Mrs. Page set the telephone on its receptacle, stared at it, exhaled, and turned to Pittman. “That was extremely satisfying.”
“You’ll have plenty of other chances. I want to put pressure on your father, on all of them,” Pittman said. “But right now, we need to get back to the car and drive out of this area-in case your father did trace the call.”
Twenty seconds later, Pittman watched the lights of the convenience store recede in his rearview mirror. “We’ll drive for a couple of miles, then use another pay phone.”
“Right. Now it’s my turn to make a call,” Jill said. “To Winston Sloane. I can’t wait. It feels so good to be confronting them.”
5
At last it was Pittman’s turn. He stopped the car at a phone booth on the edge of a shopping mall’s deserted parking lot in Fairfax, Virginia. Standing in the booth’s light, he studied the list of phone numbers, put coins in the box, and pressed numbers.
The phone on the other end rang only once before a man answered, his deep voice somewhat strained. “Standish residence.”
“I need to speak to him.”
The voice hesitated. “Who’s calling, please?”
“Just put him on. I’m certain he’s still awake, because I’m certain he just received calls from Eustace Gable or Winston Sloane, probably both of them.”
“How do you know that, sir?”
It wasn’t the type of question that Pittman expected a servant to ask. Just as the voice had hesitated a short while earlier, now Pittman hesitated. His plan depended in part on the likelihood that the grand counselors would feel pressured by the phone calls, that they would contact one another and feel even more pressure when they learned that each had been called in a similar manner but by different people. The message to them was clear: You failed to keep your secret; more and more people know what you did in the past and what you’ve done to hide it. With luck, the grand counselors would overreact, make mistakes, and…
The deep, strained voice interrupted Pittman’s thoughts. “Sir, are you still there? I asked, how did you know that Mr. Standish received telephone calls from Eustace Gable and Winston Sloane?”
“Because I want to talk to him about the same matter they wanted to talk to him about,” Pittman said.
“And what is that?” The voice sounded more strained.
“Look, I’m tired of this. Tell him Duncan Kline, Grollier Academy. Tell him he can talk to me about it or he can talk to the police.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Duncan Kline? Grollier Academy?”
In the background on the other end of the line, Pittman heard other voices, the sound of people moving around.
What the hell’s going on? Pittman thought.
“Who am I speaking to?” the voice insisted.
“I get the feeling you’re not a servant.”
“Mr. Standish won’t speak with you unless he knows who’s calling. If I could have your name…”
In the background, Pittman heard a man call out, “Lieutenant.”
“You’re with the police,” Pittman said.
“The police, sir? What makes you think that? All I need is your name and I’ll ask Mr. Standish if-”
“Damn it, what’s happened?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Of course. That’s why you’re having a police convention at his house.”
“Just a few guests.”
“Stop the bullshit! I assume you’re trying to trace this call. Don’t bother. I’m going to hang up if you don’t answer my questions. What’s happened?”
“I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” the voice on the phone said.
6
“Victor Standish is dead?” Jill leaned forward, startled, as Pittman drove quickly from the pay phone in the shopping mall’s deserted parking lot.
“How?” Mrs. Page asked in astonishment.
“The policeman wouldn’t say.” Pittman merged with traffic on Old Lee Highway. “I’m surprised he told me even that much. Obviously he hoped to keep me on the line until he had the number I was calling from and could send a cruiser there.”
Behind him, Pittman heard a fast-approaching siren. He peered tensely toward his rearview mirror and saw the flashing lights of a police car speeding through the glare of traffic. “Maybe I didn’t hang up soon enough.”
The cruiser switched lanes, taking advantage of a break in traffic, increasing speed. Unexpectedly, it veered off the highway.
Pittman’s cramped hands were sweaty, slicking the steering wheel. “I think I’ve had enough adrenaline for one night.”
“I’m glad to hear I’m not the only one who feels exhausted,” Mrs. Page said. “I could use a chance to lie down.”
“Isn’t it wonderful,” Denning exclaimed.
“What?”
“Three dead. Two to go,” Denning said gleefully. “They’re dropping like flies, Vivian. It’s everything I dreamed of. They’re finally getting what they deserve. Stop,” he blurted to Pittman. “We have to find another pay phone.”
Pittman didn’t know how to respond to Denning’s outburst.
“Do what I tell you,” Denning insisted. “There. At that service station. Quickly. Pull over.”
Puzzled, compelled by Denning’s emotion, Pittman obeyed. He stopped the Duster next to the air pump at the side of the gas station. Confused, he stood with the others next to the phone booth as Denning made his call.
“Answering your own phone these days, are you, Eustace? Feeling that nervous, are you?… An old enemy. I’m calling to tell you how pleased I am to hear that Victor Standish died tonight. Thrilled. Ecstatic. The bastard deserved it. So do you. It’s enough to make me believe in God. Tell me, Eustace, do you suppose Victor’s death had anything to do with your secret? When people learn about Duncan Kline, you’ll be ruined. You’ll die in disgrace. I’ll dance on your grave, you son of a bitch.”
Denning slammed down the phone, his eyes fierce, his frenzied expression made stark by the harsh fluorescent lights that glared from the gas station’s large window.
The attendant came out, wiping grease from his hands. “Need some gas?”
Pittman was so gripped by the hateful expression on Denning’s face that it took him a moment to respond to the attendant. “No. We just needed to use the phone.”
“Your friend doesn’t look well.”
“You’re right,” Pittman said. “He doesn’t.” Pittman was alarmed by Denning’s sudden pallor.
“Need some rest.” Denning’s knees bent.
Pittman grabbed him.
“Too much has been happening,” Denning said. “Need to lie down.”
“Oh God, should I call an ambulance?” the attendant asked.
“No.” Pittman’s urgent thoughts were complicated. He wanted to make sure that Denning was all right. At the same time, he needed to get away from the gas station in case Gable had managed a trace on Denning’s call and sent men here. “My friend’s a nurse. We’ll get him into the car. She’ll check him. If I have to, I’ll take him to a doctor.”
They rushed to put Denning into the backseat. The next thing, Pittman was behind the steering wheel. He slammed the door, started the Duster, and steered back into traffic. “How is he?”
In the backseat, Jill was examining him. “His pulse is rapid but weak. Unsteady.”
“What does that mean? Is he having a heart attack?”
“I don’t know. He says he isn’t having sharp pains in his chest or down his left arm. It’s more like a hand on his chest. Sounds like angina. If I had some instruments, a blood-pressure cuff, I could… I don’t think you should take any chances. Get him to a hospital.”