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 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 passed for him to be
certain that he had gotten away with murder, a sense of well-beingf
great importance, towering superiority, godhood-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.
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
glass.
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 alter nave 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.
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