The Running Man

MINUS 028 AND COUNTING

When McCone’s voice came, it contained a foreign, blustery note. Fear? Possibly. Richards’s heart lurched in his chest. Maybe it was all going to fall together. Maybe.

“You’re nuts, Richards. I’m not”

“You listen,” Richards said, punching through McCone’s voice. “And while you are, remember that this conversation is being party-lined by every ham operator within sixty miles. The word is going to get around. You’re not working in the dark, little man. You’re right out on the big stage. You’re coming because you’re too chicken-shit to pull a double cross when you know it will get you dead. The woman’s coming because I told her where I was going.”

Weak. Punch him harder. Don’t let him think.

“Even if you should live when I pull the ring, you won’t be able to get a job selling apples.” He was clutching the handbag in his pocket with frantic, maniacal tightness. “So that’s it. Three minutes. Signing off.”

“Richards, wait-”

He signed off, choking McCone’s voice. He handed the mike back to Holloway, and Holloway took it with fingers that trembled only slightly.

“You’ve got guts,” Holloway said slowly. “I’ll say that. I don’t think I ever saw so much guts.”

“There will be more guts than anyone ever saw if he pulls that ring,” Duninger said.

“Continue with your preflight, please,” Richards said. “I am going back to welcome our guests. We go in five minutes.”

He went back and pushed the chute over to the window seat, then sat down watching the door between first class and second class. He would know very soon. He would know very soon.

His hand worked with steady, helpless restlessness on Amelia Williams’s handbag.

Outside it was almost full dark.