It was almost two o'clock in the morning when a lonely moving van came along the highway. The brakes screeched as the driver caught sight of a crumpled body lying alongside the road. Red sogginess contrasted with the length of white thigh, uncovered by a ripped skirt, and more redness dribbled wet from the corner of Norma's mouth. The driver piled out of one door and his helper from the other. They ran to kneel by the woman's side.
Then they smelled the ketchup and stood up, raising their hands immediately.
"That's not blood spilled," said the driver loudly. "Let's keep it that way."
The driver's helper added, "This is a bum job, friend. We're carting second-hand furniture, not gold."
"I don't want your load," said Farradyne, stepping into the glare of the headlights while Norma got up and dusted herself off. "I want your truck."
They looked at him and he saw recognition in their faces. Obviously every news agency had his picture presented in full color. He saw that they apparently understood why he wanted the truck, for there was also contempt on their frightened faces.
"What's the next move, Farradyne?" asked the driver in a surly tone. "Do we take the high jump?"
"No. I just want your truck."
"Getting a bit brash?"
"Maybe I have to. Driver, what's your name?"