Desperate Measures

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.”

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.”

9

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,