ammunition. I could give dying men the last sacrament. The scar on my
chin is from shrapnel. The scars on my hand are from a fire I helped to
put out. When I say I'm proud of these scars, it's because they remind
me of what a privilege it was to serve beside such brave men. Of two
hundred, only fifty survived by the time reinforcements were able to
come. None of those who died was older than twenty-one. And I blame
Jonathan Millgate for those deaths, just as I blame him for the entire
forty-seven thousand men who died in battle in that war. A hundred and
fifty thousand men were wounded. Thousands of other lives were
destroyed because of the psychological effects of the war. And why?
Because Millgate and his four colleagues"-the priest twisted his lips in
contempt-"the Waited grand counselors-advised the President and the
nation that the domino theory was something worth dying for, that if we
didn't keep the Communists out of View, the rest of Southeast Asia would
fall to them. A quarter of a century later, communism is a crumbling
philosophy, and southeast Asia is becoming ever more capitalistic, even
though South Vietnam was taken over by the Communists. The war made no
difference. But Jonathan Millgate and the other grand counselors became
obscenely rich because of their relationship with the arms industry that
inevitably profited from the war the grand counselors insisted was
necessary.
"And now Millgate was being investigated for a nuclear weapons scandal,"
Pittman said. "Is that why he wanted so desperately to talk to you
before he died? His associates were determined to keep him away from
you. They felt you were a problem.
Father Dandridge squinted. "When I came back from Vietnam, I harassed
Jonathan Millgate at every opportunity. I organized demonstrations
against him. I tried to shame him in every way I could. I believe I
was one of the reasons he stopped being a diplomat and retired from
public view. Of course, he still manipulated government policy, but at
least he was forced to do it from comparative hiding. Then to MY
surprise, six months ago, he phoned me. He asked permission to come and
see me. Suspicious, I agreed, and when he arrived, I discovered that he
was having a crisis of conscience. He wasn't a Catholic, but he felt a
desperate need to bare his soul. He wanted me to be his confessor."
"His confessor? After all the trouble you'd made for him?"
"He wanted to confess to someone whom he could not intimidate."
"But what was so important that he needed to confess?"
Father Dandridge shook his head. "You know I'm bound, at the risk of my
soul, never to reveal whathear in confession. "
Pittman breathed out with effort. "Then I came here for nothing.
"Duncan Grollier. Are you sure that's the name you heard Pittman
nodded. "Except . "What?"
"He mentioned Duncan several times. Then snow. Then Grollier. Could
Snow be someone's last name?"
"I don't know. But in this case, Grollier isn't. It's the name of the
prep school Millgate went to. That's a matter of Public record. I'm
not violating any confidence by telling you. In conscience, it's all I
can tell you. But itought to be enough."
"What are you talking about? Enough? I don't understand.
The bullet struck Father Dandridge's right eye. Pittman was so startled
by the sudden eruption of blood and jellylike tissue that he recoiled,
gasping. At first he wasn't even sure what had happened. Then stumbling
back, he saw the spray of brain and blood that spewed onto the lawn from
the rear of Father Dandridge's head.
Pittman wanted to scream, but terror paralyzed his voice. He bumped
against a statue and flinched as a bullet blasted chunks from the stone.
Although he hadn't heard any shots, it seemed that the bullets were
coming from the door through which heand Father Dandridge had entered
the garden. Using the statue for cover, Pittman pulled the .45 from his
overcoat, tried to control his trembling hands, cocked the pistol, and
understood that he'd be foolish to show himself in order to aim at the
door.
The garden became eerily silent. The gunman must have used a silencer,
Pittman thought. No one in the church knows what happened. No one will
send for help.
But another Mass is due to start, Pittman realized. When the priest
enters the sacristy to put on his vestments, he'll see the gunman
peering out toward this garden.
The priest will call for help-and be shot.
I can't let that happen! I have to get out of here!
Pittman heard a creaking noise as if the door to the garden was being
opened wider. His hands were slick with sweat. He clutched the .45
harder.
Shoot!
But I don't have a target!
The noise will bring help.
Not in time.
There weren't any other doors out of the garden. By the time Pittman
reached the brick wall and tried to climb it, he knew he'd be shot.
It may have been Pittman's imagination, but he thought he heard a
footstep.
He glanced around in a frenzy. His pulse raced. He thought he heard
another footstep.
