sk.runningman-第11部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　〃Don't　know；〃　Richards　said；　trying　for　meek　affability。　〃All　depends　on　the　clients；　you　understand。〃　He　paid　sixty　New　Dollars；　holding　the　room　for　two　days；　and　took　the　elevator　up　to　the　twenty…third　floor。　The　room　offered　a　somber　view　of　the　squalid　East　River。　It　was　raining　in　New　York；　too。
　　The　room　was　clean　but　sterile；　there　was　a　connecting　bathroom　and　the　toilet　made　constant；　ominous　noises　that　Richards　could　not　rectify　even　by　wiggling　the　ball　in　the　tank。
　　He　had　breakfast　sent　up…a　poached　egg　on　toast；　orange　drink；　coffee。　When　the　boy　appeared　with　the　tray；　he　tipped　lightly　and　forgettably。
　　With　breakfast　out　of　the　way；　he　took　out　the　videotape　camera　and　looked　at　it。　A　small　metal　plate　labeled　INSTRUCTIONS　was　set　just　below　the　viewfinder。　Richards　read：
　　1。　Push　tape　cartridge　into　slot　marked　A　until　it　clicks　home。
　　2。　Set　viewfinder　by　means　of　crosshairs　within　the　sight。
　　3。　Push　button　marked　B　to　record　sound　with　video。
　　4。　When　the　bell　sounds；　tape　cartridge　will　pop　out　automatically。
　　Recording　time：　10　minutes。　
　　
　　Good；　Richards　thought。　They　can　watch　me　sleep。
　　He　set　the　camera　on　the　bureau　next　to　the　Gideon　Bible　and　sighted　the　crosshairs　on　the　bed。　The　wall　behind　was　blank　and　nondescript；　he　didn't　see　how　anyone　could　pinpoint　his　location　from　either　the　bed　or　the　background。　Street　noise　from　this　height　was　negligible；　but　he　would　leave　the　shower　running　just　in　case。
　　Even　with　forethought；　he　nearly　pressed　the　button　and　stepped　into　the　camera's　field　of　vision　with　his　naked　disguise　hanging　out。　Some　of　it　could　have　been　removed；　but　the　gray　hair　had　to　stay。　He　put　the　pillowslip　over　his　head。　Then　he　pressed　the　button；　walked　over　to　the　bed；　and　sat　down　facing　the　lens。
　　〃Peekaboo；〃　Ben　Richards　said　hollowly　to　his　immense　listening　and　viewing　audience　that　would　watch　this　tape　later　tonight　with　horrified　interest。　〃You　can't　see　it；　but　I'm　laughing　at　you　shiteaters。〃
　　He　lay　back；　closed　his　eyes；　and　tried　to　think　of　nothing　at　all。　When　the　tape　clip　popped　out　ten　minutes　later；　he　was　fast　asleep。
　　
　　Minus　075　and　COUNTING
　　When　he　woke　up　it　was　just　after　4　p。m。　…the　hunt　was　on；　then。　Had　been　for　three　hours；　figuring　for　the　time　difference。　The　thought　sent　a　chill　through　his　middle。
　　He　put　a　new　tape　in　the　camera；　took　down　the　Gideon　Bible；　and　read　the　Ten　mandments　over　and　over　for　ten　minutes　with　the　pillowslip　on　his　head。
　　There　were　envelopes　in　the　desk　drawer；　but　the　name　and　address　of　the　hotel　was　on　them。　He　hesitated；　and　knew　it　made　no　difference。　He　would　have　to　take　Killian's　word　that　his　location；　as　revealed　by　postmarks　or　return　addresses；　would　not　be　revealed　to　McCone　and　his　bird　dogs　by　the　Games　Authority。　He　had　to　use　the　postal　service。　They　had　supplied　him　with　no　carrier　pigeons。
　　There　was　a　mail　drop　by　the　elevators；　and　Richards　dropped　the　clips　into　the　out…of…town　slot　with　huge　misgivings。　Although　postal　authorities　were　not　eligible　for　any　Games　money　for　reporting　the　whereabouts　of　contestants；　it　still　seemed　like　a　horribly　risky　thing　to　do。　But　the　only　other　thing　was　default；　and　he　couldn't　do　that；　either。
　　He　went　back　to　his　room；　shut　off　the　shower　（the　bathroom　was　as　steamy　as　a　tropical　jungle）；　and　lay　down　on　the　bed　to　think。
