sixteenth floor, where Ott and MacDonald were working, and later to the
fortieth floor, where Harris and his woman were waiting.
Although Graham hadn’t spoken, Connie knew that something was wrong. He
was breathing heavily. She looked up from her book and saw that he had
stopped working and was staring at empty air, his mouth slightly open,
his eyes sort of glazed. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re pale.”
“Just a headache.”
“You’re shaking.”
He said nothing.
She got up, put down her book, went to him. She sat on the corner of
his desk. “Graham?”
“It’s okay. I’m fine now.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“I’m fine.”
“There for a minute you weren’t.”
“For a minute I wasn’t,” he agreed.
She took his hand; it was icy. “A vision?”
“Yeah,” Graham said.
“Of what?”
“Me. Getting shot.”
“That’s not the least bit funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
“You’ve never had a personal vision before. You’ve always said the
clairvoyance works only when other people are involved.”
“Not this time.”
“Maybe you’re wrong.”
“I doubt it. I felt as if I had been hit between the shoulders with a
sledgehammer. The wind was knocked out of me. I saw myself falling.”
His blue eyes grew wide. “There was blood. A great deal of blood.”
She felt sick in her soul, in her heart. He had never been wrong, and
now he was predicting he would be shot.
He squeezed her hand tightly, as if he were trying to press strength
from her into him.
“Do you mean shot-and killed?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe killed or maybe just wounded.
Shot in the back. That much is clear.”
“Who did it-will do it?”
“The Butcher, I think.”
“You saw him?”
“No. just a strong impression.”
“Where did it happen?”
“Someplace I know well.”
“Here?”
“Maybe .
“At home?”
“Maybe.”
A fierce gust of wind boomed along the side of the highrise. The office
windows vibrated behind the drapes.
“When will it happen?” she asked.
“Soon.”
“Tonight? “I can’t be sure.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Possibly.”
“Sunday?”
“Not as late as that.”
“What are we going to do?”
The lift stopped at the sixteenth floor.
Bollinger used the key to shut off the elevator before he stepped out of
it. The cab would remain where it was, doors open, until he needed it
again.
For the most part, the sixteenth floor was shrouded in darkness.
An overhead fluorescent tube brightened the elevator alcove, but the
only light in the corridor came from two dim red emergency exit bulbs,
one at each end of the building.
Bollinger had anticipated the darkness. He took a pencil flashlight-
from an inside coat pocket, flicked it on.
Ten small businesses maintained offices on the sixteenth floor, six to
the right and four to the left of the elevators. He went to the right.
Two suites down the hall he found a door that bore the words CRACMONT
IMPORTS.
He turned off the flashlight and put it away.
He took out the Walther PPK.
Christ, he thought, it’s going so smoothly. So easily. As soon as he
finished at Cragmont Imports, he could go after the primary targets.
Harris first. Then the woman. If she was good-looking … well, he was
so far ahead of schedule now that he had an hour to spare. An hour for
the woman if she rated it. He was ready for a woman, full of energy and
appetite and excitement. A woman, a table filled with good food, and a
lot of fine whiskey. But mostly a woman. In an hour he could use her
up, really use her up.
He tried the door to Cragmont Imports. It wasn’t locked.
He walked into the reception lounge. The room was gloomy. The only
light came from an adjacent office where the door was standing halfway
open.
He went to the shaft of light, stood in it, listened to the men talking
in the inner office. At last he pushed open the door and went inside.
They were sitting at a conference table that was piled high with papers
and bound folders. They weren’t wearing their suit jackets or their
ties, and their shirt sleeves were rolled up; one was wearing a blue