Past a lilac bush on his right, he saw a ground-level window that led to
the church's basement. Nauseated by fear, he shot blindly from the side
of the statue toward where he thought he had heard the footstep. He
lunged toward the opposite side of the statue and fired again and again,
this time showing himself but unable to aim steadily. He saw a I man
dive behind the bench upon which Father Dandridge lay. He saw another
man duck back into the sacristy. And he realized he had only four
bullets left. The way he was shaking, he might use them all without
hitting either gunman.
Move!
Firing again to cover himself, he charged to his right toward the lilac
bush and the window behind it. Chest heaving, he hit the ground, clawed
toward the window, and slammed his pistol at the glass, breaking it. The
force made the window open. It hadn't been secured. As the window
tilted inward on hinges, Pittman thrust himself through the opening. He
fell into darkness, twisting, plummeting. With an impact that knocked
his breath from him, he landed on a bench, then toppled painfully onto
the floor. He winced. Broken glass from the window impaled his left
hand, deep, burning. He pulled out the glass, alarined by the flow of
blood and the searing pain, scrambled desperately to his feet, and ran.
From the open window, a man shot into the dark room.
Pittman's eyes adjusted to the shadows enough to see a doorway ahead. He
fired toward the window, heard a moan, jerked the door open, and surged
into a brightly lit room, where he blinked in dismay at a group of women
setting out pastries for what looked like a bake sale. Their mouths
fell open in shock. A woman dropped a cake. A baby started wailing.
Another woman shrieked-but not before Pittman heard noises behind him,
the two men climbing down into the room.
"Get out of the way!" Pittman ordered the women. He raised his gun,
/>
the sight of which made them scurry. At once he slammed the door behind
him, saw that it didn't have a lock, and grabbed one of the tables,
dragging it toward the door, hoping to brace the door shut.
A shot from behind the door splintered wood. Pittman fired back. Only
one more bullet. As women screamed, he raced toward stairs at the end
of the large room. Above him, he heard a commotion in the church.
He reached the stairs, expecting the gunmen to knock the door open and
fire at him. But as he hurried up, he risked a glance behind him and
saw that the door remained closed. Too many witnesses. They're not
taking chances. they're climbing out the window. They're going over
the wall.
Hearing numerous hurried footsteps at the top of the stairs, Pittman
shoved the .45 into his pocket. Frantic parishioners charged down the
steps toward him.
"A man with a gun! Down there!" Pittman showed them the hand that he'd
cut on the broken glass. in greater pain, he clutched it, trying to
stop the flow of blood. "He shot me!
'Call the police."
"A doctor. I need a doctor." Sweating, Pittman pushed his way through
the crowd.
The crowd began to panic.
"What if he shoots someone else?"
"He might kill all of us!"
Abruptly reversing its direction, the crowd charged up the stairs. The
press of bodies made Pittman feel suffocated. Their force carried him
up. A door loomed. Someone banged it open. The crowd surged into the
street, taking Pittman with them. A few seconds later, he was enveloped
by the confusion of hundreds of panicked churchgoers.
As a siren approached, Pittman shoved his bleeding hand into his
overcoat pocket. He stayed with a group of frightened men and women who
hurried away. By the time the flashing lights of the first police car
arrived, he was turning a corner, hailing a taxi.
"What's all the trouble down there?" the driver asked.
"A shooting."
"At a church? God help us."
"Somebody better."
"Where do you want to go?"
A damned good question, Pittman thought. In desperation, he told the
driver the first nearby location he could think of. "Washington
Square."
Pittman hoped he seemed just one of many Sunday-morning strollers. In
contrast with the week's cool, rainy weather, the day was warin and
bright. Joggers and bicyclists sped past street musicians and portrait
Painters, indigents and street vendors. Near the Washington Arch,
students with New York University T-shirts played with a Frisbee while a
beard-stubbled man holding a bottle in a paper bag stumbled past them.
Pittman didn't pay attention to any of it. Concealed in his overcoat
pocket, his hand continued to throb against a handkerchief that he had
wrapped around it to staunch the flow of blood. obviously he was hurt
worse than he'd thought. He felt light-headed again, but this time he
was sure it was from the blood he'd lost. He had to get to a hospital.
But a hospital wouldn't give him treatment unless he showed ID and
filled out an information form. If the receptionist recognized his name
or if the police alerted the hospitals to be on the lookout for someone
with a bleeding hand ... No. He had to find another way to get medical
help.
