57

"We'll try another stairwell," Amanda said, hoping.

"Hardly any left."

Amanda sank wearily, her hips on the floor, her back against the wall. "He has a good chance of finding us."

Balenger slid down next to her, sounding as exhausted as she did. "Probably has traps in them."

"Yes," Amanda said. "Probably." She looked down at Vinnie, whose pain had caused him to pass out. "Any other ideas?"

"Not at the moment."

"Me, neither."

In the surveillance room, smoke drifted past the wet towels that sealed the edges of the trapdoor.

"But there must be something," Amanda said. "I won't give up."

Yes, just like Diane, Balenger thought. "That's right. We won't give up."

Static from the walkie-talkie.

"Still alive?" the voice asked.

Balenger pressed the transmit button and squeezed his elbow against his holstered pistol, trying to draw reassurance from it. "Waiting for you."

"Waiting for the fire," the voice said.

Waiting will get us killed, Balenger thought. We need to do something. We're not going to let ourselves die here. He was conscious of the rain lashing against the metal shutter above him.

Something. There's got to be something.

Amanda stared up toward the shutter. With a chill of hope, Balenger realized the thought that came to her. Slowly, they stood and examined the shutter. Like the others in the hotel, it had rollers that rested on a horizontal bar above the window. In theory, a sideways sliding motion was the only thing necessary to open it. At the bottom, a lock secured it.

But unlike the shutters downstairs, the rollers on this one were rust-free. As with everything else in the penthouse, Ronnie kept the shutters scrupulously clean.

Balenger shoved the end of the crowbar under the lock. He started to apply leverage, then worried that Ronnie might hear.

"I'll distract him," he whispered to Amanda, putting her hands on the crowbar.

He eased into the dining room and pressed the transmit button on the walkie-talkie. "Walter Harrigan. Ronald Whitaker. Ronnie. Did your mother call you 'Ronnie'? Is that why you want your girlfriends to call you that? So they'll be like your mother?"

"You're guaranteeing more pain for yourself."

Balenger looked into the kitchen, where Amanda tugged furiously at the crowbar.

"Walter Harrigan. You're Ronald Whitaker, and yet you're… Of course." Balenger felt a thrill of understanding. "When you left the juvenile facility, did you change your name? Is that what happened? With a new name, you wouldn't be stalked by your past. No one would connect you with that Fourth of July. No one would know you killed your father. No one would know he abused you."

Balenger watched Amanda. The lock's plate seemed about to separate from the wall.

"Was that it, Ronnie? Was it Carlisle's idea to change your name? Was that another way he helped you?"

"Oh, he helped, all right," the voice said. "He couldn't stop helping."

"Or making excuses? Even when he suspected what you were doing, he still made excuses for you, didn't he? He didn't really believe what you were capable of. Why would-"

Amanda strained against the crowbar. As the lock's plate pulled from the wall, Balenger returned to the kitchen and grabbed the plate before it could strike the floor.

"Why would he make excuses for you, Ronnie?" Balenger felt sick as the answer occurred to him. "He watched through the wall. He saw your father… He saw the pervert your father took money from come in and… After a lifetime of watching, Carlisle finally got disgusted with being a watcher. He could have done something to stop it, but… He was a god who observed without intervening in this hell he created. But when he saw you bash in your father's brains, he finally felt more than curiosity. Maybe because he was alone so much as a child, he identified with you. He felt guilty. He wished he could have stopped what happened. The only thing left was to try to make amends. He spoiled you, and then one night, he discovered the consequences."

"Tonight, you'll discover consequences. I see smoke down here," the voice said.

Balenger put the walkie-talkie into his knapsack. He and Amanda pushed at the shutter. He was surprised how smoothly the rollers shifted along their rail.

4.00 a.m.

58

The window gaped. Like the others in the hotel, it was broken, part of the hotel's disguise to make it appear oppressively deserted. Out of the howling darkness, wind and rain struck Balenger's face. He and Amanda took urgent breaths, filling their nostrils, throats, and lungs. Lightning flashed, illuminating the beach seven levels below.

Balenger raised the window frame to avoid being cut by the shards in it. "I'll find a spot to anchor the rope," he told Amanda. "Close the shutter as soon as I'm out. If Ronnie smells the fresh air, he'll know what we're doing."

He climbed through the window. Rain lashed him. In green-tinted darkness, he eased down to the roof. The wind gusted at him, imaginary hands shoving. Moisture pelted his face, entering his mouth. It tasted bitter, a mixture of sweat, dirt, and blood from his cheeks.

The rain on his goggles made it difficult to see. He wiped their lenses, flinched from a nearby lightning strike, and moved cautiously forward.

The roof felt spongy. He shifted to the right, breathing slightly easier when the area under him became solid again. At the roof's edge, he crouched to prevent the wind from pushing him over.

For a moment, he allowed himself to hope, but then he peered down, and despair swept through him. The center of the roof below him was collapsed, water streaming into it. Lightning revealed the lower levels. They were damaged from years of punishing weather and lack of maintenance. Surfaces were peeled back, flapping in the wind. Holes were evident, even from a distance.

Balenger opened his mouth to breathe. Wind filled his throat. No, he thought. No! Lightning struck the beach. The rain strengthened, intensifying the chill of his drenched clothes, but that was nothing compared to the chill that invaded his spirit. He looked for a place to secure the rope that was in his knapsack.

A ventilation pipe. He approached it, his goggles revealing rust. When he pushed a shoe against it, the pipe held. He pushed with greater force. The pipe continued to hold. Wiping rain from his goggles, he headed back to the shutter. Another spongy section of roof threatened to collapse. He skirted it, took three steps, and abruptly, his left shoe broke the surface. He froze, supporting his weight on his other foot. Slowly, he pulled the shoe free. Testing, he continued across the roof.

When he reached to slide the shutter open, it startled him, seeming to move on its own. Amanda's arms came into view, helping him through the window.

Dripping, shivering, he squirmed into the kitchen and closed the shutter. After the fresh air, the penthouse's atmosphere of smoke, pain, and death was overwhelming.

His goggles couldn't hide how depressed he felt.

"What's wrong?" Amanda asked.

"The three of us can't do it."

"Can't?"

"Two of us lifting Vinnie-the roof won't hold our weight. If you go separately, you might make it. But if I carry Vinnie, I'll… he and I will go through the roof. We might never stop dropping till we reach the ground floor."

"But…"

"Leave," Vinnie whispered in pain.

Balenger was surprised that Vinnie was conscious.

"Holding you back." Vinnie's murmur was distorted with agony. "Leave me. Get help."

"No, I won't leave you." Balenger took off the knapsack and removed the rope. "Amanda, you weigh the least. There's a ventilation pipe. I tested it. It'll hold you. Loop the rope around it. Slide down the wall. Pull the rope down to you. Find another anchor and keep climbing down."