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
the main line and tried to anticipate the shot. If she had even the
slimmest chance of escaping-and she was not convinced that she had-then
she would have to act only a fraction of a second before the explosion
came. If she didn't move until or after he fired, she might be dead,
and she would certainly be too late to fool him. Fortunately, her
timing was perfect; she jumped backward into the void just as he fired,
so he must have thought he hit her.
She prayed he would think she was dead. If he had any doubt, he would
crawl part of the way through the window, lean over the ledge, see
her-and cut the rope.
Although her own plight was serious enough to require all of her
attention, she was worried about Graham. She knew that he hadn't been
shot off the ledge, for she would have seen him as he fell past her.
He was still up there, but he might be badly wounded.
Whether or not he was hurt, her life depended on his coming back to look
for her.
She was not a climber. She didn't know how to rappel. She didn't know
how to secure her position on the rope. She didn't know how to do
anything but hang there; and she wouldn't be able to do even that much
