Robert R. McCammon: The Collected Stories Part 5

The King saw it too, and in the next second he moved like he had lightning in his pants. He whipped that door open and bellowed, "I'm Elvis Presley! They're gonna kill me!" and by that time I had an arm around his neck tryin'

to keep him from gettin' out. He got stuck in the door, and Miralee was screamin', "Don't let him out! Don't let him out!" I jabbed the gun's barrel into his back, but he kept on thrashin'.

Fella got out of the station wagon. I saw who it was. That fella who went to Chicago to dig up Al Capone's vault. He reached out for Elvis, and Elvis strained to grip his hand. That was when the light changed, and Miralee stomped her foot down on the pedal. The Chevy laid rubber, Elvis still tryin' to squeeze through the open door, and that TV fella gave a shout and jumped back into the station wagon's pa.s.senger side. His driver gave it the gas too, and started after us. Miralee shouted, "Get that door shut, Dwayne!" The King's blue sneakers were shreddin' on the pavement. I don't believe he wanted to jump, with the engine revvin' up toward fifty. He pulled himself back into the car with a big whuff of breath, and I reached over his belly and slammed the door shut. The station wagon with that TV fella in it was right on our tail, comin' up fast so they could read the license plate. Well, there was just one thing to do about that, wasn't there? I cranked the window on my side down, leaned out into the wind and rain, and shot at the station wagon's tires. My cap flew off my head, my pompadour whippin' around like a scalded poodle. My third bullet knocked out one of the wagon's headlights, and then the driver didn't feel so nosy; he hit the brakes, and the wagon skidded off the road into a tangle of kudzu vines.

We were out beyond the town limits by now. I cranked the window up and sat there shakin', realizin' I could've killed either one of those two fellas. Only one I wanted to kill was the King, and to tell the truth I was feelin' a bit queasy about the whole business. Miralee was still flyin' us along that rain-slick highway, but I said, "Don't want a trooper pullin' us over, babe," and she cut the speed some.

I felt Elvis starin' at me again. He said, in his raspy, old man's voice, "I've got money. I'll give you all of it."

"Don't say that," I told him. I just couldn't stand it if the King started to beg. "You sit there and be quiet, all right?" Miralee's head had c.o.c.ked. "Money? How much money?"

"We're supposed to kill him, not rob him!" I complained, but she shot me a hard glance in the rearview mirror and I b.u.t.toned my lip.

"How much money?" she asked Elvis.

"A lot. A whole lot, darlin'." I winced when he used that word. "My place is six, seven miles from here. I'll show you. You don't really want to kill me, do you?"

Miralee didn't say nothin'. I didn't either. My throat was so dry I probably couldn't have said anythin'. I mean, it's one thing to plan on killin' somebody and another to do it. I guess it was the sound of the shots that got to me, or the way the gun smelled. Maybe it was the fact that the King was sittin' beside me, livin' and breathin'. No, no! I had to quit thinkin' like that! If I didn't kill him, our business was washed up! I had to go through with this, if I liked it or not!

Miralee said, "Show us where you live." Her voice was silky; it was the way she asked me to go down in the bas.e.m.e.nt and clean out the spiders.

We got to the King's place about fifteen minutes later. It was one of them tin burritos rural gents of, ahem, modest means seem to prefer. Graceland West was certainly a step down for the King. Only two things separated it from the run-of-the-mill poor-boy estate: the satellite dish off to one side and the dumpster located where most folks might put their trash cans. The dumpster looked full to overflowin', too.

I stopped the car on the graveled area in front of the King's home. Miralee got out of the Chevy first and ran up to the trailer door. She ducked inside, then stuck her head out and waved us in.

"Don't try anything now, King," I told him, and jabbed the .38 into his blubber. "Just get out nice an' easy, and walk into your home."

Once in the trailer, you could see that the King's taste in interior decoratin' fit in with his current fashion statement. Dirty clothes, empty chicken buckets, and food wrappers were strewn all about the livin' room. There was an old record player pushed against one wall, right under a velvet picture of the King in his Las Vegas days. On top of the TV was a gla.s.s statue of the King. All in all, the place looked about as invitin' as a Beirut swap meet.

"I suppose you want to know why I left it all," the King wheezed out as he settled into a La-Z-Boy.

"No, we don't," I said. "The only thing we want from you is the money you got hid out here. Where is it?"

