Dolarhyde couldn’t hold it anymore. Play for it all, right now.
But the Dragon moved first. “I’VE NEVER SEEN—”
“What?” Miss Harper’s eyes were wide.
“—a rat that big!” Dolarhyde said, pointing. “Climbing that frame!”
Miss Harper was turning. “Where?”
The blackjack slid out of his shirt. With his wrist more than his arm, he tapped the back of her skull. She sagged as Dolarhyde grabbed a handful of her blouse and clapped the chloroform rag over her face. She made a high sound once, not overloud, and went limp.
He eased her to the floor between the table and the racks of paintings, pulled the folder with the watercolor to the floor, and squatted over her. Rustling, wadding, hoarse breathing and a telephone ringing.
The woman came out of the far office.
“Paula?” She looked around the room. “It’s your mother,” she called. “She needs to talk to you now.”
She walked behind the table. “I’ll take care of the visitor if you . . .” She saw them then. Paula Harper on the floor, her hair across her face, and squatting over her, his pistol in his hand, Dolarhyde stuffing the last bite of the watercolor in his mouth. Rising, chewing, running. Toward her.
She ran for her office, slammed the flimsy door, grabbed at the phone and knocked it to the floor, scrambled for it on her hands and knees and tried to dial on the busy line as her door caved in. The lighted dial burst in bright colors at the impact behind her ear. The receiver fell quacking to the floor.
Dolarhyde in the staff elevator watched the indicator lights blink down, his gun held flat across his stomach, covered by his books.
First floor.
Out into the deserted galleries. He walked fast, his running shoes whispering on the terrazzo. A wrong turn and he was passing the whale masks, the great mask of Sisuit, losing seconds, running now into the presence of the Haida high totems and lost. He ran to the totems, looked left, saw the primitive edged weapons and knew where he was.
He peered around the corner at the lobby.
The desk officer stood at the bulletin board, thirty feet from the reception desk.
The armed guard was closer to the door. His holster creaked as he bent to rub a spot on the toe of his shoe.
If they fight, drop him first. Dolarhyde put the gun under his belt and buttoned his coat over it. He walked across the lobby, unclipping his pass.
The desk officer turned when he heard the footsteps.
“Thank you,” Dolarhyde said. He held up his pass by the edges, then dropped it on the desk.
The guard nodded. “Would you put it through the slot there, please?”
The reception desk telephone rang.
The pass was hard to pick up off the glass top.
The telephone rang again. Hurry.
Dolarhyde got hold of the pass, dropped it through the slot. He picked up his guitar case from the pile of knapsacks.
The guard was coming to the telephone.
Out the door now, walking fast for the botanical gardens, he was ready to turn and fire if he heard pursuit.
Inside the gardens and to the left, Dolarhyde ducked into a space between a small shed and a hedge. He opened the guitar case and dumped out a tennis racket, a tennis ball, a towel, a folded grocery sack and a big bunch of leafy celery.
Buttons flew as he tore off his coat and shirt in one move and stepped out of his trousers. Underneath he wore a Brooklyn College T-shirt and warm-up pants. He stuffed his books and clothing into the grocery bag, then the weapons. The celery stuck out the top. He wiped the handle and clasps of the case and shoved it under the hedge.
Cutting across the gardens now toward Prospect Park, the towel around his neck, he came out onto Empire Boulevard. Joggers were ahead of him. As he followed the joggers into the park, the first police cruisers screamed past. None of the joggers paid any attention to them. Neither did Dolarhyde.