Remembering how the librarian had bragged that the school's successful honor system made it unnecessary for doors to be locked, Pittman realized the degree to which he and Jill had made enemy's headmaster nervous. Almost certainly, Bennett had been warned to watch Out for strangers. But why? Pittman thought. What are Millgate's people trying to hide?
Earlier, when he'd been in the library building, Pittman hadn't Seen any indication of a security system. At least that was one thing he didn't have to worry about as he took out his tool knife and used its lock picks. The scrape of metal made him wince. It seemed terribly amplified, certain to draw someone's attention. Nonetheless, he kept working, freeing one pin, then another, continuing to apply pressure to the cylinder, suddenly feeling it turn. As the lock's bolt slipped free, Pittman turned the knob, worrying that someone might be waiting for him on the other side. He drew his pistol, lunged through the opening, aimed toward the darkness with his right hand, and quickly used his bandaged hand to shut the door. He listened. The echoes of his rapid entrance diminished. Enveloped by silence, he held his breath, straining to see in the darkness, on guard for the slightest sound. A minute passed, and in contrast with the chill he had felt outside, his body now streamed sweat.
He locked the door behind him, felt his way upstairs to the main floor, listened, crept up to the second floor, listened again, and approached the-door to the archives. The opaque window revealed a hint of moonlight glowing into the room. It, too, was locked, but this time he wasn't surprised.
Quickly he freed the bolt on this door, as well. He entered cautiously, shut the door behind him, crouched, and waited. If gunmen were in here, they had ample opportunity to move against him. After thirty seconds, he decided to take the risk. First he twisted the dead bolt's knob, locking the door behind him. Then he crossed to the windows and pulled down blinds. Finally he crept toward the middle shelves, turned on his flashlight, made sure that its modest beam was aimed toward the floor, where it wouldn't cast a glow on the windows, and reached for the yearbooks that he and Jill had examined that afternoon.
The gap on the shelf dismayed him. The yearbooks from 1929 to 1936 were gone. Hoping that they might still be on the desk where he and Jill had left them, he spun, but the flashlight revealed that the table was bare. Bennett must have taken them away. Jesus, what am I going to do? Pittman thought.
Sweat continued to stream from him. He shut off his flashlight and slumped on the floor, propping his back against a shelf. Check the other yearbooks, he told himself. Look at 1937. Why? What's the point? The grand counselors had graduated by then. Well, what other choice do you have?
Maybe there are other records.
Earlier, when Pittman and Jill had searched the room, they had concentrated on finding the most obvious research toolThe yearbooks. Pittman hadn't paid much attention to binders and boxes. Many of them were labeled sEm REP, followed by sequential, overlapping numbers-51-52, 52-53, 53-54, ct cetera-and the pressure of a time limit had prevented him from investigating the contents. Now, with no alternative, he roused himself, stood, turned on his flashlight, and approached other shelves in the room.
The box he opened, chosen at random, contained smaller boxes, each of which held a roll of microfilm. It Occurred to Pittman that SEM REP possibly Meant semester report and that the numbers referred to the fall and spring sessions of each school year-like fall of 1949, for example, and the spring of 1950. The next school Year would begin in the fall of 1950 and continue to the spring of, 1951, thus The Overlapping numbers-49-50, 50-51. Over the Years, the accumulation Of documents had become difficult to store, not to mention a fire hazard, so the Pages had been transferred to microfilm, convenient for the school but a major frustration for Pittman. --'
What am I supposed to do, steal the rolls for the years the grand counselors attended Grollier? I still wouldn't be able to read them. Unless you take them to a library that has a microfilm reader.
But the rolls I steal might not have the information I need. 1 can't leave here until ...
Wait a minute. There wouldn't be microfilm if there wasn't a ...
