Whistling louder than before, he proceeded to shut down fourteen of the
remaining fifteen elevators. He would use the last one to go to the
sixteenth floor, where Ott and MacDonald were working, and later to the
fortieth floor, where Harris and his woman were waiting.
Although Graham hadn't spoken, Connie knew that something was wrong. He
was breathing heavily. She looked up from her book and saw that he had
stopped working and was staring at empty air, his mouth slightly open,
his eyes sort of glazed. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"You're pale."
"Just a headache."
"You're shaking."
He said nothing.
She got up, put down her book, went to him. She sat on the corner of
his desk. "Graham?"
"It's okay. I'm fine now."
"No, you aren't."
"I'm fine."
"There for a minute you weren't."
"For a minute I wasn't," he agreed.
She took his hand; it was icy. "A vision?"
"Yeah," Graham said.
"Of what?"
"Me. Getting shot."
"That's not the least bit funny."
"I'm not joking."
"You've never had a personal vision before. You've always said the
clairvoyance works only when other people are involved."
"Not this time."
"Maybe you're wrong."
"I doubt it. I felt as if I had been hit between the shoulders with a
sledgehammer. The wind was knocked out of me. I saw myself falling."
His blue eyes grew wide. "There was blood. A great deal of blood."
She felt sick in her soul, in her heart. He had never been wrong, and
now he was predicting he would be shot.
He squeezed her hand tightly, as if he were trying to press strength
from her into him.
"Do you mean shot-and killed?"
"I don't know," he said. "Maybe killed or maybe just wounded.
Shot in the back. That much is clear."
"Who did it-will do it?"
"The Butcher, I think."
"You saw him?"
"No. just a strong impression."
"Where did it happen?"
"Someplace I know well."
"Here?"
"Maybe .
"At home?"
"Maybe."
A fierce gust of wind boomed along the side of the highrise. The office
windows vibrated behind the drapes.
"When will it happen?" she asked.
"Soon."
"Tonight? "I can't be sure."
"Tomorrow?"
"Possibly."
"Sunday?"
"Not as late as that."
"What are we going to do?"
The lift stopped at the sixteenth floor.
Bollinger used the key to shut off the elevator before he stepped out of
it. The cab would remain where it was, doors open, until he needed it
again.
For the most part, the sixteenth floor was shrouded in darkness.
An overhead fluorescent tube brightened the elevator alcove, but the
only light in the corridor came from two dim red emergency exit bulbs,
one at each end of the building.
Bollinger had anticipated the darkness. He took a pencil flashlight-
from an inside coat pocket, flicked it on.
Ten small businesses maintained offices on the sixteenth floor, six to
the right and four to the left of the elevators. He went to the right.
Two suites down the hall he found a door that bore the words CRACMONT
IMPORTS.
He turned off the flashlight and put it away.
He took out the Walther PPK.
Christ, he thought, it's going so smoothly. So easily. As soon as he
finished at Cragmont Imports, he could go after the primary targets.
Harris first. Then the woman. If she was good-looking ... well, he was
so far ahead of schedule now that he had an hour to spare. An hour for
the woman if she rated it. He was ready for a woman, full of energy and
appetite and excitement. A woman, a table filled with good food, and a
lot of fine whiskey. But mostly a woman. In an hour he could use her
up, really use her up.
He tried the door to Cragmont Imports. It wasn't locked.
He walked into the reception lounge. The room was gloomy. The only
light came from an adjacent office where the door was standing halfway
open.
He went to the shaft of light, stood in it, listened to the men talking
in the inner office. At last he pushed open the door and went inside.
They were sitting at a conference table that was piled high with papers
and bound folders. They weren't wearing their suit jackets or their
ties, and their shirt sleeves were rolled up; one was wearing a blue
shirt, the other a white shirt. They saw the pistol at once, but they
needed several seconds to adjust before they could raise their eyes to
look at his face.
"This place smells like perfume," Bollinger said.
They stared at him.
"Is one of you wearing perfume?"
"No," said blue shirt. "Perfume's one of the things we import."
"Is one of you MacDonald?"
They looked at the gun, at each other, then at the gun again.
"MacDonald?" Bollinger asked.
The one in the blue shirt said, "He's MacDonald."
The one in the white shirt said, "He's MacDonald."
"That's a lie," said the one in the blue shirt. "No, he's lying," said
the other.
"I don't know what you want with MacDonald," said the one in the blue
shirt. "Just leave me out of it. Do what you have to do to him and go
away."
"Christ almighty!" said the one in the white shirt. "I'm not
MacDonald! You want him, that son of a bitch there, not me!"
Bollinger laughed. "It doesn't matter. I'm also here to get Mr. Ott."
"Me?" said the one in the blue shirt. "Who in the hell would want me
killed?"
Connie said, "You'll have to call Preduski."
"Why?"
"To get police protection."
"It's no use."
"He believes in your visions."
"I know he does."
"He'll give you protection."
"Of course," Graham said. "But that's not what I meant.
"Explain."
"Connie, I've seen myself shot in the back. It's going to happen.
Things I see-always happen. Nobody can do anything to stop this."
"There's no such thing as predestination. The future can be changed."
"Can it?"
"You know it can."
A haunted look filled his bright blue eyes.
"I doubt that very much."
"You can't be sure."
"But I am sure."
This attitude of his, this willingness to ascribe all of his failings to
predestination, worried and upset her more than anything else about him.
It was an especially pernicious form of cowardice. He was rejecting all
responsibility for his own life.
"Call Preduski," she said.
He lowered his eyes and stared at her hand but didn't seem to see how
tightly he was gripping it.
She said, "If this man comes to the house to kill you, I'll probably be
there too. Do you think he's going to shoot you, then just walk away
and let me live?"
Shocked, as she had known he would be, by the thought of her under the
Butcher's knife, he said, "My God."
"Call Preduski."
"All right." He let go of her hand. He picked up the receiver,
listened for a moment, played with the dial, led the buttons.
"What's wrong?"
Frowning, he said, "No dial tone." He hung up, waited a few seconds,
picked up the receiver again. "Still nothing."
She slid off the desk. "Let's try your secretary's phone."
They went out to the reception room.
I That phone was dead too.
"Funny," he said.
Her heartbeat quickening, she said, "Is he going to come after you
tonight?"
"I told you, I don't know for sure."
"Is he in the building right now?"
"You think he cut the telephone line."
She nodded.
"That's pretty farfetched," he said. "It's just a breakdown in
service."
She went to the door, opened it, stepped into the hall. He came behind
her, favoring his injured leg.