Twenty feet....

He felt the fourth shot before he heard it. The bullet ripped open the left sleeve of his parka, seared through the upper part of his arm.

The impact of the slug made him stumble a bit. He lumbered forward a few quick, unplanned steps. The street appeared to spin wildly below him. With his right hand he pawed helplessly at the side of the building. He put one foot down on the edge of the stone, his heel in empty air. He heard himself shouting but hardly knew what he was saying. His boots gripped in the drifted snow, but they skidded on a patch of ice. When he regained his balance within half a dozen steps, he was amazed that he hadn't fallen.

At first there was no pain in his arm. He was numb from the shoulder down. It was as if his arm had been blown off. For an instant he wondered if he had been mortally wounded; but he realized that a direct hit would have had more force, would have knocked him off his feet and pitched him off the ledge. In a minute or two the wound would begin to hurt like h.e.l.l, but it wouldn't kill him. but he realized that a direct hit would have had more force, would have knocked him off his feet and pitched him off the ledge. In a minute or two the wound would begin to hurt like h.e.l.l, but it wouldn't kill him.

Fifteen feet....

He was dizzy.

His legs felt weak.

Probably shock, he thought.

Ten feet....

Another shot. Not so loud as the ones that had come before it. Not as frighteningly close. Fifteen yards away.

At the corner, as he started to inch around onto the Lexington Avenue face of the highrise where a violent wind wrenched at him, he was able to glance back the way he had come. Behind him, the ledge was empty.

Connie was gone.

40.

Connie was four or five yards below the thirty-third-floor ledge of stone grapes, swinging slightly, suspended over the street. She couldn't bear to look down.

Arms extended above her, she held the nylon rope with both hands. She had considerable difficulty maintaining her grip. Strain had numbed her fingers, and she could no longer be certain that she was clutching the line tightly enough to save herself. A moment ago, relaxing her hands without realizing what she was doing, she had slipped down the rope as if it were well greased, covering two yards in a split second before she was able to halt herself.

She had tried to find toeholds. There were none.

She fixed her gaze on the ledge overhead. She expected to see Bollinger.

Minutes ago, when he opened the window on her right and leaned out with the pistol in one hand, she had known at once that he was too close to miss her.

She couldn't follow Graham toward the Lexington Avenue corner. If she tried that, she would be shot in the back. Instead, she gripped the main line and tried to antic.i.p.ate the shot. If she had even the slimmest chance of escaping-and she was not convinced that she had-then she would have to act only a fraction of a second before before the explosion came. If she didn't move until or after he fired, she might be dead, and she would certainly be too late to fool him. Fortunately, her timing was perfect the explosion came. If she didn't move until or after he fired, she might be dead, and she would certainly be too late to fool him. Fortunately, her timing was perfect; she jumped backward into the void just as he fired, so he must have thought he hit her. she jumped backward into the void just as he fired, so he must have thought he hit her.

She prayed he would think she was dead. If he had any doubt, he would crawl part of the way through the window, lean over the ledge, see her-and cut the rope.

Although her own plight was serious enough to require all of her attention, she was worried about Graham. She knew that he hadn't been shot off the ledge, for she would have seen him as he fell past her. He was still up there, but he might be badly wounded.

Whether or not he was hurt, her life depended on his coming back to look for her.

She was not a climber. She didn't know how to rappel. She didn't know how to secure her position on the rope. She didn't know how to do anything but hang there; and she wouldn't be able to do even that much longer. and she wouldn't be able to do even that much longer.

She didn't want to die, refused refused to die. Even if Graham had been killed already, she didn't want to follow him into death. She loved him more than she had ever loved anyone else. At times she became frustrated because she could not find the words to express the breadth and depth of her feeling for him. The language of love was inadequate. She ached for him. But she cherished life as well. Getting up in the morning and making French toast for breakfast. Working in the antique shop. Reading a good book. Going out to an exciting movie. So many small delights. Perhaps it was true that the little joys of daily life were insignificant when compared to the intense pleasures of love, but if she was to be denied the ultimate, she would settle willingly for second best. She knew that her att.i.tude in no way cheapened her love for Graham or made suspect the bonds between them. Her love of life was what had drawn him to her and made her so right for him. To Connie, there was but one obscenity, and that was the grave. to die. Even if Graham had been killed already, she didn't want to follow him into death. She loved him more than she had ever loved anyone else. At times she became frustrated because she could not find the words to express the breadth and depth of her feeling for him. The language of love was inadequate. She ached for him. But she cherished life as well. Getting up in the morning and making French toast for breakfast. Working in the antique shop. Reading a good book. Going out to an exciting movie. So many small delights. Perhaps it was true that the little joys of daily life were insignificant when compared to the intense pleasures of love, but if she was to be denied the ultimate, she would settle willingly for second best. She knew that her att.i.tude in no way cheapened her love for Graham or made suspect the bonds between them. Her love of life was what had drawn him to her and made her so right for him. To Connie, there was but one obscenity, and that was the grave.

Fifteen feet above, someone moved in the light that radiated through the open window.

Bollinger?

Oh, Jesus, Jesus, no! no!

But before she could give in to despair, Graham's face came out of the shadows. He saw her and was stunned. Obviously, he had expected her to be twenty-three stories below, a crumpled corpse on the snow-covered pavement.

"Help me," she said.

Grinning, he began to reel her up.

In the twenty-third-floor corridor, Frank Bollinger stopped to reload his pistol. He was nearly out of ammunition.

