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ormation or soiling their dress blues。 Wilson threaded them effortlessly and bounded onto the mermaid float。
〃Oh shit；〃 said Kara Lynn Shivers。
〃e on； girl；〃 Viceroy Wilson said； catching his wind。
〃Where we going？〃 Kara Lynn asked。
〃Into history。〃
The tuna…blue mermaids shrieked as Wilson slung the queen over his shoulder and sprinted back upfield。
At that second the Seminole airboat shot off the Everglades float； splintering plywood； disemboweling the stuffed deer； leveling the chickee； the aviation engine expelling a suffocating contrail of rain and kerosene fumes over the stands。 The airboat's aluminum hull pancaked on the slick football turf and hydroplaned； it was perfect； the Indian thought； gaining speed…you couldn't ask for a better surface。
Brian Keyes had finally reached the ground level and was vaulting the fence when he found the cops he'd been looking for。 Five of Miami's finest。 Dogs； nightsticks； the works。 Keyes protested at the top of his lungs but they pinned him to the fence anyway； and there； stuck like a moth； he watched the whole terrible scene unfold…the airboat wheeling circles； Viceroy running with Kara Lynn slung over his shoulder； Skip crooning at the microphone。
On the field Burt and James had righted their bikes and resumed the chase。 The key element now was speed； not agility： dodging a Harley Davidson was one thing； outrunning it was impossible。 Viceroy Wilson had no illusion about this： he was counting heavily on the Indian。
Tommy Tigertail was a wizard with the air…boat。 He cut the field in half and slid the howling craft between Wilson and the frowning white riders in purple hats。 The Indian spun the boat on a dime； throwing a sheet of rain and loose sod into the teeth of the Shriners。 James lost control and went down in a deep skid； chewing a trench from the Notre Dame forty…yard line to the Nebraska thirty…five。 He did not get up。 Burt alertly veered from the airboat's backwash and； to avoid the flying muck； crouched behind his customized Plexiglas windshield。
The airboat bounded up alongside Viceroy Wilson and coasted to a stop。 Wilson heaved Kara Lynn Shivers onto the deck as if she were a sandbag。 By now the stadium crowd had figured out that this was not part of the show and started to scream witlessly。 The Orange Bowl chairman was on his feet； yelling for the cops； while Sparky Harper's Chamber of merce successor frantically tried to sabotage the cables on one of NEC's portable Minicams。 Meanwhile some of the real Notre Dame football players ambled onto the field to watch the motion； Tommy Tigertail feared that they might soon get chivalrous notions。
〃Hurry；〃 he said to Viceroy Wilson。
Wilson had one foot in the airboat when Burt's Harley buzzed him like a fat chrome bee。 Viceroy looked down to discover that his right leg…his bad leg…was stuck fast in a Shriner death hug。 With his other leg Wilson kicked and bucked like a buted…up racehorse。 The motorcycle fell from under Viceroy's attacker but somehow Burt kept his balance and his grip； and wound up on his feet。 Wilson thought： This guy would have made a helluva nose tackle。
〃Let the girl go！〃 Burt manded。
〃Get in；〃 Tommy Tigertail said to Wilson。
〃I can't shake loose！〃
The pain in Viceroy's knee…famously mangled； prematurely arthritic； now barely held together with pins and screws…was insufferable； worse than anything he remembered from the old days。
〃Hurry！〃 said the Indian。 He jiggled the stick and the airboat jerked into gear。 They were on a drier patch of the field so the boat moved forward in balky fits。 Tommy was aching to throttle up to top speed； through the cutting rain he had spotted a phalanx of helmeted police advancing from the north sidelines。 In the bow Kara Lynn sat up； shivering in the deluge。
〃Let her go！〃 Burt bellowed； tugging and twisting Wilson's leg until number thirty…one clung to the hull by only the tips of his fingers。 A deep…bone pain began to rake Viceroy's mind and seep his resolve。 He suddenly felt old and tired； and realized he'd spent all his stamina on that glorious run。
The Indian decided it was time to go…the police were trotting now； yellow…fanged K…9 dogs at their heels。 Tommy hopped off the driver's platform； grabbed Viceroy Wilson by the wrists； and yanked with all his strength。 Burt lost his grip and fell backward； the purple fez tumbling off。 Wilson landed in the boat with a grunt。
Kara Lynn tried to scrabble out； but the airboat was already moving too fast。 She huddled with her legs to her chest； hands pressed to her ears； the thundering yowl of the engine was a new source of pain。
She saw the sturdy Shriner running alongside the airboat； his sequined vest flapping。 He kept shouting for Tommy to stop。
He had a small brown pistol in one hand。
Viceroy Wilson rose to the prow； breadloaf arms swaying at his sides； keeping steady but favoring his right leg。 He tore off the Notre Dame helmet and hurled it vainly at the dogged Shriner。
Viceroy's bare mahogany head glistened in the rain； the stadium lights twinkled in the ebony panes of his sunglasses。 He scowled imperiously at Burt and raised his right fist in a salute that was at least traditional； if not trite。
〃Down！〃 the Indian shouted。 The airboat was hurtling straight for one of the goalposts…Tommy would have to make an amazing turn。 〃Viceroy； get down！〃
Kara Lynn saw a rosy flash at the muzzle of Burt's pistol； but heard no shot。
When she turned； Viceroy Wilson was gone。
With a grimace Tommy Tigertail spun the airboat in a perilous fishtailing arc。 It slid sideways against the padded goalpost and bounced off。 The Marching Cornhusker majorettes dropped their batons and broke rank； leaving Tommy a clear path to escape。 With Kara Lynn crouched fearfully in the bow； the airboat skimmed out of the stadium through the east gate。 A getaway tractor…trailer rig had been parked on Seventh Street but the Indian knew he wouldn't need it； the swales were ankle…deep in rainwater and the airboat glided on mirrors all the way to the Miami River。
Viceroy Wilson lay dead in the east end zone。 From the Goodyear blimp it appeared that he was splayed directly over the F in 〃Fighting Irish；〃 which had been painted in tall gold letters across the turf。
A babbling congress of cops； orange blazers； drunken fans； and battered Shriners had surrounded the Super Bowl hero。 Brian Keyes was there； too； kneeling down and speaking urgently into Viceroy Wilson's ear； but Viceroy Wilson was answering no questions。 He lay face up； his lips curled in a poster…perfect radical snarl。 His right hand was so obdurately clenched into a fist that two veteran morticians would later be unable to pry it open。 Centered between the three and the one of the kelly…green football jersey was a single bullet hole； which was the object of much squeamish finger pointing。
〃I'm telling ya；〃 the Notre Dame coach was saying； 〃he's not one of ours。〃
Outside the Orange Bowl； on Fourteenth Avenue； the King of Siam flagged a taxi。
Keyes made it from the stadium to Jenna's house in twenty minutes。
〃Hey； there；〃 she said； opening the screen door。 She was wearing a baggy sweatshirt with nothing underneath。