"Oh, it's buried outside. Let me rest up a minute and we'll go get it. But anyway," the King continued, "it was in the spring of '77. One of my boys had been on vacation in England. When he got back, he brought me a little present. He said it was the biggest thing goin' over there. Thought I might get a real kick outta listenin' to what trash the kids were into.

"Well, I played that record, son. And it changed me. See, no matter what else I'd been over the years, I'd always had the Power within me. The music was the Power. Hearin' that song was like p.i.s.sin' my pants. I could just feel my life drainin' away. When it was over, I was empty. There was no music left in me. I just knew I couldn't go on like before."

The King paused for a minute. I looked over to Miralee, to see what she made of all this. She was starin' at the King, but not in that nasty way she has. No, she seemed to be really payin' attention to this c.r.a.p.

"I talked to the Colonel about it," the King started up again. "And we decided that I should get away for awhile, out of the public eye, 'til I was feelin' right. That's why I went underground, so to speak. Just bidin' my time, waitin'

for the Power to come back to me."

"What changed then, King?" Miralee asked. Boy, she really seemed to be into it now.

"About six months ago, I read somethin' in the Midnite Tattler about a Harmonica Conversion. This Conversion was supposed to be some kinda mystical moment when all the spheres would line up. The Tattler said it was a real special time when anything might happen, even the Second Coming of the King. So I started to pave the way back for me."

"I read about that, too," Miralee jumped in. "But it said you needed a special charm to help focus the astral energies."

Elvis turned to face Miralee. "Yeah, darlin', that's right. See that little statue on the TV? There's my talisman. Got it from the Home Shopping Club for $49.95. I've been concentratin' at it for weeks now, tryin' to make it work. Nothin's happened yet, but I can feel that the time is almost at hand."

"Say, son." The King looked at me now. "I'll bet you'd sure like to know what it was exactly that caused me to drop outta sight. Why don't you reach into that drawer next to you and I'll show you." I opened the drawer slowly, expectin' a snake to jump out. The only thing in it was an old 45 in a greasy paper sleeve. The t.i.tle on the single was blurred out and I could only make out part of the band's name: -ex Pis-"Real impressive, King," I said, tossin' him the record. "Now, why don't we head outside and get that money before it rots in the ground."

"Just give me another minute or so," the King said. "I really want the two of you to hear this." The King waddled over to the record player and put the single on. Out of the speakers blasted a noise like a car crusher sinkin' its teeth into an old pickup. The singer, if that's what you'd call a guy who sounds like he'd just got a b.u.t.t full of buckshot, was screechin' somethin' about the Anti-Christ, Anarchy, or whatever. Just listenin' to a few seconds of it was enough to make my fillin's ache.

"Christ almighty, King!" I yelled. "Those pig farts are what made you give up your music?" Killin' him would be an act of mercy. He must already be tone dead.

The King didn't hear a word I said. He seemed to be in some kind of trance, starin' at the crystal Elvis. The statue had started to flicker with a weird milky light. The light got stronger and stronger as the song rasped on. By the time the song got to the last chorus, it was bright enough to cast five o'clock shadows in the room.

"This is it!" the King said. "It's the Harmonica Conversion! I can feel it! My music's comin' back to me!" The King lumbered toward the TV; Miralee got up off the couch to stop him. The King may have been plumped up like a Christmas goose, but he still had some speed left in him. He put one of those karate moves you used to see him do on stage to Miralee, and she ended up face down back on the couch. The King picked up the crystal Elvis and cradled it as if it was his day-old Lisa Marie. It was funny too, but in the light of the statue the fat seemed to melt off his face and, just for an instant, you could see the real King underneath.

That d.a.m.n song finally ended. As the last note bleated away, the King turned around and faced me. He had a really odd look in his eyes, sorta like a starvin' teenager eyein' a jumbo bag of Doritos.

"Come on over here, son. I've got somethin' to show you."

I glanced over at Miralee. She was still out cold on the couch. Things were gettin' a little too weird. It was time to wrap it up.

"Okay, King," I said, though my voice wasn't any too strong. "Why don'cha just put down that figurine and we'll go outside and dig up that stash of yours." Once the money was out of the ground, I figured the King's grave would be half dug. A quick headshot, ten minutes of shovel work, and Miralee and I would be out of here. The King took a step toward me. "Well, son, I have to admit that I told you a little lie there. There ain't no stash. I get my money from the Colonel a little bit at a time, and this month's check hasn't come yet. But here, why don't you take this beautiful statue instead? It oughta be worth somethin'. Here."

