She had seen him trying to escape. She struck.
In the street, a flock of English sparrows suddenly faltered in flight, and one plunged blindly into the stone face of a building. The others circled hysterically, directionless, and two collided and spilled to the ground.
"Hurry, damn it!" Parr moaned at the driver. "Hurry!"
He slammed forward into the windshield, babbling.
The terrified driver stepped down on the accelerator. The car leaped forward.
Parr, fighting with all his strength, was twisted in agony, and blood trickled from his mouth.
He gasped at the driver: "Cab. Behind. Trying to kill me."
The driver was white-faced and full of movie chases and gangster headlines of shotgun killings, typical of Southern California. He had a good car under him, and he spun the wheel to the right, cutting into an alley; to the left, onto an intersecting alley; to the right, into a crosstown street; then he raced to beat a light.
He lost the cab finally in a maze of heavy traffic at Spring.
Parr was nearly unconscious, and he struggled desperately for air.