The gunshot boomed and echoed in the dark corridor.

The lock shattered, and the wood splintered under the impact of the bullet.

Wrinkling his nose at the odor of burnt powder and scorched metal, Bollinger pushed open the ruined door.

The reception lounge was dark. When he found the light switch and flipped it up, he discovered that the room was also deserted.

Harris Publications occupied the smallest of three business suites on the fortieth floor. In addition to the hall door by which he had entered, two other doors opened from the reception area, one to the left and one to the right. Five rooms. Including the lounge. That didn't leave Harris and the woman with many places to hide.

First he tried the door to the left. It led to a private corridor that served three large offices: one for an editor and his secretary, one for an advertising s.p.a.ce salesman, and one for the two-man art department.

Neither Harris nor the woman was in any of those rooms.

Bollinger was cool, calm, but at the same time enormously excited. No sport could be half so dramatic and rewarding as hunting down people. He actually enjoyed the chase more than he did the kill. Indeed, he got an even greater kick out of the first few days immediately after after a kill than he did from either the hunt or the murder itself. Once the act was done, once blood had been spilled, he had to wonder if he'd made a mistake, if he'd left behind a clue that would lead the police straight to him. The tension kept him sharp, made the juices bubble. Finally, when sufficient time had pa.s.sed for him to be certain that he had gotten away with murder, a sense of well-being-of great importance, towering superiority, G.o.dhood-filled him like a magic elixir flowing into a long-empty pitcher. a kill than he did from either the hunt or the murder itself. Once the act was done, once blood had been spilled, he had to wonder if he'd made a mistake, if he'd left behind a clue that would lead the police straight to him. The tension kept him sharp, made the juices bubble. Finally, when sufficient time had pa.s.sed for him to be certain that he had gotten away with murder, a sense of well-being-of great importance, towering superiority, G.o.dhood-filled him like a magic elixir flowing into a long-empty pitcher.

The other door connected the reception room and Graham Harris's private office. It was locked.

He stepped back and fired two shots into the lock. The soft metal twisted and tore; chunks of wood spun into the air. chunks of wood spun into the air.

He still could not open it. They had pushed a heavy piece of furniture against the far side.

When he leaned on the door, pushed with all of his strength, he could not budge it; however, he could make the unseen piece of furniture rock back and forth on its base. He figured it was something high, at least as wide as the doorway, but not too deep. Perhaps a bookshelf. Something with a high center of gravity. He began to force the door rhythmically: push hard, relax, push hard, relax, push hard.... The barricade tipped faster and farther each time he wobbled it-and suddenly it fell away from the door with a loud crash and the sound of breaking gla.s.s. however, he could make the unseen piece of furniture rock back and forth on its base. He figured it was something high, at least as wide as the doorway, but not too deep. Perhaps a bookshelf. Something with a high center of gravity. He began to force the door rhythmically: push hard, relax, push hard, relax, push hard.... The barricade tipped faster and farther each time he wobbled it-and suddenly it fell away from the door with a loud crash and the sound of breaking gla.s.s.

Abruptly the air was laden with whiskey fumes.

He squeezed through the door which remained partly blocked. He stepped 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 alternate 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. 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.

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 floors 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 fortieth-floor corridor to the elevator cab he was using. He switched it on with his key, hesitated, then put his thumb on the b.u.t.ton for the twenty-sixth floor.

24.

To Connie the stairwell seemed endless. As she pa.s.sed through alternating levels of purple darkness and wan light, she felt as if she were following a long pathway to h.e.l.l, the Butcher fulfilling the role of the grinning h.e.l.lhound that harried her ever downward.

The stale air was cool. 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 att.i.tudes that she would have criticized in others. Extreme circ.u.mstances 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 wanted to fall on Everest to fall on Everest; he hadn't he hadn't asked 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 d.a.m.ned well. 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 d.a.m.ned 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 no chance." 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 be 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?" "Ssshh. "Ssshh. " "

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. 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. 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?" 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 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. 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. With each step, Graham either gritted his teeth or moaned loudly.

When they had gone two floors, four flights, they were forced to stop and rest. He bent over, ma.s.saging his b.u.m leg. She went to the railing, peered down.

Bollinger was four flights under them. Evidently he had run when he heard them running; but now he had stopped again. He was leaning over the railing, framed in a pool of light, the gun extended in his right hand. but now he had stopped again. He was leaning over the railing, framed in a pool of light, the gun extended in his right hand.

He smiled at her and said, "Hey now, you are pretty."

She screamed, jerked back.

He fired.

The shot pa.s.sed up the core, ricocheted off the top of the rail, smashed into the wall over their heads and ricocheted once more into the steps above them.

She grabbed Graham; he held her. he held her.

"I could have killed you," Bollinger called to her. "I had you dead on, sweetheart. But you and I are going to have a lot of fun later."

Then he started up again. As before. Slowly. Shoes sc.r.a.ping ominously on the concrete: shuss shuss ... ... shuss shuss ... ... shuss shuss ... ... shuss.... shuss.... He began to whistle softly. He began to whistle softly.

"He's not just chasing us," Graham said angrily. "The son of a b.i.t.c.h is playing with us."

"What are we going to do?"

Shuss ... shuss....

"We can't outrun him."

"But we've got to."

Shuss.... shuss....

Harris pulled open the landing door. The thirty-first floor lay beyond. "Come on."

Not convinced that they gained anything by leaving the stairs, but having nothing better to suggest, she went out of the white light into the red.

Shuss ... ... shuss.... shuss....