that?" Pittman
asked.
"They would be in our archival section." The man squinted. "I don't
believe I've met you before. Why exactly would you need to know?"
"My name is Peter Logan. I'm a freelance journalist, - and I've decided
to write the book I always promised myself I would. "
"Book?"
"About Grollier Academy. A great many distinguished public servants
have graduated from this school."
"You could say that we've had more than our share. But suspect that
they wouldn't want their privacy invaded.
"That isn't what I had in mind. Grollier Academy itself, that would be
my emphasis. I thought it would be an example to other schools if I
wrote about the superior methods of this one. This country's in a
crisis. If our educational system isn't changed ... I'm worried about
our future. We need a model, and I can't think of a better one than
Grollier. " The man scrunched his eyebrows together and nodded. "There
is no better preparatory education in America. What sort of research
did you intend to do?"
"Well, for starters, Mr.... ?"
"Caradine. I'm chief librarian."
"Naturally I'll devote a considerable portion of the book to Grollier's
educational theory. But I'll also need to supply a historical
perspective. When the academy was founded. By whom. How it grew. The
famous students who passed through here. So, for starters, I thought
that a general immersion in your archives would be helpful. The
yearbooks, for example. Their photographs will show how the campus
changed over the years. And I might discover that Grollier had many
more famous graduates than I was aware of. I want to skim the surface,
so to speak, before I plunge into the depths.
"A sensible method. The archives are Caradine glanced at his watch.
"I'm sorry. I have a lunch meeting with the library committee, and I'm
already late. I'm afraid I can't show you through the archives. If you
come back at one o'clock ... The head of the refectory will, I'm sure,
be pleased to provide you with lunch. "
"'nanks, Mr. Caradine, but my assistant and I had a late breakfast and
... To tell the truth, I'm anxious to get started. Perhaps you could
let us into the archives and we can familiarize ourselves with the
research materials while you're at your meeting. I had hoped not to
inconvenience you. I'm sure you have better things to do than watch us
read journals."
Caradine glanced at his watch again. "I really have to be at ... Very
well. I don't see the harm. The archives are on the next level. The
first door on your right at the top of the stairs. "
"I appreciate this, Mr. Caradine. If you'll unlock the door, we'll do
our best not to trouble you for a while."
"Just go up. " Caradine started past them toward the stairs. "The door
isn't locked. Almost none of the doors at Grollier are locked. This is
a school for gentlemen. We depend on the honor system. In its entire
one-hundred-and-thirty-year history, there has never been an instance of
thievery on this campus.
"Exactly what I was getting at earlier. This school is a model. I'll
be sure to put what you just told me into my book.
Caradine nodded, fidgeting with his hands, saying, 'I'm terribly late.
He hurried down the stairs and left the building.
The door thunked shut. Pittman listened to its echo, turned to Jill,
and gestured toward the stairs that led upward. "I hope he's a slow
eater."
At the top of the stairs, the first door on the right had a frosted
glass window. Pittman turned the knob, briefly worrying that Caradine
had been mistaken about the door's being unlocked, but the knob turned
freely, and with relief, Pittman entered the room.
He faced an area that was larger than he had expected. Shelves lined
all the walls and, in library fashion, filled the middle area. Various
boxes, ledgers, and books were on the shelves. Several windows provided
adequate light.
Jill shut the door and looked around. "Why don't you check the shelves
against that wall? I'll check these."
For the next five minutes, they searched.
"Here," Jill said.
Pittman came over. Stooping toward where Jill pointed at lower shelves,
he found several rows of thin oversized volumes, all bound in black