Pittman recalled from his previous visit that a bulky object covered by a cloth had stood on a table in a corner to the right of the door. Its shape was distinctive. He shifted toward it, pulled off the cloth, and found, as he had hoped, a microfilm reader. When he turned it on, he didn't know which made him more nervous-the hum of the machine's fan or the glow on its screen. He went back to the boxes, checked labels, and sorted among rolls of microfilm, soon finding one for 31-32. He attached it to the spools on the machine, wound the microfilm past the machine's light and its magnifying lens, and studied what appeared on the screen. What he squinted at was a class list and final grades for students in Ancient History 1. None of the grand counselors' names was on the list. He spooled forward through individual reports about various students, reached Classical Literature 1, and again was frustrated to discover that none of the grand counselors had been in that course.
At this rate, it'll take me hours to read the entire roll.
There's got to be a more efficient way to ... The numeric Ancient History I? Classical Literature I? designation implied that there were later sections of those courses, Pittman thought-II, III, maybe IV. Heat rushed into his stomach as he understood. Grollier was a four-year prep school. The grand counselors had been juniors in 1931-1932. They would be in the class reports for juniors, three-quarters through the roll.
Pittman swiftly turned the roll forward, ignoring classes marked 11, reaching III, and inunediately slowing. He found a course in British History in which all the grand counselors were registered and had received top grades. He found a courses-British Literature, European Hisnumber of other tory, Greek Philosophy, and Latin-in which the grand counselors had also been registered and received top grades. But in none of those classes did he find anyone named Duncan. He spooled onward to a course in Political Science, and immediately his attention was engaged: While the other courses had contained numerous students, this course contained only six-the five grand counselors, plus a student named Derrick Meecham. Pittman hesitated. When he and Jill had separated the yearbooks, hers had been for 1929-1932, his for 1933-1936. As he had learned, the grand counselors had graduated in 1933. But it now seemed to him that when he had concentrated on the M category, looking for Millgate's name, he hadn't come across any reference for a student named Meecham in the 1933 yearbook. He knew he could be wrong. All the same ... He spooled forward to the spring semester for that course, and now he frowned with puzzlement. The roster had dropped from six names to five. Derrick Meecham was no longer enrolled. Why? Had Meecham gotten sick? His grade from the previous semester had been an A, so he couldn't have found the course so difficult that he'd dropped it. Besides, Pittman had the suspicion that at Grollier, students didn't have the option of dropping courses. Rather, Grollier dropped students. Then why? Pittman thought again. He became more convinced that his memory hadn't failed him, that Derrick Meecham had, in fact, not been in the yearbook for the following year. Pittman rubbed the back of his neck. His gaze wandered to the bottom of the screen, where the course's instructor had signed the grade report, and suddenly he felt as if he had touched an exposed electrical wire, for the instructor's ornate signature seemed to come into focus. Pittman tried to control his breathing as he stared at the name.
Duncan Kline. Jesus, Pittman thought. Duncan hadn't been a student. He'd been a teacher. That was the connection with Grollier. Duncan Kline had been Millgate's teacher. All of them. He had taught all the grand counselors.
A noise made Pittman stiffen. Despite the whir of the fan on the microfilm machine, he heard footsteps on the stairs beyond the door. Angry voices rapidly approached. Startled, he shut off the machine.
"... can't believe you didn't leave someone on guard?" "But the two of them left. I made sure."
The voices became louder. "Were they followed?" "To the edge of campus."
"Stupid ..."
"It's a good thing we flew up here."
"The outside door was still locked. That proves the records are safe. "It proves nothing."
Lights came on in the hallwayoutside the door. Their illumination glowed through the opaque window. The shadows of men loomed beyond it.
"I took the yearbooks they were looking at."
"But what else might they have come back to look at?" Someone tried to turn the knob on the door. "It's locked.
"Yes, I secured that door, as well. I told you no one's here." "Just get out your key and unlock the damned door."
Pittman's chest cramped. He couldn't get enough air. In desperation, he swung toward the murky room, trying to figure out where he could hide, how he could stop the men from finding him.
