'Hey,' he said mildly. 'I don't want you here. I got a fam'ly. Go down the road. Please I don't want no trouble.'
'Go inside, pop,' Richards said. The man went.
Richards slid loosely into the booth, breathing through his mouth, and fumbled fifty cents into the coin horn. Holding the gun and receiver in one hand, he punched 0.
'What exchange is this, operator?'
'Rockland, sir.'
'Put me through to the local newsie hookup, please.'
'You may dial that, sir. The number is-'
'You dial it.'
'Do you wish-'
'Yes, sir,' she said, unruffled. There were clicks and pops in Richards's ear. Blood had darkened his shirt to a dirty purple color. He looked away from it. It made him feel ill.
'Rockland Newsie,' a voice said in Richards's ear. 'Free-Vee Tabloid Number 6943. '
'This is Ben Richards.'
There was a long silence. Then: 'Look, maggot, I like a joke as well as the next guy, but this has been a long, hard d-'
'Shut up. You're going to get confirmation of this in ten minutes at the outside. You can get it now if you've got a police-band radio.'
'I . . . just a second. ' There was the dunk of a dropping phone on the other end, and a faint wailing sound. When the phone was picked up, the voice was hard and businesslike, with an undercurrent of excitement.
'Where are you, fella? Half the cops in eastern Maine just went through Rockland . . . at about a hundred and ten.'
Richards craned his neck at the sign over the store. 'A place called Gilly's Town Line Store & Airstop on U.S. 1. You know it?'
'Yeah. Just-'
'Listen to me, maggot. I didn't call to give you my life story. Get some photogs out here. Quick. And get this on the air. Red Newsbreak Top. I've got a hostage. Her name is Amelia Williams. From-' He looked at her.
'Falmouth,' she said miserably.
'From Falmouth. Safe conduct or I'll kill her.'
'Jesus, I smell the Pulitzer Prize!'
'No, you just shit your pants, that's all,' Richards said. He felt lightheaded. 'You get the word out. I want the State Pigs to find out everyone knows I'm not alone. Three of them at a roadblock tried to blow us up.'
'What happened to the cops!'
'I killed them.'
'All three? Hot damn!' The voice, pulled away from the phone, yelled distantly: 'Dicky, open the national cable!'
'I'm going to kill her if they shoot,' Richards said, simultaneously trying to inject sincerity into his voice and to remember all the old gangster movies he had seen on tee-vee as a kid. 'If they want to save the girl, they better let me through. '
'When-'
Richards hung up and hopped clumsily out of the booth. 'Help me.'
She put an arm around him, grimacing at the blood. 'See what you're getting yourself into?'
'Yes.'
'This is madness. You're going to be killed.'
'Drive north,' he mumbled. 'Just drive north.'
He slid into the car, breathing hard. The world insisted on going in and out. High, atonal music jangled in his ears. She pulled out and onto the road. His blood had smeared on her smart green and black-striped blouse. The old man, Gilly, cracked the screen door open and poked out a very old Polaroid camera. He clicked the shutter, pulled the tape, and waited. His face was painted with horror and excitement and delight.
In the distance, rising and converging, sirens.
Minus 040 and COUNTING
They traveled five miles before people began running out onto their lawns to watch them pass. Many had cameras and Richards relaxed.
'They were shooting at the aircaps at that roadblock,' she said quietly. 'It was a mistake. That's what it was. A mistake.'
