sweetheart. But you and I are going to have a lot of fun later.'
Then he started up again. As before. Slowly. Shoes scraping ominously
on the concrete: shuss ... shuss ...
shuss ... shuss.... He began to whistle softly.
'He's not just chasing us,' Graham said angrily.
'The son of a bitch is playing with us.'
'What are we going to do?'
Shuss ... shuss....
'We can't outrun him.'
'But we've got to.' Shuss.... shuss....
Harris pulled open the landing door. The thirty-first floor lay beyond.
'Come on.'
Not convinced that they gained anything by leaving the stairs, but
having nothing better to suggest, she went out of the white light into
the red.
Shuss ... shuss....
Graham shut the door and stooped beside it. A collapsible doorstop was
fixed to the bottom right-hand corner of the door. He pushed it all the
way down, until the rubber-tipped shank was hard against the floor and
the braces were locked in place. His hands were trembling, so that for
a moment it looked as if he wouldn't be able to handle even a simple
task like this.
'What are you doing?' she asked.
He stood up. 'It might not work if the stop didn't have locking hinges.
But it does. See the doorsill? It's an inch higher than the floor on
either side. When he tries to open the door, the stop will catch on the
sill. It'll be almost as good as a bolt latch.'
'But he's got a gun.'
'Doesn't matter. He can't shoot through a heavy metal fire door.'
Although she was terrified, at the same time Connie was relieved that
Graham had taken charge-for however brief a time-and was functioning in
spite of his fear.
The door rattled as Bollinger depressed the bar handle on the far side.
The stop caught on the sill; its hinges didn't fold up; the door refused
to open.
'He'll have to go up or down a floor,' Harris said, 'and come at us by
the stairs at the other end of the building. Or by the elevator.
Which gives us a few minutes.' Cursing, Bollinger shook the door,
putting all his strength into it. It wouldn't budge.
'What good will a few minutes do us?' Connie asked.
'I don't know.'
'Graham, are we ever going to get out of here?'
'Probably not.'
iss Dr. Andrew Enderby, the medical examiner on the scene, was suave,
even dashing, extremely fit for a man in his fifties. He had thick hair
going white at the temples. Clear brown eyes. A long aristocratic
nose, generally handsome features. His salt-and-pepper mustache was
large but well kept. He was wearing a tailored gray suit with
tastefully matched accessories that made Preduski's sloppiness all the
