Desperate Measures

"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