“I just told you I wasn’t involved in the accident.”
“I know, but it’s necessary to get the names and addresses of the witnesses.”
“I wasn’t a witness. I didn’t see it happen.”
The policeman hesitated and looked at his partner. The latter shrugged, “Okay, mister.”
Tommy nodded and crossed to his car. He got in behind the wheel, started the motor, then saw that the car that had brought up the two men and the woman had stopped so closely in front of his that he was blocked off. He put the gear lever in reverse, backed a few feet, then twisted the wheel all the way over to the right and inched forward.
He was just able to clear the car ahead of him and was worming out into the center of the road, when one of the policemen suddenly appeared in front of the car, his hand held up.
Tommy exclaimed softly. Keeping the car in gear, but jamming in the clutch, he waited for the policeman to come over to the side of the car.
The policeman said: “I’d like to see your driver’s license.”
“I told you,” Tommy began, but the policeman cut him off.
“I know you told me,” he snapped. “But I want to see it, just the same.”
He held out his hand.
“I knew it,” Tommy said bitterly. “The one day I forget it in my other clothes, I’ve got to stumble into something like this. If I’d just driven on instead of trying to help someone...”
“It’s a citizen’s duty to stop at an accident,” the policeman said. He looked through the windows, at his mate on the other side of the road. “I’m inclined to give you a break, so if you’ll just show me some other identification...”
Tommy pointed to the registration certificate, strapped about the steering wheel shaft.
The policeman opened the door at Tommy’s side and poking in his head, read from the certificate: “ ‘James Robertson,’ that’s what you said. But — the date’s today.”
“I just bought the car this morning.”
The policeman straightened. “You’ve got the bill of sale?”
Tommy reached into his breast pocket and produced it. The policeman studied it, folded it, then unfolded it again and scowled at it.
“You understand, Mr. Robertson,” he said, finally. “We work for the taxpayers of this state and it’s our job to be careful. There was a broadcast just a little while ago and... well, if you don’t mind...” He scowled again and stepped back. “Excuse me.”
He signaled to his partner. “Pat, d’you mind stepping over...?”
Tommy reached out, pulled shut the door and took his foot off the clutch. The car leaped forward and he jammed his right foot down on the accelerator.
Tommy shifted into second, swerved off the right road shoulder to miss a parked car, got back on the pavement and went into high. He looked into the rear vision mirror and saw the policemen just piling into the white police car.
This is it, Tommy thought. Well, there could be only one end to it, but he’d give them a run for their money. You had to do that. You had to play your cards as they were dealt; you just couldn’t throw them in.
A hundred yards from the scene of the accident he was doing forty. His foot jammed the accelerator down to the floorboards and the speedometer needle shot up to fifty, sixty, then seventy. It was eighty when the village of Palmdale appeared ahead.
The police car was full in his rear vision mirror, less than a quarter of a mile behind him. How would they follow him through Palmdale? At full speed, regardless of traffic and pedestrians? That would tell the tale.
Houses and stores whipped by. Tommy eased his foot off the gas pedal and the speedometer needle dropped down to seventy-five, then seventy. People stood on the sidewalks of Main Street, staring at the whizzing Buick as it shot by. The police siren was wailing thinly, warning motorists ahead.
The street was clear; a few cars were on it, but they were idling along. Grimly, Tommy pressed down again on the accelerator. He was through Palmdale safely. But the police car had not lost any ground. And now, out in the open, without another town ahead, it would cut down the distance between the two cars.
Tommy shot a glance at the instrument panel and a cry escaped his lips. The needle that showed the temperature of the water was at the very top; the 18,000-local-mile car had a flaw in its water pump. The motor was already dangerously overheated, only the speed at which he was traveling was keeping it cool enough to prevent its disintegration.
Eighty-eight. Ninety and ninety-two. Faster than Tommy had ever driven a car. Ahead, to the left, a ribbon of black cut across the sand — a secondary road, leading up into the hills.
Tommy shot a quick glance into the rear vision mirror, saw the pursuing white car an eighth of a mile behind him. Not more than that distance ahead was the secondary road.
He lifted his foot from the accelerator and his speed decreased to 90, 85, 80... 75!
