Desperate Measures

  "Don't tell me you're going to get modest on me." Jul looked amused. "I

  didn't say I was going into the bathroom with you. Close the door,

  undress, rinse the blood off, and after you get a towel around you, I'll

  check you out. For sure, I'll have to change the bandage on your hand."

  "I bet you loved poking big needles into your patients." Pittman went

  into the bathroom and, feeling a strain on his right side, removed his

  clothes.

  "And you'd better not use the shower. " Jill's voice came muffled from

  the opposite side of the door. "You might get Weak and lose your

  balance. Sit in the tub."

  He examined himself. "I can tell you right now, there aren't any holes

  in me. But I've got a nasty bruise along my right ribs. "

  "Soak in the tub. I'll be back in a minute."

  "Where are you going?"

  "There's an all-night convenience store across the street. I'm going to

  see what they've got to eat."

  Orange juice, doughnuts, and skim milk, Pittman discovered when he

  finished his second bath (the first had been pink from the dried blood

  he'd rinsed off). He came out of the steaming bathroom, feeling

  awkward, knowing he looked embarrassed, holding a towel around his hips.

  "I'm surprised," Jill said. "Given everything you've been

  doing-sleeping on park benches, pretending to be a policeman-you didn't

  strike me as the bashful type."

  Pittman saw a blanket on a metal shelf outside the bathroom and pulled

  it down.

  "Before you cover yourself, I need to look at that bruise on your ribs."

  Jill drew a finger along it.

  "Ouch. "

  "Ouch? Grown-ups don't.sayouch. Little kids sayouch. Does this rib

  hurt?, "For Christ sake, yes."

  "Now that's what big kids say. Inhale. Exhale. Does the pain get

  worse? No?" She thought about it. "An X ray would tell for sure, but

  I doubt any ribs are broken. Not that it matters.

  'Why?"

  "The treatment for broken ribs is the same as for bruised ones-nothing.

  You don't put on a cast for broken ribs.

  days, you don't even get taped. What you get is a warning not to exert

  yourself and not to bump your ribs against anything.

  "Swell."

  "The miracles of modern medicine. The cut on your hand, those scratches

  and scrapes, those I can do something about. " After putting on

  antibiotic cream and rebandaging Pittman's left hand, Jill began

  applying disinfectant to portions of his face. "Are you hungry?"

  "Yes, but I wish you'd brought some coffee along with the doughnuts,

  orange juice, and milk."

  "After the adrenaline rush you just went through? Haven't you had

  enough chemical stimulation for a while?"

  "I get the feeling you don't do much without thinking of the chemical

  effect on your body," Pittman said. "Better living through proper

  diet."

  "In that case, I'm surprised you bought doughnuts."

  "It's the only thing remotely acceptable the store had. Beef jerky was

  out of the question."

  III hate skim milk."

  "Give it a chance. You'll learn to like it. Then even two percent

  tastes awfully rich."

  "If we stay together, I suppose I'm going to have to learn to like it."

  Jill looked strangely at him. "What's the matter?" Pittman asked.

  "Nothing. "Tell me. What is it?"

  "You were talking about if we stay together. Under better

  circumstances, I'd like that," Jill said. Pittman felt himself blush.

  "It's my turn for that bath." Looking as self-conscious as Pittman had

  earlier, Jill picked up her suitcase and went inside. "Turn on CNN,"

  she suggested before closing the door. "See if there's anything about

  us."

  Pittman didn't move for a moment, thinking about what she had said ...

  about staying together. Six days ago, he'd been eager to die.

  Jill finished a glass of orange juice and pointed toward the news report

  on CNN. "Nothing about what happened at the school. "

  "I'm not surprised."

  "You think they didn't link it to us?"

  "No, I'm sure they did," Pittman said. "Then ... ?"

  "I'm also sure that some very powerful people squashed the story. They

  don't want any attention whatsoever directed toward that school. "

  "Yes," Jill said. "I see what you mean. All those Establishment

  parents, they don't want anything to sully the reputation of the prep

  school their sons graduate from. For that matter, the alumni don't want

  Grollier to be associated with break-ins and shooting, either. Far too

  vulgar."

  "Maybe more than that," Pittman said. "Maybe what we're trying to learn

  is serious enough to destroy the school.

  Jill turned quickly toward him, her gaze intense. "Yes, that would

  explain a lot."

  "Duncan Kline. One of the men who taught the grand counselors. And

  Derrick Meecham, the student who dropped his class with them."

  "Or got sick and had to leave school," Jill said.

