By: Betsy J. Bennett
CHAPTER 11
Olivia startled as the tall, black man approached her as she left her car. This was late November, and the sun wasn’t about to rise for another hour. The street was deserted except for cavorting leaves. Premature snowflakes danced around, hinting of a bad winter to come. She looked toward the clinic, knew she would never make it if she decided to run. There was no one to call for help in this deserted part of abandoned Detroit. But she recognized him, and her pulse regulated.
“Slide, are you hurt? Is there something I can do for you?”
He was the leader of the group she collectively called The Bikers, the tattooed black men who looked after her clinic after hours, and who, although if you didn’t know them could give you nightmares if you met them in a dark alley. Although their numbers seemed to vary greatly depending on who had been arrested lately, who left town because someone on a police force had gotten too interested in them, on the whole they had never been anything but gentle with her, at least while she was stitching up their knife wounds, and giving them the occasional round of antibiotics for socially transmitted diseases. She had no idea what they did to earn money, beyond a body shop. She knew they called him Slide, and she didn’t particularly want to know where that nickname came from.
“Someone broke in last night.”
Her eyes widened. She grabbed her keys, ran toward the front door of the clinic, found the door standing wide open. “Anyone hurt?”
“No. We were out and Chilblains fell asleep. We’re dealing with him.”
She didn’t want to know where that nickname came from either. “You be nice, Slide.”
“Can’t always be nice, Doc Ollie.”
He stood in front of her at the entrance of her clinic, baring her entrance. She tried to see over him, around him, but although slender, there was nothing she could see but his black leather. “Anything taken?”
“No, not that we can determine. He tried to get into the meds locker, but your locks kept him out.”
“That’s something, I suppose. You want me to call the police?”
“Now why would I want you to do that?” They shared a laugh before he continued. “We didn’t get a good look at him, since all we have is some idiot running though the back alleys. We don’t even know if that was your intruder. Call the police if you must. I doubt they’d do anything for you, but at least you’d have a record, should anything worse come up.”
“Good point. Now are you going to let me in?”
“Why don’t you take yourself out to breakfast for an hour, then come back.”
“I would like to know what was done to my clinic.”
“Doc, if I said we were only trying to help you, would you believe me?”
“Of course. There’s no problem between us.”
“Then you’ll see I was hoping we could get this a bit more organized before you showed up. Most of it is just plain nasty.”
“What? Come on, Slide.”
He stepped aside and let her into the reception room. All the chairs had been overturned and a strong stench of feces reached her.
“Really?”
“Say what you want, the man can shit. He didn’t get much further than here. I mean, yeah, he tried for the meds, but from what we can tell, he didn’t get them. You piss someone off recently?”
“Oh yeah. One or two people a day,” she said dryly.
She watched while the gang took soapy water and was scrubbing the walls, floor and the front of Dora Ann’s desk. More were setting the chairs to rights. Instead of complaining or working grudgingly, there seemed to be not joy, but at least a type of pleasure in their cleaning. She wouldn’t have pegged the bikers as cleaners, and put that down to another thing she didn’t know about them.
“You think this is the handiwork that POS Korl?” Slide asked.
“If I do, I don’t want you getting involved. Do you understand me, Slide? You and all your brothers stay out of this. I know you’re not comfortable calling the police, but maybe that’s the best tactic.”
“For who?”
“I don’t know who Korl knows but this could turn real ugly real fast. We don’t need riots back in this neighborhood.”
“If it comes to that, we’ll make sure you are out of here and safe.”
“I’ll not leave my clinic.”
“You will if I have to drag you out. This is my neighborhood too, Doc, and I can’t let some lunatic child beater scare away the only good thing to ever happen to this hood. Besides, that husband of yours is due back sometime soon, and I’d rather Doc Kimble not get involved in chasing him. That man has a rather strange relationship with the law.”
“Yes, but then, I suppose you approve.”
“That I do. Cops think they’re all that, and ain’t nobody can say anything against them, until this white doctor comes and proves them wrong. Don’t look at me like that. I read, at least that Friday thing.”
“I’m sure you do. Guys, thank you all for what you’re doing. I could make coffee—“
“No need. Warped went out and got donuts. Sort of our apology. They’ll have all this back to normal in a few minutes. If you’d ever sleep like a normal person, we could have had most of this taken care of before you got into work.”
“I have sanitizer around somewhere. I’ll spray it, hopefully I’ll be able to breathe again when this place is open for business. Now, did you say there were donuts?”
***
“Mr. Corman?” Kimble asked. The door to the general store had a bell above it that rang, although the sound was unnecessary, the door moaned like it was suffering from arthritis. Whoever was in the store couldn’t help but notice there was a customer.
Although not yet supper time, clouds hunkered low, and the sun was nowhere to be seen. The wind had brought freezing rain with it, and although not deadly yet, the roads were treacherous. Kimble had wrecked one of Jacob Lawrence’s trucks months before, he’d hate to do so again.
He’d made it safely into town by driving slowly, and fighting the gales that wanted to redirect his course. He would have been in earlier, if he hadn’t stopped and pulled two other drivers from a ditch.
The small general store was typical for its kind, wood plank floors, some of that curling up, a trap for those not watching their feet. A long wooden counter, scared over the years, took up most of the back of the front room, and shelves were stocked with everything from canned green beans, Wisconsin maps, warm socks and fishing lures. Fresh produce was noticeably absent, and there was no bakery or deli sections, but on the whole, it was a well stocked store, and smelled, not unpleasantly of pickles. Corman was in the back, loading beer into a glass-fronted refrigerator.
For an instant there was a stab of fear in his eyes, before he controlled it. “Dr. Kimble, I know who you are.”
“Yes, obviously.” He didn’t mean the statement as any kind of laud to the man’s facial identification acuity. “I have some questions if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t have time to talk,” he said, although Kimble was the only person in the store, and the beer seemed to be the only task. “Not to people who aren’t buying anything.”
