Mouthpiece by L. Ron Hubbard Page A

here!” shrieked Carbonelli. “He’ll kill
me! Get me off! I’m choking to death!”
    Krone smiled again. He knew now that there was no danger
from the front of the cab. He raised his gun slowly and sighted down the
barrel. His intention was obvious. He was unwilling to share the contents of
the satchel. Carbonelli was about to die.
    But Krone had reckoned without the gun Carbonelli still
clutched. Carbonelli’s terror departed as swiftly as it had come. He saw the
revolver coming up and he knew he was about to be killed. His own weapon jumped
into a level position. His hand convulsed.
    Krone’s face was blank for an instant. He took a step
forward, stumbling. Then a look of surprise swept over his features. He made
one last movement and then, with the limpness of a falling sack, struck the
ground.
    Carbonelli’s gun swung toward the cab. “All right, you!”
he cried. “Let me down from here or I’ll blast the back of the seat.”
    Bill slipped sideward and out the door. His intention
was to make the road unseen. But the game leg was wobbly after the run and the
ground was oozy with rain. He swerved out an inch too far.
    Carbonelli saw him and shot him
in the same instant.
    T he sun climbed higher and higher. No clouds were up there now. Only
glazed blue sky. Bill struggled feebly from time to time, but he had just
enough energy left to keep his hand clamped on the severed shoulder artery. He
could see Carbonelli’s dangling legs and he could hear Carbonelli’s
vituperation.
    Bill waited for the help he knew would come.
    It was nine o’clock before the state and city officers
arrived. They came with sirens and whistles open wide. They swarmed down the
wood road like an avalanche. A dozen guns covered the swearing Carbonelli. A
dozen hard faces stared at the earthly remains of Krone, the coldblooded
killer.
    When the police first-aid kit had been ransacked for
tourniquets and probes and Merthiolate , and when Bill sat propped up against a
tree, the reporters and photographers were there, bubbling with eager
questions. They fortified Bill Milan with a drink, a big drink, because they
suddenly remembered that, two years before, Bill Milan had been the hottest man
on any track in the country.
    A hard-boiled reporter with a cigarette dangling from
his lips said, “All right. We know the police facts about the bank robbery and
all. We want your story straight through.”
    Bill smiled, took another drink and complied. “It was
pretty simple. I knew they would try to get rid of me sooner or later and I had
to use my head. So when we started out I said we had a flat and went around
back and disconnected the rear light. I also turned out a headlight. I knew
that their absence would pick up a cop because they’ve been pretty strict about
it lately.
    â€œThen, when the policeman turned up, I had to let him
know I was in trouble. He was smart. He ought to get a promotion out of it. I
wiped off my hand and reached down to the bottom of the gearshift. By rubbing
my palm there, I made a perfect black circle. I said I was on the—and then
didn’t finish it with words. I waved my hand and he caught on. That circle made
a white spot on my hand. He got it. I was on—the spot, see? I knew then that
the police would start to look for my truck.
    â€œWhen they made me stop up there on the highway, I slued
my wheels so they’d leave a big track, very noticeable in the mud. Then I
turned off the gasoline so they could just start the truck and that was all. I
knew then that they’d have to stay here. They didn’t like the rain and I was
pretty sure they wouldn’t walk in it. Then I had to fix up the rear light
according to their orders. So I took the heavy-duty lantern which had three
bulbs—red, white and blue—and turned on the red bulb. I set the lantern on the
ground, but they thought it was attached to the car. Then I wrote that