"So you read Nietzsche last night. What did you think?"

"I agree with him. "

"About what?"

"Everything. "

"Supermen?"

"Especially that. "

"Why especially?"

"He has to be right. Mankind as we know it has to be an intermediate stage in evolution. Otherwise, everything is so pointless. "

"Aren't we the kind of men he was talking about?"

"It sure as h.e.l.l seems to me that we are. But one thing bothers me. I've always thought of myself as a liberal. In politics. "

"So?"

"How do I reconcile liberal, left-of-center politics with a belief in a superior race?"

"No problem, Dwight. Pure, hard-core liberals believe in a superior race. They think they're it. They believe they're more intelligent than the general run of mankind, better suited than the little people are to manage the little people's lives. They think they have the one true vision, the ability to solve all the moral dilemmas of the century. They prefer big government because that is the first step to totalitarianism, toward unquestioned rule by the elite. And of course they see themselves as the elite. Reconcile Nietzsche with liberal politics? That's no more difficult than reconciling it with extreme right-wing philosophy. "

Bollinger stopped in front of the door to Opway Electronics, because that office had windows that overlooked Lexington Avenue. He fired the Walther PPK twice; the lock disintegrated under the bullets' impact. the lock disintegrated under the bullets' impact.

Suggesting ways that she could help herself, favoring his injured left arm, Graham pulled Connie onto the ledge.

Weeping, he hugged her with both arms, squeezed her so tightly that he would have cut off her breath if they hadn't been wearing the insulated parkas. They swayed on the narrow ledge; and for the moment they were unaware of the long drop beside them, temporarily unimpressed by the danger. He didn't want to let go of her, not ever. He felt as if he had taken a drug, an upper, something to boost his spirits. Considering their circ.u.mstances, his mood was unrealistic. Although they were a long way, both in time and in distance, from safety, he was elated and for the moment they were unaware of the long drop beside them, temporarily unimpressed by the danger. He didn't want to let go of her, not ever. He felt as if he had taken a drug, an upper, something to boost his spirits. Considering their circ.u.mstances, his mood was unrealistic. Although they were a long way, both in time and in distance, from safety, he was elated; she was alive. she was alive.

"Where's Bollinger?" she asked.

Behind Graham, the office was full of light, the window opened. But there was no sign of the killer.

"He probably went to look for me on the Lexington side," Graham said.

"Then he does does think I'm dead." think I'm dead."

"He must. I I thought you were." thought you were."

"What's happened to your arm?"

"He shot me."

"Oh, no!"

"It hurts. And it feels stiff, but that's all."

"There's a lot of blood."

"Not much. The bullet probably cauterized the wound; that's how shallow it is." He held out his left hand, opened and closed it to show her that he wasn't seriously affected. "I can climb."

"You shouldn't."

"I'll be fine. Besides, I don't have a choice."

"We could go inside, use the stairs again."

"As soon as Bollinger checks the Lexington side and doesn't find me, he'll come back. If I'm not here, he'll look on the stairs. He'd nail us if we tried to go that way."

"Now what?"

"Same as before. We'll walk this ledge to the corner. By the time we get to Lexington, he'll have looked over that face of the building and be gone. Then we'll rappel. "

"With your arm like this?"

"With my arm like this."

"The vision you had about being shot in the back-"

"What about it?"

She touched his left arm. "Was this it?"

"No."

Bollinger turned away from the window that opened onto Lexington Avenue. He hurried out of the Opway Electronics suite and down the hall toward the office from which he had shot at Harris a few minutes ago.

"Chaos, Dwight. "

"Chaos?"

"There are too d.a.m.ned many of these subhumans for the supermen to take control of things in ordinary times. Only in the midst of Armageddon will men like us ascend. " times. Only in the midst of Armageddon will men like us ascend. "

"You mean... after a nuclear war?"

"That's one way it could happen. Only men like us would have the courage and imagination to lead civilization out of the ruins. But wouldn't it be ridiculous to wait until they've destroyed everything we should inherit?"

"Ridiculous. " "

"So it's occurred to me that we could generate the chaos we need, bring about Armageddon in a less destructive form. "

"How?"

"Well... does the name Albert DeSalvo mean anything to you?"

"No. " "

"He was the Boston Strangler. "

"Oh, yeah. He murdered a lot of women. "

"We should study DeSalvo's case. He wasn't one of us, of course. He was an inferior and a psychotic to boot. But I think we should use him as a model. Single-handedly, he created so much fear that he almost threw the city of Boston into a state of panic. Fear would be our basic tool. Fear can be stoked into panic. A handful of panic-stricken people can transmit their hysteria to the entire population of a city or country. "

"But DeSalvo didn't come close to creating the kind of-or the degree of-chaos that would lead to the collapse of society. "

"Because that wasn't his goal. "

"Even if it had been-"

"Dwight, suppose an Albert DeSalvo... better yet, suppose a Jack the Ripper were loose in Manhattan. Suppose he murdered not just ten women, not twenty, but a hundred. Two hundred. In a particularly brutal fashion. With clear evidence of aberrant s.e.x in every case. So there was no doubt that they all died by the same hand. And what if he did all of this in a few months?"

"There would be fear. But-"

"It would be the biggest news story in the city, in the state, and probably in the country. Then suppose that after we murdered the first hundred women, we began to spend half of our time killing men. Each time, we'd cut off the man's s.e.x organ and leave behind a message attributing the murder to a fict.i.tious militant feminist group. "

"What?"