use to me. I'm sure the police are watching my friends and my ex-wife
to see if I contact them, but they'll never think about people I've met
as a reporter."
Nonetheless, Pittman felt nervous. He quelled his emotion and stepped
forward.
In the building's shiny, well-maintained lobby, a uniformed doorman
greeted them. "May I help you?"
"Professor Folsom. Do you know if he's in?"
"He just got back from his afternoon walk. Is he expecting you?"
Pittman breathed easier. He had been afraid that Professor Folsom might
not live here anymore or, worse, that the elderly professor might have
died. "Please tell him I'm a reporter. I'd like to talk to him about
the Walt Whitman manuscript he discovered. "
"Certainly, sir.
They waited while the doorman walked toward a telephone on a counter at
the side of the lobby.
"Whitman manuscript?" Jill whispered. "What on earth does Whitman have
to do with-?
The doorman came back. "Professor Folsom says he'd be pleased to see
you. " The doorman gave the apartment number and directed them past a
fireplace toward an elevator in a corridor at the rear of the lobby.
"Thanks. "
"Whitman?" Jill repeated after they got in the elevator.
"Professor Folsom is an expert on him. He used to teach American
literature at Columbia University. He's been retired for about fifteen
years. But age hasn't slowed him down. He kept doing research, and
five years ago he came across a Whitman manuscript, or what he believes
is a Whitman manuscript, in some papers he was examining. There was a
controversy about it. Was the manuscript authentic? Was it really a
new Whitman poem? Some scholars said no. It seemed a good
human-interest story, so I did an article about it. Foisom's quite a
guy."
"But won't he remember you? Won't he call the police?"
"Why would he make the connection between a reporter who spoke to him
five years ago and a man in the news this week? Besides, he doesn't
have a television, and he thought it amusing that I was a newspaper
reporter."
"Why?'
"He seldom reads newspapers."
"But how does he get any news?"
"He doesn't. He's a fanatic about history, not current events. He's
also an expert in American education. I doubt there's a college or prep
school he doesn't know about."
The elevator stopped at the fifteenth floor, and Pittman knocked on
Folsom's door.
A tall, slender, stoop-shouldered elderly man peered out. He wore a
brown herringbone sport coat, a white shirt, and a striped yellow tie.
His skin was pale. His short beard and long hair were startlingly
white. His trifocal glasses had wide metal frames, which only partially
hid the deep wrinkles around his eyes.
"Professor, my name's Peter LOgan. This is my friend Jill."
"Yes. The doorman explained that You were a reporter." Professor
Folsom's voice was thin and gentle
"I'm doing a follow-up on the Whitman manuscript You discovered. At the
time, there was a controversy. I'm curious how it was resolved."
"You honestly believe your readers would care?"
"I care."
"Come in, please. I always enjoy talking about Whitman. As Professor
Folsom led them across a foyer, they passed an immaculately preserved
walnut side table. Open doors on each side of the foyer showed similar
well-cared-for antiques.
"That's quite a collection," Pittman said.
"Thank you."
They entered the living room, and here there were even more antiques.
"They're exclusively American," Professor Folsom explained with
pleasure. "From the mid- and late nineteenth century. That secretary
desk was owned by Nathaniel Hawthorne. That hutch was Emerson's. That
rocking chair was Melville's. When my wife was still alive"-he glanced
fondly toward a photograph of a pleasant-looking elderly woman on the
wall-"we made a hobby of collecting them.
"Nothing that was owned by Whitman?"
"The old fox traveled lightly. But I managed to find several items. I
keep them in my bedroom. In fact, the bed itself belonged to him."
Professor Folsom looked delighted with himself. "Sit down. Would you
like some tea?"
"Tea would be nice," Jill said.
For the next half hour, they discussed poetry and manuscripts with one
of the most ingratiating people Pittman had ever met. In particular,
the old man's sense of peace was remarkable. Pittman felt envious.
Remembering Folsom's reference to his deceased wife, he wondered how it
was possible to reach such advanced years and not be worn down by
despair'
At last, he was ready to ask his crucial question. As he and Jill stood
and prepared to leave, he said, "Thank you, Professor. You've been very
kind. I appreciate your time."
"Not at all. I hardly get any visitors, especially since my wife died.
