The mayor waited for McLeod to answer him, then shrugged and crouched. It was exactly as if he were still under the parabeam, McLeod realized. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do.
The Star-Times gunmen had sized up the situation too well. The three men from the World were as good as dead now, which would make it close to impossible for McLeod to turn on the Star-Times and expect help from Wainwright, even if that were what he wanted. He had better play along. It was still a show on television and he could only watch. But now he knew the outcome.
The fourth still figure on the snow suddenly erupted into violent motion. A leg snaked out, an arm—the mayor grunted and fell, staring mutely at McLeod, surprised, offended and outrageously indignant the moment before he died. A knife flashed quickly, expertly, gleaming for a split second before it disappeared through the mayor's jumper.
The standing gunman twirled his parabeam to full intensity and sprayed the World men with what was now lethal radiation, halting involuntary actions such as blinking—and breathing.
The gunman smiled at McLeod. "Well, you have your story now. We'd better get out of here while you phone for the police."
McLeod had his story, all right. He felt sick. He would call the police and then go write his story about how Mayor Spurgess had chased three unidentified vandals from his house, only to be stabbed to death while protecting his family. McLeod who was visiting the mayor on business, had naturally joined in the chase, in time to overtake and kill the unidentified vandals but not in time to save His Honor's life.
The police investigation, if any, would fail to uncover anything.
"Thanks a lot," McLeod said.
"Don't mention it." The two gunmen ran to join their companions and soon disappeared through the snow.
In tomorrow's Star-Times, McLeod would be a hero.