“Fine, I’ll buy a scarf.” He fingered the selection, found them of surprisingly good quality. “It’s gotten cold out.”
“It does, this time of year.”
Kimble opened his wallet, took out the few bills the purchase required. “I don’t need a bag. I’ll wear it out. So now that I’ve bought something, I’d like to ask you about your testimony, when you were in the mountains looking for me.”
“I didn’t see—“ then he recognized the trap, continued. “That day I heard the shots, I wasn’t looking for you. I was out enjoying the sunshine. It was only just spring and I’d been cooped up inside for a long time. I thought I could use some fresh air.”
“There are easier places to walk. Or do you like to hike?”
“I like to hike.” His physique seemed to indicate otherwise.
“So do I, although not as much as I used to. So, after you reported the gunshots, did the sheriff go out to investigate the spot where you heard them?”
“Yes of course. He testified to that.”
Kimble leaned on the counter, close to Corman, and encroaching into his personal space. “And did he find any evidence of poachers?”
“No.” He stopped, rubbed his chin, stalling, apparently trying to fix his statement to something that might be believed. “Well, maybe. He thought he found some trace blood, but of the deer, there was no sign. They probably took it with them.”
Kimble let silence develop between them, for he could see Corman was nervous and getting more so. He had no idea why, as the police report and the testimony were undoubtedly the topic of conversation at every dinner table in the county.
“You know much about poachers?”
“Not much. It’s frowned upon here. There’s good hunting in the fall. Most people abide by that.”
“But poachers are different from most people, aren’t they?”
Corman rubbed his upper lip, perhaps thinking again of the $10,000 he missed out on. “Well, yeah, I suppose they are. But people get hungry in the spring too, and venison is good eating.”
Over the past few years, Kimble had come to understand liars, how when they were nervous they tended to add too much information, as if to cover up what they weren’t admitting to. Corman was hiding something.
Kimble lifted his scarf, wrapped both ends around his wrists as if he would use it to strangle someone, a makeshift weapon he could see Corman understood. The grocer moved, awkwardly and abruptly, toward the cash register, taking the few dollars Kimble had laid down as an afterthought, only after Richard glareded at the money.
Still Richard spoke casually, keeping his voice controlled, just an out of town stranger wanting information. Corman was spooked enough. “Don’t poachers traditionally take only the best cuts of meat, and leave the carcass for scavengers? Isn’t carting out a full deer from that far quite in the woods a bit of work?”
Corman’s words came quickly as he shuffled his feet, let his gaze dart around the far corners of the store. “How would I know? I don’t know anything about poachers.”
“They, the poachers, were fairly far from a road, weren’t they?”
“I suppose so.” The cash register rang, the money disappeared, with no thought of giving Kimble his change.
“Even a truck that wouldn’t have trouble driving off-road wouldn’t have been able to make it that far. I know I had trouble climbing up and down those mountains.”
Corman swallowed, and his eyes darted across the far corners of the store. “What are you trying to say?”
Kimble shrugged, tried to make his comment sound casual. “That it didn’t make sense to take the entire deer. Too much of it is dead weight, things you can’t use, the bones, the pelt, the skull, the internal organs. Unless you think they wanted to make a deer skin jacket?”
He stuttered for a while before he spoke. “I don’t know what they wanted.”
“And in the spring, the deer would have been scrawny.”
“I don’t know. Maybe they were hungry.”
“You like deer meat, Mr. Corman?”
“Venison? Yeah, I like venison fine.”
“Is that why you were out? Looking for something to stock your freezer?”
“What?”
“You own a gun, Mr. Corman?”
“I got a hunting rifle. Haven’t used it in about twenty years. Hope my grandson would be interested in it someday. My daughter certainly has no interest in hunting.”
“How about a handgun? A 9mm revolver?”
“I keep one under the counter here. In case people try to rip me off. Don’t have to use it much. Just the thought of it keeps most people honest.”
“I’d imagine most people around here are already honest. Could I see the gun?”
“No. It’s not something I show off to convicted felons.”
Taking his time, Kimble went to the newsstand, where today’s edition of the paper was stacked. The cover story was Kimble innocent of all charges, and again that horrible mug shot that he despised. He would owe Olivia a long explanation.
He picked up a paper, as if reading the article, considering the implications before he returned it to the stand. “I was a convicted felon, once. I’m not any more. Read the paper. My name has been cleared in Indiana and here. You know that, don’t you?”
As if frustrated having nothing to do with his hands, Corman took a rag and some spray, started cleaning the counter. It looked like the job hadn’t been done in a while. “So they say. I’d imagine there’s plenty you’re guilty of, if someone would look.”
“You’d be wrong there. So, that Saturday way back in the middle of May, you closed the store to go look for me?”
“What Saturday?”
“May 20th. After Burmas was killed. Were you still in the mountains?”
“No. That fancy Lieutenant Gerard was out, and Sheriff Bailey and all the posses, looking for you. They were out, not me.”
Kimble nodded, as if accepting the statement at face value. “You just stayed here, minding your store for two dollar purchases, knowing you were missing out on a $10,000 reward? It wouldn’t take much to put up a sign, lock the door, and head out to look for me.”
Corman swallowed again, then worked his tongue around his lips. “Bailey tried to deputize me, but if I wore a badge, I wouldn’t be eligible for the reward money.”
Kimble placed some coins on the counter, took a roll of Neccos and opened the package, and crunched them, systematically, one after another. “And you could use the reward money.”
“There’s no secret that I could have used that money, but then it’s probably fair to say there’s not a single person in Browntown county that couldn’t find use for that much money.”
Another Necco met his teeth. “So you went out that Saturday?”
“Yes. I couldn’t let you get away. No, no, that’s wrong. Saturday is our busiest day.” He was starting to sweat, but Kimble doubted it was systematic of pneumonia like Gerard had. “Besides, I testified I went out Monday, the day the deputy was killed.”
