Desperate Measures (18 page)

Pittman sat up wearily, concentrated to clear his head, and stood slowly with effort. The combination of the hard floor and
his previous day’s exertion made his muscles ache. After he folded the blanket and put it and the pillow into the cabinet,
he draped his overcoat over an arm, concealing the heavy bulge of the .45 in his right pocket.

A hospital volunteer brought in a cart of coffee, orange juice, and doughnuts. Noticing a sign that said
PAY WHAT YOU CAN
, Pittman couldn’t find any more change in his pockets. Sean O’Reilly had lent him twenty dollars, and Pittman guiltily put
in one of those dollars, drank two cups of orange juice, ate two doughnuts, and suddenly was afraid that he would throw up.
In a washroom down the hall, he splashed cold water on his face, looked at his pasty complexion in the mirror, touched his
beard stubble, and felt demoralized. How can I possibly keep going? he thought.

The suicide that he had almost committed four nights earlier beckoned.

Why bother trying? I’m in so much trouble, I can never get out of it, he thought. Even if I do get out of it, Jeremy will
still be dead. What’s the point? Nothing’s worth what I’m going through.

You can’t let the bastards destroy you. Remember what you told yourself—it has to be
your
idea, not theirs. If you kill yourself now, you’ll be giving them what they want. You’ll be letting them win. Don’t let the
sons of bitches have that satisfaction.

A short, dreary-looking man whom Pittman recognized from the waiting room came into the washroom, took off his shirt, chose
the sink next to Pittman, opened a travel kit, lathered his face, and began to shave.

“Say, you wouldn’t have another one of those disposable razors, would you?” Pittman asked.

“Do what I did, buddy. Go down to the shop in the lobby and buy one.

St. Joseph’s hadn’t benefited from the renovation that, thanks to an influx of Yuppies during the eighties, had taken place
in other parts of SoHo. Although small, the church’s architecture resembled a cathedral, but its sandstone exterior was black
with soot, its stained-glass windows grimy, its interior badly in need of painting.

Pittman stood at the rear of the church, smelled incense, listened to an organ that sounded as if it needed repair, and surveyed
the impressive amount of worshipers who, unmindful of the bleak surroundings, had come for Sunday Mass. The front of the church
wasn’t bleak, though. A golden chalice gleamed on the altar. Candles glowed. A tall, intense priest wearing a crimson vestment
read from the Gospel, then delivered a sermon about trusting in God and not giving in to despair.

Right, Pittman thought bleakly. He sat in a pew in back and watched the continuation of the first Mass he’d attended in many
years. He had never gone to church on a regular basis, but after Jeremy had died, his indifference had turned to rejection.
As a consequence, he couldn’t account for his impulse when the time came for communion and he followed parishioners toward
the altar. He told himself that he wanted to get a closer look at the priest, for an assistant at the church’s rectory had
told Pittman that Father Dandridge would be conducting this particular Mass.

Coming near to him, Pittman saw that the priest was in his middle fifties and that his strong features had deep lines of strain.
He had a jagged scar across his chin, and his left hand was welted from what looked like the consequence of a long-ago fire.

When Pittman received communion, the emptiness inside him felt immense.

The priest ended the Mass. “Go in peace.”

Not just yet, Pittman thought.

As the parishioners left, he made his way toward the front of the church, went through a door on the right, and found himself
in the sacristy, the room next to the altar where objects needed for Mass were customarily stored.

The priest was taking off his vestments, setting them on a counter, when he noticed Pittman enter. Deliberate movements and
cordlike sinews visible on the priest’s forearms suggested a man who kept his mind and body in condition and control. He became
still, watching Pittman approach.

“May I help you?” the priest asked.

“Father Dandridge?”

“That’s correct.”

“I need to speak to you.”

“Very well.” The priest waited.

As Pittman hesitated, the priest cocked his head. “You look nervous. Is this a personal matter… something for confession?”

“No. Yes. I mean, it
is
personal, but… What I need to speak to you about—” Pittman felt apprehensive about the reaction he would get—“is Jonathan
Millgate.”

The priest’s dark eyes assessed him. “Yes, I remember you from the Mass. The anguish on your face as you came up for communion.
As if the weight of the entire world were on your shoulders.”

“That’s how it feels.”

“Understandably. If what the newspapers say about you is correct, Mr. Pittman.”

Panic. It had never occurred to Pittman that the priest would be able to identify him. Nerves quickening, he swung toward
the door, about to flee.

“No,” Father Dandridge said. “Please. Don’t go. Be calm.”

Something in the priest’s voice made Pittman hesitate.

“I give you my word,” Father Dandridge said. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

Pittman’s stomach cramped. “How did you know… ?”

“Who you are?” Father Dandridge gestured, inadvertently drawing Pittman’s attention to his scarred left hand. “Jonathan Millgate
and I had a special relationship. It shouldn’t be surprising that I would have read every newspaper article and watched every
television report I could find to learn more about what happened to him. I have studied your photograph many times. I recognized
you immediately.”

