She didn't know what it was, but she went to her knees under the window, and put her eye to the crack under the shade. Martin was on his feet, walking down the hall toward her room. He stopped at LaChaise's room, looked in, then went into the bathroom. Sandy took a breath-but Martin wasback in three or four seconds, and now he was moving softly down the hall toward Sandy's door.

He stopped at her door, and she ducked, unable to watch, afraid he'd sense her eyes. She waited, then forced herself to look. Martin was at her door, one hand on her knob. Unmoving, listening.

Sandy's feet were burning: she had to move them, but she couldn't. She was afraid that he'd sense anything, any movement.

Then Martin left her door, came down the hall to the fire escape window, pulled arrows out of his target. Then he turned and went back down the hall, looked around once, put the arrows on a shelf and dropped back on the sleeping bag.

Sandy, still holding her breath, ducked below the window again, sat, lifted her feet off the fire escape and cradled them. They hurt, and for a while there was nothing in her world but her heartbeat and her feet. Had to move. She looked through the crack again. Martin was on the sleeping bag again, but awake, twitching. Twitching? She watched: Jesus, he was masturbating.

Now Sandy was breathing like a locomotive, great gouts of steam puffing out into the cold night air: her feet were freezing, the pain excruciating. She looked at the drop, looked at the ledge, and painfully stepped back over the rail onto the ledge.

Back to the bedroom. She moved faster going back, the pain pushing her. She caught the window ledge and crawled back through. Her feet felt as though she were walking on broken bottles, but she ignored them for the moment and focused on closing the window, carefully, not making a sound.

All right. The room was cold, but there was nothing she could do about that, not right away. She couldn't open the door: Martin might catch a draft. She pulled off her coat, tookthe boots out, sat on the bare bed, and used the inside of her coat sleeves to wipe her feet.

When they were dry, she touched them, ran her fingers along the soles. No feeling, but no blood, either. She put on her socks and lay back. If she were quiet…

Wait. She got on her hands and knees, crawled around the perimeter of the room, and found a hot air register. Open, closed? There was no heat coming out. She looked at the light, decided to risk it. She turned it on, just for a second, looked at the register-closed-and turned it off. Went back to the register, in the dark, and opened it as wide as the adjustment level allowed. Still no heat.

The furnace wasn't running at the moment.

What else? The lock. She stepped to the window, twisted the lock, pulled the shade. The window ledge and fire escape would have footprints: nothing she could do about it. Hope for some wind.

She dropped back on the bed, wrapped herself in her parka, and tried to feel her feet. And tried to stave off the disappointment. Twenty feet… maybe she should have gone for it. Twenty feet.

NUDE EXCEPT FOR THE WHITE TAPE WRAP ON HIS wound, LaChaise walked out to the living room, looked at the TV, yawned, scratched himself and said, ''What's on?''

Martin wouldn't look at him. He said, ''That Weather woman was interviewed in the hotel. Didn't say where she was inside, but they got cops all over the place, with shotguns. Vests. Gas. Inside and outside, on the roof.''

''Trying to scare us,'' LaChaise said.

Martin half-laughed and said, ''Well, it's working.'' Still he wouldn't look, and LaChaise stepped over to the window and pulled the blind back an inch or two. Six o'clock in the morning and still dark.

''Sandy sleeping?''

''Yeah,'' Martin said. ''You scared the shit out of her last night.''

''Yeah?'' He didn't care.

''We're gonna need some heavier gear if we're gonna keep going,'' Martin said, staring at the TV.

''What've you got in mind?''

''We can't get the hotel, and they're crazy if any of them are staying at home.

We can't just hang out on the street, looking for them, 'cause they know what we look like…''

''Not with the hair.'' LaChaise touched his gray hair and beard.

''Well, we couldn't hang long-they're checking everybody.''

''So where?''

''The hospital where Capslock's old lady is, and that other cop, Franklin.''

''How do you know they're at the same place?''

''Saw it on TV.''

''Goddamn. Glad I didn't kick it in,'' LaChaise said.

''Yeah. So we need some heavier gear.''

''You know where to get it?''

''I know a guy. He's a problem, but we can work something out. We'd need Sandy.

And we'd have to get moving.''

''All right.'' LaChaise started toward the bathroom; halfway down the hall, he stopped and looked at Harp's record collection and said, ''Jesus Christ, what happened to the records?''

''You got pissed off and broke them up.''

''Christ, I must've been fucked.'' LaChaise bent and picked up half a record.

Sketches of Spain, by Miles Davis. ''Some kind of spic music,'' he said. He yawned again and flipped the broken record into the room, on top of all the other fragments, and went on down to the bathroom.

• • •

SANDY WAS DRESSED, WRAPPED IN THE PARKA, WHEN LaChaise came to the door.

''Let's go,'' he said, rapping once.

''Where?''

''You gotta do something for us.''

LACHAISE DROVE, WHILE MARTIN GAVE DIRECTIONS from memory, out this street and down that highway, turn at the lumber store with the red sign. They were somewhere west of the city, around a lake. Dozens of ice-fishing shacks were scattered over the frozen surface of the lake, and pickups and snowmobiles were parked beside some of the shacks.

''The thing is,'' Martin said, ''is that half his business is illegal, 'cause he don't believe in gun controls… but I do believe he'd shoot us down like dogs if he had a chance. If he seen us coming.'' He looked at Sandy. ''So you walk up to his front door and ring the bell. I'll be right there, next to the stoop.''

''That's… I couldn't pull it off,'' Sandy said.

''Sure you can,'' Martin said. She remembered the night before, his eyes over the sights of the pistol.

THE HOUSE WAS A BROWN-SHINGLED RAMBLER ON A quiet, curving street. Lights showed from a front window and the back of the house; the car clock said 7:30. Still dark enough.

''Door latches on the right,'' Martin said. They continued past the house, did a

U-turn, dropped Martin and waited as he walked away in the dark. After a minute or so, they started back toward the house. ''Quick beep, all the lights, then just run up to the house with the bag in your hand,'' LaChaise said.

They'd picked up a newspaper at a coin-op box, andwrapped it in a plastic grocery bag they found in the backseat. ''Don't fuck it up.''

Sandy held on: just this thing, they said.

''Now,'' said LaChaise.

They pulled up to the house, stopped in the middle of the driveway. Sandy gave the horn a light beep, then hopped out of the car, carrying in the paper. At the same moment, Martin duck-walked down the front of the house, until he was directly beneath the stoop, on the right side of the door under the latch, but pressed to the side of the house.

Sandy saw a white-haired man come to what must be a kitchen window as she hurried up the driveway, shivering from the cold. The man was holding a mug of coffee, his forehead wrinkling at the sight of her. She hurried up the stoop and rang the doorbell. Martin's face was just beside her right pant leg, a. 45 in his hand. The door opened, and the white-haired man pushed the storm door open a crack and said, ''Yes?''

Sandy pulled the door open another foot, and Martin stood up and pushed his pistol at the man inside. ''Don't move, Frank. Don't even think about moving.''