"I bet you were a drill sergeant on the ward."
"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 rest 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 ca
lling, 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
David Morrell - Desperate Measures Page 26
