The mob wanted to stop the couple, but everyone was now skating around on diarrhea. Omar and Piper made it through the pack with shredded shirts. They dashed back out the emergency room doors and onto the sidewalk.
The crowd paused, looking at one another, thinking about losing their spots in the emergency room. Then:
The room emptied in a hurry. Patients made a hard left turn outside and ran up the street. The security guards stopped at the doors, because they weren’t paid much.
Omar and Piper only had a half block lead, but all the people chasing them were sick and injured.
A cameraman pointed through a windshield. “There they are! At the front of that crowd!” The Live Action Eyewitness Orlando 12 News mobile unit had arrived.
The TV van quickly passed the crowd and slowed so they could roll alongside the couple as they ran. The satellite dish on its roof began beaming the video feed back to the station. Regular programming was interrupted for breaking news, as it had been every time a live chase came through the greater Orlando area. Except this was the first one on foot.
Viewers at home began texting in votes to a poll that just went up on their screens. Others recognized the street on TV as the same one just outside where they were sitting. They angrily poured out of shops, restaurants and Transcendental Meditation classes, joining the pursuing mob. Still others lined the sidewalk ahead, spitting on the couple and splattering them with rotten food.
Two blocks north, a black Firebird sat on the side of the road. Serge lowered his binoculars. “Here they come now. The plan is unfolding beyond expectation.”
“That one guy just hocked a big snot-rocket right in her face.” Coleman chased pork rinds with Pabst Blue Ribbon. “This is better than pay-per-view.”
Serge raised the binoculars again. “I should be in charge of programming somewhere.”
Back up the street, a reporter with a microphone hung out the passenger window of the TV van. “Our live poll shows that ninety-six percent of viewers believe you should be tossed in a blast furnace. Your thoughts?”
More people streamed from sports bars and convenience stores until the mob was five times its original size.
The couple rapidly approached a busy intersection where heavy traffic blocked their escape. They made a left at the corner and hit the brakes. More TV viewers had emptied into the street and charged from that direction. The pair looked back at the gaining crowd, then up at the green light over the road. “Come on, turn red!”
It didn’t turn red. Lynch mobs converging from two pincer directions would be on them in seconds. They glanced at each other and nodded. The traffic wasn’t
Serge handed the binoculars to Coleman. “They’re going for it, but it’ll be close. That second crowd will get there almost simultaneously.”
“I say they’ll make it.”
“Me, too.”
The TV van pulled up next to the anxious couple. A microphone out the window: “Are you going for it? It’s going to be close . . .”
Those at the front of the mob reached them and went to grab what was left of their shirts, but the couple was too fast. The break in traffic came and they bolted . . . In the clear!
Coleman pointed with a pork rind. “I don’t think they see that bus.”
“Which bus?” asked Serge.
“The big one with the ad on the side for the children’s hospital . . . Ooo! God!” Coleman covered his eyes.
Serge threw the Firebird in gear. “That’s ironic.”
Chapter Twenty-One
FORT LAUDERDALE
A blue glow filled an eighth-floor condo unit.
“I’ll take ‘Rectangular U.S. States’ for two hundred, Alex.”
Ronald Campanella turned the volume down with the remote control. “I don’t want to watch
“Come on, we always used to play,” said Brook. “You need to keep your mind occupied.”
“But what if the lawyers are wrong? What if I have to go to trial?”
“That’s nonsense,” said his daughter. “We just need to wait it out and let them fix the misunderstanding.”
“I can’t take this not-knowing business.” Ronald began breathing rapidly again.
Brook got up from the sofa. “You need a drink. I’ll get you one.”
“I don’t want a drink.”
“I didn’t say you wanted one. I said you need one.” She went to the cabinet for a bottle of Scotch. Her cell phone rang. Brook made a detour for her purse.
“Hello?”
“This is Ken Shapiro, from Shapiro, Heathcote-Mendacious and Blatt. Sorry for calling so late, but we have some preliminary good news that I thought you’d like to hear.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing confirmed, but based on our experience, we don’t think your father is a very high-value target.”
“Why do you say that?”