“But your store was closed that Saturday.”
His eyes rounded, and his mouth hung open. “There’s no proof.”
Kimble shrugged, ignored the black Necco he didn’t like and ate the yellow disk underneath it. “There is. After Kathy Lawrence was safe, Ella drove in to town. She wanted to buy some candy, to make her sister feel better after the trauma, and there was some red and black plaid flannel she wanted to buy to make a shirt for her father for his birthday. The store was closed. She remembers that specifically, because she promised Kathy the candy. She had to make a sheet cake instead. What I find more significant, was when she returned on Monday, the store was still closed.”
“It’s my store. I can close it when I want.”
“No one says you can’t.” He offered a Necco to Corman who looked at the candy like he might consider chewing drywall.
“So you closed it Saturday? Did you follow the sheriff looking for me?”
“So what if I did? If I had stopped you, the money would be mine.”
“You really wanted that money, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You know something I haven’t told anyone else? As I was leaving that Saturday, after Burmas had been killed, after Kathy was out of the pond and safe with her father, I found a place to hide. Sometimes when I’m being chased I learned that movement attracts watchers, but if I can find a quiet place and stay still for an hour or so, I stand a much better opportunity of getting away. That’s what I did. It was after seven in the evening, probably closer to seven-thirty or so, before I started to move. Someone shouted “Stop Kimble!” but I kept running. I heard two shots, then a pause of maybe thirty seconds, then two more, then if I’m remembering correctly, a minute later, another one.”
His left eye twitched, a nervous tic. “So?”
“That wasn’t Monday as you testified. That was Saturday. As I told you, I was long gone by Monday. Saturday.” He waited, watched Corman swallow over a dry throat before he added, “And it might be that Saturday was the last day that Whit Polamic was seen.”
The grocer shook his head vehemently, too vehemently. “Whit was seen on Sunday.”
Kimble waited, smiled, tried to be personable, as his own pulse started racing. “By who? Anyone who remembers specifically?”
Corman stuttered, tried to come up with a name, any name. “Dozens of people. He was always hanging around.”
“That’s true. I’m sure that’s true.” Kimble smiled again, everyone’s friend, keeping Corman off balance. The man expected him to rave about injustice or innocence, he would be calm until he got the information he needed. “He was always hanging around, so people who remembered seeing him Thursday or Friday, could easily think they saw him Saturday. He was always around.”
When Kimble looked up, Corman was aiming a 9mm handgun toward his gut. While his hand appeared steady, there was sweat building up above his top lip and forehead. The man was nervous, that made him doubly dangerous. “I didn’t mean to shoot him.”
“Excuse me?”
“I will testify that you killed Polamic. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. You spoke to that newspaper guy, said your time on the run changed you. I say it did. I say you took a gun and killed Whit Polamic so you could escape. If you go to Bailey, that’s what I’m going to tell him. He’ll believe me. Why wouldn’t he believe me? I’ve never lied to him.”
Trying to look calm and diffuse the tension, Kimble bit another Necco. There were only a few left. This delaying tactic wouldn’t last much longer. “You’ve done nothing but lie to him,” he wanted to shout, but knew such an outburst could hardly be in his best interest. “We should go to Bailey together.” The crunching sounded loud in the otherwise silent store.
Corman waved the gun, his hands looking sweaty. “I read. I know things you probably don’t want getting out.”
“What things?”
Pleased with his thoughts Corman smiled. “How Gerard handed you a gun once, while he was hunting a killer. It’s not too much of a stretch to say he gave you his gun once before that.”
“No. Didn’t happen that way.” Kimble backed up slowly, keeping his hands in sight, trying to diffuse the situation. “Let’s go to the sheriff’s office now. Light’s still on. If Bailey isn’t there, he will be soon.”
“Nope. That doesn’t work for me.” The gun wavered, and his hand on the grip whitened, indicating he was holding the weapon far too tightly. “You’ll spread your lies.”
Kimble kept his face blank, no-threatening. “What lies?”
“That I killed Whit.”
“Did you? Is that why you’re nervous now?”
“If I did, it’s none of your business. Let’s go, out the front.”
“To the sheriff?”
Corman looked like he might agree to that, before realizing the problems that would create. “No. We’re going to take a ride.”
Kimble left the scarf, and a shredded paper that once held Neccos and headed for the front door of the store. Main Street was dark, all other businesses long locked and shuttered. The wind howled, fierce and biting. Hail slashed, stinging his face. The road was already icy, would be worse by morning. Autumn this year was wasting no time coming to Wisconsin. And he knew something else: Corman had no interest in letting him get to the sheriff’s office alive. As soon as he left this store it was likely he’d be shot in the back, the reasoning that he, Kimble, was trying to escape after confessing to Palamic’s murder.
A wind gust caught them, taking the store door, and almost ripping it off the hinges. Keeping both his hands wrapped around the gun, Corman gestured for Kimble to shut it. Any thought he had of running vanished, at this distance, even nervous, it was unlikely that Corman would miss.
The wind was biting cold, finding a way under Kimble’s coat. At the moment, the storm wasn’t a full force, but it would be. These northern winds were deadly. If nothing else there would be extensive power outages within the next few hours. They were expecting three inches by morning not simply snow but sleet and freezing rain driven by wind gusts up to fifty miles per hour, according to the report Kimble read in the paper before coming to speak with the grocer.
Kimble took a moment to think of Olivia, wondered how she was doing, if she were warm enough. As Corman poked the handgun into his spine, he hoped it wouldn’t be his last thought.
“Get moving,” Corman said. “My car is this way.”
“I thought we were going to the sheriff’s office,” Kimble said. “It’s right across the street.”
“You’ll be Bailey’s problem soon enough. I thought we’d take a drive first.”
