"We're crossing the lobby," Rick's voice said. "While I'm here, maybe I should go into the ballroom and play an encore of 'Moon River.' "

"Please, don't," Cora begged, joking.

"Besides," the professor said into his walkie-talkie, "that music is far too recent for this hotel. Carlisle would never have allowed it. More likely, the tune would have been something like 'On the Banks of the Wabash' or 'My Gal Sal.' "

"Did you know Theodore Dreiser's brother wrote both of those?" Vinnie asked.

"We're approaching the check-in counter," Rick's voice said.

"For God's sake!" Cora exclaimed.

"What's wrong?" Conklin blurted into his walkie-talkie.

"Another rat. I'm so sick of rats."

Balenger heard breathing from Vinnie's walkie-talkie.

"We're at the message slots. They have keys attached to metal discs with 'Paragon Hotel' stamped on them. Almost every mail slot has a key. Except in four twenty-eight."

"What?" Vinnie asked, puzzled.

"There's no key for six-ten, either," Rick's voice said.

"That's Danata's suite," Conklin said.

"Or to three twenty-eight, five twenty-eight, and six twenty-eight."

"Rooms directly above and below this one," the professor said.

"Wait," Rick's voice crackled.

"What's the matter?"

"I heard something."

Balenger, Vinnie, and the professor listened tensely.

"Rick?" Conklin asked.

Something scraped.

"Another damned rat," Cora's voice said. "I think they're having a convention."

"This is bullshit," Vinnie said. Balenger suspected that he was annoyed with himself that he hadn't gone with Cora.

Rick's voice said, "We're looking in the office behind the check-in counter."

Vinnie aimed his flashlight at his watch. "It's already near midnight. At this rate, we'll never finish before dawn."

"No keys," Rick said from the walkie-talkie. "But there are several filing cabinets."

Balenger heard a metallic sound from the walkie-talkie, presumably a cabinet drawer being slid open.

Rick: "Mostly maintenance records. Staff assignments. Bills and receipts of payments."

Cora: "This drawer has a reservation folder. It's empty. There's a folder devoted to which rooms are occupied. That's empty, too. But a lot of other folders are crammed. Guests who used to come here on a yearly basis, any special needs they had, any preferences for particular rooms, flowers, favorite foods. The most recent guest in that category stopped coming in 1961."

"The basic tedious details of trying to run a business," Rick's voice said. "All the paper that got wasted before computers were invented."

"Hell, we probably waste just as much paper, printing everything out."

"They could be down there forever," Vinnie said. "As long as we're just standing around, why don't we try the next door?"

"We should wait till they come back," the professor said.

But Vinnie was already turning the knob. He pushed. "This one's unlocked." The door swung open. Balenger watched him stare into the darkness.

"Looks like the maid cleaned this one. Smells damp, though." Vinnie stepped inside.

And was swallowed.

19

The sound was like wet cardboard being torn. As Vinnie fell, his arms shot up, his flashlight flipping away. He screamed. Something crashed below him.

Balenger charged toward the open door and dove, landing on his stomach at the entrance to the murky room. The impact sent his hard hat clattering along the floor, its light twisting in sickening angles. He grabbed Vinnie's knapsack where it had caught the edge of a jagged hole in the floor.

Vinnie moaned.

The splintered boards collapsed. As Vinnie plummeted, Balenger tightened his grip on the knapsack, the force of Vinnie's fall dragging him toward the hole.

"Cross your arms over your chest!" Balenger shouted. "Tight! The knapsack! Keep the straps from slipping off your shoulders!"

In a frenzy, Vinnie clamped his arms across his chest. Balenger felt him trembling, felt the force with which Vinnie pressed the straps close to him.

Something crashed downward. Vinnie's headlamp pierced the shadows of the room into which he'd stepped. The floor was a rotted, gaping crater. The crash had come from a bureau falling through and smashing on the floor below. In turn, that floor gave way, its furniture cascading lower.

The floor under Balenger's chest began to buckle. His body slipped forward. "Bob! Get over here! Grab my legs! I'm sliding in!"

He heard the professor's heavy footsteps rushing toward him. At once, he felt thick fingers squeezing his ankles, trying to hold him.

Vinnie squirmed, his legs flailing, desperate to find something to support his feet. Another board gave way, repeating the dull wet cardboard sound. Vinnie jerked lower, forcing Balenger's arms into the dark, widening hole. A damp, moldy smell rose.

"Stop moving!" Balenger yelled. "For God's sake, keep still!"

"Gonna fall! Gonna fall!"

Now Vinnie's headlamp showed a gloomy four-poster bed moving. The floor buckled, the bed plummeting, crashing into the darkness below.

Vinnie's struggling weight dragged Balenger closer to the widening hole.

"Bob, hold my ankles harder! I feel your hands letting go!"

"Trying! Can't help it!"

"Lie on my legs!"

"What?"

"My legs! Lie on them, damn it! Your weight will keep me from sliding in!"

Balenger felt a crushing impact on his legs. He winced from the pain, but at least he was no longer being dragged into the hole. The light from the professor's headlamp glared past, revealing the crater. Only Vinnie's head showed. Meanwhile, Balenger's own head was almost in the hole.

"Vinnie, listen to me! I can get you out of there!" Balenger said.

"God, I hope."

"Stop squirming! You're making things worse!"

"Stop squirming," Vinnie told himself, trying to calm his frenzy.

"Count from one hundred backward."

"Why would I-"

"Just do it. Concentrate on the numbers. One hundred. Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Do it! Ninety-seven."

"Ninety-six. Ninety-five. Ninety-four."

Slowly, breathing hoarsely, Vinnie managed to still his body.

"Good," Balenger said, his arms aching. "I'm going to twist you around so you're looking up at me."

Balenger shifted his arms to the left, causing Vinnie to turn sideways to him. Balenger's left arm took most of the strain. He had to lean farther into the pit in order to give his right arm the leverage to help. Despite the chill of the hotel, sweat trickled down his face. "That's as far as I can turn you!" The strain on Balenger's muscles made him grit his teeth. His voice echoed into the pit.

"Don't let go," Vinnie said.

"I promise." Balenger couldn't hold his grip on the knapsack much longer. "Can you see my left arm?"

"Yes." Vinnie's voice trembled.

Balenger studied the way Vinnie clamped his arms across his chest to keep the knapsack from slipping off his shoulders. Vinnie's right hand was pressed against his left shoulder.

"Raise your right hand. Grab my left arm. It's just over your shoulder."

"Can't," Vinnie said. "I'll fall."

Balenger struggled to keep his hands from slipping off the knapsack. "No. You won't fall. Let's do this another way." He didn't say "try" to do it. "Try" implied weakness. "Try" suggested possible failure. Every word had to involve a command that left no doubt of a positive outcome. "Keep pressing your right hand against your left shoulder. Release it just enough to slide it farther up your shoulder. Toward your neck. The straps won't slip off."

"Scared," Vinnie said.

"This is almost over. Do what I tell you." Balenger's arms were in agony. He felt the professor's weight on his legs. "Pay attention. Slide your right hand up your shoulder toward your neck."