Stopping to unzip, Cooder said, "Mind turning your backs? Bashful kidney."
"Eh?"
"I can't piss when people are looking."
That brought another laugh and the Mounties turned their brown serge backs.
Because he really did have to urinate, Don Cooder did so at great length. When the sound stopped the Mounties waited politely for the sound of his zipper.
Instead, they caught a long length of chain in the sides of their heads and went down, sidearms still flapped and undrawn.
Cooder made a dash for the lead RMCP car.
His driver was on the other side of the road relieving himself. A number of the others were similarly preoccupied.
They turned around at the sound of the idling car engine racing into life.
"Sacremont! The American is escaping!"
Don Cooder flipped them the bird and floored the gas.
Some of them ran, holding on to themselves and peeing all over their limping legs. Others finished their business, cursing fluently.
Either way, he had a head start. And a head start was all Don Cooder ever needed to be the first to break a breaking story.
"This," he chortled, pulling a .38 from the glove compartment, "is going to be bigger than Dallas, 1963!"
Captain Nodell was making a preliminary pass, dragging the landing area for stones and muskeg patches when he saw the black-and-white car scoot out of nowhere.
"Uh-oh," he told his copilot.
"Think he saw us?"
"Dunno. Is it a police car?"
"Well, it's got a roof flasher and there's some kind of letters stenciled on the door panel. Begins with R."
"RCMP?"
"Maybe."
"Mounties," said Captain Nodell.
"They still got those up here?"
"Looks like." He pulled up and sent the Stealth fighter sweeping around.
And got a clear view of the speedy little car, distantly pursued by two others, racing toward the mountain that supported the 200-foot statue of a nun-and disappearing into it.
"Must be a cave or something in the base . . ."
"Do we still land?" asked the nervous copilot.
"No choice," said Nodell, feeling his tender earlobe. It felt hot, like a cooked piece of steak.
Frank Feldmeyer was shivering in his blue Captain Audion bodysuit in the great control room under the mountain when he saw the red warning light go off and swore under his breath.
Bolting from the control room, he grabbed up a pistol from a rack by the door.
From down the corridor cut from rough stone, shrieks and wails of pain were coming. He shut them out.
Moving to the spiral stainless-steel steps, he ran down, weapon at the ready, prepared to defend his post.
A familiar voice called up. "Psst, Frank!"
"Don. Is that you?"
Don Cooder, shackled and holding a .38 revolver, stomped up the stairs on his ostrich-skin cowboy boots.
"Yeah," he said, his breath steaming. "Are we still on the air?"
Frank Feldmeyer wiped the cold sweat off his brow and said, "Yeah. But power's getting low. How long do you expect me to keep this up?"
"It's time to wrap this up."
"Great. Let's get out of here."
"Can't."
"Why not?"
"Mounties are on my trail like a pack of redbone foxhounds in heat."
"Mounties! What the hell do we do?"
"They think I'm trying to break this story. I'm covered."
"What about me?" Feldmeyer demanded anxiously. "Look at me, I'm dressed up like Captain Audion, for God's sake."
"You can hide once we set things up. Where are Burner and that loudmouth bitch?"
"Cheeta?"
"No, the other loudmouth bitch."
"On ice."