He held out the statue. The d.a.m.n thing was still glowin'. Lookin' at it made me feel a little dizzy. It was gettin'

hard to keep my mind on things. I took a step back and pointed the .38 at the King.

"Turn that d.a.m.n thing off before I shoot it outta your hand!" I screamed at the King. The King just grinned and moved in. It struck me that things weren't workin' out the way Miralee and I planned. The King seemed to be followin' his own agenda now.

"Stop right there or I'll drop you where you stand!"

"But I thought that's what you came lookin' for me for." The King was gettin' too close. A few more steps and he might try that karate c.r.a.p on me.

BANG! The pistol seemed to fire on its own. The King grabbed his left leg and fell to the carpet. When his 300+ pounds. .h.i.t, the whole d.a.m.n trailer shook. The phonograph started up and the -ex Pis-began caterwaulin' all over again.

Sweet Jesus, I couldn't believe it! I had actually shot the King. Dwayne Pressley, the a.s.sa.s.sin of Rock 'n' Roll. That's how I'd be remembered. I didn't want to finish him off now. To h.e.l.l with that stupid plan of Miralee's. I dropped the .38 and walked over to him. He just lay there, curled up like a baby, huggin' his leg and that gla.s.s Elvis.

"Oh, G.o.d, I'm sorry, King," I bawled to him. "I really didn't mean to shoot you. I ain't never shot at anything but squirrels before. Just lie still 'til I can get you a doctor."

The King rolled over to face me. "It's too late for that now, son. I'm a goner." Now that statement seemed to be a bit odd, comin' from a man who had only been grazed in the leg. I figured the pain must have addled his wits. I saw an old sock on the floor and pressed it against the wound.

"Don't you worry now, King. You're gonna be alright."

"You're right. I'm gonna be just fine."

With that, he swung that crystal statue at my head. Only instead of hittin' my skull, it felt like it pa.s.sed straight through my brain. I felt a cold shiver go all the way from my eyeb.a.l.l.s down to my tail bone. Things got all white and I couldn't see anything except for a black dot a long ways away. The dot came closer and closer, 'til I finally got sucked all the way in.

I don't know how long I was out. When I woke up, I felt tired and fuzzy. My left leg hurt like the d.i.c.kens, and I couldn't move my arms or legs. I guess I must have been sittin' up, though I couldn't really make sense of things. The King was standin' in front of me, but he looked different. He seemed to be a lot skinnier than before, and better dressed. In fact, he was wearin' my clothes. And my Miralee was standin' next to him. They were whisperin'

somethin' I couldn't quite hear.

"Are you awake yet, Dwayne?" Miralee asked.

"Barely," I croaked back at her. Funny, but my voice sounded different. "Say, what happened to the King? How'd he get my duds on?"

"The Harmonica Conversion, son," the King answered. Even his voice seemed changed now. Not quite right, as if he was tryin' to do a poor imitation of hisself. "It gave me back the Power. With a little help from you all, of course." I peeked down. Below me ballooned out some stubbly layers of chin flab, a food-speckled checked shirt, and some overstuffed blue jeans. The body fillin' the clothes seemed to be taped to one of the dinette chairs. I looked back in horror at the King.

"You d.a.m.ned thief! You stole my body!"

"I wouldn't call it stealin'. More like tradin' in mine on a newer model."

"Well, I don't much like the terms of the trade!" I told the King. "Put me back in my own body right now!"

"Now, why would I want to do somethin' like that, son?" the King asked. "I've been waitin' for the Power to come back, and I'm not gonna lose it now."

"Miralee, help me! What about our undyin' love, all those nights in the back of the Chevy? What about my career, the big future ahead? Untie me, honey, and we'll get this hoodoo hillbilly to put things right!"

"I don't think we can do that," Miralee piped in. "See, accordin' to the books, the Harmonica Conversion only comes around once every 34,521 years. A soul swap can only happen at that time. And the moment's gone, Dwayne.

'Course, you could always hang around 'til the next one and try again."

"You mean I'm stuck in this overstuffed sausage?" I screamed at them.

"Yes, but don't worry," Miralee said. "Just follow the Midnite Tattler crawdad-and-whipped-cream diet and those pounds will fly off in no time."

"Besides," Miralee continued, "I kinda like things the way they are now. Why should I keep workin' on makin'

you into a blue-light-special version of the King, when I can have the real thing?" She reached over and squeezed my old body's arm.

