Ahead of the Press Publishing

Haunted

By : S.L. Kotar and J.E. Gessler

Chapter 12

“Lieutenant Gerard, are you still there?”

The voice of the young man on the other end of the telephone jarred him back to reality. Shaking his head to clear it of the cobwebs his memory – no, his foray into the future – had taken him, the detective brought a hand to his brow and wiped it. Registering the dampness, he shuddered and withdrew it, staring with something akin to horror at the wetness.

“Perspiration,” he whispered but his mind screamed, Rain!

    “What was that? I didn’t quite catch it.”

Reality came crashing.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Hammer. You were saying? About this Paul Duggan?”

“Richard Kimble,” he corrected.

“That has yet to be proven.”

“It was him. I’m sure.”

“Why?”

“His story was in a magazine I was reading. His picture, too. And the wanted poster.”

“I thought as much. You recognized him from the photograph.”

“That’s right.”

“We’ll put that aside for now. You said you and he worked together. That he was your friend. Surely, you must realize the danger you’re putting him in by alerting me.”

“I believe in the law. That may sound corny to you, but that’s the way I was raised. To respect authority. My father always said that’s what makes us civilized men. We may not always approve but it’s our duty as citizens to do our part.”

“You’d be amazed to realize how few people put that sentiment into practice. Go on.”

“After he – Kimble – got the kid out of the rain he sat there with him. He cleaned away all the blood and bandaged what he could with strips of cloth from his own shirt, so he didn’t have on anything warmer than his undershirt. I saw he had a scar on his shoulder. It looked like it was from a bullet wound. Does that match your description?”

No, but it will in future.

    “Go on.”

“He said he thought the kid’s arm was broken. I guess from a tumble he took. And he might have a concussion. I tell you, man, I was freezing.”

“I imagine you were.”

“We were out all night. Dr. Kimble held the kid in his arms to keep him warm while I dozed on and off. In the morning when I woke up, I thought they were both dead; died from exposure. I didn’t want to touch them, so I just sort of poked him. He woke up with a start – probably jumped half a foot. Nearly scared the bejesus out of me. He ordered me to go back to the jeep and find a phone. Call for help. I did. I mean, I went for help. I didn’t go back to the jeep because I knew it was mired in the mud. Eventually, I located a farm house and called from there.”

“Did you tell them then it was Richard Kimble who had stayed with the boy?”

“I wasn’t sure, so I didn’t say anything. I waited and around noon the search party came up and I took them back. I sorta lost my way so we split up. That’s why I got there ahead of them. He was up and waiting. When I told him the sheriff was with the rescue team he got upset; said he had had some trouble with the law and didn’t want to hang around. He told me to sit by the kid and he ran off.”

“And the sheriff or no one in the search party saw him?”

“No. At that point they just figured he had gone back to the jeep. They wrapped up the kid and got him out of there. He was right to run, too. When we got back someone had called the press and they had a photographer waiting to take a picture of the hero. He wouldn’t have liked that, would he?”

“No. He wouldn’t have liked that.”

“They made a big deal out of me. Instead of him, I got my picture in the paper. I was the hero. I told them it was Paul but he wasn’t there, so I got all the attention.”

Walking back to his desk, Gerard set the telephone down and stared at the stack of out-of-state newspapers he had set aside for later perusal.

“I appreciate you telling me all this, but it doesn’t prove the man calling himself Paul Duggan was Richard Kimble.”

“I went back to the bunkhouse and lifted his fingerprints from a water glass. I used Scotch tape. Got some clear latents. The police here didn’t want them. Like I said, they weren’t interested. You want me to send them to you?”

“You do that. Mail them to me, care of the Stafford, Indiana Police Department, 400 Government Road.”

“You’re not coming out here? He may still be in the area. It’s only been two days. I can help you track him.”

“I don’t think so. In two days he could be a hundred miles away. Hopped a freight; hitched a ride. I can’t afford to chase down every lead unless I’m sure I have a chance of apprehending him.”

