Page 47 of Hunter

Hertz started to stand. “Okay.”

“I know the way. I’ll be right back.” Without waiting for a reply, he walked into the hall. To his relief, the other man didn’t follow him.

He hadn’t been sure he could get out of the room alone. Making the most of the opportunity, he hurried down the corridor. After determining that no one was watching, he ducked into an empty office along the route and picked up a pack of matches and some cigarettes he’d seen lying on an otherwise empty desk.

The matches alone would probably work for what he had in mind, but if anyone checked to see what had happened, it was better to have a cigarette, as well, he decided.

He knew about smoking. He’d passed men clustered around exterior doors enthusiastically puffing on cigarettes when they were on their breaks. Rain or shine, cold or hot, they did it. You lit the end with the brown stuff and sucked on the filter tip. The smokers seemed to enjoy it. In fact, sometimes they sneaked into the men’s room to smoke. Today, he would find out how it tasted.

Locking himself into a stall, he struck a match, pressed the burning end to the cigarette, and dragged in a deep breath through the filter tip the way he’d seen guys do it.

The moment the stinging smoke hit the back of his throat, he started to gag. When it reached his lungs, he began to cough violently. It was as if he’d breathed in poison gas, he thought as he wiped the tears from his eyes, thankful that no one else was in the washroom. After gasping in several lungfuls of air, he tried again—this time a lot more cautiously. Instead of inhaling the smoke, he only pulled it into his mouth. When he was sure the lit end was burning nicely, he exited the stall and poked the cigarette into the paper-towel-filled trash bin.

By the time he finished washing his hands and rinsing the foul taste out of his mouth, the trash was already beginning to smolder. For good measure, he dragged over a wooden chair from the corner with a sweatshirt draped across the back and dangled the sleeve in the trash. Then he hurried back to the office where Hertz was still sitting and reading a magazine.

Only part of the next Internet search was completed when the fire alarm began to ring.

Hertz jumped up and went to the door. “Maybe it’s a false alarm,” he muttered.

Lifting his head from the screen, Hunter loudly sniffed the air. “I think I smell smoke.”

Fearfully, Hertz took another breath. “Yeah. Let’s get the hell out of here.” He started for the door, then looked back in consternation. “Come on,” he urged.

“I must exit the Windows program,” Hunter said, making his voice loud and mechanical.

“It’s okay to leave it. Come on!”

In the hall, several sets of feet rushed past as the workers assigned to the basement offices made for the exits.

“I am required to shut down the equipment properly,” he answered, adding a stubborn note to the statement as he deliberately turned his back on the man and faced the console. His fingers were already moving over the keys. If Hertz approached, he’d discover that he wasn’t shutting down the machine.

He felt the man hesitating behind him, apparently torn between escaping from a burning building and doing his job. The smoke wafting down the hall made the decision for him. After several seconds, he turned and dashed from the room.

Hunter bent over the keyboard, working rapidly. The smoke had begun to sting his eyes. Then he started to cough.

The spasm passed, and he peered at the screen through watery eyes. He had used the computer system many times. It was a simple matter for him to work his way into the personnel records. Quickly he typed in several names, along with records requests. As he waited for the information to download, he started to cough again.

Outside he could hear the wail of sirens. Fire engines. He hoped everyone else had gotten out of the building all right.

He didn’t have much time left, he thought, as he saved the personnel files onto a thumb drive. The smoke was getting thicker, and every breath made his lungs burn. It seemed like he was hardly getting any oxygen. He should leave now that he had the personnel information he had promised to bring. Yet something made him stay in front of the computer and switch back to the Internet search engine.

Long seconds passed during which he fought to not pass out. Then he was into the Olympics Web site. Trying not to breathe, he zeroed in on decathlon champions.

The smoke was so thick he could barely see the screen. Why was he doing this? he wondered. He didn’t even want the information. Yet he stayed where he was, blinking to clear his vision as he downloaded the stats onto the thumb drive. When he had them, he exited the Web site, then forced himself to shut down the program so that he’d have the right answer when they asked why he’d refused to leave a burning building.

He had stayed too long, he realized, as he ejected the thumb drive. Every breath he took now was agony, and his mind was enveloped in a gray haze, as if the cells of his brain were filling with smoke. With shaky hands, he stuffed the drive into his pocket. As he staggered across the room, he remembered a line from a survival manual—that smoke was supposed to be thinner near the floor. Barely able to control his movements, he dropped to his hands and knees and began to drag himself toward the door.

When he reached it, he made a low sound. His trick had worked too well. The hall was filled with black, choking smoke that billowed from the direction of the men’s room and made it impossible to see where he was going. Head bent, he began to lurch forward, hoping that he didn’t crawl past the door at the bottom of the stairs.

Chapter Eight

Kathryn was on her way back from the shopping center when the sound of sirens shattered the afternoon quiet. Two fire engines and an ambulance sped past as she waited at the next cross street. She’d never thought of herself as an ambulance chaser, but some sixth sense made her turn in the opposite direction from the guest cottage and follow the emergency vehicles.

When she caught up, they had pulled to a stop in front of the administration building. On the sidewalk and lawn, displaced office workers were milling around.

Craning her neck, she spotted Bill Emerson, who was conferring with an emergency medical technician. Another medic leaned over a man who lay on a stretcher on the ground. When the man moved, she felt a shiver cross her skin. It was Hunter. Or her eyes were playing tricks on her. Her heart began to pound as she tried to get a better view.

Then someone in the crowd blocked her line of sight. Unconsciously murmuring a little prayer under her breath, she maneuvered to the curb. The only place to park was a handicapped space. After a moment’s guilty hesitation, she pulled into it and leaped out of the car.

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