Someone was halfway out of the passenger side of the police car, which was on its way again. A thick stuttering sound filled the dark. Sten gun. Bullets dug through the turf around him in a senseless pattern. Dirt struck his cheeks, pattered against his forehead.
He knelt as if praying, and fired again into the windshield. This time, the bullet punched a hole through the glass.
The car was on top of him-
He sprang to the left and the reinforced steel bumper struck his left foot, snapping his ankle and sending him sprawling on his face.
The cruiser’s engine rose to a supercharged scream, digging through another power turn. Now the headlights were on him again, turning everything stark monochrome.
Richards tried to get up, but his broken ankle wouldn’t support him.
Sobbing in great gulps of air, he watched the police car loom again. Everything became heightened, surreal. He was living in an adrenaline delirium and everything seemed slow, deliberate, orchestrated. The approaching police car was like a huge, blind buffalo.
The Sten gun rattled again, and this time a bullet punched through his left arm, knocking him sideways. The heavy car tried to veer and get him, and for a moment he had a clear shot at the figure behind the wheel. He fired once and the window blew inward. The car screamed into a slow, digging, sidewards roll, then went up and over, crashing down on the roof and then onto its side. The motor stalled, and in sudden, shocking silence, the police radio crackled clearly.
Richards still could not get to his feet and so he began to crawl toward the car.
Parrakis was in it now, trying to start it, but in his blind panic he must have forgotten to lever the safety vents open; each time he turned the key there was only a hollow, coughing boom of air in the chambers.
The night began to fill up with converging sirens.
He was still fifty yards from the car when Elton realized what was wrong and yanked down the vent lever. The next time he turned the key the engine chopped erratically into life and the air car swept toward Richards.
He got to a half-standing position and tore the passenger door open and fell inside.
Parrakis banked left onto Route 77 which intersected State Street above the park, the lower deck of the car no more than an inch from the paving, almost low enough to drag 395
and spill them.
Elton gulped in huge swatches of air and let them out with force enough to flap his lips like window blinds.
Two more police cars screamed around the corner behind them, the blue lights flashed on, and they gave chase.
“We’re not fast enough!” Elton screamed. “We’re not fast-”
“They’re on wheels!” Richards yelled back. “Cut through that vacant lot!”
The air car banked left and they were slammed upward violently as they crossed the curb. The battering air pressure shoved them into drive.
The police cars swelled behind them, and then they were shooting. Richards heard steel fingers punching holes in the body of their car. The rear window blew in with a tremendous crash, and they were sprinkled with fragments of safety glass.
Screaming, Elton whipped the air car left and right.
One of the police cars, doing sixty-plus, lost it coming up over the curb. The car veered wildly, revolving blue dome-lights splitting the darkness with lunatic bolts of light, and then it crashed over on its side, digging a hot groove through the littered moraine of the empty lot, until a spark struck its peeled-back gas tank. It exploded whitely, like a road flare.
The second car was following the road again, but Elton beat them. They had cut the cruiser off, but it would gain back the lost distance very shortly. The gas-driven ground cars were nearly three times faster than air drive. And if an air car tried to go too far off the road, the uneven surface beneath the thrusters would flip the car over, as Parrakis had nearly flipped them crossing the curb.
“Turn right!” Richards cried.
Parrakis pulled them around in another grinding, stomach-lurching turn. They were on Route 1; ahead, Richards could see that they would soon be forced up the entranceway to the Coast Turnpike. No evasive action would be possible there; only death would be possible there.
“Turn off! Turn off, goddammit! That alley!” For a moment, the police car was one turn behind them, lost from view.
“NO! No!” Parrakis was gibbering now. “We’ll be like rats in a trap!”
Richards leaned over and hauled the wheel around, knocking Elton’s hand from the throttle with the same gesture. The air car skidded around in a nearly ninety-degree turn.
They bounced off the concrete of the building on the left of the alley’s mouth, sending them in at a crooked angle. The blunt nose of the car struck a pile of heaped trash, garbage cans, and splintered crates. Behind these, solid brick.
Richards was pitched violently into the dashboard as they crashed, and his nose broke with a sudden snap, gushing blood with violent force.
The air car lay askew in the alley, one cylinder still coughing a little. Parrakis was a silent lump lolling over the steering wheel. There was no time for him yet.
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Richards slammed his shoulder against the crimped passenger door. It popped open, and he hopped on one leg to the mouth of the alley. He reloaded his gun from the crumpled box of shells Bradley had supplied him with. They were greasy-cool to the touch. He dropped some of them around his feet. His arm had begun to throb like an ulcerated tooth, making him feel sick and nauseated with pain.
Headlights turned the deserted city expressway from night to sunless day. The cruiser skidded around the turn, rear tires fighting for traction, sending up the fragrant smell of seared rubber. Looping black marks scored the expansion joint macadam in parabolas.
Then it was leaping forward again. Richards held the gun in both hands, leaning against the building to his left. In a moment they would realize they could see no taillights ahead.
The cop riding shotgun would see the alley, know-
Snuffling blood through his broken nose, he began to fire. The range was nearly pointblank, and at this distance, the high-powered slugs smashed through the bulletproof glass as if it had been paper. Each recoil of the heavy pistol pulsed through his wounded arm, making him scream.
The car roared up over the curb, flew a short, wingless distance, and crashed into the blank brick wall across the street. ECHO FREE-VEE REPAIR, a faded sign on this wall read. BECAUSE YOU WATCH IT, WE WON’T BOTCH IT.
The police car, still a foot above the ground, met the brick wall at high speed and exploded.
But others were coming; always others.
Panting, Richards made his way back to the air car. His good leg was very tired.
“I’m hurt,” Parrakis was groaning hollowly. “I’m hurt so bad. Where’s Mom? Where’s my Momma?”
Richards fell on his knees, wriggled under the air car on his back, and began to pull trash and debris from the air chambers like a madman. Blood ran down his cheeks from his ruptured nose and pooled beside his ears.
Minus 048 and COUNTING
The car would only run on five of its six cylinders, and it would go no faster than forty, leaning drunkenly to one side.
Parrakis directed him from the passenger seat, where Richards had manhandled him.
The steering column had gone into his abdomen like a railspike, and Richards thought he was dying. The blood on the dented steering wheel was warm and sticky on Richards’s palms.
“I’m very sorry,” Parrakis said. “Turn left here . . . It’s really my fault. I should have known better. She . . . she doesn’t think straight. She doesn’t . . .” He coughed up a glut of black blood and spat it listlessly into his lap. The sirens filled the night, but they were far behind and off to the west. They had gone out Marginal Way, and from there Parrakis had directed him onto back roads. Now they were on Route 9 going north, and the Portland suburbs were petering out into October-barren scrub countryside. The strip 397
lumberers had been through like locusts, and the end result was a bewildering tangle of second growth and marsh.
“Do you know where you’re telling me to go?” Richards asked. He was a huge brand of pain from one end to the other. He was quite sure his ankle was broken; there was no doubt at all about his nose. His breath came through it in flattened gasps.
“To a place I know,” Elton Parrakis said, and coughed up more blood. “She used to tell me a boy’s best friend is his Mom. Can you believe that? I used to believe it. Will they hurt her? Take her to jail?”