“I guess I can understand that. Too bad. You will let me know, won’t you? About how the fingerprints turned out? If they really match?”

“Yes. I’ll notify you. Thank you for calling. I always appreciate hearing from concerned citizens.”

He hung up the phone and pushed the newspapers aside. No point going through them, now. He would have to wait for the next batch to be delivered. Or, the batch after that.

Three days later he received an envelope in the mail. Postmarked Wyoming. In it were six strips of cellophane tape. He turned them in to the police lab with a form indicating who he suspected they might belong to. Under the category “Urgency,” he checked the box in front of the words, “No Rush.” In due time, the form came back to him through interdepartmental mail. Unsealing it with less urgency than might be imagined, he read the single, large, red inked, rubber-stamped word.

MATCH.

Report confirmed.

He did not go back into his journal and add that salient fact. He would remember the date of Richard Kimble’s last confirmed sighting as long as he lived.

That evening, after turning out the lights in his office, he stopped by Captain Carpenter’s door. Seeing it open, he stuck his head in. Carpenter looked up, saw who it was and smiled.

“Getting off late tonight, Phil. Anything interesting come up that I ought to know about?”

“No, sir. I just wanted to… tell you to go home. Working late is bad for your health. The… flu is going around. I wouldn’t want you to catch it. We all want you around here for a good, long time.”

The captain considered, then reached out his arms and stretched his cramped muscles.

“Maybe you’re right. Think I’ll close up shop and take your advice.” As Gerard ducked away, he added, “And thanks. For the concern. And the sentiment.”

“You bet. Good night.”

It would have been a matter of no consequence to stop by the state police registry and check for the name “Perkins Rayburn.” He didn’t. Nor, did he want to dwell on the fact that some day the Beatles would break up. Some things were best left for the future.

 

“That’s his, all right.”

Staring into the gym bag, Gerard nodded in complete assurance. The plainclothes detective standing beside him looked into the open case with more skepticism.

“How can you be so sure? Without testing it for fingerprints?”

“I know my man.” Using his handkerchief to protect the precious latents he did not need for confirmation, Gerard removed the items. “I’ve… captured more of these bags than I care to admit. The contents are always similar; containing more or less, depending on how much money he’d been making. And what sort of job he held.”

Curious to hear the reasoning, the in-state detective, for the man from Indiana was the out-of-state investigator, leaned forward. His voice held an undertone of sarcasm.

“What do you deduce from a few undershirts, shorts and white socks?” He sniffed the contents, making a face as he did so. “That stink? I thought this Kimble fellow was a doctor.”

“He is,” Gerard snapped, changing the tense of his answer without consciously doing so. “What do they tell me? First, that he either hasn’t had a job in a while, or he had to leave without picking up his last paycheck. Second, whatever he was working at was blue collar.”

“Why do you say that?”

“No business shirts. He might get away with wearing the same slacks all week but he’d have to change his shirts. Performing some sort of accounting, or semi-professional work requires a man to look presentable. And the fact they need to be laundered means he was likely working with men who didn’t bathe regularly. An outside job, perhaps. Gardener; truck driver. Construction. That sort of thing.” Sorting through the contents, he came up with a plastic safety razor. “This is from the five-and-dime store. Cheap. No hair dye, either. He either just used it or he’s getting a little grey around the temples.”

Reaching past Gerard, the man took out a nearly depleted roll of toilet paper and held it up for inspection.

“Look at this, will you? What sort of man carries ass wipes around with him?”

Inwardly cringing at the crudely expressed question, Gerard snatched it back as though it were he who was personally offended.

“One who never knows when he’ll have to bolt and run. Hiding out in the woods can be a most unpleasant experience for anyone used to being clean. Or, do you folks prefer to wipe your ‘ass’ on dried leaves? Or, not at all?”

The officer pulled back as quickly as though the Indiana cop had spit in his face.

“That comes awfully close to being an insult, Lieutenant.”