And then what? he kept insisting to himself. Where will you go after
that? Father Dandridge was supposed to have all your answers, and now
he's dead and you don't know anything more than when you started.
Did they kill him? Pittman thought urgently. If they were after me,
why didn't they wait until I left the church?
Because they wanted both of us. They must have been watching him. They
were looking for any sign that he was going to act on what Millgate had
told him in earlier confessions. And when I showed up, they assumed we
were working together.
But what did Father Dandridge know that was so important?
Grollier, the prep school Millgate had attended.
It must have some significance. Damn it, somebody's worried enough to
kill anybody I come in touch with who might know anything about the
thoughts that tortured Millgate in his final hours.
Final hours.
Pittman suddenly knew where he had to go next.
"Detective Logan," he said to the intercom. A buzzer sounded,
electronically unlocking the outside door.
Pittman stepped through, noting the attractive wood paneling in the
Upper West Side apartment building. He took the woman's elevator to the
fifth floor. He'd been worried that her phone number wouldnt be listed
or that she wouldn't be home after he checked the phone book and came
here. As he knocked on the door, he worried as well that she wouldn't
be receptive, but when she opened the door, using her left hand to keep
her housecoat securely fastened, squinting at him through sleepy eyes,
she looked puzzled more than upset.
Silhouetted by sunlight streaming through a living room window behind
her, Jill Warren murmured, "Don't you know its the middle of the night?"
That was something Pittman had hoped for-that instead Of going out to
enjoy the day, she would be home, sleeping after she finished her night
shift at the hospital.
"Sorry," he said. ,I didn't have a choice."
Jill yawned, reminding Pittman of a kitten pawing at its face. Although
her long blond hair was tangled and her face was puffy from just having
been wakened, Pittman thought she was beautiful.
"You need to ask me more questions?"
"A little more than that, I'm afraid."
"I don't understand."
"I need help." Pittman withdrew his bloodstained hand from his overcoat
pocket.
"My God." Jill's eyes came fully open. "Huffy. Come in." She
gripped his arm, guiding him through the doorway, quickly closing it.
"The kitchen's this way. I wondered why you looked so pale. I thought
maybe you hadn't gotten any sleep. But ... Here, put your hand in the
sink." As Pittman wavered, she hurriedly brought a chair from the
kitchen table and made him sit beside the sink while she pulled off his
overcoat.
The .45 concealed in its right pocket thunked against the chair and made
Jill frown.
"Look, I know this is an imposition," Pittman said. "If I'm
interrupting anything ... If someone's here and .
"Nobody
At the hospital, PPittman had noted that she wasn't wearing a wedding
ring. Nonetheless, he'd been concerned that she might be living with
someone. Her roommate might have gone out for the day to avoid making
noise, to let her sleep.
"I live alone," Jill said. "This handkerchief is stuck to your wound.
I'm going to run cool water over it andpeel it off. How did you-? Good.
It's coming off. Does that hurt?"
I "No.
"Sure. That's why your face turned gray. This looks like a cut. "
."Broken glass."
"Deep. You should have gone to the hospital instead of coming here. "
"Your apartment was closer."
"You need stitches."
"No," Pittman said.
Jill frowned at him, then returned her attention to Pittman's hand.
"Which do you object to, the hospital or the stitches?"
Pittman didn't answer.
Jill rinsed the crusted blood off the hand, then directed a gentle flow
of water into the cut. "Keep your hand under the water. I have to get
bandages and disinfectant."
Then she was gone. Pittman worried that she might decide to run from
the apartment.
To his relief, he heard her opening drawers in another room. He stared
at the blood welling from his hand, the water diluting it, pink fluid
flowing down the drain. Weary, he looked away, feeling oddly at a
distance as he scanned the small, bright, neatly arranged kitchen. A
pot holder in the shape of a cat seemed more amusing than it should have
been.
"Your face is grayer," Jill said with concern, hurrying back. "I can't
imagine what you're smiling about. Do you feel delirious?"
"A little off balance."
"For God sake, don't fall off the chair." Jill put her arms around him,
leaning past him, over the sink.
He felt her breasts against his back but was too tired to respond with
anything but gratitude that she was taking care of him.
Gently she washed his hand, blotted it with a towel, applied amber
David Morrell - Desperate Measures Page 17
