When I reached the ninth floor I stopped to catch my breath.
If we lived through this, I promised to use the StairMaster on a more frequent basis.
Guys like Roberts always looked like they would be a pushover in a fight. Not too big, not too heavy, but their muscles were trained. They were sleeping attack dogs waiting to be prodded. First fight I ever won was against Bruce Baumgarten in the sixth grade. Bruce was a hundred and ninety pounds, a Mack truck in seventh-grade weight. But I literally ran around him until he could barely see straight, then one punch to the stomach took away the last of his wind. He went down like I'd stepped on an empty bag of potato chips.
The first fight I ever lost was against Kevin MacGruder in the eleventh grade. I outweighed Kevin by twenty pounds. He was president of the Math club. He had freckles and acne and a rail-thin girlfriend we called Olive Oyl, and we mocked him mercilessly. What I didn't know is that to burn off the rage from our taunts Kevin hit the free weights five times a week. He dislocated my shoulder, and I pissed blood for two days after he kicked me in the kidney. I never messed with Kevin again.
In a strange way I was glad I knew this. William Roberts would tear me to pieces. Even if I was able to separate him from the Winchester-which seemed as doable as separating
Linus from his blanket-I had to deal with the fact that he could pound me into sirloin, expending less energy than it took me to climb the stairs.
I was prepared to fight dirty.
But that didn't mean I wasn't scared shitless.
Adrenaline was pumping through me. It was working, my rage concentrating.
I'd only visited Amanda at her office once. Actually I'd meant to come more, but I could never get away from the
Gazette during working hours. Or more accurately, I didn't want to get away from the Gazette.
I tried to recall the office layout, seemed to remember there being a conference room with a long, mahogany table, several long-backed chairs and a speakerphone. I remembered Amanda's desk. There was a picture of us in a silver frame. I'd had it engraved for her. Only Happiness Lies Ahead.
I stood in the stairwell, moved closer to the door and pressed my ear up against it. The stairwell was painted gray, dirt coated the steps, and the metal was rusted. I glanced around, couldn't see any security camera, so I was fairly confident Roberts wasn't aware of my presence. I couldn't hear anything inside the office, but the metal was likely muffling all sounds. But it couldn't muffle a gunshot. And I didn't hear any cops storming the stairs. Roberts hadn't killed anybody. Yet.
I gripped the doorknob, turned it ever so gently just to see if it was locked. For a moment panic gripped me. If it was locked from the inside, I wouldn't be able to get in unless our friendly neighborhood rifleman decided to let me join the party. And I knew the cops wouldn't greet me with open arms if I slunk back downstairs. But the knob turned. I stopped for a moment.
The last time I barged through a closed door unannounced and unwanted, a cop ended up dead and I ended up on the run for my life.
I took three short, quick breaths, then three long deep ones and gripped the knob. It turned easily, and I eased it all the way to the left until it wouldn't go any farther. Then I listened.
Nothing.
I pushed the door slightly to make sure it moved inward.
It did.
I pushed it just enough to create a small crack between the door and the jamb. I peeked inside.
I could see an elevator. An unmanned receptionist desk with a tall, white orchid. Nothing else.
I pushed the door farther in, enough so that I could slip inside. There were no sounds, nobody in view.
I stuck my head in, did a quick sweep, then crept inside and tiptoed over and ducked behind the receptionist's desk.
I poked my head out the side. There was a door which I recalled as leading to the conference room. I couldn't see anything. No Roberts. No Amanda.
Nothing except for a quarter-sized circle of blood on the middle of the carpet. My heart raced. I couldn't see any bodies. Nobody was screaming or crying. But he was here.
Somewhere.
And when I felt the muzzle of the Winchester rifle press against the back of my neck, I knew for sure.