Harry gasped. The footsteps were on the floor below, moving steadily upward. The telephone rang again and again; the shrill jangling filled the room insistently. He waited until he couldn't wait any longer. His hand fumbled in a pocket and leveled a tiny, dull-gray metal object at the door. With the other hand, he took the receiver from the hook.
"Harry! Is that you?"
His throat was like sandpaper and the words came out in a rasp. "What is it?"
"Harry, this is George—George Webber."
His eyes were glued to the door. "All right. What do you want?"
"You've got to come talk to us, Harry. We've been waiting for weeks now. You promised us. We've got to talk to you."
Harry still watched the door, but his breath came easier. The footsteps moved with ridiculous slowness up the stairs, down the hall toward the room.
"What do you want me to do? They've come to kill me."
There was a long pause. "Harry, are you sure?"
"Dead sure."