She didn't move. She seemed stunned. This was the first time she had ever looked looked frightened. frightened.

"Don't make a target of yourself!" he shouted.

She pressed her back to the building.

"Untie yourself from the safety line," he said.

Overhead, a tongue of flame licked out of the pistol's muzzle: whump! whump!

Graham swung the hammer, struck the window.

Gla.s.s exploded inward.

Frantically, unable to forget the vision of himself being shot in the back, he smashed the stubborn, jagged shards that clung to the frame.

Whump!

The sharp sound of a ricochet made Graham jump. The bullet skipped off the stone inches from his face.

He was sweating again.

Bollinger shouted something.

The wind tore his words apart, transformed them into meaningless sounds.

Graham didn't look up. He kept working at the spiked edges of the window.

Whump!

"Go!" he shouted as he shattered the last dangerous piece of gla.s.s.

Connie scrambled over the windowsill, disappeared into the dark office.

He slipped the safety line knot at his harness.

Whump!

The shot was so close that he cried out involuntarily. The slug plucked at the sleeve of his parka. He was unbalanced by the surprise, and for an instant he thought he would fall off the ledge.

Whump!

Whump!

He plunged forward, through the broken window, expecting to be stopped at the last second by a bullet in the spine.

35.

In the unlighted office on the thirty-eighth floor, the gla.s.s crunched under their feet.

Connie said, "How could he miss us?"

As he patted the sweat from his face with the palm of his glove, Graham said, "Wind's near gale force. Could have deflected the bullets slightly."

"In just thirty feet?"

"Maybe. Besides, he was firing from a bad angle. Leaning out the window, shooting down and in. Light was bad. Wind was in his face. He'd have been d.a.m.ned lucky if he'd hit us."

"We can't stay here as we planned," she said.

"Of course not. He knows which floor we're on. He's probably running for the elevator right now."

"We go back out?"

"I sure don't want to."

"He'll keep popping up along the way, trying to shoot us off the side of the building."

"Do we have a choice?"

"None," she said. "Ready to climb?"

"As I'll ever be."

"You've done well."

"I'm not all the way down yet."

"You'll make it."

"Are you the clairvoyant now?"

"You'll make it. Because you aren't afraid anymore."

"Who? Me?"

"You."

"I'm scared to death."

"Not like you once were. Not that bad. Anyway, there's good reason to be afraid right now. It's a healthy fear you've got this time."

"Oh, yeah. I'm br.i.m.m.i.n.g with healthy fear."

"I was right."

"About what?"

"You're the man I've always wanted."

"Then you haven't wanted much."

In spite of what he said, she detected pleasure in his voice. He didn't 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. 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. 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. 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 eleven-yard 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 blood 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. 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-G.o.d conversation. It was an exchange of ideas and sentiments that Bollinger had never enjoyed with anyone else. Nothing was taboo. Politics. Religion. Poetry. s.e.x. Self-appraisal. 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 wh.o.r.e and took her to Billy's apartment. The three of them had gone to bed together, but not in a bis.e.xual 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, sometimes separately and sometimes simultaneously, a wide variety of s.e.x acts with and upon her, Billy did not touch Bollinger, nor did Bollinger touch Billy.

That night, s.e.x 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 o.r.g.a.s.m 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. 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.... 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 wh.o.r.e on a physical level, but it also tied him to Billy on a much higher plane. He spurted deep into her v.a.g.i.n.a, and precisely at that moment Billy spilled seed into her mouth. In the throes of an intense o.r.g.a.s.m, 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 it joined him to the wh.o.r.e on a physical level, but it also tied him to Billy on a much higher plane. He spurted deep into her v.a.g.i.n.a, and precisely at that moment Billy spilled seed into her mouth. In the throes of an intense o.r.g.a.s.m, 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, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.n.g. into each other's p.e.n.i.s. The image was powerful but strangely as.e.xual. There was certainly nothing 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, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.n.g. into each other's p.e.n.i.s. The image was powerful but strangely as.e.xual. There was certainly nothing h.o.m.os.e.xual h.o.m.os.e.xual about it. Absolutely nothing. He wasn't queer. He had no doubt about that. None at all. The imaginary act that preoccupied him was similar to the ritual by which members of certain American Indian tribes had once become blood brothers. The Indians cut their hands and pressed the cuts together about it. Absolutely nothing. He wasn't queer. He had no doubt about that. None at all. The imaginary act that preoccupied him was similar to the ritual by which members of certain American Indian tribes had once become blood brothers. The Indians cut their hands and pressed the cuts together; because they believed that the blood flowed from the body of one into that of the other, they felt that they would be part of each other forever. Bollinger's bizarre vision was like the Indians' blood-brother ceremony. It was an oath, a most sacred bond. because they believed that the blood flowed from the body of one into that of the other, they felt that they would be part of each other forever. Bollinger's bizarre vision was like the Indians' blood-brother ceremony. It was an oath, a most sacred bond.

And he knew that a metamorphosis had taken place; henceforth, they were not two men but one.

Now, feeling incomplete without Billy beside him, he reached the elevator cab and switched it on.

Connie clambered through the window, onto the thirty-eighth-floor setback.

Graham quickly tied the free end of the hundred-foot main line to her harness.