As they got control of their breathing, the stairwell became silent.
Too silent.
Unnaturally silent.
Finally Graham said, “Who’s there?”
She jumped, startled by his voice.
The man below said, “Police, Mr. Harris.”
Under her breath Connie said, “Bollinger.”
She was at the outer edge of the steps; she looked down the open core. A
man’s hand was on the railing, four flights below, in the meager
illumination just two or three steps up from the landing. She could
also see the sleeve of his overcoat.
“Mr. Harris,” Bollinger said. His voice was cold, hollow, distorted by
the shaft.
“What do you want?” Graham asked.
“Is she pretty?”
“What?”
“Is she pretty?”
“Who?”
“Your woman.”
With that, Bollinger started up. Not hurrying. Leisurely. One step at
a time.
She was more frightened by his slow, casual approach than if he had
rushed them. By not hurrying, he was telling them that they were
trapped, that he had the whole. night to get them if he wished to
stretch it out that long.
If only we had a gun, she thought.
Graham took hold of her hand, and they climbed the steps as fast as he
was able. It wasn’t easy for either of them. Her back and legs ached.
With each step, Graham either gritted his teeth or moaned loudly.
When they had gone two floors, four flights, they were forced to stop
and rest. He bent over, massaging his bum leg. She went to the
railing, peered down.
Bollinger was four flights under them. Evidently he had run when he
heard them running; but now he had stopped again. He was leaning over
the railing, framed in i pool of light, the gun extended in his right
hand.
He smiled at her and said, “Hey now, you are pretty.
She screamed, jerked back.
He fired.
The shot passed up the core, ricocheted off the top of the rail, smashed
into the wall over their htads and ricocheted once more into the steps
above them.
She grabbed Graham; he held her.
“I could have killed you,” Bollinger called to her. “I had you dead on,
sweetheart. But you and I are going to have a lot of fun later.”
Then he started up again. As before. Slowly. Shoes scraping ominously
on the concrete: shuss … shuss …
shuss … shuss…. He began to whistle softly.
“He’s not just chasing us,” Graham said angrily.
“The son of a bitch is playing with us.”
“What are we going to do?”
Shuss … shuss….
“We can’t outrun him.”
“But we’ve got to.” Shuss…. shuss….
Harris pulled open the landing door. The thirty-first floor lay beyond.
“Come on.”
Not convinced that they gained anything by leaving the stairs, but
having nothing better to suggest, she went out of the white light into
the red.
Shuss … shuss….
Graham shut the door and stooped beside it. A collapsible doorstop was
fixed to the bottom right-hand corner of the door. He pushed it all the
way down, until the rubber-tipped shank was hard against the floor and
the braces were locked in place. His hands were trembling, so that for
a moment it looked as if he wouldn’t be able to handle even a simple
task like this.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He stood up. “It might not work if the stop didn’t have locking hinges.
But it does. See the doorsill? It’s an inch higher than the floor on
either side. When he tries to open the door, the stop will catch on the
sill. It’ll be almost as good as a bolt latch.”
“But he’s got a gun.”
“Doesn’t matter. He can’t shoot through a heavy metal fire door.”
Although she was terrified, at the same time Connie was relieved that
Graham had taken charge-for however brief a time-and was functioning in
spite of his fear.
The door rattled as Bollinger depressed the bar handle on the far side.
The stop caught on the sill; its hinges didn’t fold up; the door refused
to open.
“He’ll have to go up or down a floor,” Harris said, “and come at us by
the stairs at the other end of the building. Or by the elevator.