“In this weather?” He tried to be reasonable. Kimble walked slowly, using the headwind as an excuse. “Why did you tell Bailey you heard the poachers on Monday?”
“None of your business.” Then he changed him mind and continued. “I wanted Whit’s body found. I wanted it tied to you.”
“I was gone by then.”
“Not that you could prove.”
Keeping his head down, his shoulders hunched, Kimble walked toward the car, a rusted station wagon that looked like it had seen better days. He scanned Main Street, looking for a way to escape, when he noticed the door to the police station opening. During his fugitive years, heading that way would not have been an option, but things were different now. The distance wasn’t great, but visibility was poor, still it looked like Bailey was heading out, either home or to do rounds.
The road surface was icy. Kimble slipped, waving his arms as he tried to maintain his balance, finally going down on one knee. He moaned as if he were badly hurt.
“Get up!” Corman waved the gun in front of his face. “I don’t want to kill you here, but I will. No one would blame me, not after I tell Bailey you confessed to killing Whit.”
Kimble hesitated, hoping Bailey would see the man down and come to investigate. “I’m not sure I can walk.”
“It’s not that much further. Hobble if you have to.”
Bailey turned, went back into his office, apparently he had forgotten something, for he disappeared, taking Kimble’s chance of rescue with him. Slowly, as if in great pain, Kimble got to his feet. “Why did you make up the story about the poachers?” That’s what had been bothering him. There wouldn’t have been poachers out on Saturday, not when every able bodied man had been deputized looking for him. With all the noise the posse had been making, deer would have been scarce. “Why say you heard the shots Monday?”
“Whit was dead. I needed time to bury the body.”
Light spilled into the street from an opened door as Bailey again exited the sheriff’s office. He stood for a second, buttoning up his heavy sheepskin coat. He adjusted the hat he wore as he looked over and noticed Kimble and Oliver Corman. “Sheriff,” Kimble said, waving his arm, still favoring his knee. “Sheriff!”
Bailey jogged toward them, a man used to this degree of violence from the weather. For a moment he ignored Corman, eyed Kimble. “Turning yourself in?”
Kimble met the sheriff’s gaze directly, fought the need to look away or to run. “Yes. I’ve got something I’d like to confess.” He jerked his head quickly, a movement to highlight the gun being held on him, but if Bailey noticed, he said nothing.
“In case you’re wondering, I was on my way to see you. You’ve saved me a trip. I’ve got an arrest warrant.” If Kimble thought the lawman would gloat or look triumphant, he would have been mistaken. If anything Bailey looked like he was arresting his best friend, an analysis had it been vocalized, both would recognize to be false.
“No sense talking out here in the wind,” Bailey said, one hand holding his sheriff’s hat against the increasingly bitter north wind, the other hand close, but not touching, his gun. “Let’s go in. I’m going to have to interview you again. I’ve got new information come to light.”
“All right,” Kimble said, gladly following him, while behind him, and in his ear, Corman whispered, “If you say anything, you’re a dead man,” little realizing the treat had no force behind it. If Kimble followed that advice, his body would be abandoned on some remote street, probably not found until spring.
Resigned, and swallowing bile, Kimble entered first. “I’d like to speak. There’s a lot that I want to say, but at this point, based only on past experience with the justice system and good advice I got a few weeks back, I’m going to ask for my lawyer before I say anything. And don’t bother sending that wet-behind-the-ears kid whose defense of Lieutenant Phillip Gerard is limited to watching the prosecution make a laughing stock of the career of a dedicated policeman.”
“I’ve no time for this. I’m going to have to call in another shift if we get any calls.” Sheriffs got called out to traffic accidents, especially traffic fatalities, and they roads in this part of Wisconsin were unforgiving, even with veteran winter snow drivers. The interstate was already being salted, but Bailey anticipated more than enough calls to keep him busy throughout the night. He’d already spoken with the fire department where the ambulances ran out of. They were ready.
“Sorry to inconvenience you,” Kimble replied dryly. There was a pop, then the lights went out.
“Everyone stay where you are. I’ve got a lantern here.”
Efficiently Bailey lit the lantern he had out, as he had been anticipating the power outage.
In the dark, Corman grabbed Kimble by the arm, was starting to force him through the door, back into the storm, but after adjusting the height of the flame, Bailey turned to them. The Coleman gave a surprising amount of light. Although Bailey was watching and speaking to Kimble, most of his attention was focused on Corman. “I’ll have to put you in the cell.”
“That’s ok. I’m used to it. And I know you won’t believe this, but I don’t plan on going anywhere until this ugliness is cleared up.”
“Is there a reward?” Corman asked. With his free hand, he wiped spittle from his bottom lip. He still held the gun on Kimble.
“First, put that away. There’s no need for it here. And why would there be a reward?”
“There was before.”
“That was when he was wanted for murder. This charge is aiding and abetting.”
Kimble rolled his eyes, understanding the irony. He was there to help Gerard, and was being arrested for that exact thing.
“What’s your stake in this?” Bailey asked Corman.
“He’s desperate,” Corman said. “He’s going to tell you I killed Whit.”
“Is he now?” Bailey asked, forgetting he was about to take Kimble to the cells in the back, he leaned back on his desk, as if he had all the time in the world.
“Yes,” Kimble answered. “I can explain.”
“Lock him up. Don’t listen to anything he has to say. You know he’s working with that fancy lieutenant.”
“I don’t need your explanations,” Bailey insisted. He measured Kimble, knew Corman well enough to know he wouldn’t do anything stupid. “Give me a minute to get this old pot belly stove lit.” Inside Bailey already had kindling stacked. He lit a long-handled match on the heel of his boot, waited until the fire caught. “I keep thinking I’ll get rid of this old dinosaur one of these days, but then I remember how bad the winters get here. We’ll be warm soon enough.”
