“I’m not surprised.”
“You think they didn’t link it to us?”
“No, I’m sure they did,” Pittman said.
“Then…?”
“I’m also sure that some very powerful people squashed the story. They don’t want any attention whatsoever directed toward that school.”
“Yes,” Jill said. “I see what you mean. All those Establishment parents, they don’t want anything to sully the reputation of the prep school their sons graduate from. For that matter, the alumni don’t want Grollier to be associated with break-ins and shooting, either. Far too vulgar.”
“Maybe more than that,” Pittman said. “Maybe what we’re trying to learn is serious enough to destroy the school.”
Jill turned quickly toward him, her gaze intense. “Yes, that would explain a lot.”
“Duncan Kline. One of the men who taught the grand counselors. And Derrick Meecham, the student who dropped his class with them.”
“Or got sick and had to leave school,” Jill said.
“But never came back to Grollier the following year, the year he would have graduated. I wonder, how do we find out about Duncan Kline and Derrick Meecham? I’m sure as hell not going back to Grollier.”
After a moment, Jill said, “I have an idea. A minute ago, we were talking about Grollier’s alumni.”
“Yes?”
“Grollier’s students are all targeted for Ivy League colleges. In particular, Harvard, Yale, and Princeton. If we assume that Derrick Meecham finally graduated from a prep school similar to Grollier, then it’s also logical to assume that he went to one of the Ivy League colleges,” Jill said. “The registrar’s office for each school can tell us if Meecham went to any of them. But that won’t help us. What we really want to know is where Meecham is now.”
“The university organizations that keep track of the current addresses of graduates are the alumni foundations,” Pittman said.
“Exactly. The groups that are always asking graduates for big bucks to support their alma mater. My father graduated from Yale. He’s one of the biggest donators to its athletic program. The alumni foundation is on the phone to him all the time, sucking up to him, offering special tickets, inviting him to exclusive athletic banquets, wanting more money. Believe me, for his daughter, they’ll do whatever I want. And if Derrick Meecham didn’t go to Yale, I’ll ask them to contact the alumni foundations at the other Ivy League colleges.”
17
“Fine, Ray, fine,” Jill said to the telephone. Her blue eyes gleamed with intensity. “Yes, my father’s feeling well, too. Oh, that. Sure, we have disagreements from time to time. We always patch them up. We’re getting along fine.” Concentrating, she drew a hand through her long, straight blond hair. “As a matter of fact, I think I might drive up and see him this weekend.”
From one of the twin beds, Pittman watched her. She was wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the desk that supported the phone. A digital clock next to her showed 11:38 A.M. He and Jill had gotten four hours sleep, which wasn’t nearly enough, his sore body and raw eyes told him, but there wasn’t time to rest longer. The call had to be made. They had to keep moving.
“The reason I’m calling, Ray, is I’d appreciate it if you did me a favor,” Jill said to the telephone. “It’s easy, and it won’t cost you money.” She laughed. “Great. I knew you’d feel that way. I’ll be sure to tell my father that you helped me out. What I’d like you to do is check your computer files for an alumnus named Derrick Meecham. What class? I’m not sure. Some time in the thirties. Yes, that does go a way back. Is it a problem? One of my elderly patients is terminal. He wants to tie up some loose ends, and evidently there’s something he wants to tell this Derrick Meecham. I guess they haven’t seen each other in fifty years. Don’t ask me why it’s important to him, but I feel sorry for the old guy and I’d like to do him a favor. Yeah, I’m a softy. On the ward, they’re always kidding me about-What? You must have a hell of a computer system. Just a minute while I write down that address. The phone number. Wonderful. I’ve got it. Thanks, Ray. I really appreciate this. I’ll be sure to tell my father. You bet, and you take care of yourself, too.”
Jill set down the phone and looked at Pittman. “Boston.”
Pittman studied a map he’d found in the bedside table. “That’s only a hundred miles away. It looks like if we take Route Two, we can be there in a couple of hours.”
“Matt?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Suppose Meecham can’t help us.”
Pittman didn’t answer.
“Suppose he can’t,” Jill repeated.
“Don’t think like that,” Pittman said. “We need to believe that he will help us. Otherwise, we won’t be able to keep going.”
Jill studied him. “Your determination surprises me.”
“Why?”
“A man who’s planning to kill himself normally doesn’t worry about the future, about staying alive.”
“Survival? That’s not what this is about.”
“Oh? You sure as hell could have fooled me. What is it about?”
“A week ago, I was sitting in my bathtub with a gun in my mouth.”
Jill wasn’t prepared for the change of subject. The stark sentence shocked her.
“I had settled all of my affairs. Every debt I owed had been repaid, every favor returned. Everything was in order. I wasn’t beholden to anyone. I intended to leave this world with every loose end tied. Then my phone rang and a friend I thought I was even with asked me to do him a favor. He had done so much for my son that I couldn’t possibly refuse him. Now I have another debt.”
“To whom?” Jill asked.
“You.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s my fault that you’re involved in this. If I hadn’t gone to your apartment… I have to make sure you’re safe.”
Holding the blanket tightly around her, Jill walked over to him. She touched his shoulder. “Thank you.”
Pittman shrugged, self-conscious.
“And if you’re successful?” Jill asked.
Pittman didn’t know what to answer.
“Then what?” Jill asked. “Do you still plan to kill yourself?”
Pittman looked away.
FIVE
1
They took longer than they had anticipated. Route 2 was under construction. It ended well before Boston, and they were forced to take an indirect route, using 495 south, then 90 east into the city, arriving only in late afternoon. Pittman’s bandaged left hand felt less awkward. He did the driving this time, letting Jill nap in the backseat until he stopped at a rest area just outside the city.
She sat up, stretched, and yawned.
“These are your old stomping grounds,” Pittman said. “Do you think you can find the address?”
“Sure. No problem.”
“You don’t need to look at a map?”
“Derrick Meecham must have a lot of money. This address is in Beacon Hill. It’s a couple of blocks from where my parents live.”
Rush hour slowed their progress even more, but finally, shortly after six, Jill steered from the Massachusetts Turnpike onto Columbus Avenue, from there to Charles Street through Boston Common, and then into the historic, exclusive district of Beacon Hill.
Pittman studied a narrow, tree-lined, cobblestoned street. On one side, a spiked wrought-iron fence enclosed a small park, while on the other side, nineteenth-century brick town houses cast shadows from the lowering sun. Jill turned a corner, and here gated driveways separated some of the mansions. Through the metal bars, Pittman saw courtyards, gardens, and carriage houses converted into garages.
“And this is where you were raised?”
“When I wasn’t at private schools,” Jill said.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It can also be a trap. That’s why I moved away to real life.”
“At the moment, I’d prefer to escape from real life.”