The box he opened, chosen at random, contained neatly arranged smaller boxes, each of which held a roll of microfilm. It occurred to Pittman that SEM REP possibly meant semester report and that the numbers referred to the fall and spring sessions of each school year-the fall of 1949, for example, and the spring of 1950. The next school year would begin in the fall of 1950 and continue to the spring of 1951, thus the overlapping numbers-49-50, 50–51. Over the years, the accumulation of documents had become difficult to store, not to mention a fire hazard, so the pages had been transferred to microfilm, convenient for the school but a major frustration for Pittman.
What am I supposed to do, steal the rolls for the years the grand counselors attended Grollier? I still wouldn’t be able to read them.
Unless you take them to a library that has a microfilm reader.
But the rolls I steal might not have the information I need. I can’t leave here until…
Wait a minute. There wouldn’t be microfilm if there wasn’t a…
Pittman recalled from his previous visit that a bulky object covered by a cloth had stood on a table in a corner to the right of the door. Its shape was distinctive. He shifted toward it, pulled off the cloth, and found, as he had hoped, a microfilm reader. When he turned it on, he didn’t know which made him more nervous-the hum of the machine’s fan or the glow on its screen. He went back to the boxes, checked labels, and sorted among rolls of microfilm, soon finding one for 31–32. He attached it to the spools on the machine, wound the microfilm past the machine’s light and its magnifying lens, and studied what appeared on the screen.
What he squinted at was a class list and final grades for students in Ancient History I. None of the grand counselors’ names was on the list. He spooled forward through individual reports about various students, reached Classical Literature I, and again was frustrated to discover that none of the grand counselors had been in that course.
At this rate, it’ll take me hours to read the entire roll. There’s got to be a more efficient way to…
Ancient History I? Classical Literature I? The numeric designation implied that there were later sections of those courses, Pittman thought-II, III, maybe IV. Heat rushed into his stomach as he understood. Grollier was a four-year prep school. The grand counselors had been juniors in 1931–1932. They would be in the class reports for juniors, three-quarters through the roll.
Pittman swiftly turned the roll forward, ignoring classes marked II, reaching III, and immediately slowing. He found a course in British History in which all the grand counselors were registered and had received top grades. He found a number of other courses-British Literature, European History, Greek Philosophy, and Latin-in which the grand counselors had also been registered and received top grades. But in none of those classes did he find anyone named Duncan.
He spooled onward to a course in Political Science, and immediately his attention was engaged: While the other courses had contained numerous students, this course contained only six-the five grand counselors, plus a student named Derrick Meecham.
Pittman hesitated. When he and Jill had separated the yearbooks, hers had been for 1929–1932, his for 1933–1936. As he had learned, the grand counselors had graduated in 1933. But it now seemed to him that when he had concentrated on the M category, looking for Millgate’s name, he hadn’t come across any reference for a student named Meecham in the 1933 yearbook.
He knew he could be wrong. All the same…
He spooled forward to the spring semester for that course, and now he frowned with puzzlement. The roster had dropped from six names to five.
Derrick Meecham was no longer enrolled.
Why? Had Meecham gotten sick? His grade from the previous semester had been an A, so he couldn’t have found the course so difficult that he’d dropped it. Besides, Pittman had the suspicion that at Grollier, students didn’t have the option of dropping courses. Rather, Grollier dropped students.
Then why! Pittman thought again. He became more convinced that his memory hadn’t failed him, that Derrick Meecham had, in fact, not been in the yearbook for the following year. Pittman rubbed the back of his neck. His gaze wandered to the bottom of the screen, where the course’s instructor had signed the grade report, and suddenly he felt as if he had touched an exposed electrical wire, for the instructor’s ornate signature seemed to come into focus. Pittman tried to control his breathing as he stared at the name.
Duncan Kline.
Jesus, Pittman thought. Duncan hadn’t been a student. He’d been a teacher. That was the connection with Grollier. Duncan Kline had been Millgate’s teacher. All of them. He had taught all the grand counselors.
13
A noise made Pittman stiffen. Despite the whir of the fan on the microfilm machine, he heard footsteps on the stairs beyond the door. Angry voices rapidly approached.
Startled, he shut off the machine.
“… can’t believe you didn’t leave someone on guard.”
“But the two of them left. I made sure.”
The voices became louder.
“Were they followed?”
“To the edge of campus.”
“Stupid…”
“It’s a good thing we flew up here.”
“The outside door was still locked. That proves the records are safe.”
“It proves nothing.”
Lights came on in the hallway outside the door. Their illumination glowed through the opaque window. The shadows of men loomed beyond it.
“I took the yearbooks they were looking at.”
“But what else might they have come back to look at?”
Someone tried to turn the knob on the door.
“It’s locked.”
“Yes, I secured that door, as well. I told you no one’s been here.”
“Just get out your key and unlock the damned door.”
Pittman’s chest cramped. He couldn’t get enough air. In desperation, he swung toward the murky room, trying to figure out where he could hide, how he could stop the men from finding him.
But he remembered how the room had looked during daylight. There’d been no other door. There was nothing to hide behind. If he tried to conceal himself beneath a table, he’d be found at once.
The only option was…
The windows. As he heard a key scraping in the lock, a voice saying, “Come on, hurry,” Pittman rushed to a window, raised its blind, freed its lock, and shoved the window upward.
“Stop,” one of the voices in the hallway said. “I heard something.”
” Somebody’s in there.”
Bennett’s unmistakable nasally voice said, “What are you doing with those guns?”
“Get out of the way.”
Pittman shoved his head out the window, staring down. He had hoped that there might be something beneath the window to break his fall, but at the bottom of the two-story drop, there was nothing except a flower garden.
“When I throw the door open, you go first. Duck to the left. Pete’ll go straight ahead. I’ll take the right.”
Pittman studied the leafless ivy that clung to the side of the building. The vines felt dry and brittle. Nonetheless, he had to take the chance. He squirmed out the window, clung to the ivy, and began to climb down, hoping that there weren’t other men outside in the darkness.
“On three.”
Pittman climbed down faster. The ivy to which he clung made a crunching noise and began to separate from the bricks and mortar.
Above him, he heard a crash, the door being thrust open. Simultaneously the ivy fully separated from the wall. As Pittman dropped, his stomach soaring, his hands scrabbled against the wall, clawing for a grip on other strands of ivy. The fingers on his bandaged left hand were awkward, but those on his right hand snagged onto vines. At once those strands snapped free from the wall, and he dropped farther, grabbing still other ivy, jolting onto the ground, falling backward, desperately bending his knees, rolling.