He zipped the bag, clipped it back on the belt, and undipped his Jumars. He put them on the top of the parapet, then jumped up so he was sitting on it between them, facing in.
He checked his watch again. One minute before two A.M.
Down in the utility tunnel below the street, Taps checked his watch: its digital number showed 1:59:07 and:08 and:09.
Runyan had edged himself back across the top of the wall until his butt was hanging off into space. This was the tricky part. He now was supported only by his hands gripping the outside angle of the top and the outer wall, and by his heels hooked over the inside edge.
Runyan hyperventilated, focusing his energies to that white-hot physical point that perhaps only athletes know, then let his knees slowly bend, arching his body back and down. Now only his heels hooked over that inner edge, and his calves along the top of the wall supported his body; he was hanging face-out, upside down above the high-tension cable terminal.
He groped above him on top of the parapet for one of the Jumars, found it, brought it slowly down in front of his face. If he should drop one of them now, it was all over.
In the tunnel, Taps’s glowing watch digits read 1:59:58 and:59 and 2:00:00, and his hands, in place on two of the knife switches, pulled them down to disengage them.
In the Cougar, Louise was just turning into the block where the high rises were when all the lights went out except the streetlights. She grabbed Grace’s arm in her excitement.
“It’s happenin,’ baby, it’s happenin’!” responded Grace in a voice almost guttural with tension.
Hanging upside down by the green glow of his break-’em-shake-’em, supported by his calves and heels on the parapet, Runyan jammed the first Jumar into place, squeezing it down so the brake bit into the high-tension core of the cable with its relentless grip. He knew that if the power had not been cut, he already would have been just smoking meat.
He found the second Jumar, fixed it in place. In his head, the seconds were ticking away. There were only ninety of them before Taps reengaged the knife switches.
He gripped the Jumars with his iron hands and kicked off the building. His body swung out and down and around, his arms and hands taking the full shocking jolt of his weight as he jerked up under the cable. He was now hanging from the Jumars only by his grip, which already had loosened the brakes so he was sliding down the cable toward Brother Blood’s building.
Emery skittered his flashlight beam around a lobby lit only by the streetlights outside. Over by the elevators a second guard’s flash danced and probed.
“It isn’t just us, Emery,” he called.
Emery felt a great weight lift off him. He had been afraid it might somehow have something to do with that black hooker who had showed up. “Okay, then, I’ll call Water and Power,” he said.
Runyan, still lit only by his break-’em-shake-’em, walked the Jumars quickly up the cable toward the junction box on Brother Blood’s building, panting with the nonstop effort as the seconds exploded in his brain. At the box he reached over, a hand at a time, to grab the bare power cable. Then he kipped himself up into a full press-out. He got a foot up onto the cable, a knee, was balancing on the wire, grabbed the edge of the parapet, and jerked his feet up off the cable.
There were crackling bursts of white light as the Jumars, scorched and smoking, fell away. The lights flickered on in the buildings as he muscled himself up onto the wall and dropped over onto the roof.
He ran lightly across a patio landscaped with expensive potted greenery and shrubs to the sliding glass doors to the penthouse. It looked like a lock that might be reasonable about raking. Since the penthouse was supposedly the only way to the roof, he didn’t have to worry about alarms.
Louise had pulled over to the curb and stopped when the lights had gone out. Now, ninety seconds later, they were back on again. She whirled on Grace.
“Did he make it? Did he?”
“I didn’t see no falling bodies,” smiled Grace. “Relax, shugah. That man of yours, he’s a survivor.” She dug an elbow into Louise’s ribs. “Lets get moving again, baby. Don’t wanta draw no po-leece before Taps can get out of that manhole.”
With a thrust of his powerful shoulders, Taps heaved the manhole cover aside. He grabbed the tool kit from where it was wedged between him and the ladder, set it on the street, then leaped nimbly up on the pavement himself. He kicked the manhole cover, clanging, back into place, ran to the sidewalk.
He had taken only half a dozen jaunty and unconcerned steps when a Power and Water truck came rumbling around the corner and stopped beside the manhole. The uniformed workmen who got out never even glanced his way.
Runyan slid open one of the glass doors, entered, shut and locked it carefully behind him, then pushed his way through the drapes into the spacious living room. The dim glow of his break-’em-shake-’em showed it was sumptuous and decorator perfect.
The study also was a decorator’s dream of a study: thick carpets, minicomputer and letter-quality printer, massive hardwood desk, overstuffed leather executive’s swivel chair that looked ready to fly, waist-to-ceiling bookshelves behind the desk, silver-edged trophy plaques on the walls.
“Coke-Dealer-of-the-Year Award,” muttered Runyan. He shut the door and returned his break-’em-shake-’em to the stuff bag after turning on the lights. His hour was almost up.
The telephone was a futuristic model with memory; on one side of it was a black oblong box with buttons on it, on the other a computer modem cradle for the receiver. It was the key to the safe, but here Taps’s intelligence was vague. Runyan pushed the top button on the black box. The stereo deck started to play. He pushed it again. The stereo stopped.
Second button. The maple doors slid open on the huge console TV, and the set switched on. Again. Off.
Third. Lights on and off.
Fourth. Window blinds.
When Runyan pushed the fifth button, a panel of the bookshelves, books and all, swung open to reveal a small wall safe of hardened cadmium steel. Runyan tried the swing handle. Locked. He went back to the desk and pushed the final button. Nothing happened. Again. The safe was still locked.
How would the mind of a Brother Blood work? Intricate mind. Liked games. Liked gadgets. A sly and tricky dude...
He picked up the receiver and fitted it into the computer modem. Then he punched the final button again. Nothing. He flicked the black on-off rocker switch on the back of the computer, tried again. The door of the safe popped open an inch.
Yeah. The games people play. Here’s to you. Brother Blood. He switched off the computer and took from the stuff bag the orderly stacks of ornately scrolled counterfeit bearer bonds. Inside the safe were exactly similar stacks of genuine bearer bonds with the same sequenced serial numbers. He put these stacks on the far end of the desk. It would be disastrous to mix them up.
Taps cut off from the sidewalk between bushes to the rear wall of Brother Blood’s building. He had just set down his electrician’s box when a thin nylon cord set down Runyan’s black nylon stuff bag a dozen feet away. Taps slashed the cord with his pocketknife and walked away with the bag, not glancing back, not bothering with his tool kit.
At the corner was one of the open pay phones without a booth. He looked quickly, almost guiltily around, then slotted his dimes and tapped out a seven-digit local number.
“Yeah,” he said into the phone. “I want to talk with Brother Blood. Tell him Taps Turner is calling.”
When Louise turned the corner, Taps was at the open-style booth, talking and gesturing earnestly on the pay phone. Beside her, Grace drew in a sharp breath.