Realizing the truth while not regretting his statement, he mumbled, “No offense intended,” and went back to searching the gym bag. “One paperback book: Lord Jim. Stamped, ‘3^rd Street Lending Library.’ He obviously won’t be returning it. Three Hershey bars with almonds, matches –” He held them up for inspection. “Mae’s Café, Shelby. Where’s that?”

“Up by the border. Maybe he’s slipped into Canada.”

“No. He wouldn’t do that. He’s probably working his way south for the summer. Probably start hitting some of the larger cities.”

“Why is that?”

“He can’t afford to stay isolated too long. He’s got to keep looking for that one-armed man of his. Fred Johnson stays pretty close to places where he can get work: night watchman, short-order cook. Besides,” he added, absently rolling up a pair of the cotton socks, “don’t forget. The police are Johnson’s allies. If he sees Kimble, he’ll be the first to report him. He’ll want a good force capable of throwing up road blocks and searching apartments, alleys, that sort of thing.”

“Hadn’t thought of that.”

“In my line of work, I have to think of everything.” He put the articles back in the bag and zipped it shut. “If nothing else, we’ve set him back. That’s something.”

The local man didn’t ask why, for which Gerard was secretly relieved. He didn’t want to have to explain that every time Richard Kimble lost his belongings, that meant he would have to replace them. If he had money, spending it would deplete what cache he had. If he didn’t, he would be compelled to find work quickly, take fewer precautions. The more careless he became, the more likely he would be to make a mistake. That was how men on the run got caught.

Either that, or they became so bone weary and mentally shattered by the constant trials they faced and risks they were compelled to take, they simply threw caution to the wind and in a perverse sort of way began looking forward to the day when a policeman would step out from the shadows and order him to put up his hands.

How many more days or weeks or months before “his man” deteriorated to that point? When the walls of a dirty, shabby hotel room started closing in on him? When the local newspapers of fourteen different counties failed to contain a single line about a one-armed man? When the cold he caught in timber country turned into pneumonia and he was forced to choose between seeking services at a hospital he couldn’t pay for, or curling up in a blind alley and choking to death on his own secretions?

“Sorry we missed him. Couldn’t have been by more than a few hours.”

Gerard made a noise under his breath. He knew better than to press the issue for roadblocks or street-to-street searches. There was always some excuse to deny him.

“I’ll keep this bag if you don’t mind.”

“Help yourself. What’s next?”

“I won’t be needing your services any longer this afternoon. I appreciate your help. I’ll check back with you before I leave.”

“Sure thing.”

The local cop drifted away, glad to be rid of the Stafford man. He had come in on a plane earlier that morning and gone to the hotel where the clerk had called in the ID the night before. When a man worked at a $2 a night hole-in-the-wall he learned fast how to supplement his income. He paid attention to who came and who went. This fellow, signing his name Robert Pearson, had “the look,” he said. A man who didn’t meet his eyes. A man who curled his shoulders inward, stuffed his free hand in his pocket.

“It’s what they learn,” he said. “Not to leave fingerprints. If your hand’s in your pocket, that’s fifty percent less you leave behind.” He had shuffled up the staircase, not too fast, not too slow. “Trying to make himself invisible. But right at the top – I was watching him – he felt my eyes on him and turned around for a peek. Real quick. I looked down, pretending to be busy. Dust the counter. He put his fingers down, just there.”

And so he had. When they came back positive, the squirrely little clerk earned himself $5 and the sergeant on duty had called the name on the back of the wanted poster. For whatever reason, the resident detective had expected a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a trench coat and carrying a pistol. Speaking out of the side of his mouth. With dark, glinty eyes and a way about him that spelled trouble. Instead, they had gotten a thin, wry man with piercing blue eyes dressed like a used car salesman. All perpetual motion and questions. Like no one they had ever seen in the picture shows.

He was a disappointment and no one at the precinct really cared after that whether they caught the fugitive he was after or not.

Better adept at knowing what to expect, Phillip Gerard knew what he’d walk into. Local men who liked to carry side-arms and appreciated the fact restaurant owners offered them meals on the house. They would make the minimum effort to help, then wash their hands when he left as though he were the lawbreaker and not the criminal he sought. If he failed to understand why otherwise law-abiding people risked their reputations and even their freedom to help a convicted murderer, he comprehended law enforcement men even less.