　　How　to　run？　What　was　the　best　thing　to　do？
　　He　tried　to　put　himself　in　the　place　of　an　average　contestant。　The　first　impulse；　of　course；　was　pure　animal　instinct：　Go　to　earth。　Make　a　den　and　cower　in　there。
　　And　so　he　had　done。　The　Brant　Hotel。
　　Would　the　Hunters　expect　that？　Yes。　They　would　not　be　looking　for　a　cunning　man　at　all。　They　would　be　looking　for　a　hiding　man。
　　Could　they　find　him　in　his　den？
　　He　wanted　very　badly　to　answer　no；　but　he　could　not。　His　disguise　was　good；　but　hastily　put　together。　Not　many　people　are　observant；　but　there　are　always　some。　Perhaps　he　had　been　tabbed　already。　The　desk　clerk。　The　bellboy　who　had　brought　his　breakfast。　Perhaps　even　by　one　of　the　faceless　men　in　the　perverto　show　on　Forty…second　Street。
　　Not　likely；　but　possible。
　　And　what　about　his　real　protection；　the　false　ID　Molie　had　provided？　Good　for　how　long？　Well；　the　taxi　driver　who　had　taken　him　from　the　Games　Building　could　put　him　in　South　City。　And　the　Hunters　were　fearfully；　dreadfully　good。　They　would　be　leaning　hard　on　everyone　he　knew；　from　Jack　Crager　to　that　bitch　Eileen　Jenner　down　the　hall。　Heavy　heat。　How　long　until　somebody；　maybe　a　headsoftie　like　Flapper　Donnigan；　let　it　slip　that　Molie　had　forged　papers　on　occasion？　And　if　they　found　Molie；　he　was　blown。　The　pawnbroker　would　hold　out　long　enough　to　take　a　belting　around；　he　was　canny　enough　to　want　a　few　visible　battle　scars　to　sport　around　the　neighborhood。　Just　so　his　place　didn't　have　a　bad　case　of　spontaneous　bustion　some　night。　Then？　A　simple　check　of　Harding's　three　jetports　would　uncover　John　G。　Springer's　midnight　jaunt　to　Freak　City。
　　If　they　found　Molie。
　　You　assume　they　will。　You　have　to　assume　they　will。
　　Then　run。　Where？
　　He　didn't　know。　He　had　spent　his　entire　life　in　Harding。　In　the　Midwest。　He　didn't　know　the　East　Coast；　there　was　no　place　here　he　could　run　to　and　feel　that　he　was　on　familiar　turf。　So　where？　Where？
　　His　teased　and　unhappy　mind　drifted　into　a　morbid　daydream。　They　had　found　Molie　with　no　trouble　at　all。　Pried　the　Springer　name　out　of　him　in　an　easy　five　minutes；　after　pulling　two　fingernails；　filling　his　navel　with　lighter　fluid　and　threatening　to　strike　a　match。　They　had　gotten　Richards's　flight　number　with　one　quick　call　（handsome；　nondescript　men　in　garbardine　coats　of　identical　cut　and　make）　and　had　arrived　in　New　York　by　2：30　EST。　Advance　men　had　already　gotten　the　address　of　the　Brant　by　a　telex　canvass　of　the　New　York　City　hotel…listings；　which　were　puter　tabulated　day　by　day。　They　were　outside　now；　surrounding　the　place。　Busboys　and　bellboys　and　clerks　and　bartenders　had　been　replaced　by　Hunters。　Half　a　dozen　ing　up　the　fire　escape。　Another　fifty　packing　all　three　elevators。　More　and　more；　pulling　up　in　air　cars　all　around　the　building。　Now　they　were　in　the　hall；　and　in　a　moment　the　door　would　crash　open　and　they　would　lunge　in；　a　tape　machine　grinding　enthusiastically　away　on　a　rolling　tripod　above　their　muscular　shoulders；　getting　it　all　down　for　posterity　as　they　turned　him　into　hamburger。
　　Richards　sat　up；　sweating。　Didn't　even　have　a　gun；　not　yet。
　　Run。　Fast。
　　Boston　would　do；　to　start。
　　
　　Minus　074　and　COUNTING
　　He　left　his　room　at　5：00　P。m。　and　went　down　to　the　lobby。　The　desk　clerk　smiled　brightly；　probably　looking　forward　to　his　evening　relief。
　　〃Afternoon；　Mr。；　uh…〃