I turned my glare back to the King. "Well, body s.n.a.t.c.her, what are you gonna do now? I'll get the FBI after you soon as I get free."

"Son," the King drawled, "who'd believe you? You're wearin' Elvis Aron Presley's body now. Tell your story and all you'll get is a comfortable suite at the local fruit farm. Best settle in and make the best of it.

"As for me, well, I'm gonna try usin' the Power again. Of course, with the real Elvis field bein' so full up, the real King comin' back and all, I'm gonna have to get me another style. Think the world is ready for a down-home Johnny Rotten?"

"Miralee, darlin'," I pleaded with her, "help me!"

"Now hush up, Dwayne," Miralee said. "Elvis bandaged up your leg, and you'll be just fine. The newspeople will be comin' across this place in a few hours, and they'll cut you free. Just think of this as your big break. You'll be able to do the King now for the rest of your life."

After she spoke her piece, she linked arms with my old body and left the trailer. On his way out, the King began singin' a s.n.a.t.c.h of a tune about feelin' pretty vacant. I heard my Chevy fire up and roar off into the night. I stared at the gla.s.sy lump on the floor, all that was left of the Elvis statue after the big changearoo. At that moment, the lump kinda matched the feelin's in my heart.

Well, I had a long time to think things over. Even if the world believed my story, the King was right; no person in their mind, even Midnite Tattler readers, would buy into this yarn. The return of the King was gonna be enough of a shock as is. A line from an old movie kept runnin' through my head: "The King is dead. Long live the King." Well, maybe it was true now in more ways than one. The old King everyone knew was gone for good now. Maybe it was time for a new one.

The newspeople didn't get to me 'til late Sat.u.r.day night. By that time, I was ready. I heard a car squeal to a halt outside the trailer. The door burst open and bright camera lights were shinin' in my eyes. That Al Capone fella stuck a mike in my face and started jabberin' away.

"America, this is certainly the most momentous event of my life! Even my special on the pagan groundhog cults of Fort Lynn, New Jersey, must pale beside this! Twelve years after his purported death, the King of Rock and Roll, Elvis Presley, has turned up alive and well in a trailer outside Eustace, Arkansas. So many questions to answer, so many mysteries to unravel, so many ratings to improve! Elvis, your public awaits! What do you have to say to them after all this time?"

I looked him straight in the eye. I cleared my throat, and then I spoke, as the King, for the first time. "Well, son, before we get to talkin', it might be a good idea for you to cut me loose. And while you're at it, pa.s.s me over that box of moon-pies.

Copyright 1989, Robert R. McCammon & Paul Schulz. All rights reserved. This story originally appeared in Lights Out, Vol. 1, No. 2, October 1989. Reprinted with permission of the authors.

NIGHT CALLS THE GREEN FALCON.

1. Never Say Die He was in the airplane again, falling towards the lights of Hollywood.

Seconds ago the craft had been a sleek silver beauty with two green-painted propellers, and now it was coming apart at the seams like wet cardboard. The controls went crazy, he couldn't hold the stick level, and as the airplane fell he clinched his parachute pack tighter around his chest and reached up to pop the canopy out. But the canopy was jammed shut, its hinges red with clots of rust. The propellers had seized up, and black smoke whirled from the engines. The plane nosed towards the squat, ugly buildings that lined Hollywood Boulevard, a scream of wind pa.s.sing over the fuselage.

He didn't give up. That wasn't his way. He kept pressing against the canopy, trying to force the hinges, but they were locked tight. The buildings were coming up fast, and there was no way to turn the airplane because the rudder and ailerons were gone too. He was sweating under his green suit, his heart beating so hard he couldn't hear himself think. There had to be a way out of this; he was a never-say-die type of guy. His eyes in the slits of the green cowl ticked to the control panel, the jammed hinges, the dead stick, the smoking engines, back to the control panel in a frantic geometry.

The plane trembled; the port side engine was ripping away from the wing. His green boots kicked at the dead rudder pedals. Another mighty heave at the canopy, another jerk of the limp control stick-and then he knew his luck had, at long last, run out. It was all over.

