“Keep away!” he shouted. “Keep away!”
“Stop!”
He pulled the pin. He whirled, and threw the grenade at the tank cars.
9
The blast knocked Wycza off his feet. He went sprawling, his revolver flying out of his hand. He rolled and started to his feet, and a second blast knocked him down again. He was a wrestler sometimes and his body reacted instinctively to a lack of balance, adjusting itself, shifting, rolling, avoiding falls that could hurt.
He made it to his feet this time, and saw Parker braced against one of the pumps. The gas station building had fallen forward, and leaping flames behind it lit the whole area. He looked around but couldn’t see Edgars.
He shouted the name, and Parker shook his head, pointing at the rubble. “Under there.”
“We’ve got to get out of here, Parker.”
“I know.”
They ran back to the car, and Parker got his walkie-talkie. “G! Get hold of Littlefield, fast. Tell him to get down to the east gate, we’ll pick him up there. Then you get over to Raymond, on the double.”
Wycza, getting into the prowl car on the passenger side, heard Grofield’s voice saying, “What the hell’s going on?”
“Later. Get moving. S, watch that road, the troopers may come in. If they do, don’t stop them, just warn us.”
Salsa’s voice said, “Will do.”
“I never did like that trooper barracks,” said Wycza. “I never did.”
Parker had started the prowl car. He spun out away from the station, headed toward Raymond Avenue.
People were coming out on the sidewalks. Some of them, recognizing the prowl car, waved their arms, wanting the police to stop and answer questions. Wycza looked at them and muttered, “It’s sour, Parker. It’s gone sour.”
“I know. You drive the truck, I’ll take the wagon. Get your people in it and get going. Pick up Salsa and Grofield. I’ll get Littlefield and Phillips.”
“Right.”
Raymond Avenue. Parker turned the wheel hard right, and braked next to the truck. “Don’t wait for me,” he said.
Wycza grinned under the hood. “Don’t worry.” He clambered out of the prowl car and ran around the truck cab.
They were all clustered there, Paulus and Kerwin and Wiss and Elkins. Wycza told them, “Get in. All in back, I got others to pick up.”
Everybody moved but Paulus, who wasted time asking, “What’s going on? What’s happening?”
“Get in or I leave you.”
Wycza got up in the cab, kicked the engine on, and pulled away from the curb. They’d taken the truck around the block when they’d first come in, so it would be facing the right way; he was grateful for that now.
He went four blocks and there was Grofield waiting for him, on a corner, without his hood. And not alone.
Wycza braked to a stop, and Grofield pulled open the door. Wycza said, “Get her the hell out of here!”
“She’s coming along.”
Wycza wouldn’t agree to that for a second, but there wasn’t time to argue. They were both in the cab, so he hit the accelerator again. “Parker’ll kill you,” he said.
“Let me worry about it.”
The girl said, “Don’t worry about me. You don’t have to worry about me. What’s going on?”
Grofield said, “We’ll find out later, honey. Just be quiet now.”
Wycza said, ‘Throw her out when we pick up Salsa. I’m telling you.”
“She’s coming along, so shut up, huh?”
“There’s no room for Salsa.”
“She’ll sit on my lap.”
Wycza ground his teeth in frustration. Of all the stupidities tonight, Edgars’s had suddenly taken second place behind Grofield’s. “I’m liable to kill you myself,” he said, and stopped the truck again to pick up Salsa.
Salsa squeezed into the cab and reported, “No troopers yet.”
They were all crammed in together, Grofield in the middle, the girl on his lap, the girl holding Wycza’s walkie-talkie and Grofield’s rifle. Salsa had a machine gun on the floor between his feet, and a walkie-talkie in his lap.
Wycza said, “Tell Parker it’s still clear.”
“Sure,” said Salsa. He picked up the walkie-talkie.
“No sense telling him about the broad.” Wycza turned his head and gave Grofield a cold eye, then looked front again. “He’ll find out soon enough.”
“Sure,” said Salsa. The presence of the girl didn’t seem to ruffle him a bit. He spoke into the walkie-talkie, saying, “Everything’s clear so far. We’re out of town, and no troopers have come in yet.”
Parker’s voice came out of both walkie-talkies in the cab: “I’ve got Littlefield and Phillips, I’m coming out now.”
Wycza looked in the rear-view mirror. Behind him was the town. He saw flames shooting upward, deep within it, and way back on Raymond Avenue he saw a pair of headlights. “He’d better move,” he muttered.
Ahead, on the right, was the trooper barracks, still lit up. As they passed it, they saw two men in uniform running from the front door toward one of the cars. Wycza said, “Salsa, keep an eye on them. See which way they go.”
“Right.”
Wycza’s foot was heavy on the accelerator. The truck was doing seventy now, and the speedometer was still creeping upward. He kept telling himself he should get down to the speed limit, but he couldn’t lift his foot off the accelerator; it was as though his foot were nailed there.
He’d never taken a fall. He’d never spent even one night in jail. He kept thinking about that now, never a single night in jail. And he didn’t want to go to jail, because he knew what would happen to him if he went to jail. He would die. A year, maybe two years, and he’d be dead.
There were things he needed, in order to stay alive. Food and shelter and water, of course, but other things, too, that for him were just as important. Exercise, for instance. He had to be able to run, to run for miles, and to do it every single day. he had to be able to go into a gym and work out whenever he wanted. He had to keep using his body, or it would dry up and die.
And women. He needed women almost as much as he needed exercise. Not in the goddam truck on the get, but other times, other places. And sunshine, plenty of sunshine. And certain kinds of food; steak, and milk, and green vegetables. And food supplements, vitamin pills and mineral pills and protein pills.
Not in jail. In jail, he wouldn’t be able to exercise his body as much as was necessary. And there’d be no women. And little sunshine. And none of the foods or pills he needed. In jail, he would shrivel up like a leaf in September. He’d shrink and get pasty, his teeth would rot, his muscles would sag, his body would shrink in on itself and start to decay.
“They’re going toward the town.”
Wycza nodded. “Good. Tell Parker.”
He wasn’t going to jail. If it came down to it, if it ever came right down to it, he knew he wouldn’t go to jail. There are two ways to die, fast and slow, and he’d prefer the fast way. He wouldn’t go to jail because in order to put him in jail they’d have to lay hands on him, and before they’d be able to lay hands on him they’d have to kill him.
Salsa was talking to Parker on the walkie-talkie: “State police, coming in.”
“Yeah, I see the red light. I’m going to park and let them go by.”
Then the cab was silent. Everybody was listening, waiting for the walkie-talkies to speak again. Wycza glanced at the speedometer; five miles to go to the highway. Doing seventy-five now.
“They went by. They’re headed for the fire. I’m coming out now.”
Salsa said, “Fine. I can’t see the barracks any more, but I didn’t see any other cars leave there.”
“There’s nothing coming this way. I just passed the town line.”
Wycza realized he’d been hunching his shoulders over the wheel. He sat back now, and let them relax; they’d started to ache. He lifted his foot from the accelerator, and let the truck slow down to the speed limit.