　　〃Springer。〃　Richards　smiled　back。　〃I　seem　to　have　struck　oil；　my　man。　Three　clients　who　seem　。　。　。　receptive。　I'll　be　occupying　your　excellent　facility　for　an　additional　two　days。　May　I　pay　in　advance？〃
　　〃Certainly；　sir。〃
　　Dollars　changed　hands。　Still　beaming；　Richards　went　back　up　to　his　room。　The　hall　was　empty。　Richards　hung　the　DO　NOT　DISTURB　sign　on　the　doorknob　and　went　quickly　to　the　fire　stairs。
　　Luck　was　with　him　and　he　met　no　one。　He　went　all　the　way　to　the　ground　floor　and　slipped　out　the　side　entrance　unobserved。
　　The　rain　had　stopped；　but　the　clouds　still　hung　and　lowered　over　Manhattan。　The　air　smelled　like　a　rancid　battery。　Richards　walked　briskly；　discarding　the　limp；　to　the　Port　Authority　Electric　Bus　terminal。　A　man　could　still　buy　a　ticket　on　a　Greyhound　without　signing　his　name。
　　〃Boston；〃　he　said　to　the　bearded　ticket…vendor。
　　〃Twenty…three　bucks；　pal。　Bus　pulls　out　at　six…fifteen　sharp。〃
　　He　passed　over　the　money；　it　left　him　with　something　less　than　three　thousand　New　Dollars。　He　had　an　hour　to　kill；　and　the　terminal　was　chock…full　of　people；　many　of　them　Vol…Army；　with　their　blue　berets　and　blank；　boyish；　brutal　faces。　He　bought　a　Pervert　Mag；　sat　down；　and　propped　it　in　front　of　his　face。　For　the　next　hour　he　stared　at　it；　turning　a　page　occasionally　to　try　and　avoid　looking　like　a　statue。
　　When　the　bus　rolled　up　to　the　pier；　he　shuffled　toward　the　open　doors　with　the　rest　of　the　nondescript　assortment。
　　〃Hey！　Hey；　you！〃
　　Richards　stared　around；　a　security　cop　was　approaching　on　the　run。　He　froze；　unable　to　take　flight。　A　distant　part　of　his　brain　was　screaming　that　he　was　about　to　be　cut　down　right　here；　right　here　in　this　shitty　bus　terminal　with　wads　of　gum　on　the　floor　and　casual　obscenities　scrawled　on　the　dirt…caked　walls；　he　was　going　to　be　some　dumb　flatfoot's　fluke　trophy。
　　〃Stop　him！　Stop　that　guy！〃
　　The　cop　was　veering。　It　wasn't　him　at　all。　Richards　saw。　It　was　a　scruffy…looking　kid　who　was　running　for　the　stairs；　swinging　a　lady's　purse　in　one　hand　and　bowling　bystanders　this　way　and　that　like　tenpins。
　　He　and　his　pursuer　disappeared　from　sight；　taking　the　stairs　three　by　three　in　huge　leaps。　The　knot　of　embarkers；　debarkers；　and　greeters　watched　them　with　vague　interest　for　a　moment　and　then　picked　up　the　threads　of　what　they　had　been　doing；　as　if　nothing　had　happened。
　　Richards　stood　in　line；　trembling　and　cold。
　　He　collapsed　into　a　seat　near　the　back　of　the　coach；　and　a　few　minutes　later　the　bus　hummed　smoothly　up　the　ramp；　paused；　and　joined　the　flow　of　traffic。　The　cop　and　his　quarry　had　disappeared　into　the　general　mob　of　humanity。
　　If　I'd　had　a　gun。　I　would　have　burned　him　where　he　stood；　Richards　thought。　Christ。　Oh；　Christ。
　　And　on　the　heels　of　that：　Next　time　it　won't　be　a　purse　snatcher。　It'll　be　you。
　　He　would　get　a　gun　in　Boston　anyway。　Somehow。
　　He　remembered　Laughlin　saying　that　he　would　push　a　few　of　them　out　a　high　window　before　they　took　him。
　　The　bus　rolled　north　in　the　gathering　darkness。
　　
　　Minus　073　and　COUNTING
　　The　Boston　YMCA　stood　on　upper　Huntington　Avenue。　It　was　huge；　black　with　years；　old…fashioned；　and　boxy。　It　stood　in　what　used　to　be　one　of　Boston's　better　areas　in　the　middle　of　the　last　century。　It　stood　there　like　a　guilty　reminder　of　another　time；　another　day；　its　old…fashioned　neon　still　winking　its　letters　toward　the　sinful　theater　district