Brian Keyes had finally reached the ground level and was vaulting the fence when he found the cops he’d been looking for. Five of Miami’s finest. Dogs, nightsticks, the works. Keyes protested at the top of his lungs but they pinned him to the fence anyway, and there, stuck like a moth, he watched the whole terrible scene unfold—the airboat wheeling circles; Viceroy running with Kara Lynn slung over his shoulder; Skip crooning at the microphone.
On the field Burt and James had righted their bikes and resumed the chase. The key element now was speed, not agility: dodging a Harley Davidson was one thing, outrunning it was impossible. Viceroy Wilson had no illusion about this: he was counting heavily on the Indian.
Tommy Tigertail was a wizard with the air-boat. He cut the field in half and slid the howling craft between Wilson and the frowning white riders in purple hats. The Indian spun the boat on a dime, throwing a sheet of rain and loose sod into the teeth of the Shriners. James lost control and went down in a deep skid, chewing a trench from the Notre Dame forty-yard line to the Nebraska thirty-five. He did not get up. Burt alertly veered from the airboat’s backwash and, to avoid the flying muck, crouched behind his customized Plexiglas windshield.
The airboat bounded up alongside Viceroy Wilson and coasted to a stop. Wilson heaved Kara Lynn Shivers onto the deck as if she were a sandbag. By now the stadium crowd had figured out that this was not part of the show and started to scream witlessly. The Orange Bowl chairman was on his feet, yelling for the cops, while Sparky Harper’s Chamber of Commerce successor frantically tried to sabotage the cables on one of NEC’s portable Minicams. Meanwhile some of the real Notre Dame football players ambled onto the field to watch the commotion; Tommy Tigertail feared that they might soon get chivalrous notions.
“Hurry,” he said to Viceroy Wilson.
Wilson had one foot in the airboat when Burt’s Harley buzzed him like a fat chrome bee. Viceroy looked down to discover that his right leg—his bad leg—was stuck fast in a Shriner death hug. With his other leg Wilson kicked and bucked like a buted-up racehorse. The motorcycle fell from under Viceroy’s attacker but somehow Burt kept his balance and his grip, and wound up on his feet. Wilson thought: This guy would have made a helluva nose tackle.
“Let the girl go!” Burt commanded.
“Get in,” Tommy Tigertail said to Wilson.
“I can’t shake loose!”
The pain in Viceroy’s knee—famously mangled, prematurely arthritic, now barely held together with pins and screws—was insufferable, worse than anything he remembered from the old days.
“Hurry!” said the Indian. He jiggled the stick and the airboat jerked into gear. They were on a drier patch of the field so the boat moved forward in balky fits. Tommy was aching to throttle up to top speed; through the cutting rain he had spotted a phalanx of helmeted police advancing from the north sidelines. In the bow Kara Lynn sat up, shivering in the deluge.
“Let her go!” Burt bellowed, tugging and twisting Wilson’s leg until number thirty-one clung to the hull by only the tips of his fingers. A deep-bone pain began to rake Viceroy’s mind and seep his resolve. He suddenly felt old and tired, and realized he’d spent all his stamina on that glorious run.
The Indian decided it was time to go—the police were trotting now, yellow-fanged K-9 dogs at their heels. Tommy hopped off the driver’s platform, grabbed Viceroy Wilson by the wrists, and yanked with all his strength. Burt lost his grip and fell backward, the purple fez tumbling off. Wilson landed in the boat with a grunt.
Kara Lynn tried to scrabble out, but the airboat was already moving too fast. She huddled with her legs to her chest, hands pressed to her ears; the thundering yowl of the engine was a new source of pain.
She saw the sturdy Shriner running alongside the airboat, his sequined vest flapping. He kept shouting for Tommy to stop.
He had a small brown pistol in one hand.
Viceroy Wilson rose to the prow, breadloaf arms swaying at his sides, keeping steady but favoring his right leg. He tore off the Notre Dame helmet and hurled it vainly at the dogged Shriner.