Kimble kept his gaze locked on Corman, for the man was getting increasingly desperate. If the sheriff noticed anything untold, he made no indication. “Kimble, I’ll put you in now. It’s cold back there, but I’m not here to make you comfortable.”
Corman waved his gun, desperate to get his statement in. “He was working with Gerard.”
The sheriff nodded in agreement. “That’s sure what it sounded like during the trial. I hadn’t expected it, from what I remember of how Gerard was so desperate to catch him, but I will admit it didn’t occur to me that they might have been working together.”
“They were. I’m sure they were. Gerard handed him the gun.”
Bailey searched Kimble, coming up with nothing that could be used as a weapon, before turning back to Corman. “I told you to put that thing away. If you don’t I’m going to have to take it from you.”
Bailey opened the cell door, let Kimble in. “How do you know they were working together?” Bailey asked. Although he held the cell keys in his hand, he made no move to lock the door behind Kimble.
“You heard Gerard’s testimony, same as I did.” Corman was speaking quickly, slurring words, spitting as he spoke. The gun in his hand continued to waver.
“Why don’t you put that down?” the sheriff asked. “I don’t want to have to tell you again. There’s no need for it in here. I’ve got him. He isn’t going anywhere. But I will arrest you too, if you don’t put that gun down. Now do you understand me?”
“He’s dangerous.”
“Not in a cell, he isn’t. One other thing, Corman, you’ve no objection to being deputized tonight, do you?”
Kimble’s eyes widened, but he said nothing. Bailey was watching the former fugitive, and caught the look.
“Deputized? Why?”
“The roads are bad. I am probably going to get called out to see some idiot crashed into a tree because he took a turn too wide. I don’t want to leave him here alone. From what I understand, he has a habit of escaping from cells, even if his friend right now is still in custody, down at the county seat.”
“Yeah, sure, I wouldn’t mind being deputized, if you’re sure there’s no reward.”
“There’s no reward.”
“I’ll keep a close eye on him. He’s already tried to escape, many times. He can’t be trusted. He’ll…he’ll tell you lies.”
“Yes,” Bailey said, now watching Corman instead of Kimble. “Fugitives have a habit of doing that.”
“I want…I want…” unable to finish the statement, Corman moved closer to Kimble, shoved the gun into his gut.
Kimble reacted before Bailey could, knocking Corman aside, and then rolling away. When he stood, he had his hands up, noticed Bailey had his gun drawn, but the weapon was pointing at Oliver Corman.
“Put the gun down, now, on the floor, and kick it toward me.”
“He’s a killer.”
“I know you want me to think so, but why don’t we wait for a judge and jury before we make that determination.” Bailey waved his gun. “Kimble, out of the cell. I don’t think I want the two of you together.”
Holding his hands out-spread, Kimble exited the cell, while Corman jumped him, tried to bring him down. The gun cocking had both men stopping. “Kimble, out.”
Without speaking, and not knowing if he’d gone from the frying pan into the fire, Kimble exited the cell. Bailey locked the door with Corman inside.
“I take it you killed Whit?”
“No. He did. If he says I did, he’s lying.”
“Kimble?”
“He confessed to me twice that he did, trying for the reward money on me. Palamic got between us, or I’d suppose more realistically between Corman and his reward money.”
“Pick up the gun, Dr. Kimble,” Bailey said, indicating the gun Corman had placed on the floor.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather my fingerprints weren’t on it. There’s a good chance this is the gun that killed Palamic. It’s Corman’s. He kept it below the register in his store.”
“I’ve seen it before.” Holstering his sidearm, Bailey picked up the gun, walked toward the main part of the office. “You haven’t touched this?”
“Never, and I’d like it to stay that way. Regardless of what you think of me, I’m not a big fan of guns.”
“You can’t leave me here!” Corman shouted. “He’s the one that needs to be behind bars.”
“I’ll speak with you later. Right now, I’d like to hear Dr. Kimble’s version of the events.”
“He’ll lie. I’m telling you he’ll lie.”
“That’s ok,” Bailey said, “I’m used to people lying to me.”
Bailey went to the stove, shoved some additional wood in. “You know, I wanted to believe you innocent. I’ve been reading that newspaper column.”
“You and half the country.”
“It seems there are people all over the country singing your praises.”
He would have denied being a hero, but considering the circumstances, decided to take the testimonials. “Yes. I helped a lot of people. And while I was on the run, I never committed any crimes.”
While that wasn’t exactly true, there was no sense in going into details with a chance that he could take Corman’s place in the cell at any second.
“Where’s Lieutenant Gerard? You said you took him down to the county seat?” He had been released from the hospital.
“Yes. It’s safer there, and no one there will give him any trouble. Too many people had access to him at the hospital, and the doc said as long as he continued taking his breathing treatments, it was alright to move him. This is a quiet town. I don’t like the way the people are acting. Best to keep Gerard somewhere else.”
Bailey went into the small bathroom, and in the dark, for the light from the lantern didn’t reach that far, ran water from the sink long enough to fill the top section of an old fashioned drip coffee pot. Back at his desk, he added coffee grounds, fit the top on. Outside, they could hear the wind picking up, hear the staccato tap of sleet against the windows. It would be a cold night.
“You heard the rumors too? About stringing him up?” Kimble asked.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Oddly enough from Kathy. I don’t know where she got it. She had no idea what it meant.”
“No one is lynching anyone in my town, even if I do consider him guilty.”
“He’s not, you know. Not guilty of anything.”
Kimble pulled a chair up, sat facing the main part of the office with the stove behind him. Bailey continued to watch him, but spoke easily. “I’m withholding judgment on that, but people around here are getting crazy. They’re talking of Whit like he was a choir boy who helped little old ladies across the street. They rant that it’s an outrage that he was murdered in cold blood, cutting his life short when he was everyone’s best friend. They don’t remember what a bottom feeder he was. The people in this town don’t want the truth anymore; they want a show.”
