sound as if he were seriously denigrating himself; at worst, he was
poking fun at the sort of inferiority complex he'd displayed before
tonight. Already, he had regained some of his self-respect.
He pulled open the second half of the window and said, "You wait here.
I'll set another piton, tie up a new line." He took off his gloves.
"Hold these for me."
"Your hands will freeze."
"Not in just a minute or two. I can work faster with bare hands.
Cautiously he put his head out of the window, looked up.
"Is he still there?" she asked.
"No."
He crawled onto the six-foot-wide ledge, stretched out on his stomach.
His feet were toward her, his head and shoulders over the brink.
She took a few steps away from the window. Stood very still.
Listened for Bollinger.
In the Harris Publications suite, Bollinger paused to reload the Walther
PPK before going to the elevator.
Graham hammered the piton into the tight horizontal mortar line between
two granite blocks. He tested it, found it to be secure, and snapped a
carabiner to it.
Sitting up, he took the hundred-foot length of rope from his right hip
and quickly arranged it in a coil that would unravel without a hitch.
The wind had sufficient force to disturb the coil; he would have to
watch it all the while he was belaying Connie. If it got fouled on
itself, they would both be in trouble. He tied a knot in one end of the
line, a knot with two small loops rising above it.
Lying down again, he reached over the brink and hooked the loops of rope
through the carabiner. He shut the gate on the snap link and screwed
the sleeve in place.
He sat up, his back to the wind. He felt as if strong hands were trying
to shove him off the ledge.
Already, his fingers were numb with cold.
The two safety lines they had used during their descent from the
fortieth floor were dangling beside him. He took hold of one.
overhead, the line had been fixed to the carabiner in such a fashion
that it could be tugged loose and retrieved from below. As long as
there was heavy tension on the line, the knot remained tight and safe;
in fact, the more tension there was-and the greater the climber's
weight, the greater the tension-the firmer the knot.
However, when the climber left the rope, releasing the tension, and when
the rope was tugged in the proper manner, the knot would slip open. He
jerked on the line, then again, and a third time. Finally it freed
itself from the snap link and tumbled down into his lap.
He took a folding knife from a pocket of his parka, opened it. He cut
two five-foot pieces from the elevenyard safety line, then put the knife
away.
He stood up, tottering slightly as pain shimmered through his bad leg.
One of the five-foot lines was for him. He tied an end of it to his
harness. He tied the other end to a carabiner and snapped the carabiner
to the window post.
Leaning in the window, he said, "Connie?,"," She stepped out of the
shadows, into the wan fan of light. "I was listening."
"Hear.anything?"
"Not yet."
"Come out here."
He wished Billy could be here for the kill. He felt that Billy was half
of him, fifty percent of his flesh and and mind.
Without Billy, he wasn't fully alive at moments like this. Without
Billy, he could experience only a part of the thrill, half of the
excitement.
On his way to the elevator, Bollinger thought about Billy, mostly about
the first few nights they had known each other.
They had met on a Friday and spent nine hours in a private all-night
club on Forty-fourth Street. They had left well after dawn, and they
were amazed at how the time had flown. The bar was a favorite hangout
for .city detectives and was always busy; however, it seemed to
Bollinger that he and Billy had been the only people in the place, all
alone in their corner booth.
From the start they weren't awkward with each other. He felt as if they
were twin brothers, as if they shared that mythical oneness of twins in
addition to years of daily contact. They talked rapidly, eagerly. No
chitchat or gossip. Conversation. Honest-to-God conversation. It was
an exchange of ideas and sentiments that Bollinger had never enjoyed
with anyone else. Nothing was taboo. Politics.
Religion. Poetry. Sex. Selfappraisal. They found a phenomenal number
of things about which they held the same unorthodox opinions.
After nine hours, they knew each other better than either of them had
ever known another human being.
The following night they met at the bar, talked, drank, picked up a
good-looking whore and took her to Billy's apartment. The three of them
had gone to bed together, but not in a bisexual sense. in fact, it
would be more accurate to say that the two of them had gone to bed with
her, for although they performed, some times separately and sometimes
simultaneously, a wide variety of sex acts with and upon her, Billy did
not touch Bollinger, nor did Bollinger touch Billy.
That night, 'sex was more dynamic, exhilarating, frenzied, manic, and
ultimately more exhausting than Bollinger had ever imagined it could be.
Billy certainly didn't look like a stud. Far from it. But he was
precisely that, insatiable. He delighted in withholding his orgasm for
hours, for he knew that the longer he denied himself, the more
shattering the climax when it finally came. A sensualist, he preferred
to refuse immediate satisfaction in favor of a far greater series of
sensations later on. Bollinger realized from the moment he climbed into
the bed that he was being tested. Rated. Billy was watching. He found
it difficult to match the pace set by the older man, but he did. Even
the girl complained of being worn out, used up.
He vividly recalled the position in which he'd been when he'd climaxed,
because afterward he suspected that Billy had maneuvered him into it.
The girl was on hands and knees in the center of the bed.
Billy knelt in front of her. Bollinger knelt behind, stroking her
dog-fashion. He faced Billy across her back; later, he knew that Billy
had wanted to finish while confronting him.
He watched himself moving in and out of the girl, then looked up and saw
Billy staring at him. Staring intently. Eyes wide, electric.
Eyes that weren't entirely sane. Although he was frightened by it, he
returned the stare-and was plunged into an hallucinogenic experience.
He imagined he was rising out of his body, felt as if he were floating
toward Billy. And as he floated, he shrank until he was so small he
could tumble into those eyes. Knowing that it was an illusion in no way
detracted from the impact of it; he could have sworn that he actually
was sinking into Billy's eyes, sinking down,down....
His climax was considerably more than a biological function; it joined
him to the whore on a physical level, but it also tied him to Billy on a
much higher plane. He spurted deep into her vagina, and precisely at
that moment Billy spilled seed into her mouth. In the throes of an
intense orgasm, Bollinger had the odd notion that he and Billy had grown
incredibly inside of the girl, had swelled and lengthened until they
were touching at the center of her. Then he went one step further, lost
all awareness of the woman; so far as he was concerned, he and Billy
were the only people in the room. In his mind he saw them standing with
the tips of their organs pressed together, ejaculating into each other's
penis. The image was powerful but strangely asexual. There was
certainly nothing homosexual about it.