Going down fast now, the wings started to tear away. Klieg lights swung back and forth over the boulevard, advertising somebody else's premiere. He marked where the plane was going to hit: a mustard-yellow five-floored brick building about eight blocks east of the Chinese Theatre. He was going to hit the top floor, go right into somebody's apartment. His hands in their green gloves clenched the armrests. No way out... no way out... He didn't mourn for himself so much, but someone innocent was about to die, and that he couldn't bear. Maybe there was a child in that apartment, and he could do nothing but sit in his trap of straps and gla.s.s and watch the scene unfold. No, he decided as the sweat ran down his face. No, I can't kill a child. Not another one. I WON'T! This script has to be re-written. It wasn't fair, that no one had told him how this scene would end. Surely the director was still in control. Wasn't he? "Cut!" he called out as the mustard-yellow building filled up his horizon. "Cut" he said again, louder - then screamed it: "CUT!"

The airplane crashed into the building's fifth floor, and he was engulfed by a wall of fire and agony. 2. An Old Relic He awoke, his flesh wet with nightmare sweat and his stomach burning with the last flames of an enchilada TV dinner.

He lay in the darkness, the springs of his mattress biting into his back, and watched the lights from the boulevard-reflections of light-move across the cracked ceiling. A fan stuttered across his chest of drawers, and from down the hall he could hear the LaPrestas hollering at each other again. He lifted his head from the sodden pillow and looked at his alarm clock on the table beside his bed; twenty-six minutes past twelve, and the night had already gone on forever.

His bladder throbbed. Right now it was working, but sometimes it went haywire and he peed in his sheets. The laundromat on the corner of Cosmo street was not a good place to spend a Sat.u.r.day night. He roused himself out of bed, his joints clicking back into their sockets and the memory of the nightmare scorched into his mind. It was from Chapter One of Night Calls The Green Falcon, RKO Studios, 1949. He remembered how he'd panicked when he couldn't get the plane's canopy up, because he didn't like closed places. The director had said, "Cut!" and the canopy's hinges had been oiled and the sequence had gone like clockwork the second time around. The nightmare would be back, and so would the rest of them-a reel of car crashes, falls from buildings, gunshots, explosions, even a lion's attack. He had survived all of them, but they kept trying to kill him again and again. Mr. Thatcher at the Burger King said he ought to have his head looked at, and maybe that was true. But Mr. Thatcher was only a kid, and The Green Falcon had died before was born.

He stood up. Slid his feet into slippers. Picked his robe off a chair and shrugged into it, covering his pajamas. His eyes found the faded poster taped to the wall: NIGHT CALLS THE GREEN FALCON, it said, and showed an a.s.semblage of fistfights, car crashes and various other action scenes. IN TEN EXCITING CHAPTERS! the poster promised. STARRING CREIGHTON FLINT, "THE GREEN FALCON."

"The Green Falcon has to p.i.s.s now," he said, and he unlocked the door and went out into the hallway. The bathroom was on the other side of the building. He trudged past the elevator and the door where the LaPrestas were yelling. Someone else shouted for them to shut up, but when they got going there was no stopping them. Seymour, the super's cat, slinked past, hunting rats, and the old man knocked politely at the bathroom door before he entered. He clicked on the light, relieved himself at the urinal and looked away from the hypodermic needles that were lying around the toilet. When he finished, he picked up the needles and put them in the trashcan, then washed his hands in the rust-stained sink and walked back along the corridor to his apartment. Old gears moaned. The elevator was coming up. It opened when he was almost even with it. Out walked his next-door neighbor, Julie Saufley, and a young man with close-cropped blonde hair. She almost b.u.mped into him, but she stopped short. "Hi, Cray. You're prowlin' around kinda late, aren't you?"

"Guess so." Cray glanced at the young man. Julie's latest friend had pallid skin that was odd in sun-loving California, and his eyes were small and very dark. Looks like an extra in a n.a.z.i flick, Cray thought, and then returned his gaze to Julie, whose dark brown hair was cut in a Mohawk and decorated with purple spray. Her spangled blouse and short leather skirt were so tight he couldn't fathom how she could draw a breath. "Had to use the bathroom," he said. Didn't that just sound like an old fool? he asked himself. When he was forty years younger such a statement to a pretty girl would have been unthinkable.

"Cray was a movie star," Julie explained to her friend. "Used to be in... what did they call them, Cray?"

"Serials," he answered. Smiled wanly. "Cliff-hangers. I was the-"

"I'm not paying you for the tour of the wax museum, baby." The young man's voice was taut and mean, and the sound of it made Cray think of rusted barbed wire. A match flared along the side of a red matchbook; the young man lit a cigarette, and the quick yellow light made his eyes look like small ebony stones. "Let's get done what we came here for," he said, with a puff of smoke in Cray Flint's direction.

