The Guilty - Jason Pinter [120]
I heard someone yell, "Stop that guy!" but it was too late.
I shoved the glass doors open, saw that the elevator was
stuck on nine and not moving. Without hesitating I sprinted
toward the end of the hallway, banged through the stairwell
door and began my climb to the ninth floor.
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When I got to five, my breath beginning to leave me, I
looked down. Nobody was following me.
Four flights above was a man who was preparing to do
something unspeakable to Amanda. Clenching my right fist,
feeling the stitches threaten to pop, I continued climbing.
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When I reached the ninth floor I stopped to catch my breath.
If we lived through this, I promised to use the StairMaster on
a more frequent basis.
Guys like Roberts always looked like they would be a
pushover in a fight. Not too big, not too heavy, but their
muscles were trained. They were sleeping attack dogs waiting
to be prodded. First fight I ever won was against Bruce Baumgarten in the sixth grade. Bruce was a hundred and ninety
pounds, a Mack truck in seventh-grade weight. But I literally
ran around him until he could barely see straight, then one
punch to the stomach took away the last of his wind. He went
down like I'd stepped on an empty bag of potato chips.
The first fight I ever lost was against Kevin MacGruder in
the eleventh grade. I outweighed Kevin by twenty pounds. He
was president of the Math club. He had freckles and acne and
a rail-thin girlfriend we called Olive Oyl, and we mocked him
mercilessly. What I didn't know is that to burn off the rage from
our taunts Kevin hit the free weights five times a week. He dislocated my shoulder, and I pissed blood for two days after he
kicked me in the kidney. I never messed with Kevin again.
In a strange way I was glad I knew this. William Roberts
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would tear me to pieces. Even if I was able to separate him
from the Winchester--which seemed as doable as separating
Linus from his blanket--I had to deal with the fact that he
could pound me into sirloin, expending less energy than it
took me to climb the stairs.
I was prepared to fight dirty.
But that didn't mean I wasn't scared shitless.
Adrenaline was pumping through me. It was working, my
rage concentrating.
I'd only visited Amanda at her office once. Actually I'd
meant to come more, but I could never get away from the
Gazette during working hours. Or more accurately, I didn't
want to get away from the Gazette.
I tried to recall the office layout, seemed to remember
there being a conference room with a long, mahogany table,
several long-backed chairs and a speakerphone. I remembered Amanda's desk. There was a picture of us in a silver
frame. I'd had it engraved for her. Only Happiness Lies Ahead.
I stood in the stairwell, moved closer to the door and pressed
my ear up against it. The stairwell was painted gray, dirt coated
the steps, and the metal was rusted. I glanced around, couldn't
see any security camera, so I was fairly confident Roberts
wasn't aware of my presence. I couldn't hear anything inside
the office, but the metal was likely muffling all sounds. But it
couldn't muffle a gunshot. And I didn't hear any cops storming
the stairs. Roberts hadn't killed anybody. Yet.
I gripped the doorknob, turned it ever so gently just to see if
it was locked. For a moment panic gripped me. If it was locked
from the inside, I wouldn't be able to get in unless our friendly
neighborhood rifleman decided to let me join the party. And I
knew the cops wouldn't greet me with open arms if I slunk back
downstairs. But the knob turned. I stopped for a moment.
The Guilty
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The last time I barged through a closed door unannounced
and unwanted, a cop ended up dead and I ended up on the run
for my life.
I took three short, quick breaths, then three long deep ones
and gripped the knob. It turned easily, and I eased it all the
way to the left until it wouldn't go any farther. Then I listened.
Nothing.
I pushed the door slightly to make sure it moved inward.