The chase made a right turn as the driver of the host car headed toward the courthouse. Biff gained ground swiftly on the unwary driver, closing the distance until the bumper of his car was nearly touching Marty’s buttocks. As the host car passed the courthouse near Statler’s Studebaker dealership, Marty released his grip and hung a sharp right. Biff, going too fast, overshot the intersection. Cursing, he jammed on the brakes, backed up, and then roared down the sidewalk in front of the courthouse after Marty. Bewildered and terrified pedestrians spun or dived out of the way, scurrying for the safety of the concrete steps or trying to hide behind the World War I cannons. Oblivious to all objects in his path except Marty, Biff roared forward, bringing terror even to the eyes of his own passengers.
Marty found too late that he had underestimated Biff’s maniacal determination. At the end of the intersection, he had time only to see that Biff was right behind him, do a quick 180 on his board and—
Suddenly, thrown off balance and about to fall, he reached out—and found himself holding on to the front end of Biff’s car.
“Now we got the son of a bitch!” Biff shouted. “If he holds on, he’s dead, and if he lets go, he’s dead!”
Smiling sadistically, he pushed Marty down Hill Street, past Gaynor’s Hideaway, where customers had come outside, some still holding their drinks, to view the action. Dead ahead was the T of the intersection and Main Street, with the display window of Hal’s Bike Shop directly in their path. Biff decided to drive Marty right through the glass rather than fool with him any longer. If worse came to worst, he would simply tell the judge that his brakes had failed.
Looking back through the windshield at the malevolent Biff, Marty could only gulp. Their speed was such that he couldn’t veer to one side without being hit by Biff’s fender as he did so. Weaving back and forth on his skateboard, Marty maintained his grip while searching for a way out. Usually there was at least one cop car hanging around Town Square but as luck would have it, this was the day when the men in blue were totally absent. A quick vision of his tombstone flashed before his eyes as Biff drove him inexorably backward. It read: MARTIN MCFLY—BORN 1968—DIED 1955.
Now, as they were about to pass a large manure truck in the same traffic lane, new devilment was added. Match had picked up a beer bottle and was about to throw it at Marty’s head.
“Got to get outa here!” he cried.
With that, he leaped up, sending the skateboard forward, under the car, and landed on Biff’s hood. With no loss of motion, he bounded over the heads of the four open-mouthed boys, onto the rear deck and off the car, just in time to catch the skateboard as it passed underneath.
“Holy—” Biff wheezed.
So stunned were the four pursuers that all turned in their seats to stare at Marty.
A split second later, they felt a crash and were hurled upward as the car roared into the back of the manure truck. Hanging in the air a moment, the convertible tilted forward, pitching Biff and his cohorts head first into the icky brown mass.
Across the square, from the corner soda shop, cheers and applause could be heard. To the rear also, from the newly involved customers from Gaynor’s, shouts a
nd handclapping added to the furor. Like a Fourth of July demonstration, the chase had brought all activity in beautiful downtown Hill Valley to an utter standstill.
“He’s wonderful!” Lorraine shouted hysterically. “Isn’t he just the most terrific thing you ever laid eyes on?” Her friends, impressed, nodded agreement.
George McFly, also watching, viewed the proceedings with mixed emotions. He was glad to see Biff and his pals end up in the manure pile, but he’d have given ten years of his life to have engineered the trick himself.
Marty, smiling in acknowledgment of the victory, looked around for the youngster whose scooter he had used.
“Thanks a lot, kid,” he said, returning the skateboard with a flourish. “I’m sorry I messed it up for you.”
“Are you kidding?” the youngster laughed. “Thanks a lot!”
He immediately hopped on his new vehicle and began trying it out. As the crowd slowly started to disperse, it could be seen that the other youngster was in the process of removing the orange crate from his scooter so that he could have a skateboard like that of his friend.
? Chapter Eleven ?
Lorraine, her eyes fixed on Marty as he walked down Main Street away from the scene of the accident, had made up her mind.
If he won’t ask me, she thought, then I’ll just have to ask him.
Turning to Babs, she said: “Can I borrow your car?”
Babs hesitated. “You know it’s not mine,” she replied. “It belongs to my sister.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be careful.”
“What do you want it for?”
“Promise not to tell?”
Babs nodded.
“I want to trail Marty and see where he lives. He’s so secretive about himself.”