Pittman couldn’t seem to get enough air. “It’s important that you believe this. I didn’t kill him.”

“Important to me or you?”

“I tried to save him, not harm him.” Pittman was suddenly conscious of the amplifying echo in the small room. He glanced nervously
toward the archway that led to the altar.

Father Dandridge gazed in that direction, as well. The church was almost empty. A few elderly men and women remained kneeling,
their heads bowed in prayer.

“No one seems to have heard you,” Father Dandridge said. “But the next Mass is scheduled to begin in half an hour. The church
will soon be full.” He pointed toward two men who entered at the back of the church.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“I ask you again, do you want confession?”

“What I want is what you promised at the end of the Mass. Peace.”

Father Dandridge intensified his gaze, then nodded. “Come with me.

The priest led the way toward a door at the back of the sacristy. When he opened it, Pittman was amazed to look out toward
a garden, its well-kept appearance in contrast with the decay at the front of the church. Neatly mowed grass was flanked by
blooming lilacs, their fragrance wafting through the open door. The rectangular area was enclosed by a high brick wall.

Father Dandridge motioned for Pittman to precede him.

When Pittman didn’t respond, the priest looked amused. “Suspicious of me? You don’t want to turn your back on me? How could
I possibly hurt you?”

“Lately, people have been finding ways.” Keeping his hand on the .45 hidden in his overcoat pocket, Pittman glanced back through
the arch toward the church, which was rapidly being filled. He followed the priest into the garden and shut the door.

The morning sun was warm and brilliant, emphasizing the jagged white scar on Father Dandridge’s chin. The priest sat on a
metal bench. The sound of the city’s traffic seemed far away.

“Why should I believe that you didn’t kill Jonathan Millgate?”

“Because if I did, I ought to be on the run. Why would I come to you?”

Father Dandridge raised his shoulders. “Perhaps you’re as deranged as the news reports say. Perhaps you intend to kill me,
as well.”

“No. I need your help.”

“And how could I possibly help you? Why would I
want
to help you?”

“In the news reports, Millgate’s people claim they took him from the hospital to protect him from me, but that’s not true,”
Pittman insisted. “The real reason they took him is they didn’t want to expose him to reporters after the story broke about
his supposed connection with trying to buy nuclear weapons from the former Soviet Union.”

“Even if you can prove what you say…”

“I can.”

“… it’s irrelevant to whether or not you killed him.”

“It’s
very
relevant. Look, I followed him from the hospital, yes. But I wasn’t stalking him. I wanted to find out why he’d been taken.
At the estate in Scarsdale, the nurse and doctor who were supposed to be caring for him left him alone. He became disconnected
from his life-support system. I managed to get into his room and help him.”

“But a witness claims it happened the other way around, that you cut off his oxygen and caused him to have a fatal heart attack.”

“A nurse came in when I was putting the oxygen prongs into Millgate’s nostrils. She heard Millgate tell me something. I think
that’s what all of this is about. His people were afraid of reporters asking him questions. But
I’m
a reporter, and what Millgate told me may have been exactly what they didn’t want anybody to know. They tried to stop me,
but I got away, and…”

Father Dandridge added, “So they decided to cut off Jonathan Millgate’s life-support system, to let him die to prevent him
from ever telling anyone else. Then they blamed his death on you so that even if you tried to use what you were told, you
wouldn’t be believed.”

“That’s right,” Pittman said, amazed. “That’s the theory I’m trying to prove. How did—?”

“When you hear enough confessions, you become proficient at anticipating.”

“This isn’t confession!”

“What did Jonathan Millgate say to you?”

Pittman’s energy dwindled, discouragement overcoming him. He rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s the problem. It doesn’t
seem that important. In a way, it doesn’t even make sense. But later a man tried to kill me at my apartment because of what
Millgate had told me.”

“Now you tell
me
.”

“A man’s name.” Pittman shook his head in confusion. “And something about snow.”

“A name?”

“Duncan Grollier.”

Father Dandridge concentrated, assessing Pittman. “Jonathan Millgate was perhaps the most despicable man I have ever met.”

“
What?
But you said that the two of you were friends.”

Father Dandridge smiled bitterly. “No. I said that he and I had a special relationship. I could never be his friend. But I
could pity him as much as I loathed his actions. I could try to save his soul. You see, I was his confessor.”

Pittman straightened with surprise.

“When you saw me in the sacristy, you couldn’t help noticing my scars.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s quite all right. There’s no need to worry about my feelings. I’m proud of these scars. I earned them in combat. During
the Vietnam War. I was a chaplain in I Corps. A base I was assigned to—close to the demilitarized zone—came under siege. Bad
weather kept reinforcements from being brought in. We were under constant mortar bombardment. Of course, as a noncombatant,
I wasn’t allowed to use a weapon, but I could care for the wounded. I could crawl with food and water and 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 so-called 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 Vietnam, 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 threat.”

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 what I hear in confession.”