'Number five is going to surprise you,' she said. 'When I get to it, I
want you to understand that I've thought of every other possible out.'
'What's number five?'
'Number four first. We open the office window and throw furniture into
the street, try to catch the attention of anyone who's driving past on
Lexington.'
'If anyone is driving in this weather.'
'Someone will be. A taxi or two.'
'But if we toss out a chair, we won't be able to calculate the effect of
the wind on it. We won't be able to gauge where it'll land.
What if it goes through the windshield of a car and kills someone?'
'I've thought of that.'
'We can't do it.'
'I know.'
'What's number five?'
She slid off the desk and went to the pile of climbing equipment.
'We've got to get rigged out in this stuff.'
'Rigged out?'
'Boots, jackets, gloves, ropes-the works.'
He was perplexed. 'Why?'
Her eyes were wide, like the eyes of a startled doe.
'For the climb down.'
'Down what?'
'Down the outside of the building. All the way to the street.
part four FRIDAY 10:30 P.Mo SATURDAY 4:00 A.M.
Promptly at ten-thirty, Billy drove out of the service courtyard behind
the highrise.
The snowfall had grown heavier during the past half hour, and the wind
had become downright dangerous. Roiling in the headlight beams, the
sheets of powderdry flakes were almost as dense as a fog.
At the mouth of the alley, as he was pulling onto the side street, the
tires spun on the icy pavement. The car slewed toward the far curb.
He turned the wheel in the direction of the slide and managed to stop
just short of colliding with a panel truck parked at the curb.
He had been driving too fast, and he hadn't even been aware of it until
he'd almost crashed. That wasn't like him. He was a careful man.
He was never reckless. Never. He was angry with himself for losing
control.
He drove toward the avenue. The traffic light was with him, and the
nearest car was three or four blocks away, a lone pair of headlights
dimmed and diffused by the falling snow. He turned the corner onto
Lexington.
In three hundred feet, he came to the front of the Bowerton Building.
Ferns and flowers, molded in a twenty-foot-long rectangular bronze
plaque, crowned the stonework above the four revolving doors.
Part of, the enormous lobby was visible beyond the entrance, and it
appeared to be deserted. He drove near the curb, in the parking lane,
barely moving, studying the building and the sidewalks and the
calcimined street, looking for some sign of trouble and finding none.
Nevertheless, the plan had failed. Something had gone wrong in there.
