He told himself to remember that. Remember and stave off panic. Panic was the real enemy. It could kill him faster than Bollinger could. The tether was there. Linking his harness to the window post. He must remember ...

With his free hand, he groped under his thigh, felt behind himself for the long rope that he already held in his other hand. After a maddening few seconds, he found it. Now, the line on which he would rappel came from the piton to his left hand in front of him, pa.s.sed between his legs at crotch level to his right hand behind him. With that hand he brought the rope forward, over his right hip, across his chest, over his head, and finally over his left shoulder. It hung down his back, pa.s.sed through his right hand, and ran on into empty s.p.a.ce.

He was perfectly positioned.

The left hand was his guiding hand.

The right hand was his braking hand.

He was ready to rappel.

For the first time since he had come through the window, he took a good look around him. Dark monoliths, gigantic skysc.r.a.pers rose eerily out of the winter storm. Hundreds of thousands of points of light, made hazy and even more distant by the falling snow, marked the night on every side of him. Manhattan to his left. Manhattan to his right. Manhattan behind him. Most important-Manhattan below him. Six hundred feet of empty night waiting to swallow him. Strangely, for an instant he felt as if this were a miniature replica of the city, a tiny reproduction that was forever frozen in plastic; he felt as if he were also tiny, as if he were suspended in a paperweight, one of those clear hemispheres that filled with artificial snow when it was shaken. As unexpectedly as it came, the illusion pa.s.sed; the city became huge again; the concrete canyon below appeared to be bottomless; however, while all else returned to normal, he remained tiny, insignificant. however, while all else returned to normal, he remained tiny, insignificant.

When he first came out of the window, he had focused his attention on pitons, ropes and technical maneuvers. Thus occupied, he had been able to ignore his surroundings, to blunt his awareness of them.

That was no longer possible. Suddenly, he was too aware of the city and of how far it was to the street.

Inevitable, such awareness brought unwanted memories: his foot slipping, harness jerking tight, rope snapping, floating, floating, floating, floating, striking, darkness, splinters of pain in his legs, darkness again, a hot iron in his guts, pain breaking like gla.s.s in his back, blood, darkness, hospital rooms.... his foot slipping, harness jerking tight, rope snapping, floating, floating, floating, floating, striking, darkness, splinters of pain in his legs, darkness again, a hot iron in his guts, pain breaking like gla.s.s in his back, blood, darkness, hospital rooms....

Although the bitterly cold wind pummeled his face, sweat popped out on his brow and along his temples.

He was trembling.

He knew he couldn't make the climb.

Floating, floating ... ...

He couldn't move at all.

Not an inch.

In the elevator, Bollinger hesitated. He was about to press the b.u.t.ton for the twenty-third floor, when he realized that, after he lost track of them, Harris and the woman apparently had not continued down toward the lobby. They had vanished on the twenty-seventh level. He had searched that floor and all those below it; and he was as certain as he could be, short of shooting open every locked door, that they were not in the lower three-fourths of the building. They'd gone up. Back to Harris's office? As soon as that occurred to him, he knew it was true, and he knew why they had done it. They'd gone up because that was the last thing he would expect them to do. If they had continued down the stairs or elevator shaft, he would have nailed them in minutes. Sure as h.e.l.l. But, in going up, they had confused him and gained time. and he was as certain as he could be, short of shooting open every locked door, that they were not in the lower three-fourths of the building. They'd gone up. Back to Harris's office? As soon as that occurred to him, he knew it was true, and he knew why they had done it. They'd gone up because that was the last thing he would expect them to do. If they had continued down the stairs or elevator shaft, he would have nailed them in minutes. Sure as h.e.l.l. But, in going up, they had confused him and gained time.

Forty-five minutes of time, he thought angrily. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d has made a fool out of me. Forty-five minutes. But not one G.o.dd.a.m.ned minute more.

He pushed the b.u.t.ton for the fortieth floor.

Six hundred feet.

Twice as far as he had fallen on Everest.

And this time there would be no miracle to save him, no deep snowdrift to cushion the impact. He would be a b.l.o.o.d.y mess when the police found him. Broken. Ruined. Lifeless.

Although he could see nothing of it, he stared intently at the street. The darkness and snow obscured the pavement. Yet he could not look away. He was mesmerized not by what he saw, but by what he didn't need need to see, transfixed by what he to see, transfixed by what he knew knew lay below the night and below the shifting white curtains of the storm. lay below the night and below the shifting white curtains of the storm.

He closed his eyes. Thought about courage. Thought about how far he had come. Toes pressed into the shallow mortar-filled groove between two blocks of granite. Left hand in front. Right hand behind. Ready, get set ... but he couldn't go.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Connie on the ledge.

She motioned for him to hurry.

If he didn't move, she would die. He would fail her utterly. She didn't deserve that after the eighteen months she'd given him, eighteen months of tender care and saint-like understanding. She hadn't once criticized him for whining, for his paranoia or his self-pity or his selfishness. She had put herself in emotional jeopardy that was no less terrifying than the physical risk demanded of him. He knew that mental anguish was every bit as painful as a broken leg. In return for those eighteen months, he had to make this climb for her. He owed her that much; h.e.l.l, he owed her h.e.l.l, he owed her everything. everything.

The perspiration had dissolved some of the coating of Chap Stick on his forehead and cheeks. As the wind dried the sweat, it chilled his face. He realized again how little time they could spend out here before the winter night sapped their strength.

