From the walkie-talkie, more static taunted Balenger.
He shut off Vinnie's unit, then lowered the volume on his own, put it to his lips, and pressed the transmit button, keeping his voice down. "I don't understand why you use different names, Ronnie. Why do you call yourself 'Walter'?"
Static.
"Is your last name really Harrigan?" Balenger didn't dare remain in one spot too long. He shifted into the dining room. Again, he whispered into the walkie-talkie. "Ronnie, what's your last name?"
No answer.
"What's your last-"
"Carlisle," the voice said.
Amanda and Vinnie crouched, trying to determine where the voice was below them.
"That's not true," Balenger whispered. "Carlisle didn't have children."
"He's my father."
Continuing to move, Balenger eased into the exercise room, where weights propped open the elevator's door.
"No," Balenger said. "He's not your father."
"He acted like one."
"That's not the same thing."
"Sometimes, it's all there is."
"What about you?" Balenger asked. "Did you act like a good son?"
Balenger shut off his headlamp before shifting into the candlelit medical room. Amanda and Vinnie did the same. Otherwise, their lights would show through the holes in the floor. The sight of the two bodies made him feel cold.
"You're moving cautiously," the voice said, "but the candles react to the air you displace. Through the holes, I see them flicker."
Abruptly, Balenger realized that Ronnie stood directly below him. He barely had a chance to step back before a shotgun blast tore through the part of the floor where he'd been.
Balenger aimed toward the fresh hole, about to shoot, only to decide Ronnie wanted him to do that, to waste ammunition on a phantom target.
"Did you disarm the explosives up there?" the voice said from the walkie-talkie. "I assume a former Ranger has the ability to do that."
Balenger forced himself to stay quiet.
"You wonder how I know your background?" the voice asked. "It's not just because I heard you talking to the others. The first time you came to my office and questioned me, I knew you were trouble. When you showed up the next time, I had a stack of information about you. A shame about that Gulf War syndrome. At least you had someone to take care of you. Your wife made clear how devoted she was."
The reference to Diane struck Balenger like a punch in the stomach. His emotion bent him forward. At once, rage took the place of pain and loss. He aimed toward where he thought the voice was below him. With all his heart, he wanted to shoot. No! he warned himself. Not till you're sure. Don't let him goad you into making mistakes.
Desperation crept over him. Our lights, he thought. We shut them off so Ronnie can't see them through the holes in the floor. But we can't get out of here without using them. And he has night-vision goggles.
Reluctantly, he understood what needed to be done. What he didn't want to do.
Drawing Amanda and Vinnie to another room, he kept his voice low. "You need to distract him for me. Vinnie, have you ever fired a gun?"
"No."
"Hold it with both hands. Like this." Balenger curled Vinnie's right fingers around the grip. Then he curved the left fingers over the opposite side, the tips overlapping. "Aim along the top of the barrel. Keep your fingers tight on the grip. There's a kick. When you shoot, you don't want to get startled and drop the gun."
"When I shoot?"
"Go back to the medical room. Count to fifty. Then turn on your walkie-talkie. Increase its volume. Set it on the floor and back away. My voice will distract him. When he shoots, shoot back. You won't hit him, but we don't care about that. Just make sure he doesn't hit you."
"But what about-"
"I'm going to try to get the other night-vision goggles."
Vinnie nodded, but Balenger couldn't tell if it was in hope or despair.
"Amanda, lock the hatch behind me." Balenger spoke with desperate softness. "Don't open it unless you hear two taps, then three, then one. Can you remember that? Two, three, one?"
"I'll remember."
"Vinnie, fifty seconds after your first shot, throw something on the floor of the exercise room. Make sure you're a distance away. Try to make him shoot again. Then shoot back and move to another room. Keep distracting him. But don't use more than one shot each time. We need the ammunition. Can you do this?"
"Don't have a choice."
"If I can get those night-vision goggles, we'll have a lot of choices." Balenger hoped he sounded convincing.
Far from the holes in the medical room's floor, they could safely switch on their headlamps. Balenger moved quietly through the kitchen, the library, and the surveillance room, finally coming to the bedroom. He stared at the locked trapdoor. In theory, the door to Danata's suite remained barricaded, so Ronnie couldn't get in and shoot at anyone coming down the staircase.
In theory.
Balenger took the pistol from Vinnie, then motioned for Amanda to unlock and open the trapdoor. He aimed as his headlamp pierced the darkness of the stairwell. No one. Breathing slightly easier, he gave the gun back.
"Start counting to fifty." He climbed into the stairwell and motioned for Amanda to close it. As he heard her lock the hatch over his head, he had the terrible sense of descending into hell.
52
The coppery odor of the professor's blood filled the exposed passageway and Danata's living room. Balenger counted the seconds just as Vinnie did: three, four, five. Guided by only one source of light, feeling the darkness crowd him, Balenger crept lower. The furniture remained piled in front of the door, giving him slight encouragement. He unholstered the hammer from his utility belt and descended from the sixth level toward the fifth and its secret corridor, waving the hammer in front of him, testing for razor wire. He listened for water streaming into the stairwell but didn't hear it, the roofs in this section of the hotel evidently remaining intact.
He aimed his headlamp along the darkness of the fifth corridor. Something seemed to be in there, something seated motionless that filled him with suspicion, but he didn't have time to investigate. He kept counting: eighteen, nineteen, twenty. The air felt colder as he reached the fourth level and went lower.
Static crackled from his walkie-talkie, Ronnie taunting him again. No doubt, Ronnie hoped to hear a response and use it as a target. But Balenger was too far away now.
He kept counting. Twenty-five. Twenty-six.
He pressed the pulse button on his walkie-talkie. Ronnie would hear a similar buzz of static, Balenger knew.
"So you're still alive," the voice said. Although Balenger's walkie-talkie was at minimum volume, the stairwell's echo amplified the words. "I wondered if I'd hit you."
The light from his headlamp turning dizzily on the spiral staircase, Balenger reached the third level and continued to wave the hammer into the shadows before him.
Static.
Balenger pressed the transmit button and put the walkie-talkie directly against his mouth, cupping a hand around his lips, working to shut out the stairwell's echo. "Carlisle had agoraphobia. I kept asking myself why a man terrified of the outdoors would leave the hotel and shoot himself on the beach."
Forty-seven. Forty-eight.
"It didn't make sense. But now I understand. Something else terrified him more."
Balenger was certain the count was past fifty. Vinnie, for God's sake, do what I told you!
"I didn't hurt him," the voice said.
"You weren't a good son."
"Your voice sounds different."
Balenger imagined Vinnie following directions, turning up the volume on his walkie-talkie, and setting it on the floor. He imagined Ronnie peering up toward Balenger's suddenly amplified voice. Abruptly, he heard a shotgun blast from his walkie-talkie. He listened fiercely for the distant sound of a handgun firing in response. But thunder rumbled through the hotel, vibrating through the stairwell, and he heard nothing else, not even static from his walkie-talkie.