“But Mr. Dalton-”

“And”-Dalton overrode him-“we are determined to show a watching nation that we are not willing to be good Nazis, that we are not all cowed by the religion of political correctness-the dreaded pee-cee.”

“Mr. Dalton-”

“We are also determined to show a watching nation that some of us are still capable of standing up for our beliefs, and to fulfill the sacred responsibility which a loving God has-”

“Mr. Dalton, are The Friends of Life planning any sort of violent protest here?”

That shut him up for a moment and at least temporarily drained all the canned vitality from his face. With it gone, Ralph saw a dismaying thing: underneath his bluster, Dalton was scared to death.

“Violence?” he said at last. He brought the word out carefully, like something that could give his mouth a bad cut if mishandled.

“Good Lord, no. The Friends of Life reject the idea that two wrongs can ever make a right. We intend to mount a massive demonstration-we are being joined in this fight by pro-life advocates from Augusta, Portland, Portsmouth, and even Boston-but there will be no violence.”

“What about Ed Deepneau? Can you speak for him?”

Dalton’s lips, already thinned down to little more than a seam, now seemed to disappear altogether. “Mr. Deepneau is no longer associated with The Friends of Life,” he said. Ralph thought he detected both fear and anger in Dalton’s tone. “Neither are Frank Felton, Sandra McKay, and Charles Pickering, in case you intended to ask.”

John Kirkland’s glance at the camera was brief but telling. It said that he thought Dan Dalton was as nutty as a bag of trail-mix.

“Are you saying that Ed Deepneau and these other individualsI’m sorry, I don’t know who they are-have formed their own anti-abortion group? A kind of offshoot?”

“We are not anti-abortion, we are pro-life” Dalton cried.

“There’s a big difference, but you reporters seem to keep missing it!”

“So you don’t know Ed Deepneau’s whereabouts, or what-if anything-he might be planning?”

“I don’t know where he is, I don’t care where he is, and I don’t care about his… offshoots, either.”

You’re afraid, though, Ralph thought. And if a Self-righteous little prick like you is afraid, I think I’m terrified.

Dalton started off. Kirkland, apparently deciding he wasn’t wrung completely dry yet, walked after him, shaking out his microphone cord as he went.

“But isn’t it true, Mr. Dalton, that while he was a member of The several violence-oriented Friends of Life, Ed Deepneau instigated protests, including one last month where dolls soaked with artificial blood were thrown-”

“You’re all the same, aren’t you?” Dan Dalton asked. “I’ll pray for you, my friend.” He stalked off.

Kirkland looked after him for a moment, bemused, then turned back to the camera. “We tried to get hold of Mr. Dalton’s opposite number-Gretchen Tillbury, who has taken on the formidable job of coordinating this event for WomanCare-but she was unavailable for comment. We’ve heard that His. Tillbury is at High Ridge, a women’s shelter and halfway house which is owned and operated by WomanCare.

Presumably, she and her associates are out there putting the finishing touches on plans for what they hope will be a safe, violence-free rally and speech at the Civic Center tonight.”

Ralph glanced at Lois and said, “Okay-now we know where we’re going, at least,” The TV picture switched to Lisette Benson, in the studio. “John, are there any real signs of possible violence at the Civic Center?”

Back to Kirkland, who had returned to his original location in front of the cop-cars. He was holding up a small white rectangle with some printing on it in front of his tie. “Well, the private security police on duty here found hundreds of these file-cards scattered on the Civic Center’s front lawn this morning just after first light. One of the guards claims to have seen the vehicle they were dumped from. He says it was a Cadillac from the late sixties, either brown or black.

He didn’t get the license number, but says there was a sticker on the back bumper reading ABORTION is MURDER, NOT CHOICE.

Back to the studio, where Lisette Benson was looking mighty interested. “What’s on those cards, John?”

Back to Kirkland.

“I guess you’d have to say it’s sort of a riddle.” He glanced down at the card.” ’If you have a gun loaded with only two bullets and you’re in a room with Hitler, Stalin, and an abortionist, what do you do?”

“Kirkland looked back up into the camera and said, “The answer printed on the other side, Lisette, is ’shoot the abortionist twice.”

“This is John Kirkland, reporting live from the Derry Civic Center.”

“I’m starving,” Lois said as Ralph carefully guided the Oldsmobile down the series of parking-garage ramps which would presumably set them free… if Ralph didn’t miss any of the exit signs, that was.

“And if I’m exaggerating, I’m not doing it by much.”

“Me too,” Ralph said. “And considering that we haven’t eaten since Tuesday, I guess that’s to be expected. We’ll grab a good sitdown breakfast on the way out to High Ridge.”

“Do we have time?”

“We’ll make time. After all, an army fights on its stomach.”

“I suppose so, although I don’t feel very army-ish. Do you know where-”

“Hush a second, Lois.”

He stopped the Oldsmobile short, put the gearshift lever in Park, and listened. There was a clacking sound from under the hood that he didn’t like very much. Of course the concrete walls of places like this tended to magnify sounds, but still…

“Ralph?” she asked nervously, “Don’t tell me something’s wrong with the car. just don’t tell me that, okay?”

“I think it’s fine,” he said, and began creeping toward daylight again. “I’ve just kind of fallen out of touch with old Nellie here since Carol died. Forgotten what kinds of sounds she makes. You were going to ask me something, weren’t you?”

,if you know where that shelter is. High Ridge.”

Ralph shook his head. “Somewhere out near the Newport town line is all I know. I don’t think they’re supposed to tell men where it is. I was kind of hoping you might have heard.” Lois shook her head. “I never had to use a place like that, thank God.

We’ll have to call her. The Tillbury woman. You’ve met her with Helen, so you can talk to her. She’ll listen to YOU.” She gave him a brief glance, one that warmed his heart-anyone with any sense would listen to you, Ralph, it said-but Ralph shook his head.

“I bet the only calls she’s taking today are ones that come from the Civic Center or from wherever Susan Day is.” He shot her a glance. “You know, that woman’s got a lot of guts, coming here.

Either that or she’s donkey-dumb.”

“Probably a little of both. If Gretchen Tillbury won’t take a call, how will we get in touch with her?”

“Well, I tell you what. I was a salesman for a lot of what Faye Chapin would call my real life, and I bet I can still be inventive when I need to be.” He thought of the information-lady with the orange aura and grinned. “Persuasive, too, maybe.”

“Ralph?” Her voice was small. “What, Lois?”

“This feels like real life to me.” He patted her hand. “I know what you mean.” A familiar skinny face poked out of the pay-booth of the hospital parking garage; a familiar grin-one from which at least half a dozen teeth had gone AWOL-brightened it. “Eyyyy, Ralph, dat you? Goddam if it ain’t! Beauty! Beauty!”

“Trigger?” Ralph asked slowly. “Trigger Vachon?”

“None udder! “Trigger flipped his lank brown hair out of his eyes so he could get a better look at Lois. “And who’s dis marigold here?

I know her from somewhere, goddam if I don’t!”

“Lois Chasse,” Ralph said, taking his parking ticket from its place over the sun-visor. “You might have known her husband, Paul-”

“Goddam right I did!” Trigger cried. “We was weekend warriors togedder, back in nineteen-seb’ny, maybe seb’ny-one! Closed down Nan’s Tavern more’n once! My suds n body! How is Paul dese days, ma’am?”