Desperate Measures

11

“Friendly place.” Jill drove from the parking lot.

“Yeah, I’ve been kicked out of a lot of spots, but never a prep school.”

Jill followed the paved section that flanked the square, passed several classroom buildings and the administration building, then headed along the lane through the valley. “Is he still watching?”

Pittman turned to look. “In front of the library building. I can feel him glaring all the way from here. Mr. Personality.”

Jill steered past the stables, then reached open grassland. The lane began to rise. “What touched him off? Do you think he’s really annoyed that we didn’t ask permission from him instead of the librarian?”

“Something tells me it wouldn’t have done any good if we’d gone to see him first. This way, at least we got into the archives. Looks like we’ve got company.”

“I see it in the rearview mirror. A brown station wagon leaving the school. Millgate’s people?” Jill tensed. “What if they were waiting in case we came here?”

“I think they’d have moved against us before now.”

“Unless they didn’t want to cause trouble at the school. All those kids. Too many witnesses. Maybe a few miles down the road, they’ll catch up to us and…”

Jill crested the hill. The lane sloped sharply toward the building that reminded Pittman of a sentry’s station. He lifted the back of his sports coat and pulled the.45 from behind his back.

“What are you doing?” Jill asked nervously.

“Just in case,” Pittman said.

At once Jill was past the small building, driving through the open gate, reaching the country road.

“No, don’t turn left. Go the other way,” Pittman said.

“But left takes us back toward Montpelier.”

“That’s the way they’ll expect us to go. If Millgate’s people are in that station wagon… For now, they can’t see us from the other side of the hill.”

Jill veered right, tires squealing, onto the narrow country road. She stepped on the accelerator so hard that Pittman was pressed against the back of his seat. He gripped the dashboard as she swung around a curve.

Pine trees lined the road.

“Take it easy.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my driving.”

“That’s not what I meant. You’re doing great. But I want to get off the road. Look for a-There. Between those trees.”

Faster than Pittman expected, Jill stamped on the brake, twisted the steering wheel, and jolted off the road onto a semiovergrown, wheel-rutted lane that disappeared among pine trees. Sunlight became shadows as the Duster scraped past bushes. The impact of lurching over a rock slammed Pittman harder against the seat.

He stared through the rear window. “We’re hidden from the road. Stop.”

The moment Jill did, Pittman shoved his driver’s door open and hurried out. Stooping, doing his best not to expose himself, he chose an angle through the pine trees that would lead him back to the curve in the road. Sensing that he was close, he slowed, stepped carefully over a log, and crept among undergrowth. Immediately he came into sunlight and sank to the ground, seeing the road.

Across from him, to his right, was the open gate that led to the academy. Beyond it, the station wagon came rapidly into sight at the top of the wooded hill. As it sped down toward the gate, Pittman saw two husky men in the vehicle. They didn’t look happy.

But to Pittman’s surprise, the station wagon didn’t pull out onto the road and speed toward Montpelier in pursuit of the Duster. Instead, it skidded to a stop at the gate. The two men got out angrily, swung the gate shut, and secured a chain and lock to it. With the gate fully in view, Pittman noticed a sign that he hadn’t been able to see before: NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

I bet they will, Pittman thought as the two men stalked back to the station wagon, slammed their doors shut behind them, and drove back up the hill, disappearing over it toward the school.

Pittman waited to make sure that no one else was coming, then slowly stood. As he turned toward the forest, he saw Jill rise from bushes not far behind him.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “If they were Millgate’s people, wouldn’t they have followed us?”

“Maybe they were ordered not to leave the campus.” Pittman entered the cover of the trees.

“Or maybe that’s just Grollier’s physical education staff,” Jill said. “The football coach. The rowing instructor. Bennett might have told them to make sure we were off the property, and if we weren’t, to give us some physical incentive.”

Pittman stepped over another log. “Until reinforcements arrive. Bennett was testier than he needed to be. Someone might have warned him to be suspicious of visitors.”

“And now he’ll make some phone calls.”

“Right,” Pittman said. “But maybe they’ll think we’ve really gone.”

“We haven’t?” Jill frowned. “You mean you don’t plan to go back to Montpelier?”

“Where would we go from there?” Ahead, through the shadows of the trees, Pittman saw the gray Duster. “What other leads do we have?”

“But what else can we do here? We found out that no one named Duncan, first or last name, went to school with the grand counselors. Millgate must have been rambling. Duncan and Grollier have nothing to do with each other.”

“No. I have to be sure.” Pittman reached the Duster and leaned against its side. “I’m going back. Tonight.”