David Morrell - Desperate Measures

“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.”

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, he landed on a bench, then toppled painfully onto the floor. He winced. Broken glass from the window impaled his left hand, deep, burning. He pulled out the glass, alarmed by the flow of blood and the searing pain, scrambled desperately to his feet, and ran. From the open window, a man shot into the dark room.

Pittman’s eyes adjusted to the shadows enough to see a doorway ahead. He fired toward the window, heard a moan, jerked the door open, and surged into a brightly lit room, where he blinked in dismay at a group of women setting out pastries for what looked like a bake sale. Their mouths fell open in shock. A woman dropped a cake. A baby started wailing. Another woman shrieked-but not before Pittman heard noises behind him, the two men climbing down into the room.

“Get out of the way!” Pittman ordered the women. He raised his gun, the sight of which made them scurry. At once he slammed the door behind him, saw that it didn’t have a lock, and grabbed one of the tables, dragging it toward the door, hoping to brace the door shut.

A shot from behind the door splintered wood. Pittman fired back. Only one more bullet. As women screamed, he raced toward stairs at the end of the large room. Above him, he heard a commotion in the church.

He reached the stairs, expecting the gunmen to knock the door open and fire at him. But as he hurried up, he risked a glance behind him and saw that the door remained closed. Too many witnesses. They’re not taking chances. They’re climbing out the window. They’re going over the wall.

Hearing numerous hurried footsteps at the top of the stairs, Pittman shoved the.45 into his pocket. Frantic parishioners charged down the steps toward him.

“A man with a gun! Down there!” Pittman showed them the hand that he’d cut on the broken glass. In greater pain, he clutched it, trying to stop the flow of blood. “He shot me!”

“Call the police.”

“A doctor. I need a doctor.” Sweating, Pittman pushed his way through the crowd.

The crowd began to panic.

“What if he shoots someone else?”

“He might kill all of us!”

Abruptly reversing its direction, the crowd charged up the stairs. The press of bodies made Pittman feel suffocated. Their force carried him up. A door loomed. Someone banged it open. The crowd surged into the street, taking Pittman with them. A few seconds later, he was enveloped by the confusion of hundreds of panicked churchgoers.

As a siren approached, Pittman shoved his bleeding hand into his overcoat pocket. He stayed with a group of frightened men and women who hurried away. By the time the flashing lights of the first police car arrived, he was turning a corner, hailing a taxi.

“What’s all the trouble down there?” the driver asked.

“A shooting.”

“At a church? God help us.”

“ Somebody better.”

“Where do you want to go?”

A damned good question, Pittman thought. In desperation, he told the driver the first nearby location he could think of. “Washington Square.”