But he remembered how the room had looked during daylight. There'd been no other door. There was nothing to hide behind. If he tried to conceal himself beneath a table, he'd be found at once.
The only option was ... The windows. As he heard a key scraping in the lock, a voice saying, "Come on, hurry," Pittman rushed to a window, raised its blind, freed its lock, and shoved the window upward.
"Stop," one of the voices in the hallway said. "I heard something. " "Somebody's in there."
Bennett's unmistakable nasally voice said, "What are you doing with those guns?"
"Get out of the way."
Pittman shoved his head out the window, staring down. He had hoped that there might be something beneath the window to break his fall, but at the bottom of the two-story drop, there was nothing except a flower garden. "When I throw the door open, you go first. Duck to the left. Pete'll go straight ahead. I'll take the right."
Pittman studied the leafless ivy that clung to the side of the building. The vines felt dry and brittle. Nonetheless, he had to take the chance.
He squirmed out the window, clung to the ivy, and began to climb down, hoping that there weren't other men outside in the darkness.
"On three."
Pittman climbed down faster. The ivy to which he clung made a crunching noise and began to separate from the bricks and mortar.
Above him, he heard a crash, the door being thrust open. Simultaneously the ivy fully separated from the wall. As Pittman dropped, his stomach soaring, his hands scrabbled against the wall, clawing for a grip on other strands of ivy., The fingers on his bandaged left hand were awkward, but those on his right hand snagged onto vines. At once those strands snapped free from the wall, and he dropped farther, grabbing still other ivy, jolting onto the ground, falling backward, desperately bending his knees, rolling.
"There!" a man yelled from the window above him.
Pittman scrambled to his feet and raced toward the cover of the rear of the next building. Something kicked up grass next to him. He heard the muffled, fist-into-a-pillow report from a sound-suppressed gunshot.
Adrenaline made his stomach seem on fire. Needing to discourage them from shooting again, he spun, raised his .45, and fired. In the silence of the night, the roar of the shot was deafening. His bullet struck the upper part of the window, shattering glass.
"Jesus!"
"Get down!"
"Outside! He can't go far on foot! Stop him!"
Pittman fired again, not expecting to hit anybody but wanting anxiously to make a commotion. The more confusion, the better. Already lights were going on in dormitory windows.
He raced past bushes, rounded the back corner of the next building, and tried to orient himself in the darkness. How the hell do I get out of here? He left the cover of the building, running toward the murky open meadow. A bullet whizzed ist him from behind. He ran harder. Suddenly a shadow darted to his left, someone running parallel to him. He fired.
In response, another bullet whizzed past, from his left. A car engine roared. Headlights gleamed, speeding toward the meadow ahead of him.
With no other direction available, Pittman veered sharply to his right. He zigzagged and veered again as a third bullet parted air near his head. In the darkness, he'd become disoriented. Dismayed, he found that he was running back toward the school. The rear of the buildings was still in shadow, but the commotion was causing more lights to come on all the time. Feeling boxed in, he took the only course available, charged up to the back door of the nearest building, prayed that its lock hadn't been engaged, yanked at the door, and felt a surge of hope as it opened. He darted in, shut and locked the door, felt the impact of a bullet against it, and turned to sprint along a hallway.
But he'd bought only a few moments of protection. When he showed himself outside the front of the building ...
What am I going to do? This building was evidently a dormitory. He heard students on the upper floors, their voices distressed.
Witnesses. Need more witnesses. Need more commotion.
He swung. toward a fire-alarm switch behind a glass plate and hammered the butt of his .45 against the glass. The plate shattered with surprising ease. Trembling, he reached in past shards and pulled the switch.
The alarm was shrill, reverberating off walls, causing picture frames to tremble. Despite its intensity, Pittman sensed the greater commotion on the floors above him, urgent footsteps, frightened voices, a lot of them. A welter of shadows in the stairway became students in pajamas scurrying to get outside.