Driving, Pittman stared nervously ahead, seeing the lights and traffic of Pennsylvania Avenue. “To prevent me from finding out, they also killed several people I went to for information. They made it look as if I had killed those people. That’s why the newspapers create the impression I’m on a homicidal rampage. But I haven’t killed anyone. No, that’s wrong. I have to be totally honest with you. God help me, I did kill. I had to defend myself against a man in my apartment, against a man who tried to shoot me on a street in Manhattan, and against a man who threatened Jill in her apartment.”
“That’s my real name,” Jill told Mrs. Page. “Those men think I know something, too.”
“But the rest of us,” Mrs. Page said. “Why would they want to-?”
“Those men work for your father and presumably the other grand counselors,” Pittman said. He reached Pennsylvania Avenue and turned to the right onto brightly lit M Street. Traffic was dense. “Your father knows how much you hate him. He knows you want to destroy him. You’re a logical person for us to go to and ask for help.”
Denning objected. “You weren’t aware of her. If it hadn’t been for me…”
“But Eustace Gable doesn’t know that,” Pittman said. “What he does know is that I’m a former reporter. He might have been afraid that I’d use my sources to learn about Mrs. Page and go to her-which is exactly what happened tonight. My guess is, he had a man watching the house in case we showed up. When we did, the man telephoned for help.”
Ahead, Pittman saw the gleaming lights of Francis Scott Key Bridge and steered left onto it, following traffic across the Potomac into Virginia. “I’m supposed to be on a killing spree, some kind of vendetta against the grand counselors. They’d have made it seem that I’d killed you. Why would I have done it? Who knows? The authorities think I’m insane, after all. Maybe, because I couldn’t find Eustace Gable, I vented my rage on his daughter. But Eustace Gable was worried about his daughter. He sent men to see if she was safe. They caught me after I’d killed her. Shots were exchanged. Jill and I didn’t survive. End of story. End of the threat to the grand counselors. And with no one to prove otherwise, the police would have gone along with that explanation.”
“The police,” Mrs. Page said. “We have to go to the police.”
“You can,” Pittman said. “I think they’ll listen to you. With your money and prestige, they’ll do their best to protect you. But your father will do everything in his power to discredit you, to make people think you’re insane. Which is more acceptable to the authorities, that I’m a maniac or that your distinguished father was so determined to keep a secret that he didn’t care if his daughter was killed?”
“My distinguished father,” Mrs. Page said with disgust.
“And there’s always a risk that your father will arrange to have an accident happen to you while you’re in protective custody,” Pittman said. “Seven years ago, Jonathan Millgate arranged to have the Boston police arrest me for suspicion of burglary while I was investigating him. Two men working for him broke my jaw while I was in jail.”
“That’s why we haven’t given ourselves up,” Jill said. “If Matt surrenders to the police and tries to tell his story, he doesn’t think he’ll be safe. He won’t be believed.”
“The evidence is against me. My chances are a whole lot better if I stay free and do what I can to prove I’m innocent.”
“How?” Mrs. Page asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that. But I can’t do it alone. Will you help?”
“Tell me what you need.”
“I’m still figuring out all the details. But I know this much right now. At your house, people saw the gun in my hand. They saw us put you in our car. They’ll almost certainly have seen our Vermont license plates. What happened can be interpreted as a kidnapping. The police will be looking for us, and they’ll be counting on our Vermont license plates to make it easy for them.” Across the Potomac, opposite Washington, Pittman drove along Fort Myer Drive in Rosslyn, Virginia. “I need to find a nice big bar with a crowded parking lot.”
“Yes,” Denning said. “I could use a stiff drink.”
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” Pittman said. “I want to steal somebody’s Virginia license plates. After they’re on, we’re going to a pay phone. I want you to call your father, Mrs. Page. There are several things I want you to say to him.”
“But I don’t have his private number. He refuses to give it to me.”
“No problem. I’ve got the number,” Pittman said.
“You do? How?”
“Someone I once interviewed gave it to me.”
4
The phone booth was outside a brightly lit convenience store. Pittman parked with other cars in front, and as people went in and out of the store, he remained in the Duster, coaching Mrs. Page on what he wanted her to say.
“Can you remember all that? Do you think you can do it?”
“I’m going to enjoy this,” Mrs. Page answered grimly, the tautness of her face emphasized by shadows in the car. “It’s exactly what I want to say to him.”
“I hope I’m not misleading you. You understand that this can put you in danger.”
“I’m already in danger. I need to protect myself. But I don’t see why we have to use a pay phone. Why can’t we rent a hotel room and use its phone? We’d be more comfortable.”
“If your father’s as obsessed about security as I think he is, he’ll have equipment to trace the phone calls he receives. It’s not that hard to do anymore. Look at Caller ID. It can be done instantly,” Pittman said. “In that case, he’d send men to the hotel. Our room would be a trap.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Page said. “I should have thought.”
“But you thought of it,” Denning told Pittman.
Pittman rubbed his brow, troubled. “The precaution just seemed obvious to me.” He was beginning to realize that he had a talent for being on the run. His head throbbed as he wondered what else he didn’t know about himself.
Jill came back from the store, handing Pittman coins from a five-dollar bill that she had changed. “We’ll soon be out of cash.”
“I know. Thanks for the coins.” He pointed. “What’s in the paper bag?”
“Coffee and doughnuts for everybody.”
“You’ll never eat right again.”
“I just hope I get the chance to try.”
Pittman touched her hand, then turned to Mrs. Page. “So what do you think? Are you ready? Good. Let’s do it.” He escorted Mrs. Page to the phone booth, which was situated where they wouldn’t be disturbed, a distance from the store’s entrance. He pulled out a sheet of paper with the list of telephone numbers that he’d gotten from Brian Botulfson’s computer. After putting coins into the box, he pressed the buttons for Eustace Gable’s home and handed Mrs. Page the telephone.
She stood in the booth and glared through the glass wall before her as if she was seeing her father. In a moment, she said, “Eustace Gable…. Oh, in this case, I think he’ll want to be disturbed. Tell him it’s his loving daughter.” Mrs. Page tapped her pointed fingernails impatiently against the glass of the phone booth. “Well, hello, Father dear. I knew you’d be concerned, so I thought I’d call to tell you that in spite of the goons who came to my house, I’m safe.” She laughed bitterly. “What goons? The ones you hired to kill me, of course…. Stop. Don’t insult my intelligence. Do you actually expect me to believe your denials? I know I’ve disappointed you in a number of ways, not the least of which is that I’m not perfect. But you can take pride in this. You did not raise an idiot. I know what’s happening, Father, and I’m going to do everything in my power to guarantee that you’re stopped…. What am I talking about? Duncan Kline, Father…. What’s the matter? All of a sudden, you don’t seem to have anything to say. When I was young, you always interrupted everything I tried to tell you. Now you’re finally listening. My, my. Duncan Kline, Father. Grollier Academy. The snow. You murdered Jonathan Millgate to keep it a secret. But I’m going to let your secret out. And damn you, I hope you spend the rest of your life suffering. For what you did to Mother.”