Minus 014 and COUNTING
“Your boy is very good,” Richards said tiredly, when Donahue had retreated again. “I got him to flinch, but I was hoping he’d pee his pants.” He was beginning to notice an odd doubling of his vision. It came and went. He checked his side gingerly. It was clotting reluctantly for the second time. “What now?” he asked. “Do you set up cameras at the airport so everyone can watch the desperado get it?”
“Now the deal,” Killian said softly. His face was dark, unreadable. Whatever he had been holding back was now just below the surface. Richards knew it. And suddenly he was filled with dread again. He wanted to reach out and turn the Free-Vee off. Not hear it anymore. He felt his insides begin a slow and terrible quaking-an actual, literal quaking.
But he could not turn it off. Of course not. It was, after all, Free.
“Get thee behind me, Satan,” he said thickly.
“What?” Killian looked startled.
“Nothing. Make your point.”
Killian did not speak. He looked down at his hands. He looked up again. Richards felt an unknown chamber of his mind groan with psychic presentiment. It seemed to him that the ghosts of the poor and the nameless, of the drunks sleeping in alleys, were calling his name.
“McCone is played out,” Killian said softly. “You know it because you did it.
Cracked him like a soft-shelled egg. We want you to take his place.”
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Richards, who thought he had passed the point of all shock, found his mouth hanging open in utter, dazed incredulity. It was a lie. Had to be. Yet-Amelia had her purse back now. There was no reason for them to lie or offer false illusions. He was hurt and alone.
Both McCone and Donahue were armed. One bullet administered just above the left ear would put a neat end to him with no fuss, no muss, or bother.
Conclusion: Killian was telling God’s truth.
“You’re nuts,” he muttered.
“No. You’re the best runner we’ve ever had. And the best runner knows the best places to look. Open your eyes a little and you’ll see that The Running Man is designed for something besides pleasuring the masses and getting rid of dangerous people.
Richards, the Network is always in the market for fresh new talent. We have to be. ”
Richards tried to speak, could say nothing. The dread was still in him, widening, heightening, thickening.
“There’s never been a Chief Hunter with a family, ” he finally said. “You ought to know why. The possibilities for extortion-”
“Ben,” Killian said with infinite gentleness, “your wife and daughter are dead.
They’ve been dead for over ten days. ”
Minus 013 and COUNTING
Dan Killian was talking, had been perhaps for some time, but Richards heard him only distantly, distorted by an odd echo effect in his mind. It was like being trapped in a very deep well and hearing someone call down. His mind had gone midnight dark, and the darkness served as the background for a kind of scrapbook slide show. An old Kodak of Sheila wiggling in the halls of Trades High with a loose-leaf binder under her arm.
Micro skirts had just come back into fashion then. A freeze-frame of the two of them sitting at the end of the Bay Pier (Admission: Free), backs to the camera, looking out at the water. Hands linked. Sepia-toned photo of a young man in an ill-fitting suit and a young woman in her mother’s best dress-specially taken up-standing before a J. P. with a large wart on his nose. They had giggled at that wart on their wedding night. Stark black and white action photo of a sweating, bare-chested man wearing a lead apron and working heavy engine gear-levers in a huge, vaultlike underground chamber lit with arc lamps. Soft-toned color photo (soft to blur the stark, peeling surroundings) of a woman with a big belly standing at a window and looking out, ragged curtain held aside, watching for her man to come up the street. The light is a soft cat’s paw on her cheek.
Last picture: another old-timey Kodak of a thin fellow holding a tiny scrap of a baby high over his head in a curious mixture of triumph and love, his face split by a huge winning grin. The pictures began to flash by faster and faster, whirling, not bringing any sense of grief and love and loss, not yet, no, bringing only a cool Novocain numbness.
Killian assuring that the Network had nothing to do with their deaths, all a horrible accident. Richards supposed he believed him-not only because the story sounded too much like a lie not to be the truth, but because Killian knew that if Richards agreed to the job offer, his first stop would be Co-Op City, where a single hour on the streets would get 447
him the straight of the matter.
Prowlers. Three of them. (Or tricks? Richards wondered, suddenly agonized. She had sounded slightly furtive on the telephone, as if holding something back-) They had been hopped up, probably. Perhaps they had made some threatening move toward Cathy and Sheila had tried to protect her daughter. They had both died of puncture wounds.
That had snapped him out of it. “Don’t feed me that shit!” He screamed suddenly.
Amelia flinched backward and suddenly hid her face. “What happened? Tell me what happened! ”
“There’s nothing more I can say. Your wife was stabbed over sixty times. ”
“Cathy,” Richards said emptily, without thought, and Killian winced.
“Ben, would you like some time to think about all this?”
“Yes. Yes, I would.”
“I’m desperately, desperately sorry, pal. I swear on my mother that we had nothing to do with it. Our way would have been to set them up away from you, with visiting rights if you agreed. A man doesn’t willingly work for the people who butchered his family. We know that. ”
“I need time to think.”
“As Chief Hunter,” Killian said softly, “you could get those bastards and put them down a deep hole. And a lot of others just like them.”
“I want to think. Goodbye. ”
“I-”
Richards reached out and thumbed the Free-Vee into blackness. He sat stonelike in his seat. His hands dangled loosely between his knees. The plane droned on into darkness.
So, he thought. It’s all come unraveled. All of it.
Minus 012 and COUNTING
An hour passed.
The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things . . . of sailing ships and sealing-wax, And whether pigs have wings.
Pictures flitted in and out of his mind. Stacey. Bradley. Elton Parrakis with his baby face. A nightmare of running. Lighting the newspapers in the basement of the YMCA with that last match. The gas-powered cars wheeling and screeching, the Sten gun spitting flame. Laughlin’s sour voice. The pictures of those two kids, the junior Gestapo agents.
Well, why not?
No ties now, and certainly no morality. How could morality be an issue to a man cut loose and drifting? How wise Killian had been to see that, to show Richards with calm 448
and gentle brutality just how alone he was. Bradley and his impassioned air-pollution pitch seemed distant, unreal, unimportant. Nose-filters. Yes. At one time the concept of nose-filters had seemed large, very important. No longer so.
The poor you will have with you always.
True. Even Richards’s loins had produced a specimen for the killing machine.
Eventually the poor would adapt, mutate. Their lungs would produce their own filtration system in ten thousand years or in fifty thousand, and they would rise up, rip out the artificial filters and watch their owners flop and kick and drum their lives away, drowning in an atmosphere where oxygen played only a minor part, and what was futurity to Ben Richards? It was all only bitchin.
There would be a period of grief. They would expect that, provide for it. There would even be rages, moments of revolt. Abortive tries to make the knowledge of deliberate poison in the air public again? Maybe. They would take care of it. Take care of him-anticipation of a time when he would take care of them. Instinctively he knew he could do it. He suspected he might even have a certain genius for the job. They would help him, heal him. Drugs and doctors. A change of mind.
Then, peace.
Contentiousness rooted out like bitterweed.
He regarded the peace longingly, the way a man in the desert regards water.
Amelia Williams cried steadily in her seat long after the time when all tears should have gone dry. He wondered indifferently what would become of her. She couldn’t very well be returned to her husband and family in her present state; she simply was not the same lady who had pulled up to a routine stop sign with her mind all full of meals and meetings, clubs and cooking. She had Shown Red. He supposed there would be drugs and therapy, a patient showing off. The Place Where Two Roads Diverged, a pinpointing of the reason why the wrong path had been chosen. A carnival m dark mental browns.