After he had put on his gloves again, he took hold of the thirty-foot
safety line. He wrapped it once around his right wrist and then seized
it tightly with the same hand. Approximately four feet of rope lay
between his hand and the anchor point on the window post. In the first
few seconds after he went through the window, he would be hanging by,
his right arm, four feet under the sill.
He got on his knees on the window ledge, facing the lining of the office
drapes. Slowly, cautiously, reluctantly, he went out of the room
backward, feet first.
just before he overbalanced and slid all the way out, he closed the open
half of the window as far as the carabiners would allow. Then he
dropped four feet.
Memories of Mount Everest burst upon him, clam-A ored for his attention.
He shoved them down, desperately forced them deep into his mind.
He tasted vomit at the back of his mouth. But he swallowed hard,
swallowed repeatedly until his throat was clear. He willed himself not
to be sick, and it worked. At least for the moment.
OL With his left hand he plucked the rappelling line from the face of
the building. Holding that loosely, he reached above his head and
grabbed the safety rope that he already had in his right hand.
Both hands on the shorter line, he raised his knees in a fetal position
and planted his boots against the granite. Pulling hand over hand on
the safety tether, he took three small steps up the sheer wall until he
was balanced against the building at a forty-five-degree angle. The
toes of his boots were jammed into a narrow mortar seam with all the
force he could apply.
Satisfied with his precarious position, he let go of the safety tether
with his left hand.
Although he remained securely anchored, the very act of letting go of
anything at that height made the vomit rise in his throat once more.
He gagged, held it down, quickly recovered.
He was balanced on four points: his right hand on the shorter rope, now
only two feet from the window post; his left hand on the line with which
he would rappel down; his right foot; his left foot. He clung like a
fly to the side of the highrise.
Keeping his eyes on the piton that thrust up between his spread feet, he
jerked on the rappelling line several times. Hard. The piton didn’t
move. He shifted his weight to the longer line but kept his right-hand
grip on the safety tether. Even with a hundred and fifty pounds of
downward drag, the piton did not shift in the crack.
Convinced that the peg was well placed, he released the safety tether.
Now he was balanced on three points: left hand on the long line, both
feet on the wall, still at a forty-five.
degree angle to the building.
Although he would not be touching it again before he reached the ledge,
the safety rope would nevertheless bring him up short of death if the
longer line broke while he was rappelling down to Connie.
He told himself to remember that. Remember and stave off panic.
Panic was the real enemy. It could kill him faster than Bollinger
could. The tether was there. Linking his harness to the window post.
He must remember …
With his free hand, he groped under his thigh, felt behind himself for
the long rope that he already held in his other hand. After a maddening
few seconds, he found it. Now, the line on which he would rappel came
from the piton to his left hand in front of him, passed between his legs
at crotch level to his right hand behind him. With that hand he brought
the rope forward, over his right hip, across his chest, over his head,
and finally over his left shoulder. It hung down his back, passed
through his right hand, and ran on into empty space.
He was perfectly positioned.
The left hand was his guiding hand.
The right hand was his braking hand.
He was ready to rappel.
For the first time since he had come through the window, he took a good