Outside, a cab was cruising, and Parr ran after it. It did not stop. He turned and ran frantically in the opposite direction, rounded the corner, still running, his heels thudding on the hot pavement.
He ran for blocks, the blood pounding in his head, sweat trickling into his eyes. Pedestrians turned to stare, looking back along his line of flight.
When Parr stopped, finally, he was trembling. He stared at his own hands curiously, and then he looked around him.
He swallowed hard. The world swam, steadied. His chest rose and fell desperately....
At the airport, he phoned the warehouse.
"Hickle? Get me Hickle.... Hello, Hickle, this is Parr. Listen, Hickle, are you listening? Hickle, I've got to leave town for two days. You've got to run things. You understand? Listen. I've left money in the drawer of my desk ... for the pay roll.... You know how to run things, don't you, Hickle?... Now, listen, Hickle, there's some trucking ... wait a minute.... Look.... You stay down there. Right there. I'll phone you back, long distance, later. Don't go away, Hickle. Wait right there. I'll tell you what you've got to do."
The last call for his plane came over the loudspeaker.
"Listen, Hickle, I've got to run. I'll phone you later, so wait. Wait right there, Hickle!"
Over Bakersfield, gratefully—infinitely gratefully—he felt the last wisp of pressure vanish.