She's the one kept me active. And of course, students don't come to
visit as they once did."
"I wonder if you could answer something else for me. I have a friend
who's looking for a good prep school for his son. Wants him to be on
track for Harvard or Yale. My friend was thinking perhaps of Grollier."
"Grollier Academy? In Vermont? Well, if your friend isn't wealthy and
doesn't have a pedigree, he'll be disappointed.
"It's that exclusive?" Jill asked.
"Its entire student body is fewer than three hundred. It accepts only
about seventy boys as new students each year, and those slots are
usually reserved when each student is born. The room, board, and
tuition is fifty thousand dollars a year, and of course, parents are
expected to contribute generously to the academy's activities."
"That's too rich for my friend," Pittman said.
Professor Folsom nodded. "I don't approve of education based on wealth
and privilege. Mind you, the education the academy provides is
excellent. Too restrained and conservative for my taste, but excellent
nonetheless."
"Restrained? Conservative?"
"The curriculum doesn't allow for individual temperaments. Instead of
allowing the student to grow into his education, the education is
imposed upon him. Latin. Greek. World history, with an emphasis on
Britain. Philosophy, particularly the ancients. Political science.
European literature, again emphasizing Britain. Very little American
literature. Perhaps that's why my enthusiasm is restrained. Economics.
Algebra calculus. And of course, athletics. The boy who goes to
Grollier Academy and doesn't embrace athletics, in particular football
and rowing-team sports-will soon find himself rejected.
"By the other students?" Jill asked.
"And by the school," Professor Folsom said, looking older, tired. "The
purpose of Grollier Academy is to create Establishment team players.
After all, nonconformist behavior isn't considered a virtue among
patrician society. The elite favor caution and consensus.
Intellectually and physically, the students of Grollier Academy undergo
disciplines that
cause them to think and behave like members of the
special society they're intended to represent."
"It sounds like programming," Pittman said.
"In a sense, of course, all education is," Professor Folsom said. "And
Grollier's preparation is solid. Various graduates have distinguished
themselves." He mentioned several ambassadors, senators, and governors,
as well as a President of the United States. "And that doesn't include
numerous major financiers. "
"I believe Jonathan Millgate went there," Pittman said.
"Yes, Grollier's alumni include diplomats, as well. Eustace Gable.
Anthony Lloyd.
The names were totally unexpected. Pittman felt shocked. "Eustace
Gable? Anthony Lloyd?"
"Advisers to various Presidents. Over the course of their careers, they
achieved so many diplomatic accomplishments that eventually they became
known as the grand counselors. "
Pittman tried to restrain his agitation. "What a remarkable school. "
"For a particular type of patrician student."
AK
Outside the apartment building, the shadows were thicker, cooler.
Shivering but not from the temperature, Pittman walked to the end of the
cul-de-sac and went UP steps to a promenade that overlooked the East
River. -,Grollier Academy. Not just Jonathan Millgate, but Eustace
Gable and Anthony Lloyd."
"The grand counselors," Jill said. Pittman turned. "I had no idea. Do
you suppose the others went there, as well-Winston Sloane and Victor
Standish?
"But even if they did, what would that prove?"
"Yes." pittmans forehead throbbed. "What's SO important about Grollier
Academy that the other grand counselors were willing to kill Millgate
and blame me for his murder and kill Father Dandridge and ... ? All to
prevent anyone from knowing why Millgate was fixated on his prep school.
"
"Or maybe we're completely wrong. It could be Millgate was in fact
rambling." at. "No," Pittman said emphatically. "I can't believe
that.
If I did, I'd be lost. I'd have to give up. I wouldn't know how to
keep going." He shivered again and put on his overcoat, feeling the
weight of the gun in each pocket, repelled by the conditions of his
life. "Even as it is ... "what now?
What are we going to do about you? It'll soon be dark. You can't go
back to your apartment, and you can't use your credit card to rent a
room. The name on your card would help the men looking for you find
where you're staying.
"Where were you going to spend the night?"
Pittman didn't reply, ."me other nights," Jill asked. "Where-?"
"A park bench and the floor of the intensive-care waiting room. *
"Dear God
"Maybe the police aren't such a bad idea. Call them.
Maybe they can protect you.
"But for how long? I told you, I'd be terrified that they'd let down
their guard. No. I'm staying with you," Jill said.