To him, the law was a sacred calling. The law was the cornerstone of civilization and to uphold it, an honor and a privilege. He carried his badge with pride and to see someone curl up their lips at the sight of it sickened him. The police were the real heroes; men who put their lives on the line every time they walked out onto the street. To use such a position for petty gain, then scorn someone who sought to uphold justice was beyond his ken.

Chasing Richard Kimble had been an eye-opener for him in more ways than one, and as he crossed the street to his rental car, he clenched his teeth in disgust. There was no point staying in town. There was no one in town who would do any more than lift a finger to help him. And just as surely, Kimble had “flown the coup,” an expression his mother used to use. Although long dead, he remembered her tone of voice as clearly as if she were beside him. It did not make him nostalgic, for he was not a nostalgic man. He prided himself on living in the moment.

Getting into the car, he rolled down the window and removed a map from the glove compartment.

“If you’ve flown the coup, Dr. Kimble, where did you go?”

He had either suspected the clerk of recognizing him or that sixth sense had warned him trouble was around the corner. He had fled in an instant, leaving his belongings behind.

“Did you hitch a ride? Take the bus? Hop a train?”

He paused, tilting his head to the side as if expecting the wind to whisper a direction to him. Perhaps it did, for he made up his mind without debate.

“Bus.”

It was more expensive than thumbing but more certain. If the clerk had recognized him, he couldn’t afford to wait. Not until roadblocks were set up. Unlike Gerard, who knew what to expect, he couldn’t take the chance the local police would sit on their hands.

Shoving the key into the ignition, he gunned the engine, then pulled out into traffic. Without the slightest idea where the bus station was, he found it within twenty minutes.

Retrieving one of Kimble’s wanted posters from his briefcase, Gerard stared at the familiar face for a beat, then replaced it, face down. Getting out of the car, he scanned the area, saw what he was looking for and deftly crossed the street. Going into a Hallmark Card and Stationery store, he bypassed the racks of cheerful greeting cards, dodged around displays of expensive glass figurines and ignored the row of pennants, mugs and postcards promoting the local sports teams. At the back, in a small section that actually offered desk supplies, he searched through the boxes of bonded, watermarked cream-colored or light blue paper, seals and sealing wax, presentation Cross pen and pencil sets and the displays of Waterman fountain pens held under glass by lock and key as if they were fine wines.

As luck would have it, he found a pair of scissors “Designed for the Lefty,” of the same quality as those common, everyday scissors used by right-handers, but for $2 more. Being ambidextrous and incidentally thrifty, he opted for the cheaper pair. Selecting a narrow-point black marker to go with it, he marched to the counter of the near empty store, paid for his purchases and returned to the car.

With one of several wanted posters he always carried with him in hand, he deftly maneuvered the right-handed scissors around the photograph, then, using his briefcase as a desk, darkened the fugitive’s hair with the marker. Finding his first effort too heavy handed, he smiled at the effort.

“I’m afraid, Dr. Kimble, instead of giving you a hair dye job, I’ve made it look as though you’re wearing a bad wig.”

Cutting up a second wanted poster, he repeated his efforts, taking care not to make the transformation from grey to black too dark. This time he startled himself with the accuracy of his artwork.

“Very nice, if I do say so, myself. And yes,” he continued, talking to himself as he packed away the scissors, pen and paper remnants in his briefcase, “I do realize I defaced government property. But, all for a good cause, as they say.”

Waiting another moment for the “doctored” ink to dry, he tucked it into his suit jacket pocket and headed for the bus terminal. Once inside, he went straight for the counter. No one was in line, enabling him to step up and speak immediately with the clerk.

“Where’ll it be?” the man uninterestedly inquired.

Taking a $5 bill from his pocket that he would be unable to claim on his expense account, Gerard left it within easy sight, then held up the picture.