  "But never came back to Grollier the following year, the year he would

  have graduated. I wonder, how do we find out about Duncan Kline and

  Derrick Meecham? I'm sure as hell not going back to Grollier. "

  After a moment, Jill said, "I have an idea. A minute ago, we were

  talking about Grollier's alumni."

  "Yes?"

  "Grollier's students are all targeted for Ivy League colleges. In

  particular, Harvard, Yale, and Princeton. If we assume that Derrick

  Meecham finally graduated from a prep school similar to Grollier, then

  it's also logical to assume that he went to one of the Ivy League

  colleges," Jill said. "The registrar's office for each school can tell

  us if Meecham went to any of them. But that won't help us. What we

  really want to know is where Meecham is now."

  "The university organizations that keep track of the names and addresses

  of graduates are the alumni foundations," Pittman said.

  "Exactly. The groups that are always asking graduates for big bucks to

  support their alma mater. My father graduated from Yale. He's one of

  the biggest donators to its athletic program. The alumni foundation is

  on the phone to him all the time, sucking up to him, offering special

  tickets, inviting him to exclusive athletic banquets, wanting more

  money. Believe me, for his daughter, they'll do whatever I want. And

  if Derrick Meecham didn't go to Yale, I'll ask them to contact the

  alumni foundations at the other Ivy League colleges.

  "Fine, Ray, fine," Jill said to the telephone. Her blue eyes gleamed

  with intensity. "Yes, my father's feeling well, too. Oh, that. Sure,

  we have disagreements from time to time. We always patch them up. We're

  getting along fine." Concentrating, she drew a hand through her long,

  straight blond hair. "As a matter of fact, I think I might drive up and

  see him this weekend."

  From one of the twin beds, Pittman watched her. She was wrapped in a

  blanket, sitting on the desk that supported the phone. A digital clock

  next to her showed 11:38 A.M. He and Jill had gotten four hours sleep,

  which wasn't nearly enough, his sore body and raw eyes told him, but

  there wasn't time to res
t longer. The call had to be made. They had to

  keep moving.

  "The reason I'm calling, Ray, is I'd appreciate it if you did me a

  favor," Jill said to the telephone. "It's easy, and it won't cost you

  money." She laughed. "Great. I knew you'd feel that way. I'll be

  sure to tell my father that yi)u helped me out. What I'd like you to do

  is check your computer files for an alumnus named Derrick Meecham. What

  class? I'm not sure. Some time in the thirties. Yes, that does go a

  way back. Is it a problem? One of my elderly patients is terminal. He

  wants to tie up some loose ends, and evidently there's something he

  wants to tell this Derrick Meecham. I guess they haven't seen each

  other in fifty years. Don't ask me why it's important to him, but I

  feel sorry for the old guy and I'd like to do him a -favor. Yeah, I'm a

  softy. On the ward, they're always kidding me about- What? You must

  have a hell of a computer system. Just a minute while I write down that

  address. The phone number. Wonderful. I've got it. Thanks, Ray. I

  really appreciate this. I'll be sure to tell my father. You bet, and

  you take care of yourself, too."

  Jill set down the phone and looked at Pittman. "Boston."

  Pittman studied a map he'd found in the bedside table. "That's only a

  hundred miles away. It looks like if we take Route Two, we can be there

  in a couple of hours."

  "Matt?"

  "What's wrong?"

  "Suppose Meechmn can't help us."

  Pittman didn't answer.

  "Suppose he can't," Jill repeated. "Don't think like that, " Pittman

  said. "We need to believe that he will help us. Otherwise, we won't be

  able to keep going. Jill studied him. "Your determination surprises

  me."

  "Why?"

  "A man who's planning to kill himself normally doesn't worry about the

  future, about staying alive."

  "Survival? That's not what this is about."

  "Oh? You sure as hell could have fooled me. What is it about?"

  "A week ago, I was sitting in my bathtub with a gun in my mouth."

  Jill wasn't prepared for the change of subject. The stark revelation

  shocked her.

  "I had settled all of my affairs. Every debt I owed had been repaid,

  every favor returned. Everything was in order. I wasn't beholden to

  anyone. I intended to leave this world with every loose end tied. Then

  my phone rang and a friend I thought I was even with asked me to do him

  a favor. He had done so much for my son that I couldn't possibly refuse

  him. Now I have another debt."

  "To whom?" Jill asked. "You.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "It's my fault that you're involved in this. If I hadn't gone to your

  apartment ... I have to make sure you're safe." Holding the blanket

  tightly around her, Jill walked over to him. She touched his shoulder.

  "Thank you." Pittman shrugged, self-conscious.

  "And if you're successful?" Jill asked. Pittman didn't know what to

  answer. "Then what?" Jill asked. "Do you still plan to kill

  yourself?" Pittman looked away.

