Why hadn’t he used his gun? Was he out of bullets, or had he lost the gun somewhere, or was he just too panic-struck to remember he had it?
The silence after the crash and clatter seemed to hum with emptiness. Parker moved more slowly, listening, listening through the silence, and wasn’t surprised after a minute to hear the hurried stealthy scuffing of feet on stairs. The amateur was climbing higher.
Parker was in no hurry. After the fifth floor, there were hardly any interior partitions up at all, and he could see there was no other way to go up or down but this stairwell. As long as he was below the amateur, and controlled the stairwell, there was no hurry.
Except the press of darkness. Half the sun had now disappeared below the horizon, and the top half glowered winter-red, tinging glass and plaster and metal with rose and saffron.
The sounds that came from above were like the sounds of mice in walls, but they were made by the amateur creeping up the metal stairs on hands and knees, wincing and grimacing, trying desperately and vainly to be silent. Parker could visualize him from the sounds and moved more openly himself now, not worrying so much about noise.
At the landing between the tenth and eleventh floors, set carefully and symmetrically in the middle of the floor, there was a little mound of money.
Parker stared at it. It was an offering, a sacrifice, like some South Sea Islander giving his virgin daughter to a volcano. The little mound of money left on the landing like an offertory on an altar.
Parker picked it up and counted it. There were forty twenty-dollar bills and eight ten-dollar bills: eight hundred eighty dollars.
He had some of the money!
Parker looked upward. The bastard hadn’t left all the money in the suitcases; he’d taken some of it with him, he had it on his person. And not just this much, just eight hundred eighty dollars. There’d be more of it.
Parker stuffed the sacrifice in his pocket and went more quickly up the stairs. It was now necessary to keep the amateur from falling or jumping, to keep him in a condition where his pockets could be searched.
And all with extreme care. There was only one bullet left in the Beretta, and that only .25 caliber and a very short-barrelled gun.
The amateur might jump, if he was terrified enough. Or fall, because of stupidity.
Noises again, six or seven flights up. Parker, at the fourteenth storey, stopped to listen. Scrapings, thump-ings, heavy sounds. But nothing coming down the stairwell, nothing immediate.
The noises went on and on as Parker kept climbing, and stopped as he was rounding the landing above the eighteenth story. He went two more flights and saw above him what the amateur had done.
A barricade. Strips of metal, bundles of wire, planks of wood, tools of all kinds, even a wheelbarrow, all piled and jumbled together at the head of the stairs to keep him down.
And was the barricade defended? Was this where the amateur would make his last stand?
No. Waiting on the landing below, just out of range if the amateur were armed and manning the barricade, Parker listened and once again heard the mouse noises farther up. The amateur was still running.
Parker went on up and brushed through the barricade with impatient arms. Tools and planks and bundles went crashing away, some clattering down the stairs, and up above the amateur cried out at the noise.
Above the twenty-first floor, there weren’t even external walls any more, only the flat white outlines of the poured concrete foundation. Floor and ceiling were rudimentary here: a thick flat slab of concrete swarming underneath with rods and cables and wires and other projections growing out like hair. Going forward from floor to landing, there was nothing beyond the left edge of each stair but emptiness and the setting sun and the dead plain far below. No banister, no railing, nothing. Going the other half, from landing to floor, there was nothing to the right of each stair but that other half of staircase hanging out over emptiness.
The amateur was only one flight away, creeping upward, trembling, making more and more noise. He was gasping for breath and groaning from a thousand terrors. Parker followed, keeping to the middle of each stair, looking only at the stairs and his own feet, moving Upward.
The twenty-third floor was the top. The flooring here was planks, covering only parts of the area and leaving other parts open. Wooden forms for the concrete foundation jutted up here and there like Renaissance smoke stacks. Olive drab tarpaulins were thrown over mounds of material.
Across the way, the framework of the construction elevator stood like a model of the Eiffel Tower. The elevator itself, a mesh cage, hung within it at the level of this floor. The amateur was making for it, hobbling, running crouched like a wounded bear. He wore a dirty cream-colored raincoat, the back all stained and darkened by blood. He was torso-hit, just above the waist on the left side of the back.
Exerting himself the way he was, hit like that with the bullet certainly still in him, he was done anyway. He was big and strong - Parker remembered how the sword had been thrust entirely through Ellie and into the wall behind - and if he’d had only a normal share of strength he’d be finished already. The end was coming soon. If it weren’t for the money, Parker could just go away and leave him up here to rot.
But there was the money. Parker walked across the echoing planks.
The amateur wrenched open the two gates and stumbled into the elevator. Turning, he saw Parker and cried out again as he had before. He pushed the gates shut and tried to work the lever to send the elevator down to the ground, but of course there wasn’t any power. The construction company people had sent the elevator to the top of the shaft before leaving so stray kids wouldn’t damage it and then had turned the power off and gone away.
The amateur had caged himself.
Parker walked across the planks toward him.
The amateur wrenched open the two gates.
The amateur shouted, ‘Don’t shoot at me! Please don’t shoot at me!’
There was an open space at the top of the double gate’ across the front of the elevator. The amateur with a sudden motion threw something over this, something that landed hard on the planks, and bounced: a stubby black pistol.
‘I lost the other one!’ he shouted. Parker was close to him now, but he kept shouting anyway, as though he thought there was some sort of wall between himself and Parker. ‘I’m not armed now!’ he shouted. ‘There’s my gun! There’s my gun!’
Parker walked up to the front of the cage. He had the Beretta in his right hand, but at the last second he changed his mind. He went back and picked up the gun the amateur had thrown away; it was a Smith & Wesson .32 revolver. Parker frowned at it. The last one like this he’d seen, Pete Rudd was carrying it. Was this Rudd’s pistol? Was that how the amateur knew to come to Vimorama?
But he wasn’t particularly interested in the answer, because it made no difference anymore. He turned back to the man in the cage.
‘Don’t shoot at me, please. She did deserve that; you knew her, you must have known she deserved it, and I never meant to cause you any trouble, it all just happened one thing after the other, all I wanted to do was give her what she —’
Parker used one bullet from Pete Rudd’s gun.
He pulled open the gates and went in and rolled the amateur over on his back and went through his pockets.
Left trouser pocket, sixty-three twenties. Right trouser pocket, thirty-nine twenties and twenty-five tens. Left hip pocket, fifty-two tens and ten fifties. Right hip pocket, forty-seven twenties and nine tens and eight fifties. Right shirt pocket, forty-two twenties and lour hundreds. Nothing in the left shirt pocket; that must have been where the eight hundred eighty bucks had come from.
Still more. Left jacket pocket, fifty twenties and nine fifties. Right jacket pocket, fifty-three twenties and seven fifties. Inside jacket pocket, ninety-five twenties and three hundreds.
The amateur had bulged with cash, bloated with cash, overflowed with cash.
Left raincoat pocket, ninety-three twe
nties and seventeen tens. Right raincoat pocket, eighty twenties and fifteen fifties.
All together, seven hundreds and forty-nine fifties and six hundred two twenties and one hundred eleven tens, including the money left on the stairs.
Sixteen thousand three hundred dollars.
Parker got to his feet and looked at the bills in stacks on the elevator floor. Sixteen thousand three hundred dollars. He laughed out loud.
It was his seventh.
The end.
––––––––––––
This document was converted by AportisDoc Converter(tm) from Aportis Technologies Corp.
FB2 document info
Document ID: d2d28916-42f5-47f6-b475-259bab29e91c
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 5.8.2011
Created using: calibre 0.8.10 software
Document authors :
Richard Stark
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/
The Split p-7 Page 14