“I’m looking for my friend. It’s very important I locate him. He would have come through here earlier this morning. Were you on duty then?”

Too many questions, too fast.

Slow down.

    “Yeah. I was on duty. Been here since 6 A.M.” The ticket seller squinted, then blew air through his cheeks. “Looks like a mug shot.”

Gerard assumed an air of nonchalance.

“I suppose it does. That’s Dick for you. Never liked having his picture taken.”

Dick.

    He had used the nickname without thinking as it all came back to him….

 

As the arresting officer, there was no reason why he had to be present, but he had stayed through the entire booking procedure. Bringing Kimble into the police station with the charge of murder still ringing in his ears, Gerard had directed his prisoner to the station where he was to be fingerprinted. Sergeant Tim O’Riley had been the officer on duty. Another Irishman; a holdover from the days when every police force had a dozen or two dozen men with brogues as thick as Irish wool. Tim’s father had been a cop and his father before him.

“Came over on the boat,” he had once said. “Immigrated from the Emerald Isle and went through Ellis Island. Met my grandmother there. She was fifteen and he was seventeen. Green behind the ears and green through and through, he was. Ended up in Queens. Wasn’t any potatoes to pick so he volunteered for the next most unwanted job – bein’ a copper. It was ‘copper’ back in those days; not cop. Cop is short for copper.”

“Is that so?” Gerard had asked although he already knew the story.

“Copper means someone who captures. Get it? People think the word’s from the copper buttons policemen wore on their uniforms but that ain’t so.”

“Really?”

He had heard otherwise but didn’t say so.

“No Irish need apply. That’s what the signs said. But a good, stout Irisher could get a job on the police force and that’s what my grandpa – We called ‘im ‘Da’ – done.”

“Interesting.”

“I was born there, in Queens. People say I got a dialect; they can always tell.”

“That you’re Irish?”

“No; from Queens.”

“Ah.”

“Moved out here ’cause my wife’s got folks in the area. For babysittin’. Know what I mean?”

“Yes. Cheaper that way. To use your in-laws.”

“My wife’s a seamstress. You ever need any work done, you couldn’t do any better.”

“I’ll tell Marie.”

He had, in fact, told Marie. She had seemed surprised at the offer and never mentioned it again.

“Ever been fingerprinted?” O’Riley asked the suspect. Tim was a chatterer; he liked to talk.

“No. Never,” Kimble responded. Gerard couldn’t tell if he were being polite or if speaking on any subject at all was better than dwelling on the prospects ahead of him.

“This is an ink pad. Give me your right hand. And pull up the sleeve of your shirt so it doesn’t get stained.”

“Thanks.”

As if it actually mattered, the prisoner pushed up the cuffs of his white business shirt, then, without thinking, offered his left hand. Tim lightly slapped it.

“I said right hand.”

Kimble awkwardly exchanged one hand for the other.

“Does it make any difference?”

“It does to me or I would have let you choose. But since you asked, I always do the right hand first because most people are right-handed. They’re easier to teach that way. Look.” He took Kimble’s thumb, pressed it into the ink pad then, with his hand over that of his ostensive student, rolled it onto the police form under the square marked, appropriately enough, ” Right Thumb.”

“See? Now, we’ll do it again with your pointer finger.”

He completed all four remaining fingers, each time taking care to press the selected digit into the pad and then onto the paper.

“Now, we’ll do it with your left hand.”

Beginning with the thumb, he inked it, then rolled it, side-to-side across the paper. The operation wasn’t as smooth but the result was excellent.

“Look there: a nice, clean tracing. But, it felt a little awkward, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s because you’re not as dexterous with your left hand. But since we practiced first with your dominant hand, your mind knew what to expect and that made it easier. Look at the card. What other reason can you make out for using the right hand first?”

“The card is designed that way. One hand doesn’t have to cross over the other. There’s less chance of smearing.” He cleared his throat, then added, “Stage right and stage left. I had a professor in medical school once. He called the operating room his theatre. ‘Stage right’ meant to the right of the surgeon, not the instrument nurse facing him.” After a beat, he added, “I thought that was interesting. I never forgot it.”

