Tomorrow or the next day, I'd say.''
''What if they're running?''
''Their pictures have been on every TV in the country; they couldn't stop to get gas. They really can't go out in the open.''
After another moment of silence, Weather said, ''You think they'll be taken alive?''
''No.''
''You guys'll just shoot them?''
''It's not that-if they called up and said they wanted tocome in, and they told us where they were, and they came out with their hands over their heads…
We'd take them. But it's not shaping up that way. The first guy, Butters, might as well have committed suicide. They figure they're dead. They've already written themselves off. And that's scarier'n hell.''
''Gotta be their parents… you know, who made them like that.''
''Always is,'' Lucas said. ''I've watched some kids grow up from little psychos into big psychos: it was always the parents that made them that way.''
''If you could intervene early enough…''
Lucas shook his head: ''Never work. Nobody spends as much time with the kids as their parents, even if their parents don't want them. And usually, nobody knows anything is wrong until the kid's already bent. Maybe you could set up an army of fascist social workers who'd go around to every house once a month and cross-examine every kid, but that'd probably be worse than what we've got. Look what happened with all these mass child-abuse things. They're all bullshit, and it's the social workers who've done it.''
Another silence.
Then Weather said, ''I don't believe that more violence is the way to solve the problem. I don't think shooting these people will do it.''
Lucas said, ''That's 'cause you're a doctor.''
''Hmm?''
''Doctors think in terms of illness and cures. The problem is, when one of these guys gets sick, somebody else gets hurt. So we've got two problems, not one.
First we've got to protect innocent people. Then we've got to do whatever we can with these guys-cure them or whatever. But first we've got to stop them.''
''That doesn't seem to be what you're doing…'' Thenshe added, hastily,
''Sometimes it doesn't, anyway.''
''Yeah, I know. Sometimes we play it a little too much like a game. That's just a way to deal with it… but that's not the way it really is. It ain't football, even if TV thinks so.''
They talked a bit longer, then Weather said, ''I've got to get some sleep. I'm working in the morning.''
Lucas kissed her good-night again, and lay on his back, watching the outside light trace feather patterns across the ceiling, and some time later, finally fell asleep.
SANDY MOVED THE WINDOW AN INCH AT A TIME, AND the cold air flooded in. That was a problem. Once she committed herself, she could hardly go back. The room would be cold, and if Martin or LaChaise came in, they'd know…
But she pushed the window up anyway. Then leaned out, brushed snow off the ledge with her hand. The ledge didn't seem too slippery, but she wouldn't be able to walk it with boots. She dropped to the bed, took off her boots and socks, put the socks in the boots and the boots in her parka pockets, the heels sticking out. Couldn't drop those…
She looked down. I'm going to kill myself . She took a breath and stepped out on the ledge: and the shock of the cold on her feet almost pitched her off. She held to the inside of the window frame, then edged to her right. The ledge was plenty wide, almost as though it had been designed to get her to the fire escape. Probably had been, she thought.
She slid another step, and then another, refusing to look down again. She let go of the edge of the window frame, and now was balanced on nothing but her painfully chilled feet, the outside wall pushing against her back. She looked straight out, feeling more balanced that way. Two more steps. Two more.
Reaching out with her right hand, she groped for the steel of the fire escape.
Another step. Christ, she was afraid to look to her right, another step, groping
… and she felt it. Now she turned her head, saw it, grabbed the railing and stepped over to it.
She stopped to check the window above the fire escape. The shade was down, but there was a crack at the bottom between the shade and window frame, and she could see down the hall. In the semidark, Martin looked like an enormous cocoon, rolled up on the floor at the end of the hall.
She stepped over the railing onto the fire escape, breathing hard: she was excited and frightened to death. She took two steps down, onto the drop platform, and bounced gently, to see if that was enough to make it drop. It didn't move. She tried again, harder. Nothing. Hard, this time. There was a metallic clank to the left, but the platform stayed up.
This wasn't the way it was supposed to work, but in the dark, she couldn't see why the platform wasn't dropping. Something was stuck somewhere. ..
She thought about hanging from the bottom, and dropping. But even with a two-step platform drop, and the six feet she'd get by hanging, it'd be a twelve- or thirteen-foot drop onto an uncertain alley surface…
She'd break a leg.
But she thought about it, the cold in her feet growing to pain.
THEN SHE FELT THE VIBRATION.
She didn't know what it was, but she went to her knees under the window, and put her eye to the crack under the shade. Martin was on his feet, walking down the hall toward her room. He stopped at LaChaise's room, looked in, then went into the bathroom. Sandy took a breath-but Martin wasback in three or four seconds, and now he was moving softly down the hall toward Sandy's door.
He stopped at her door, and she ducked, unable to watch, afraid he'd sense her eyes. She waited, then forced herself to look. Martin was at her door, one hand on her knob. Unmoving, listening.
Sandy's feet were burning: she had to move them, but she couldn't. She was afraid that he'd sense anything, any movement.
Then Martin left her door, came down the hall to the fire escape window, pulled arrows out of his target. Then he turned and went back down the hall, looked around once, put the arrows on a shelf and dropped back on the sleeping bag.
Sandy, still holding her breath, ducked below the window again, sat, lifted her feet off the fire escape and cradled them. They hurt, and for a while there was nothing in her world but her heartbeat and her feet. Had to move. She looked through the crack again. Martin was on the sleeping bag again, but awake, twitching. Twitching? She watched: Jesus, he was masturbating.
Now Sandy was breathing like a locomotive, great gouts of steam puffing out into the cold night air: her feet were freezing, the pain excruciating. She looked at the drop, looked at the ledge, and painfully stepped back over the rail onto the ledge.
Back to the bedroom. She moved faster going back, the pain pushing her. She caught the window ledge and crawled back through. Her feet felt as though she were walking on broken bottles, but she ignored them for the moment and focused on closing the window, carefully, not making a sound.
All right. The room was cold, but there was nothing she could do about that, not right away. She couldn't open the door: Martin might catch a draft. She pulled off her coat, tookthe boots out, sat on the bare bed, and used the inside of her coat sleeves to wipe her feet.
When they were dry, she touched them, ran her fingers along the soles. No feeling, but no blood, either. She put on her socks and lay back. If she were quiet…
Wait. She got on her hands and knees, crawled around the perimeter of the room, and found a hot air register. Open, closed? There was no heat coming out. She looked at the light, decided to risk it. She turned it on, just for a second, looked at the register-closed-and turned it off. Went back to the register, in the dark, and opened it as wide as the adjustment level allowed. Still no heat.
The furnace wasn't running at the moment.
What else? The lock. She stepped to the window, twisted the lock, pulled the shade. The window ledge and fire escape would have footprints: nothing she could do about it. Hope for some wind.