"Sure." Julie shrugged. "I just thought you might like to know he used to be famous, that's all."

"He can sign my autograph book later. Let's go." Spidery white fingers slid around her arm and drew her away. Cray started to tell him to release her, but what was the use? There were no gentlemen anymore, and he was too old and used up to be anyone's champion. "Be careful Julie," he said as she guided the man to her apartment.

"My name's Crystal this week," she reminded him. Got her keys out of her clutch purse. "Coffee in the morning?"

"Right." Julie's door opened and closed. Cray went into his room and eased himself into a chair next to the window. The boulevard's neon pulse painted red streaks across the walls. The street denizens were out, would be out until dawn, and every so often a police car would run them into the shadows, but they always returned. Like Julie did. She'd been in the building four months, was just twenty years old, and Cray couldn't help but feel some grandfatherly concern for her. Maybe it was more than that, but so what? Lately he'd been trying to help her get off those pills she popped like candy, and encouraged her to write to her parents back in Minnesota. Last week she'd called herself Amber; such was the power of Hollywood, a city of masks.

Cray reached down beside his chair and picked up the well-worn leather book that lay there. He could hear the murmur of Julie's voice through the paper-thin wall; then her customer's, saying something. Silence. A police car's siren on the boulevard, heading west. The squeak of mattress springs from Julie's apartment. Over in the corner, the scuttling of a rat in the wall. Where was Seymour when you needed him? Cray opened his memory book and looked at the yellowed newspaper clipping from the Belvedere, Indiana, Banner of March 21st, 1946, that said, "Hometown Football Hero Hollywood-Bound." There was a picture of himself, when he was still handsome and had a head full of hair. Other clippings-his mother had saved them-were from his high school and college days, and they had headlines like "Boomer Wins Gymnastic Medal" and "Boomer Breaks Track-Meet Record." That was his real name: Creighton Boomershine. The photographs were of a muscular, long-legged kid with a lopsided grin and the clear eyes of a dreamer.

Long gone, Cray thought, long gone.

He had had his moment in the sun. It had almost burned him blind but it had been a lovely light. He had turned sixty-three in May, an old relic. Hollywood worshipped at the altar of youth. Anyway, n.o.body made his kind of pictures anymore. Four serials in four years and then- "Cut," he thought. No use stirring up all that murky water. He had to get back to bed, because morning would find him mopping the floor in the Burger King three blocks west, and Mr. Thatcher liked clean floors. He closed his memory book and put it aside. On the floor was a section of yesterday's L.A. Times; he'd already read the paper, but a headline caught his attention: "Flip-Top Killer Challenges Police." Beneath that was a story about the Fliptop, and the eight photographs of the street people whose throats had been savagely slashed in the last two months. Cray had known one of them: a middle-aged women called Auntie Sunglow, who rocketed along the boulevard on roller skates singing Beatles songs at the top of her lungs. She was crazy, yes, but she always had a kind tune for him. Last week she'd been found in a trash dumpster off Sierra Bonita, her head almost severed from her neck.

Bad times, Cray mused. Couldn't think of any worse. Hopefully the police would nail the Fliptop before he-or she-killed again, but he didn't count on it. All the street people he knew were watching their backs. Something struck the wall in Julie's apartment. It sounded like it might have been a fist. Cray heard the springs squalling, like a cat being skinned alive. He didn't know why she sold her body for such things, but he'd learned long ago that people did what they had to do to survive.

There was another blow against the wall. Something crashed over, a chair, maybe.

Cray stood up. Whatever was going on over there it sounded rough. Way too rough. He heard no voices, just the awful noise of the springs. He went to the wall and pounded on it. "Julie?" he called. "You all right?" No answer. He put his ear to the wall, and heard what he thought might have been a shuddering gasp. The squall of the springs had ceased. Now he could hear only his own heartbeat. "Julie?" He pounded on the wall again. "Julie, answer me!" When she didn't respond, he knew something was terribly wrong. He went out to the corridor, sweat crawling down his neck, and as he reached out to grip the doork.n.o.b of Julie's apartment he heard a sc.r.a.ping noise that he knew must be the window being pushed upward.

Julie's window faced the alley. The fire escape, Cray realized. Julie's customer was going down the fire escape.