Ahead of the Press Publishing

Haunted

By : S.L. Kotar and J.E. Gessler

Chapter 4

Gerard woke with a start. He had fallen asleep in the chair. With a cry of anguish, he reached out a hand, thinking to catch the one-armed man. But he wasn’t there. Realization came crashing. He wasn’t in a parking lot at Michigan City and the year was not 1963. It was October, 1965 and he was on a train heading west toward Indiana.

The only thing that had not changed was the fact Richard Kimble was dead.

“Nightmare,” he mumbled, shaking his head to rid it of the lingering horror. “The one-armed man. He confessed to me.”

But it had only been a dream. Richard Kimble had not been executed in the electric chair and he had not met the man who could have exonerated him. His mind had turned fantasy into reality.

Why?

    Because the fugitive had warned him that nightmare would come true? That once he was executed Gerard would find Fred Johnson, the name Kimble had given to his one-armed man, and discover he had been the actual killer? Had he dreamed it because did harbor doubts about Kimble’s guilt? Or, had his mind created the scene as punishment for the doctor’s irreconcilable fate?

“No,” he argued with himself, getting up on shaky legs and rubbing his arms to get the blood circulating. “None of that is true. What’s happened has happened. It was inevitable he be caught; if not one way, then another. I can’t regret the fact he died the way he did. At least it had a purpose. He deserved that much. Justice was served. Not the way it was intended, but the way it had to be.”

Inadvertently kicking the lunch box, Gerard cringed at the loud, tinny sound it created. Tapping it back under the chair, he looked around the enclosed car with distaste. Because he was upset, the darkness appeared more sinister, the walls closer and more claustrophobic. Using his hands to protect his face from unseen objects, he felt around the sides. When his hand reached a latch, he jerked it up then shoved back the door. It rolled back on poorly-oiled rollers. He was immediately assailed by a blast of night air. Bracing himself against the cold, then squinting to acclimate himself to the passing landscape, he watched as trees and isolated homes and distant hills flew by. With little effort he could imagine himself standing still and the outside moving.

And then, in another transference, he was a man on the lam, running to catch the passing train. Reaching out in his mind’s eye he grabbed hold of the side, braced himself for flight and flung himself up and into the car. A hard slap as his face struck the floor, a mad scramble to shift his weight inward and then a grunt of relief.

Made it! Caught the outbound. Where’s it going? No one knows. No one cares. One destination is as good as another. Lancaster. Richmond. Key Biscayne. Pick apples; wash windows; work on a boat. Laborer’s wages. Earn in a week what a doctor paid in a tip at the local restaurant.

    Steak and mushrooms. An aged French claret. Devil’s food cake. Dancing to a trio playing requests. A ride in the country, afterwards. Just the two of them. Lovers, speaking in whispers.

    “We better get home. I have early office hours tomorrow.”

    “Just another half an hour. The moon is so full and bright. There’s magic in the air.”

    A not-so reluctant agreement. Stealing a kiss or two. A long, slow drive and then back home and into bed. A romantic interlude followed by the sleep of the just. And in the morning, a shower, then dressing in a tailored suit.

    “Good morning, Dr. Kimble. You’ve got a waiting room full of squirming children.”

    A laugh at the receptionist and a wink.

    “It’s not the children who are squirming; it’s the mothers. Worrying about the vaccinations; eager to get home for lunch. The bridge ladies are coming at one. I’ve got to pick up the toys and vacuum the rug.”

    Gerard had thought long but not hard about the transition Richard Kimble was forced to make to survive on the run. That reality struck him now like a blow.

Hop a freight car.

    Not as easy as it looked. Better to catch it in the railyard. Pull back a door and scurry in like a rat. Hope it’s empty. If it’s not, then share the ride. With a friend or a foe? A surly drunk or a thief on the lam? A hobo who lost the war, or a woman with a baby? Always hoping against hope that maybe there’d be a one-armed man flattened in the corner.

But then what? Better not to think too far ahead.

Hitch a ride.

    Walking the long, lonely roads, thumb out, cars whistling past. How many hitchhikers had he passed in his days when he owned a car and held the world on a string? Fifty? A hundred? And never given the dissolute man by the side of the road a second thought.

