When he first came out of the window, he had focused his attention on
pitons, ropes and technical maneuvers. Thus occupied, he had been able
to ignore his surroundings, to blunt his awareness of them.
That was no longer possible. Suddenly, he was too aware of the city and
of how far it was to the street.
Inevitable, such awareness brought unwanted memories: his foot slipping,
harness jerking tight, rope snapping, floating, floating, floating,
floating, striking, darkness, splinters of pain in his legs, darkness
again, a hot iron in his guts, pain breaking like glass in his back,
blood, darkness, hospital rooms....
Although the bitterly cold wind pummeled his face, sweat popped out on
his brow and along his temples.
He was trembling.
He knew he couldn't make the climb.
Floating, floating ...
He couldn't move at all.
Not an inch.
In the elevator, Bollinger hesitated. He was about to press the button
for the twenty-third floor, when he realized that, after he lost track
of them, Harris and the woman apparently had not continued down toward
the lobby. They had vanished on the twenty-seventh level. He had
searched that floor and all those below it; and he was as certain as he
could be, short of shooting open every locked door, that they were not
in the lower three-fourths of the building. They'd gone up.
Back to Harris's office? As soon as that occurred to him, he knew it
was true, and he knew why they had done it. They'd gone up because that
was the last thing he would expect them to do. If they had continued
down the stairs or elevator shaft, he would have nailed them in minutes.
Sure as hell. But, in going up, they had confused him and gained time.
Forty-five minutes of time, he thought angrily. That bastard has made a
fool out of me. Forty-five minutes. But not one goddamned minute more.
He pushed the button for the fortieth floor.
Six hundred feet.
Twice as far as he had fallen on Everest.
And this time there would be no miracle to save him, no deep snowdrift
to cushion the impact. He would be a bloody mess when the police found
him. Broken. Ruined. Lifeless.
Although he could see nothing of it, he stared in tently at the street.
The darkness and snow obscured the pavement.
Yet he could not look away. He was mesmerized not by what he saw, but
by what he didn't need to see, transfixed by what he knew lay below the
night and below the shifting white curtains of the storm.
He closed his eyes. Thought about courage. Thought about how far he
had come. Toes pressed into the shallow mortar-filled groove between
two blocks of granite. Left hand in front. Right hand behind.
Ready, get set ... but he couldn't go.
When he opened his eyes, he saw Connie on the ledge.
She motioned for him to hurry.
If he didn't move, she would die. He would fail her utterly. She