“It’s good to remember things. You never know when some bit of trivia might come in handy.” He handed the doctor what had once been a white towel. “Wipe your hands good. The operation was a success. In case we ever need to compare a set of latents – that’s fingerprints – of yours, we’ll have a good set.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Gerard wondered if he were jesting or expressing a sense of impotent bitterness.

“Fingerprints can condemn or they can free. It’s best to get things right.”

“That’s what I want, isn’t it? For the police to get things right.”

“Lieutenant Gerard, here, appreciates a good workman. He keeps his facts straight. You can have no fear of that.”

As if that were the cue for him to tremble, Kimble glanced quickly at the detective, and for a moment their eyes locked. Gerard read apprehension with a chaser of – what? Doubt? Anger? Accusation? What the prisoner read remained unspoken.

“Let’s go. Over here.”

Taking him by the arm as if uncertain Kimble would follow without prompting, he led him to the section designated for photography. The officer there was not as communicative and decidedly less friendly.

“Take off your jacket,” he stiffly ordered.

Kimble did so, then hesitated, not knowing what to do with the clothing. He started to hand it to Gerard then thought better of it and draped it over the back of a chair.

“Over there. Stand straight.”

Moving toward a blank, screened wall, he stood in front of it. His expression gave the impression he was waiting for the terse command, “Ready. Aim. Fire.” The flashbulb popped. He blinked after the fact.

Just like having a picture taken for a passport. It never came out well.

 

“Can you tell me if you’ve seen him?”

The ticket clerk stared at the face staring back at him, then his eyes went to the $5 bill.

“Yeah. I saw him.” He tapped his finger on the counter. Gerard rested the money down but kept his own finger on it to prevent the man from taking it before he got what he wanted.

“He bought a ticket?”

“Yeah.”

“Where to?”

“Lewistown.”

“Where’s that?”

“East.”

“Did he ask for Lewistown or did he just want the first bus out?”

“You’re asking a lot of questions for five bucks.”

“Yes, I am.” Finally annoyed, he reached into his coat with his free hand, stage left, and removed his badge. Slapping it down beside the money, he snarled, “You can either answer and take the $5 or I can bring you downtown and have you answer there. Without the five dollars.”

“First bus out.”

“Thank you.”

Removing his finger enabled the clerk to slide the money toward him.

Exchange complete.

Returning to his rental car, Gerard removed a map from the glove compartment and traced the route between Great Falls and Lewistown. Determining how many stops might be between his starting and end points, turned the key, drove two blocks then turned and headed east.

There was no doubt in his mind Kimble would jump ship before the bus arrived in Lewistown. The question then became, which of the small towns along the route would he choose to get off at? And how closely would he believe the police were following? He couldn’t be sure the hotel clerk had positively ID’d him. If he hadn’t come up with a name, it might take several hours for him to go through the mug shots down at the station. There was also the possibility the police would take fingerprints. Although he hadn’t been in the room long, he had undoubtedly left some. And then, there was the issue of his duffle bag. Numerous items inside would have latents on them. How long would it take to have them analyzed? They would have to be sent out. It was unlikely the police would have positive confirmation before tomorrow morning.

If things went as planned, he had twenty-four hours, possible more.

Best case scenario, he had been mistaken. The queer look the clerk gave him might have been just that – a question, an invitation, or just a plea to keep his own mouth shut if he heard too much down the hall, or saw what he shouldn’t outside in the alley. Second best case, the clerk failed to pick his face out of the picture book line-up. Or, it took longer than anticipated to match his fingerprints to his true identity. Any period greater than a day and a night and the cops would figure he had left the county and was out of their jurisdiction.

Gerard knew Richard Kimble well enough to reason he wouldn’t count on any best case outcome. Three years on the run had taught him never to take anything for granted. All it required was one zealous cop to check the obvious escape routes: hitch a ride. Hop a train. Take the bus. If the clerk at the depot remembered him, the cop would have his destination.

One zealous cop.

