Desperate Measures (19 page)

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 it ought 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 jelly like 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 he
and 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 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, alarmed 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 warm 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.

Why 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 elevator
to the fifth floor. He’d been worried that the woman’s phone number wouldn’t 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 it’s 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. “Hurry. 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, Pittman 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 and peel it off.
How did you—? Good. It’s coming off. Does that hurt?”

“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 disinfectant to the cut, put a dressing on a gauze pad,
and wrapped a bandage around the hand. Blood soaked through the first layer. Jill bandaged faster, adding layer after layer.

“You’d better hope this stops the bleeding, or you’ll be going to the hospital whether you like it or not,” she said.

Pittman stared at the thick padding around his hand. A portion of it turned pink, but it didn’t spread.

“One more layer for good luck.” Jill wrapped it again. “Now let’s get you into the living room and up on the sofa.”

“I’m fine,” Pittman said. “I can do it myself.”

“Yeah, sure, right.” Jill lifted him, putting an arm around him as his knees bent.

The sunlit living room turned shadowy for a moment. Then Pittman was on the sofa.

“Lie down.”

“Look, I really am sorry.”

“Put your feet on this pillow. I want them higher than your head.”

“I wouldn’t have come here if there was any other way to—”

“Stop talking. You sound out of breath. Lie still. I’m going to get you some water.”

Pittman closed his eyes. The next thing he knew, Jill was cradling his head, helping him to drink.

“If you don’t feel queasy after this, I’ll get you some juice. Do you think you could eat? Would you like something bland
like toast?”

“Eat?”

“You make it sound like a new idea.”

“The last time I… You could say my meals have been irregular.”

Jill frowned harder. “Your overcoat’s torn. Your pants have dirt on them, as if you’ve been crawling on the ground. What’s
going on? How did you get hurt?”