Desperate Measures

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.

7

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.

8

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?”