He was perspiring again. His face was slick with sweat. Under the
hood, his moist scalp itched.
He turned away from Connie, from the window that Bollinger was about to
open, turned to his left, toward Lexington Avenue. Without benefit of a
safety line, he walked the narrow edge i Instead of sidling along it. He
kept his right hand on the granite for what little sense of security it
gave him. He had to place each foot directly in front of the other, as
if he were on a tightrope, for the ledge was not wide enough to allow
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