He looked up at the piton that anch.o.r.ed him.

Connie will die if you don't do this.

He was squeezing the line too tightly with his left hand, which ought to be used only to guide him. He should hold the line loosely, loosely, using his right hand to pa.s.s rope and to brake. using his right hand to pa.s.s rope and to brake.

Connie will die....

He relaxed his left-hand grip.

He told himself not to look down. Took a deep breath. Let it out. Started to count to ten. Told himself he was stalling. Pushed off the wall.

Don't panic!

As he swung backward into the night, he slid down the rope. When he glided back to the wall, both feet in front of him and firmly planted against the granite, pain zigzagged through his game leg. He winced, but he knew he could bear it. When he looked down, he saw that he had descended no more than two feet: but the fact that he had gotten anywhere at all made the pain seem unimportant.

He had intended to thrust away from the stone with all his strength and to cover two yards on each long arc. But he could not do it. Not yet. He was too scared to rappel as enthusiastically as he had done in the past; furthermore, a more vigorous descent would make the pain in his leg unbearable.

Instead, he pushed from the wall again, swung backward, dropped two feet along the line, swooped back to the wall. And again: just a foot or eighteen inches this time. Little mincing steps. A cautious dance of fear along the face of the building. Out, down, in; out, down, in out, down, in; out, down, in ... out, down, in ...

The terror had not evaporated. It was in him yet, bubbling, thick as stew. A cancer that had fed upon him and grown for years was not likely to vanish through natural remission in a few minutes. However, he was no longer overwhelmed by fear, incapacitated by it. He could see ahead to a day when he might be cured of it; and that was a fine vision. and that was a fine vision.

When he finally dared to look down, he saw that he was so near the ledge that he no longer needed to rappel. He let go of the rope and dropped the last few feet.

Connie pressed close to him. She had to shout to be heard above the wind. "You did it!"

"I did it!"

"You've beaten it."

"So far."

"Maybe this is far enough."

"What?"

She pointed to the window beside them. "What if we break in here?"

"Why should we?"

"It's somebody's office. We could hide in it."

"What about Bollinger?"

She raised her voice a notch to compensate for a new gust of wind. "Sooner or later, he'll go to your office."

"So?"

"He'll see the window. Carabiners and ropes."

"I know."

"He'll think we went all the way to the street."

"Maybe he will. I doubt it."

"Even if he doesn't think that, he won't know where we stopped. He can't blast open every door in the building, looking for us."

The wind whooshed whooshed between them, rebounded from the building, rocked them as if they were toy figures. It wailed: a banshee. between them, rebounded from the building, rocked them as if they were toy figures. It wailed: a banshee.

Snowflakes sliced into Graham's eyes. They were so fine and cold that they affected him almost as grains of salt would have done. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force out the sudden pain. He had some success; but the pain was replaced by a copious flow of tears that temporarily blinded him. but the pain was replaced by a copious flow of tears that temporarily blinded him.

They pressed their foreheads together, trying to get closer so they wouldn't have to yell at each other.

"We can hide until people come to work," she said.

"Tomorrow's Sat.u.r.day."

"Some people will work. The custodial crews, at least." people will work. The custodial crews, at least."

"The city will be paralyzed by morning," he said. "This is a blizzard! No one will go to work."

"Then we hide until Monday."

"What about water? Food?"

"A big office will have water coolers. Coffee and soda-vending machines. Maybe even a candy and cracker vendor."

"Until Monday?"

"If we have to."

"That's a long time."

She jerked one hand to the void at her left side. "And that's a long climb!" climb!"

"Agreed."

"Come on," she said impatiently. "Let's smash in the window."

Bollinger stepped over the fallen liquor cabinet and looked around Harris's office.

Nothing out of the ordinary. No sign of the prey.

Where in the name of G.o.d were were they? they?

He was turning to leave when the green velvet drapes billowed out from the wall.

He brought up the Walther PPK, almost opened fire. Before he could squeeze off the first shot, the drapes fell back against the wall. n.o.body could be hiding behind them; there wasn't enough room for that. there wasn't enough room for that.

He went to one end of the drapes and found the draw cords. The green velvet folded back on itself with a soft hiss.

As soon as the middle window was revealed, he saw that something was wrong with it. He went to it and opened the tall, rectangular panes.

The wind rushed in at him, fluttered his unb.u.t.toned collar, mussed his hair, moaned to him. Hard-driven flakes of snow peppered his face.

He saw the carabiners on the center post, and the ropes leading from them.

He leaned out of the window, looked down the side of the building.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned!" he said.

Graham was trying to unhook the hammer from the accessory strap on his safety harness, but he was hampered by his heavy gloves. Without the gloves, it would have been an easy ch.o.r.e, but he didn't want to take them off out here for fear they would slip away from him and disappear over the edge. If something went wrong and they were forced to continue the climb, he would need gloves desperately.

Above him, the wind made a strange sound. Whump! Whump! A loud, blunt noise. Like a m.u.f.fled crack of thunder. A loud, blunt noise. Like a m.u.f.fled crack of thunder.

He finally got the hammer off the strap.

Whump!

Connie grabbed his arm. "Bollinger!"

At first he didn't know what she meant. He looked up only because she did.

Thirty feet above them, Bollinger was leaning out of the window.

To Connie, Graham said, "Stand against the wall!"