Kimble nodded, said nothing.
“In the morning I’ll get a lawyer in here and a stenographer. I’ll take your statement and his too. We’re going to do this by the book.”
Kimble shrugged, said “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“With what you think you know, that should be me behind bars, with Corman watching me.”
“That was the plan, but I didn’t like the way he was holding that gun, and I don’t like the way he looks, like his car is speeding down a ravine and the brakes don’t work.”
“You’re right, and I know you’re not going to believe me, but he was about to kill me before you showed up. I think if you put all the pieces together, you’ll find Corman killed Palamic over the reward. Not that it did him any good, I was well out of the way when Palamic was killed.”
“Sheriff,” Corman called from the cell, “Don’t listen to him.”
The sheriff’s office started smelling of the warm, comforting scent of coffee.
“You gonna wait for your lawyer?”
“I haven’t got the best track record with lawyers. If you’ll listen, I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Know or suspect? Now that Gerard is doing better, the trial is going to resume.”
Bailey poured two cups of coffee, handing a cup to Kimble.
Bailey went to the window, facing Main Street. “I wouldn’t have suspected him. He never seemed the type to pull a trigger.”
Him: Gerard or Corman? Kimble answered as if there were no ambiguity. “The first two shots Corman fired were toward me. His aim wasn’t great, and he got nowhere near me. I don’t know about the next three, but at least one of them killed your deputy.”
“For the reward money?”
“Yes. If Polamic had caught me, there would have been no payout. That’s assuming Polamic didn’t want me dead, and the money for himself.”
Bailey shrugged, took a sip of black coffee. “I wouldn’t put that past him.”
“I suppose two of those gunshots could have been Polamic and Corman shooting at each other or Corman trying to dissuade him from following me. I don’t know. I wasn’t paying that much attention.”
Bailey took a sip of coffee, winced because it was too hot to drink comfortably. With a notch of his head toward the cells in the back he asked: “You said he confessed?”
“Yes. I don’t think he meant to. And I meant what I said earlier. I’m rather certain if you hadn’t just happened to be in the street, I’d have a bullet in my back right now, from trying to escape.”
“Other than Corman’s alleged confession, that I’m not willing to take on face value, do you have any other proof before I decide to leave him in that cell all night?”
Kimble had yet to taste the coffee, but he held the mug in two hands, absorbing the warmth. “The first thing you need to understand is that the murder did not take place on Monday, but Saturday.”
“Two days doesn’t make a big difference.”
“It does, because I was gone by Saturday evening. I wasn’t around on Monday.”
“I’ve only your word on that.”
“Yes. It bothered Lieutenant Gerard how you could be so positive the exact date of Polamic’s death. No coroner could pinpoint the time that exactly. It wasn’t until I understood you were using Corman’s testimony of gunshots for your date that I started putting it all together.”
“Yes,” Bailey agreed.
“Corman closed the store on Saturday and had gone out looking for me, dreaming of a big payday. After Burmas’ death and Kathy was safe, I hid until early evening, until I thought all the people looking for me had gone. From where I hid I could see Burmas’ body taken away, see the Lawrences go, watch the posse disperse. I waited several hours more. I didn’t want to get off that mountain in complete darkness, I figured that would be suicide, but I didn’t want to leave when anyone else might be around. So I waited. I’d gotten fairly good at waiting.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“Corman found me, shot at me, then, this is supposition since I didn’t see it, but Corman admitted to it, I think Whit Polamic somehow got between me and Corman’s $10,000 payday. I wasn’t watching, so I don’t know whether or not Corman meant to shoot Polamic, or if they were working together and Corman decided not to share the reward, but that would explain the shots had been toward the deputy, one striking and killing him.
“Again, following with my supposition, Corman went back, probably Sunday and buried the body in a shallow grave, then probably went back on Monday, to look for any evidence he might have overlooked. I assume it was then he concocted the theory of the poachers. I’m sure he went to you, saying he heard the shots that afternoon, thinking you would find the body immediately, and he would be in the clear, since he didn’t have a weapon on him, and had an alibi that he hadn’t been out long enough to bury the body that day.
“Sounds like something he’d do.”
“So you believe me?”
“Yeah. The case against your lieutenant was weak, and I did check with his captain. He is a good cop with a good reputation. I would have been sick if I had to pin this murder on him.”
“I appreciate you believing to me. From,” he paused, wondered how to phrase this, “from the last time we spoke I didn’t think you’d listen.”
Kimble’s fingers shook as he dialed the phone. He had started to feel comfortable with his life, with Olivia and her clinic, with his belief in the exoneration and it was time to get back to that life.
One time zone away, the phone rang. And rang. It sounded hollow, empty, as if Olivia had abandoned him, left him to face consequences.
“Livi, I’m coming home,” he whispered, although no one answered on the other end.
“How are you feeling?” Kimble asked.
Back in the hospital, a different hospital, this one at the county seat, Gerard lay in bed. He looked better. With his signed statement at the nurse’s desk that Kimble was allowed to look at his medical records, Kimble quickly scanned the films and reports. X-rays showed his lungs had cleared, and he was about to be released from the hospital. Gerard had been picking at hospital food, his breakfast, but even the coffee was suspect. He was wanted for murder of a local boy. No one was going out of their way to make his stay comfortable, another point he hadn’t expected, all those years of hunting Richard Kimble.
“Health wise I’m fine,” Gerard said, keeping an eye on Bailey, who had entered the hospital room with the former fugitive. The gun the sheriff wore was clearly evident. “Sheriff, I know you don’t believe this, but I’m innocent.”
“Actually, Lieutenant, I do believe you.” He dug in his pockets, pulled out the handcuff keys. “You’re free to go as soon as your doctors release you.”
“What?”
“We found the killer,” Richard said.