"In the long run, I'm not sure that would be smart."
"But in the short run, it's the option that scares me the least.
Besides, there's something you still haven't figured out about me," Jill
said.
"You mean in addition to the fact that you have money?"
"The money's part of it. I don't have to work for a living.
The point is, I'm a nurse because I want to be. Because I need to be.
And right now
" Yes?"
"My conscience wouldn't bear what might happen to you if you fail. You
need help."
Pittman's chest became tight with emotion. He touched her arm. "Thank
you."
"Hey, if I don't hang around, who's going to change the bandage on your
hand?"
Pittman smiled.
"You ought to do that more often," Jill said.
Self-conscious, Pittman felt his smile lose its strength.
Jill glanced toward East End Avenue. "I'd better find a pay phone and
tell the hospital that I won't be coming to work. They'll still have
time to get a replacement."
But after she made the call and stepped from the booth, Jill looked
perplexed.
"What's wrong?"
"My supervisor in intensive care-she said the police had been in touch
with her."
"They must have checked your apartment and connected you with the
hospital."
"But she said somebody else called her as well, one of my friends,
telling her I was all right but that I wouldn't be coming in."
"A man. I
Pittman's muscles contracted. "Millgate's people. Trying to cover
everything. If you did show up at the hospital tonight, you would never
have gotten to the sixth floor. But your supervisor wouldn't be worried
enough to call the police when you didn't show up because your 'friend'
told her you were okay.
"Now I'm really scared."
"And we still haven't solved our problem. Where are you going to stay?"
"I've got a better idea."
"What?"
"Let's keep moving," Jill said.
"All night? We'd collapse."
"Not necessarily. You need to go to the library, but it won't be open
until tomorrow."
"Right." Pittman was mystified.
"Well, they've got libraries in other cities. Instead of waiting until
tomorrow, let's use the time. We'll be able to sleep on the train."
"Train?"
"I take the overnight when I go skiing there."
Pittman continued to look perplexed.
"Vermont. "
Pittman suddenly, tensely understood. A chill swep through him. "Yes.
Where Professor Folsom told us it was Grollier Academy. Vermont."
A sleeper car wasn't available. Not that it made a differencePittman
was so exhausted that he was ready to sleep anywhere. Shortly after the
train left Penn Station, he and Jill ate sandwiches and coffee that she
had bought in the terminal. She had also been the one who bought the
tickets; he didn't want anyone to get a close look at him. For the same
reason, he chose a seat against a window in an area that had few
passengers. The photo of him that the newspapers and television were
using didn't show him as he now looked. Still, he had to be careful.
Soon the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of wheels on rails became hypnotic.
Pittman glanced toward the other passengers in the half-full car,
assuring himself that they showed no interest in him. Then he peered
toward the lights in buildings the train was passing. His eyelids felt
heavy. He leaned against the gym bag-he'd retrieved it from Sean
O'Reilly's loft-and started to ask Jill how long the trip would take,
but his eyelids kept sinking, and he never got the question out.
"Wake up,. He felt someone nudging him. ,Its time to wake up." Slowly
he opened his eyes.
Jill was sitting next to him, her hand on his shoulder. Her face was
washed. Her hair was combed. She looked remarkably alert, not to
mention attractive for so early in the morning. "Guess what?" she
asked. "You snore."
so"
"No problem. you must be exhausted. I've never seen. anyone sleep so
deeply in such uncomfortable conditions ,Comp
ared to a park bench, this
is the'Ritz."
"Do you remember switching trains?"
Pittman shook his head. The car was almost deserted, No one was close
enough to overhear them.
"You do a convincing job of sleepwalking?" Jill said. "If we hadn't
had to board another train, I bet you wouldn't even have gotten up to go
to the bathroom."
Pittman gradually straightened from where he'd been scrunched down on
the seat. His back hurt. , 'Where are we?"
"A few miles outside Montpelier, Vermont." Jill raised the shade on the
window.
Although the sun was barely up, Pittman squinted painfull at a line of
pine trees that suddenly gave way, revealing cattle on a sloping
pasture. Across a narrow valley, low woo mountains still had occasional
patches of snow on them.
"What time is ... ?"
"Six-fifteen. "
"I don't suppose there's any coffee left from last night.,"