  She sat up, stretched, and yawned. "These are your old stomping

  grounds, "Do you think you can find the address?"

  "Sure. No problem."

  "You don't need to look at a map?"

  They took longer than they had anticipated. Route 2 was under

  construction. It ended well before Boston, and they were forced to take

  an indirect route, using 495 south, then go east into the city, arriving

  only in late afternoon. Pittman's bandaged left hand felt less awkward.

  He did the driving this time, letting Jill nap in the backseat until he

  stopped at a rest stop.

  "Derrick Meecham must have a lot of money. This address is in Beacon

  Hill. It's a couple of blocks from where my parents live."

  Rush hour slowed their progress even more, but finally, shortly after

  six, Jill steered from the Massachusetts Turnpike onto Columbus Avenue,

  from there to Charles Street through Boston Connnon, and then into the

  historic, exclusive district of Beacon Hill. Pittman studied a narrow,

  tree-lined, cobblestoned street. On one side, a spiked wrought-iron

  fence enclosed a small park, while on the other side, nineteenth-century

  brick town houses cast shadows from the lowering sun. Jill turned a

  corner, and here gated driveways separated some of the mansions. Through

  the metal bars, Pittman saw courtyards, gardens, and carriage houses

  converted into garages.

  "And this is where you were raised?"

  "When I wasn't at private schools," Jill said. 'It's beautiful."

  "It can also be a trap. That's why I moved away to real life.

  "At the moment, I'd prefer to escape from real life."

  Ahead, a Mercedes pulled away from a line of cars parked at the curb,

  and Jill eased into the space. When she got out, she straightened her

  tan skirt and put on her green blazer. "Do I look presentable?"

  "Lovely."

  "Just remember, when we knock on the door, whoever opens it is going to

  make an instantaneous judgment about us, based on how neatly and

  acceptably we dress."

  Pittman reached into the car, took his tie from his gym bag, and put it

  on. He hoped his shirt wasn't too wrinkled. His slacks and sport coat

  were as clean as he could make them.

  "If I understand your logic," Pittman said, "I'd better not identify

  myself as a reporter."

  Jill nodded. "The kind of wealth we're dealing with is extremely

  class-conscious. The press is definitely considered beneath them."

  "Then what angle are we going to use? What I tried at Grollier? That

  I'm writing a book about the academy?"

  "Better yet, you're a history professor who's writing a book about the

  academy. Academics have privilege."

  They went up a half dozen stone steps to a large, polished, weathered

  oak door.

  "It probably dates back to the early 1800s," Jill said.

  Pittman grasped an iron knocker and tapped it against a metal plate

  secured to the door.

  They waited.

  Pittman knocked again.

  "Maybe no one's home."

  "I don't see any lights in the windows," Jill said.

  "Maybe they've gone out to dinner."

  Jill shook her head. "Any respectable Boston Brahmin doesn't go out to

  dinner this early. Besides, Meecham's elderly. I doubt he strays far

  from home."

  Pittman raised his hand to knock on the door again, but he was

  interrupted as he heard a lock being freed. The knob was twisted. The

  door came slowly open, revealing a short, frail-looking white-haired

  woman who wore a tasteful highcollared blue dress that had long sleeves

  and a hem that almost covered the support hose on her swollen calves and

  ankles. She had liver spots on her deeply creased skin. She opened the

  door only partially, squinting through her thick glasses at Pittman and

  Jill. ,yes? Do I know you?" Her voice was tremulous.

  "No, ma'am," Pittman said. "My name is Peter Logan. I'm a history

  professor from across the river. " He referred to Harvard. "I

  apologize if this is an inconvenient time for me to be calling, but I

  was wondering if I could speak -to
your husband about a book that I'm

  writing,"

  "History professor? Book? My husband?"

  "Yes, ma'am. I'm doing one about some American educational

  institutions,, the classic ones, and I'm hoping that Your husband can

  answer some questions that occurred to me.', "Questions? My husband?"

  Pittman's stomach sank. She keeps repeating what I say, turning my

  statements into questions. We're wasting our time, he thought. She's

  senile. She doesn't have the faintest idea of what I'm talking about.

  The woman raised her head. "I don't know what questions you have in

  mind, but I'm afraid my husband can't answer them. He died a year ago."

  The shock of what she said and the lucidity with which she said it made

  Pittman realize that he'd severely misjudged her.

  "Oh." He was too surprised to know what to say. He knew he should have

  considered the possibility that Meechani would be dead by now, but the

  fact that the grand counselors, except for Millgate, were still alive

  had made Pittman hope that those associated with the counselors would

  still be alive, as well.