over the antique bar they had used as a barrier and put his foot in a
puddle of expensive Scotch.
The lights were on, but no one was there.
At the far end of the room there was another door. He went to it,
opened it. Beyond lay the gloomy fortieth-floor corridor.
While he had wasted time searching the offices, they had slipped back
into the hall by this circuitous route, gaining a few minutes lead on
him.
Clever.
But not clever enough.
After all, they were nothing but ignorant game, while he was a master
hunter.
He laughed softly.
Bathed in red light, Bollinger went to the nearest end of the hall and
opened the fire door without making a sound. He stepped onto the
landing in the emergency stairwell, closing the door quietly behind him.
A dim white bulb burned above the exit on this side.
He heard their footsteps reverberating from below, amplified by the cold
concrete walls.
He went to the steel railing and peered into the alter nave layers of
light and shadow: landings hung with bulbs, and stairs left dark. Ten
or twelve flights down, five or six floors below, the woman's hand
appeared on the railing, moving along less quickly than it should have.
(If he had been in their place, he would have taken the steps two at a
time, perhaps even faster.) Because the open core was so narrow-as long
as a flight ,of stairs, but only one yard wide-Bollinger wasn't able to
see at an angle into the tiers of steps beneath him. All he could see
was the serpentine railing winding to infinity, and nothing of his prey
except her white hand. A second later Harris's hand emerged from the
velvety shadows, into the light that spilled out from a landing; he
gripped the railing, followed the woman through the hazy light and into
the darkness once again, descending.
For an instant Bollinger considered going down the steps behind them,
shooting them in the back, but he rejected that thought almost as soon
as it occurred to him. They would hear him coming. They would most
likely scuttle out of the stairwell, seeking a place to hide or another
escape route. He wouldn't know for certain at which floor they had left
the stairs, and he couldn't run after them and watch their hands on the
railing at the same time.
He didn't want to lose track of them. Although he wouldn't mind an
interesting and complicated hunt, he didn't want it to drag on all
night. For one thing, Billy would be waiting in the car, outside in the
alley, at ten o'clock. For another, he wanted time with the woman, at
least half an hour if she was at all good-looking.
Them Her pale hand slipped into sight on a light-swathed patch of
railing.
Then Harris's hand.
They were still not moving as fast as they should have.
He tried to count flights of stairs. Twelve to fourteen.... They were
six, maybe seven flogrs below. Where did that put them?
Thirty-third floor?
Bollinger turned away from the railing, opened the door and left the
stairwell. He ran down the fortiethfloor corridor to the elevator cab
he was using. He switched, it on with his key, hesitated, then put his
thumb on the button for the twenty-sixth floor.
To Connie the stairwell seemed endless. As she passed through
alternating levels of purple darkness and wan in light, she felt as if
she were follow' g a long pathway to hell, the Butcher fulfilling the
role of the grinning hellhound that harried her ever downward.
The stale air was tool. Nevertheless, she was perspiring.
She knew they should be going faster, but they were hampered in their
flight by Graham's lame left leg. At one point she was almost overcome
with anger, furious at him for being a hindrance to their escape.
However, her fury vanished in the same instant, leaving her surprised by
it and flushed with guilt. She had thought that no pressure, however
great, could cause her to react to him so negatively.
But filled with-nearly consumed by-the survival instinct, she clearly
was capable of responses and attitudes that she would have criticized in
others. Extreme circumstances could alter anyone's personality. That
insight forced her to understand and appreciate Graham's fear to an
extent she had never done before. After all, he had not wanted to fall
on Everest; he hadn't asked for the injury. And indeed, considering the
dull pain he suffered when he tried to climb or descend more than two
flights of stairs, he was responding to this challenge damned well.
From behind her, Graham said, "You go on ahead."
He had said it several times before. "You move faster."
"I'm staying," she said breathlessly.
The echoes of their low-pitched voices were eerie, soft and sibilant.
She reached the landing at the thirty-first floor, waited for him to
catch up, then went ahead. "I won't leave you alone. Two of us ...
have a better chance against him ... better than one of us would."
"He's got a gun. We've no chance."
She said nothing. She just kept taking the steps one at a time.
"Go on," he said, sucking breath between phrases. "You bring back.....
security guard . . . in time to keep ... him from...
killing me."
"I think the guards are dead."
,what?"
She hadn't wanted to say it, as if saying would make it so. "How else
... would he get past them?"
"Sign the registry."
"And leave his name ... for the cops to find?"
A dozen steps later he said, "Christ!"
"What?"
"You're right."
"No help... to he had," she said. "We've just got ...
to get out of... the building."
Somehow he found new strength in his left leg, When she reached the
thirtieth-floor landing, Connie didn't have to wait for him to catch up.
A minute later, a cannonlike sound boomed up from below, halting them
within the fuzzy circle of light at the twenty-ninth floor.
"What was that?"
Graham said, "A fire door. Someone slammed it ...
down there.
"Him?"
"Sss,h,b.
They stood perfectly still, trying to hear movement above the noise of
their own labored breathing.
Connie felt as if the circle of light were shrinking around her, rapidly
pulling back to a tiny point of brilliance. She was afraid of being
blind and helpless, an easy target in pitch blackness. In her mind the
Butcher had the quality of a mythical being; he could see in darkness.
As they got control of their breathing, the stairwell became silent.
Too silent.
Unnaturally silent.
Finally Graham said, "Who's there?"
She jumped, startled by his voice.
The man below said, "Police, Mr. Harris."
Under her breath Connie said, "Bollinger."
She was at the outer edge of the steps; she looked down the open core. A
man's hand was on the railing, four flights below, in the meager
illumination just two or three steps up from the landing. She could
also see the sleeve of his overcoat.
"Mr. Harris," Bollinger said. His voice was cold, hollow, distorted by
the shaft.
"What do you want?" Graham asked.
"Is she pretty?"
"What?"
"Is she pretty?"
"Who?"
"Your woman."
With that, Bollinger started up. Not hurrying. Leisurely. One step at
a time.
She was more frightened by his slow, casual approach than if he had
rushed them. By not hurrying, he was telling them that they were
trapped, that he had the whole. night to get them if he wished to
stretch it out that long.
If only we had a gun, she thought.
Graham took hold of her hand, and they climbed the steps as fast as he
was able. It wasn't easy for either of them. Her back and legs ached.