him to walk naturally.
He was fifty feet from the Lexington Avenue face of the highrise.
When he and Connie turned the corner on the ledge, they would be out of
the line of fire.
Of course, Bollinger would find an office with windows that had a view
of Lexington. At most they would gain only a minute or two. But right
now, an extra minute of life was worth any effort.
IL He wanted to look back to see if Connie was having any difficulty,
but he didn’t dare. He had to keep his eyes on the ledge ahead of him
and carefully judge the placement of each boot.
Before he had gone more than ten feet, he heard Bollinger shouting.
He hunched his shoulders, remembering the psychic vision, anticipating
the bullet.
With a shock he realized that Connie was shielding him. He should have
sent her ahead, should have placed himself between her and the pistol.
If ‘she stopped a bullet that was meant for him, he didn’t want to live.
However, it was much too late for him to relinquish the lead.
If they stopped they would make even better targets than they already
were.
A shot cracked in the darkness.
Then another.
He began to walk faster than was prudent, aware that a misstep would
plummet him to the street. His feet slipped on the snow-sheathed stone.
The corner was thirty feet away.
Twenty-five….
Bollinger fired again.
Twenty feet….
He felt the fourth shot before he heard it. The bullet ripped open the
left sleeve of his parka, seared through the upper part of his arm.
The impact of the slug made him stumble a bit. He lumbered forward a
few quick, unplanned steps. The street appeared to spin wildly below
him. With his right hand he pawed helplessly at the side of the
building. He put one foot down on the edge of the stone, his heel in
empty air. He heard himself shouting but hardly knew what he was
saying. His boots gripped in the drifted snow, but they skidded on a
patch of ice. When he regained his balance within half a dozen steps,
he was amazed that he hadn’t fallen.
At first there was no pain in his arm. He was numb from the shoulder
down. It was as if his arm had been blown off. For an instant he
wondered if he had been mortally wounded; but he realized that a direct
hit would have had more force, would have knocked him off his feet and
pitched him off the ledge. In a minute or two the wound would begin to
hurt like hell, but it wouldn’t kill him.
Fifteen feet….
He was dizzy.
His legs felt weak.
Probably shock, he thought.
Ten feet….
Another shot. Not so loud as the ones that had come before it.
Not as frighteningly close. Fifteen yards away.
At the corner, as he started to inth around onto the Lexington Avenue
face of the highrise where a violent wind wrenched at him, he was able
to glance back the way he had come. Behind him, the ledge was empty.
Connie was gone.
4 Connie was four or five yards below the thirty-thirdfloor ledge of
stone grapes, swinging slightly, suspended over the street.
She couldn’t bear to look down.
Arms extended above her, she held the nylon rope with both hands.
She had considerable difficulty maintaining her grip. Strain had numbed
her fingers, and she could no longer be certain that she was clutching
the line tightly enough to save herself. A moment ago, relaxing her
hands without realizing what she was doing, she had slipped down the
rope as if it were well greased, covering two yards in a split second
before she was able to halt herself.
She had tried to find toeholds. There were none.
She fixed her gaze on the ledge overhead. She expected to see
Bollinger.
Minutes ago, when he opened the window on her right and leaned out with
the pistol in one hand, she had known at once that he was too close to
miss her.
She couldn’t follow Graham toward the Lexington Avenue corner.
If she tried that, she would be shot in the back. Instead, she gripped