“Dr. Kimble found the killer. I arrested him late last night, and I would have been here sooner, but the roads are a disaster.”
“So the morning news says.”
Gerard rubbed his wrists. He was no longer wearing handcuffs, but he couldn’t prevent the action either.
“I’ve got bus tickets to Chicago,” Kimble said, “if you want to come. You can find a transfer to Indiana in Chicago, while I go on to Detroit.”
“Who was it?”
“Corman.”
“The grocer? He’s a weasel.”
“Yes, but a guilty one.” Bailey pocketed his handcuffs and with a half-salute, left.
“Good. Give me five minutes to get dressed, and I’m ready.” Gerard pulled himself up until he sat on the edge of the bed.
“There’s probably follow-up meds you’ll need,” Dr. Kimble warned.
“I can get that in Stafford.”
“Pneumonia has a wicked reputation of coming back, if it isn’t completely eradicated the first time.”
“I’ll follow through. I am in no mind to go through that again.”
“Then come on. I’ve said my good-byes to the Lawrences. The roads are still lousy, but at last call, the busses are running.”
“Dr.Kimble, I am in your debt.”
“No. Phil, whatever you’re thinking, no.”
Kimble turned his back as Gerard went to the small closet and pulled out his dirty, wrinkled clothing. “You have every reason to despise me, every reason to want me to go through some of the ugliness you suffered.”
“No. Even when we were living though it, I never held any hostility toward you.”
“You should have. I wouldn’t let your case drop. I kept it in the news. You could have been more comfortable, certainly safer over those years if I had been looking for Johnson instead of you.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I was living a nightmare every minute for four years, but not once did I blame you. And Phil, without you, we wouldn’t have Reistling. He’d be on the Supreme Court, maybe not for much longer, but he probably would have been ratified to sit on the highest court on the land. That’s your doing. They should give you a medal for that alone. There was more to the case than Helen’s death. That’s all I saw, but the country is a far better place without Johnson and Reistling running free.”
“Dr. Kimble, I never saw you as a person, only a murderer. And even when I thought the motive for the murder was suspect, I hounded you.” Gerard sat on the bed, tying his shoes. “I can’t promise I’ll change my interrogation technique with murder suspects, but I’d like to think if a case like yours ever comes up again, I’ll listen.”
“A case like mine?”
“Alright, your point. Now let’s get out of here before our wives forget what we look like.”
Kimble laughed then said, “Give me a ten minute head start?” and both men were laughing as they left the hospital.
The clinic was quiet, the doors hadn’t opened yet, although no one was loitering outside, which had more to do with the outside temperature, well below freezing, than the medical needs of her patients. Olivia entered, pulled off her hat, her gloves, stashed her puffy winter coat in her office, and was pulling on her lab coat as she walked into Exam 1 where the nurse was restocking supplies.
“Maggi?”
“If it’s this cold four weeks before winter, can you imagine how cold January is going to be? We really should move south. We’ll take Dora Ann with us. Stay warm.”
“You’d melt,” Livi said with a grin.
“Probably.”
Forgetting for the moment what she’d come in for, she studied her long-time nurse. “You’re upset.”
“Yes. Mad more than upset. Annoyed. Frustrated. I’m about to kill someone.”
“Maggi, in all the years I’ve known you—“ There was no need to finish the sentence. Maggie was gentle, a dedicated healer, was even tempered. “Tell me what happened. We’ve got time. Should we try out that new coffee maker you made me keep from the wedding presents?”
“No. I’d like to get this done. We’ve gone without so much of this equipment for so long that we’d forgotten we needed it. Now that it’s here I want to have it all available for you. He’s doing good things for us.”
No need to explain which “he” they were talking about.
“Tell me what’s upset you.”
“Korl.”
“I thought he was arrested on child endangerment charges. Certainly he can’t bother us any longer.” She breathed deeply through her nose, couldn’t smell the shit he’d left in his wake, but that didn’t mean she didn’t remember it, and even more than that, she remembered a precious baby girl with a broken arm, with cigarette burns on her legs and buttocks, who held onto Richard Kimble like she’d never let him go, even when in her short life she had no call to trust men.
Maggie who had been facing the cabinet, turned around, met Olivia’s eyes directly. “Korl’s wife was admitted to the hospital last night with a cracked skull. She isn’t likely to survive.”
“His work?”
“Yes, there were witnesses. He got away. No one knows where he is.”
“We’ve seen her here, occasionally, haven’t we? Even if it’s the grandma who generally brings the kids in?”
“Yes. And there’s something more. Korl is still spreading rumors about Dr. Kimble, how he abused his wife for years.”
“That never happened.”
“Livi, from what I understand, Korl got his hands on a copy of the trial transcripts. Some neighbor testified under oath that Richard hit her.”
“Never happened.”
“Livi— people are starting to believe it, especially since Dr. Kimble isn’t around to refute it.”
“I tell you what, anyone who comes in here, believing that, you make sure I see them. I’ll put an end to those lies immediately.”
“I will.” Maggie turned back to her task, stacking sterile bandages and tape in different sizes. The clinic was starting to look like a clinic should. “What d’ you need? There must be something.”
Olivia bent down, handed her nurse another box. “I stopped this morning to get a newspaper, and they were all sold out. Later, will you find someone to run and get me the newspaper if you think there’s one available? If I don’t tell you now, I’m likely to forget, and I don’t want to miss this.”
Maggie continued working with the medical supplies, and Livi picked up another one and started sorting antibiotics, which was something of a miracle. These medicines would be put to good use. “That’s not a problem. Most of the patients come in with a copy. I’ll find one that someone doesn’t need theirs any more. Are you just interested in Top of the Deck or are you expecting something specific? He’s not in trouble again, is he?”
“No, he’s not in trouble. I think all that ugliness in Wisconsin is over now, and he’ll be coming home as soon as he can catch a train, probably sometime tonight.”
