shirt, the other a white shirt. They saw the pistol at once, but they
needed several seconds to adjust before they could raise their eyes to
look at his face.
“This place smells like perfume,” Bollinger said.
They stared at him.
“Is one of you wearing perfume?”
“No,” said blue shirt. “Perfume’s one of the things we import.”
“Is one of you MacDonald?”
They looked at the gun, at each other, then at the gun again.
“MacDonald?” Bollinger asked.
The one in the blue shirt said, “He’s MacDonald.”
The one in the white shirt said, “He’s MacDonald.”
“That’s a lie,” said the one in the blue shirt. “No, he’s lying,” said
the other.
“I don’t know what you want with MacDonald,” said the one in the blue
shirt. “Just leave me out of it. Do what you have to do to him and go
away.”
“Christ almighty!” said the one in the white shirt. “I’m not
MacDonald! You want him, that son of a bitch there, not me!”
Bollinger laughed. “It doesn’t matter. I’m also here to get Mr. Ott.”
“Me?” said the one in the blue shirt. “Who in the hell would want me
killed?”
Connie said, “You’ll have to call Preduski.”
“Why?”
“To get police protection.”
“It’s no use.”
“He believes in your visions.”
“I know he does.”
“He’ll give you protection.”
“Of course,” Graham said. “But that’s not what I meant.
“Explain.”
“Connie, I’ve seen myself shot in the back. It’s going to happen.
Things I see-always happen. Nobody can do anything to stop this.”
“There’s no such thing as predestination. The future can be changed.”
“Can it?”
“You know it can.”
A haunted look filled his bright blue eyes.
“I doubt that very much.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“But I am sure.”
This attitude of his, this willingness to ascribe all of his failings to
predestination, worried and upset her more than anything else about him.
It was an especially pernicious form of cowardice. He was rejecting all
responsibility for his own life.
“Call Preduski,” she said.
He lowered his eyes and stared at her hand but didn’t seem to see how
tightly he was gripping it.
She said, “If this man comes to the house to kill you, I’ll probably be
there too. Do you think he’s going to shoot you, then just walk away
and let me live?”
Shocked, as she had known he would be, by the thought of her under the
Butcher’s knife, he said, “My God.”
“Call Preduski.”
“All right.” He let go of her hand. He picked up the receiver,
listened for a moment, played with the dial, led the buttons.
“What’s wrong?”
Frowning, he said, “No dial tone.” He hung up, waited a few seconds,
picked up the receiver again. “Still nothing.”
She slid off the desk. “Let’s try your secretary’s phone.”
They went out to the reception room.
I That phone was dead too.
“Funny,” he said.
Her heartbeat quickening, she said, “Is he going to come after you
tonight?”
“I told you, I don’t know for sure.”
“Is he in the building right now?”
“You think he cut the telephone line.”
She nodded.
“That’s pretty farfetched,” he said. “It’s just a breakdown in
service.”
She went to the door, opened it, stepped into the hall. He came behind
her, favoring his injured leg.
Darkness lay on most of the corridor. Dim red emergency lights shone at
each end of the hall, above the doors to the staircases.
Fifty feet away a pool of wan blue light marked the elevator alcove.
Except for the sound of their breathing, the fortieth floor was silent.
“I’m not a clairvoyant,” she said, “but I don’t like the way it feels. I
sense it, Graham. Something’s wrong.”
“In a building like this, the telephone lines are in the walls. Outside
of the building they’re underground. All the lines are underground in
this city. How would he get to them?”
“I don’t know. But maybe he knows.”
“He’d be taking such a risk,” Graham said. “He’s taken risks before.
Ten times before.”
“But not like this. We’re not alone. The security guards are in the
building.”
“They’re forty stories below.”
“A long way,” he agreed. “Let’s get out of here.”