    “I guess that’s me,” Gerard announced to no one. “I’m your worst case scenario, Dr. Kimble.”

He didn’t add, And I’m coming after you, in case…. Just on the off chance Kimble was reading his mind.

It worked both ways.

“I wonder how much money he has?”

That was easier to speculate. Low wage job. The clothes had told him that. A man who earned the bare minimum never had two dimes to rub together. Kimble had already traveled from Shelby to Great Falls. What had he been doing there? What was there to do in Shelby, Montana? Lumberman? Plant crops? Pick crops? Deliver meals to house-bound seniors? Work at a lending library?

Chase rumors of a one-armed man? There was always that possibly. It didn’t have to be through a newspaper notice. There were any number of ways a man on the street could inquire. Ask around at a truck stop.

I’m looking for my friend. It’s very important I find him.

    Ironic, how the fugitive and the cop could use interchangeable dialogue.

The fella owes me some money.

    He’s my sister’s husband. Ran out of her. She asked me to find him.

    We served together in Korea. I owe him.

    Anything but the truth. Men of a certain class didn’t like to squeal on others of their kind. Even if they didn’t like him and by all accounts there was little to like about Fred Johnson. But if you made your reason seem plausible they’d search their memory, ask around. Do a good turn for some fella who needed money, or had a sister, or needed to pay back a debt, and in return someone might return the favor for you. It was pay as you go and once in a while you got rewarded for a favor.

Life tended to balance out if you were lucky. At the moment, the scales were tilted toward Kimble. Missed him by a few hours. It was time they turned.

Caught him by the skin of his teeth.

    If his man had gone to Shelby looking for his man, he had left disappointed.

“Thumbed a ride to Great Falls,” he pursued, thinking aloud. “That’s the cheapest way to travel. Took a hotel room. That set him back two dollars. He must have intended to get a job there. Something immediate.”

Help Wanted: male. Liquor store clerk. Bartender. Lending library.

He couldn’t get Lord Jim off his mind. It was doubtful anyone would miss the paperback. Joseph Conrad wasn’t the usual reading fare for men who patronized lending libraries. If they read at all, they looked for adventure stories. Treasure Island. Or, mysteries. Sherlock Holmes identifying the culprit from cigarette chards.

Richard Kimble didn’t need any reminders. Nor was it likely he cared to read about apprehending criminals. That left stories about haunted men. What next? Les Miserables?

    “Two dollars for a room. Probably bought something to eat. How much would his last paycheck have been? Twenty dollars?”

Wrong book, Gerard mused. Kimble wasn’t playing Jean Valjean; he was Tom Jobe in The Grapes of Wrath.

“Sixteen dollars left. Plus whatever he paid for the bus ticket. I should have asked. Five dollars? That leaves eleven. Not much to start a new chapter.”

Gerard already knew what he wanted. It was now a question of finding it.

He drove through three small towns and one hamlet before pulling off the road for gas. Getting out of the car while the gas jockey filled the tank, checked the oil, washed the windshield and inspected the tire pressure, he strolled down an adjoining road, taking in the sights. Not surprisingly, the main business section was built around both sides of Main Street. It was no different than a thousand other places across the country where people settled and made their homes. Counting three fast food joints and a restaurant of better quality where, he guessed, the heirs of the founding fathers ate their meals when not consumed by writing wills, setting up savings accounts and setting broken bones, there was a drug store, a JC Penny outlet, a bakery, a card ‘shoppe,’ an antique business, a pawn shop and a grocery mart.

Turning to wave at the attendant, indicating he would return by-and-by, the hairs on the back of the detective’s neck rose. The town was small enough for a man to find a job, and just large enough to hide in. But there was something lacking from the picture. A place his instincts told him would appeal to a man with $11 in his pocket. A man who was looking for a position less soul-draining than that of janitor, or a graveyard shift stocking boy. An occupation more befitting a stranger who read Lord Jim.

    If he could fine it, then he would know he had inadvertently stopped at the right place.

Link to HAUNTED Chapter 13