Desperate Measures (25 page)

“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.”

“Thanks, 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 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 page. “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. Caradine 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 boy outside 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. The lane 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. “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 pulled 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.”

“That’s 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 if we weren’t, to give us some physical incentive.”

Pittman stepped over another log. “Until reinforcements arrive. 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.