“Livi, when he comes home, I want you two to take a few days off. You never got a honeymoon. It’s important to me that you both take some time off to be a couple. I don’t think anyone who comes here would deny you that.”
The Detroit newspapers were still running Richard Kimble articles, especially since he had been led out of his own wedding reception in handcuffs. There had been no updates yesterday, which might, oddly enough, be good news—papers seemed to only print bad, especially on the front page. Richard had called, late last night, said he was free, forbid her from coming out. Still, she wanted news and the paper couldn’t be trusted—except on Fridays.
“Yes. Believe it or not, today’s column, I provided.”
Maggi dropped a handful of tongue depressors on the floor. “You wrote for Top of the Deck? You didn’t know him during his fugitive years.”
Livi shoved her hands in her bulging pockets, as if looking for something. “No. But this needed to be done. After all the horrible things that the papers have been printing about him lately—“
“None of which are true,” loyal Maggi insisted.
“None of which are true,” Livi agreed. “I found a way to put an end to the speculation, the ugliness. I’d like to see what Decker did with it. He seemed excited to get it, still, there could be a problem.”
“I’m sure there isn’t. I’ll bring in the paper as soon as it comes.”
An hour later, Maggi handed Olivia the newspaper, but Livi was too busy to peruse the paper, so she dumped it on her desk and returned to seeing patients. It was well after dark, when the last patient had been shoved out and the door locked, that Olivia sat at her desk. She touched the paper, almost a caress, but wary too, as if this newspaper had the ability to harm as well as heal. There’s a good chance Richard wouldn’t be happy that she read his private letters, that she posted, for all to see, about a time that had to be one of the most painful of his life.
She would find a way to make it up to him, beg his forgiveness if she had to, but these lies about his first marriage had to be stopped. She pulled her hand back. There was too much charting to do, and she knew she’d never get to it today if she read the article.
She leaned back in her chair, crossed her ankles as she remembered the comments her patients made, those who had read the article. All the responses had been positive. Almost everyone who came to her clinic was a follower of “Top of the Deck” and they took time to say comforting things like “That’s a good man you got there,” and “The Doc will be back soon to be with you,” to allow her the luxury of thinking maybe she had done the right thing.
Maggi stuck her head in the office door. “You want me to stay?”
“No, go home. I’ve only about ten minutes left here, then I’m for home myself.”
“Read the article?”
“Not yet. I haven’t got the courage.”
“Ha! It’s a good article, probably his best.”
She looked at the newspaper again, as if it soon accusing her of crimes. “Richard won’t thank me. He’ll probably see it as betrayal.”
“Richard loves you and you’re physically incapable of betraying him. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Good night, Maggi. Good day today.”
It was Olivia’s favorite ending to a long shift on her feet: “Good day today,” indicating they had helped heal people, that they saw they patients and were doing what they were trained to do, one person at a time, easing pain, preventing disease or the spread of disease, prolonging life. Maybe not changing the world on a massive scale, but making life easier for the people who could make it to her clinic.
“Good day today, Doc.” It was Maggi’s favorite statement too. She had her nursing license, and for years she debated leaving the profession, too much paperwork, too much in-fighting between staff, too many doctors burning out, who didn’t care, or who only cared about their bottom line. Medicine in the United States was a train wreck, with insurance and pharmaceutical companies calling the shots. They were the ones who made the decisions on what tests were necessary, what drugs should be prescribed, not the doctors who had trained.
Maggi had worked nights while her children were little, so she could be there when they were getting ready for school and again when they returned from their classes. When her daughters married and moved away, she thought to retire, let her husband support the family, for they no longer need the income from a second job, but then he died unexpectedly and her reason for living had changed. It was then she found Dr. Olivetti and a renewed passion for work.
“Livi, he’ll be back soon.”
“I know. Thanks, Maggi. You know I couldn’t do this without you.”
“You’re the best. And Livi, it was a good day.”
Olivia waited until she could hear the door locked behind Maggi. She should go home herself, she decided on a sigh, but the house would be empty, and she would just pace and worry and she felt closer to Richard while she was here.
The phone rang. For a long second, she debated not answering it, because she was exhausted, but it could be Richard, another problem, another delay in getting them together. If anything, she was desperate to hear his voice.
“Hello? Hello?” Her pulse sped as she studied her wedding band, as much a part of her now as the blood that flowed in her veins, as the tiny heart that resided deep within her womb, which although hers now, would be theirs to raise, to educate, to cherish.
There was no one on the line, so she replaced the receiver, glad in that it wasn’t an emergency, something she would have to respond to. She couldn’t see another patient, make another house call, she only wanted her husband back, her life restored to the plans she made that bright day when she said “I do.”
Without taking the luxury of a few minutes respite, Olivia finished her charting. She rubbed her fingers, trying to ease the cramping. Ignoring the newspaper, she went to restroom, washed her hands, brushed her hair. He was coming. The thought had her pulse ramping up a notch.
She stopped for a minute at the med room and without digging out her key to open the lock, rested her forehead against the door. She knew what was there now. Richard did know the way to her heart, for her clinic was so much more efficient when she could treat a patient immediately with insulin or penicillin, and then write her prescriptions for the patient to fill.
She recalled the vials of immunization drugs he had ordered. Preventive care was so important. Earlier that day she had studied their expiration dates, wondered if some of these drugs would still be here to use on her own child. The thought made her smile. It was more than a good day. It was a good life. And it would get better when Richard was back.
Deciding she could put it off no longer, Olivia turned off lights behind her and returned to her office. She checked her medical bag. No need to restock it, nothing had been used from it. When she was ready to go, she’d just grab it and go. She couldn’t put this off much longer. She would read the article.
She would have liked a coffee, but first it was too late and Maggi would have already cleaned out the pot, and second, she didn’t want to throw too much caffeine on the baby. She decided it couldn’t be good for a developing fetus.