Desperate Measures (22 page)

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. Folsom’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, noncomformist 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.”

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.” Pittman’s 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.”

“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.

“The 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.”

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 swept through him. “Yes. Where Professor Folsom told us it was. Grollier Academy.
Vermont.”

A sleeper car wasn’t available. Not that it made a difference—Pittman 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.

“It’s 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.”

“Sorry.”

“No problem. You must be exhausted. I’ve never seen anyone sleep so deeply in such uncomfortable conditions.”

“Compared 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.”