He knelt beside Vinnie. "I'm giving you only enough to dull the pain, not put you out."
Vinnie nodded, biting his lip. "Just hurry and do it."
Balenger exposed Vinnie's left wrist and gave him the injection.
Vinnie's face remained rigid with pain. Slowly, it relaxed. "Yes."
55
The smoke hovered.
"It's thicker." Amanda coughed. "I thought all the flames were out."
"Not down there." Balenger pointed toward the open trapdoor in the surveillance room. He stepped warily toward it. Three levels below, the flames were stronger. The only thing he could think to do was shut the trapdoor and lock it.
Surprising him, Amanda rushed in with towels she'd soaked in the remaining water in the toilet tank. She pressed them over the edges of the trapdoor, sealing off the smoke.
With the electricity off and the heating system no longer engaged, the penthouse had rapidly cooled. Amanda hugged herself. Glancing down at her bare feet and the nightgown that gave little protection to her legs, Balenger said, "Maybe I can do something about that."
At the door to the medical room, he stared at Cora's body. I'm sorry, he thought. He gripped Cora's hands and pulled. There were so many holes in the floor, Ronnie would surely hear, he worried. But he needed to keep pulling. He eased Cora's body into the bedroom.
"Here," he said, taking off Cora's shoes and socks. Cora's feet had the terrible coldness of death. "You and she are about the same size. These ought to fit you."
Amanda gazed at what he offered. Madness became normalcy. She took the shoes and socks. "But not the pants." They were soaked with blood. "I won't put on the pants."
Balenger understood. Even desperation had its limits.
The walkie-talkie crackled. Balenger thought, Hit back. You can't let him think he's winning.
He pressed the transmit button. "Why blondes, Ronnie?"
No answer.
"Was your mother a blonde?"
No answer.
"Are you trying to replace your mother? Is that why your girlfriends don't put bounce in you?"
"You piece of shit," the voice said.
Got you, Balenger thought. "What were you saying earlier about vulgarity?"
No answer.
"Iris McKenzie disappeared in 1968," Balenger said. "Your Fourth of July of horrors happened in 1960. Eight years earlier. What's the connection?" A tingle swept through him. Hours ago, Cora had asked what would happen to someone who'd been through what Ronald Whitaker had suffered. Balenger had answered that the boy would have spent eight years in a juvenile facility, receiving psychiatric counseling until he was-
"You were twenty-one," Balenger said into the walkie-talkie. "That photograph of you and Carlisle-it was taken just after you were released. What happened? Did Carlisle show an interest in you? Did he send you letters while you were being treated? Did he phone you? Did he finally behave like a human being and feel sorry for you? Did he ask you to come and stay here? Maybe he arranged for a psychiatrist to help you face the hell of your past. After all, how could you move on if the past kept its hook in you? That's why he stays a respectful distance from you in the photograph. He knows how sensitive you are about men touching you. Or maybe Carlisle never stopped being a twisted S.O.B. He was never a part of life. He only watched it. Maybe he brought you here so he could see how the rest of the story turned out. And you showed him, didn't you, Ronnie? You showed him the rest of the story."
"Don't talk about him like that."
"Carlisle was a monster."
"No. You don't know anything about my father."
"He's not your father. Maybe he sort of adopted you, but he wasn't your father, although he was almost as sick as your real father was."
"My real father?" the voice said with disgust. "No real father would have treated me like that."
"But no real son would have treated Carlisle the way you did," Balenger said. "He suspected what you were doing, but he couldn't prove it, right? He was twisted, but not as twisted as you. So he closed the hotel to take away your hunting territory. He hoped you'd stop, and hey, he wasn't sure to begin with, right? As far as he was concerned, closing the hotel was just a precaution. Hedging his doubts. What did you do, gradually make him a prisoner in this hellhole? Did you threaten to cut him, the thing he most feared? Did you force him to sign documents that put you in charge of the trust? When the riots occurred, did you make it seem that he ordered the metal shutters and doors installed? That way, you could keep tighter control on him at the same time you hid your secrets. But somewhere along the line, he discovered what you'd been doing-not just once but for years. Isn't that what happened, Ronnie? He found the corpses of some of your girlfriends. He managed the strength to break out of here. Something frightened him more than a cut that could make him bleed to death. More than the paralyzing open beach he forced himself to run toward. Something scared him so much he killed himself. You, Ronnie."
"A lot of questions," the voice said.
"You destroyed two fathers-the one you hated and the one you wanted."
"Questions that don't have answers."
Balenger peered into the surveillance room. Wisps of smoke squeezed their way past the towels around the trapdoor. I've bought enough time, he thought. The morphine should be working by now. He crouched next to Vinnie. "How's the pain?"
"Better. Floaty."
"Good. Because we need to get you on your feet."
Vinnie's eyes widened.
"No choice," Balenger said. "We can't stay here. The fire will get to us if he doesn't."
Which trapdoor? Balenger thought. If we use the staircase in Danata's suite, Ronnie will see us through the holes in the wall. He'll shoot.
The staircase from the surveillance room was in flames. The one in the kitchen was flooded. Balenger took for granted that the elevator was a death trap. As soon as Ronnie heard its whir, he'd shoot through the door and kill everyone in the compartment. Or else he'd shut off the electricity to it, trap his quarry in the shaft, and let the fire take care of them.
Balenger crept to the library. When he raised its trapdoor, he heard water, the equivalent of another cistern being filled. He shut the trapdoor, locked it, and eased through the kitchen into the dining room. Opening the trapdoor there, he exhaled when he didn't hear water.
He moved back to the bedroom. Vinnie's charred legs were more bloated, leaking more fluid.
"Just go along for the ride, Vinnie. Amanda and I will do the heavy lifting." Balenger looked at her. "Ready?"
56
"Always," Amanda said.
Her spirit reminded him so much of Diane's that for a moment, in the smoke haze, he thought he was actually looking at his wife. He shook his head to clear it.
"You're hurt," she said, pointing toward his right arm.
Balenger was surprised to see that his Windbreaker sleeve had blood on it. "Shotgun pellet, I think."
"And your left cheek."
He touched it and felt blood. "Flying wood splinter maybe. Here." He unstrapped the spare night-vision goggles from his belt. "You'll need these."
As she put them on, he told Vinnie, "It'll get dark now."
In pain, Vinnie nodded. "Just do what you need to."
Balenger switched off the lamps on Amanda's and Vinnie's hard hats. He prayed Vinnie had enough strength to keep from panicking in the darkness that would come when they took him from the candlelight. While Amanda adjusted to the green glow of her goggles, Balenger put on the knapsack. He holstered his pistol and shoved the crowbar under his utility belt.
Amanda took Vinnie's left arm, Balenger his right. When they lifted, Vinnie groaned.
"Lean on us," Balenger whispered. "Don't try to walk. Let us carry you."
But the moment they started, Balenger knew it wasn't going to work-Vinnie's shoes scraped along the floor.