From pyramid!voder!apple!bloom-beacon!tut.cis.ohio-state.edu!rutgers!att!ihlpa!fish Mon Apr 10 12:26:37 PDT 1989 [Synopsis: A serial killer stalks Chicago, preying on hapless cyclists who have only recently begun venturing out onto the roads after the repeal of the Bicycle Act of 1992. Spike's outrage brings him out of his self-imposed exile, to secretly return to his native city and destroy this menace. Recovering an old cache of weapons, Spike searches for the killer day after day without success. On one such day, he encounters the beautiful Annie, an aspiring bike racer. Immediately smitten, feeling the weight of his long, lonely years as an outlaw vigilante, Spike momentarily forgets his mission. Could this be a fatal mistake? Nahhh.] --- The deadly blue van was nearly on us. There was no time to get to the MAC-10, not even to the little Walther that I always had close at hand. There was no time even to warn Annie of the danger. There was time for only one act. Back when I was racing, I'd go up against guys who were a little short on manners, particularly in the closing laps of a criterium. One learns to expect some aggressive maneuvers in such situations, but occasionally somebody would cross the line between competitiveness and sheer malevolence. Once in a while, somebody would bump you a bit too hard, with the obvious intent of making you crash and perhaps take out some of the pack with you. I developed techniques for dealing with these guys, an unusual blend of cycling skills and Aikido. If a move was executed properly, you got the guy out of the race without taking anybody else down. It was such a technique I applied to Annie, regretting that I had no time to explain. Fortunately there was water and soft mud in the ditch that ran along the side of the road. Annie's wheels hit the high curb and she went sprawling, sliding down the muddy bank on her side. I cut just in front of her and bunny-hopped the curb an instant before the van's tires slammed into it. A hubcap came loose and rolled past me as I fought to keep the bike upright on the slippery surface, groping for my automatic. The van swerved and fishtailed for a block or so, then accelerated away before I could get off a shot. Remembering I wasn't alone, I quickly tucked the little Walther back in its holster. I turned my attention to Annie. She was fishing herself out of the muddy ditch, uttering some decidedly unbecoming monosyllables. She turned to me. As she stood, I could see that she was strikingly tall, nearly a match for my own 6'2" frame. She removed her helmet and shook her head to get some of the big pieces of mud out of her long hair. I waited for her to speak, more afraid of what she might say than I had been of the marauding van. "Are you OK, Mike? What happened? That van..." She had seen it! Thank all the gods and all the lucky, twinkly stars on a Rocky Mountain night, she had seen it! She would understand why she'd just been run into a filthy ditch by a guy she'd known for all of five minutes. "Oh, my god!" she exclaimed, "that was him, wasn't it? The guy on the news, the one who's been... Oh, Mike, if you hadn't been here..." She crossed the distance between us, put her long, willowy arms around my neck, and kissed me. She was covered with mud, and she was smearing it all over me. It could have been tar and feathers, and it would have been all right with me. After a delicious, brief eternity, she broke away. We took a few minutes to clean some of the mud off her bike, then rode together as far as the nearest convenience store. Neither of us said much. She kept giving me puzzled glances. I could not take my eyes from her. "We have to call the police," she remarked, "they'll want to talk to us." She was right. Well, half right, anyway. My Resnick identity might hold up, but then again, it might not. In any case, I didn't have time to get involved in a police investigation, particularly one conducted by young, enthusiastic, and somewhat inept detectives. "No, _you_ have to call the police. They might want to talk to me about some things I don't have time to explain right now." "Are you in some kind of trouble, Mike?" "Let's just say I have my reasons for not wanting to get involved." "But you are involved, aren't you? There's something odd about you. I know you from somewhere. You had something in your hand when I got out of the ditch. You didn't want me to see it. That was a gun, wasn't it?" "It was just..." Dammit, I didn't like lying to her. "Annie, please, let's not go into that. It's better that you don't ask. Listen, you call the police, you tell them what happened. Tell them to get that hubcap back there, it came off his van." "What do I tell them about you?" "Tell them what you have to. Tell them I was afraid." "No. Not you. I don't think you scare easily. But..." "Annie, I have to go." "Will I see you again?" "Count on it." I turned the bike around and sprinted away. I looked back only once, to see her standing there, looking after me. I decided to go home. The killer, having been foiled, would likely not do any more hunting today. My heart was doing flip-flops. I'd come here on a mission and I had failed. But I'd been in the right place at the right time. If I had not been there, Annie might have been dead. Yet if Annie had not been there, the killer would be dead, and it would be over. But then, I'd not have met her, would I? Life was beginning to get very complicated. * TO BE CONTINUED * -- __ / \ Bob Fishell \__/ att!ihlpa!fish