MINUS 045 AND COUNTING

He had seen an intersection a mile back and Richards left the woods there, making his way awkwardly down the gravel bank between the woods and the road.

He sat there like a man who has given up trying to hook a ride and has decided to enjoy the warm autumn sun instead. He let the first two cars go by; both of them held two men, and he figured the odds were too high.

But when the third one approached the stop sign, he got up. The closing‑in feeling was back. This whole area had to be hot, no matter how far Parrakis had gotten. The next car could be police, and that would be the ballgame.

It was a woman in the car, and she was alone. She would not look at him; hitchhikers were distasteful and thus to be ignored. He ripped the passenger door open end was in even as the car was accelerating again. He was picked up and thrown sideways, one hand holding desperately onto the doorjam, his good foot dragging.

The thumping hiss of brakes; the air car swerved wildly. “What‑who‑you can’t—

Richards pointed the gun at her, knowing he must look grotesque close up, like a man who had been run through a meat grinder. The fierce image would work for him. He dragged his foot in and slammed the door, gun never swerving. She was dressed for town, and wore blue wraparound sunglasses. Good looking from what he could see.

“Wheel it,” Richards said.

She did the predictable; slammed both feet on the brake and screamed. Richards was thrown forward, his bad ankle scraping excruciatingly. The air car juddered to a stop on the shoulder, fifty feet beyond the intersection.

“You’re that . . . you’re . . . R‑R‑R—”

“Ben Richards. Take your hands off the wheel. Put them in your lap.

She did it, shuddering convulsively. She would not look at him. Afraid, Rich­ards supposed, that she would be turned to stone.

“What’s your name, ma'am?”

“A‑Amelia Williams. Don’t shoot me. Don’t kill me. I . . . I . . . you can have my money only for God sake don’t kill meeeeeeee—”

“Shhhhh,” Richards said soothingly. “Shhhhh, shhhhhh.” When she had qui­eted a little he said: “I won’t try to change your mind about me, Mrs. Williams. Is it Mrs.?”

“Yes,” she said automatically.

“But I have no intention of harming you. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” she said, suddenly eager. “You want the car. They got your friend and now you need a car. You can take it—it’s insured—I won’t even tell. I swear I won’t. I’ll say someone stole it in the parking lot—”

“We’ll talk about it,” Richards said. “Begin to drive. Go up Route 1 and we’ll talk about it. Are there roadblocks?”

“N‑yes. Hundreds of them. They’ll catch you.

“Don’t lie, Mrs. Williams. Okay?”

She began to drive, erratically at first, then more smoothly. The motion seemed to soothe her. Richards repeated his question about roadblocks.

“Around Lewiston,” she said with frightened unhappiness. “That’s where they got that other mag‑fellow.

“How far is that?”

“Thirty miles or more.”

Parrakis had gotten farther than Richards would have dreamed.

“Will you rape me?” Amelia Williams asked so suddenly that Richards almost barked with laughter.

“No,” he said; then, matter‑of‑factly: “I’m married.”

“I saw her,” she said with a kind of smirking doubtfulness that made Richards want to smash her. Eat garbage, bitch. Kill a rat that was hiding in the breadbox, kill it with a whiskbroom and then see how you talk about my wife.

“Can I get off here?” she asked pleadingly, and he felt a trifle song for her again.

“No,” he said. “You’re my protection, Mrs. Williams. I have to get to Voigt Field, in a place called Derry. You’re going to see that I get there.”

“That’s a hundred and fifty miles!” she wailed.

“Someone else told me a hundred.”

“They were wrong. You’ll never get through to there.”

“I might,” Richards said, and then looked at her. “And so might you, if you play it right.”

She began to tremble again but said nothing. Her attitude was that of a woman waiting to wake up.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 645