Who picked up a hitchhiker? Men who want company. You have nothing to talk about. Think of something quick before he tells you to get out at the next crossroads. Baseball. Talk about America’s pastime. But it’s been forever since you’ve read a box score and even longer since you’ve had box seats at a Tiger’s game. Local politics? You don’t even know the name of the last town or the one you’re going to.

Help Wanted: Male.

Bartender. You’re used to being served, not serving. Remember the dozen or so recipes with the fancy names for the ladies; a double shot of scotch for the men. Keep an eye out for trouble. The girl at the piano has her own problems. When hers become yours it’s time to move on. Truck driver. You need a driver’s license; have to learn how to shift gears in the big rigs. Backing up is the hardest. Learn the lingo of the over-the-road CB jammers. Back sore, bones stiff, drinking coffee by the gallon. Don’t fall asleep. Fry cook. Greasy burgers spitting boiling hot oil. Second cup of coffee on the house. Five cents tip, or “Keep the change” if you’re lucky. Ten cents or a quarter. All the chili you can eat. Stuff the bowl with crackers so you can pretend it’s something else. Get a move on, Joe; been here three weeks. You’re getting stale.

Shadows, shadows everywhere but not the one you want. Look over your shoulder. He’s out there. Or, a cop who reads wanted posters. Hold up, look away, bend down to tie a shoelace. Wait until he’s gone or the car rolls past. Check reflections in shop windows. Are you being followed? Yes. No. Maybe. Walk faster, slower. Run for your life. Up one street and down another. One day it’ll be a blind alley and Gerard will be there. Luck run out.

Out-of-town newspapers. Ten cents each, adding up. Pass one by and you might miss the article about the one-armed man roughing up a clerk in Dayton. Or San Fernando. Give up that All-You-Can-Eat special and go hungry so you can buy three newspapers instead of two. Bitter gall haunting your mind. Should have bought that fourth one. From Albuquerque. It was in there, what you’ve been looking for. Miss it. Or maybe not. Maybe it wasn’t the right man. By the time you got there he’d be gone. One chance in a million; a needle in a haystack. False hope is the very worst kind of hope. False hope is better than no hope.

Who are you? What’s your name? Who me? I’m nobody. Just a guy passing through. I used to be Somebody but now I don’t want to be Anybody. I’m just Jim or Jack or Bill. Whatever last name fits the bill. No, I’ve never been arrested, why do you ask? Sure, I’m nervous. Wouldn’t you be? I lost my I.D. A guy back in Somewhere picked my pocket. References? Remember the names of men who were hiring back in Grand Rapids; he won’t remember whether you worked for him or not. “Yeah, he’s a good guy. Give ’em a job.” You’re safe until they check. Maybe they won’t. You didn’t give them a phone number. Who calls for a reference on a man who works the graveyard shift at your apartment complex? The only credentials he needs is how to fix a leaky faucet and unplug a toilet.

A stranger in sheep’s clothing. Who do you trust? The man who spotted you for a diamond in the quartz? He promoted you to field manager. He knows you’re educated; honest. He invites you home for a meal and a beer. You bounce his son on your knee. There’s an extra five in your pay envelope because you caught an arithmetic mistake your predecessor made and saved him a lot of trouble with the bank. And then the police come. Did he call them because he knows you aren’t who you say you are, or is he going to hide you out until they leave? Life and death hangs in the balance.

The woman you hold in your arms. It’s been forever and a day since you’ve found solace that way. You care for her; you might even love her. But life on the run is hell. You spend the night and then the week. Two weeks until you’re serious and you realize how tired you are. The allure to settle down and be normal – just normal – makes you wait too long. Complacency is your enemy not your friend. Familiarity breeds carelessness. You drive to town on an errand – pick up a prescription in the drugstore and suddenly you’re not “Sam” anymore, but Richard Kimble and you don’t have time to say good-bye. Another loss. This one hurts, too. The bitterness builds.

A bed, three squares and a hot shower in the morning. A suitcase to unpack and a dresser to put your clothes in. You’ve got two month’s-worth of wages in the top drawer and a change of clothes in the closet. You’re not a doctor any longer but you’ve recovered some respect. And then a slip, a mistake, an inadvertent comment, or maybe that reference you gave was called in and didn’t check and it’s all lost in an instant. Run for the bus depot, or hop in the back of a passing truck, everything left behind without even a dime to your name. You forgot the Golden Rule: Never relax. And always carry your money in your pocket or it’s down the drain before you know it.

Never call collect. That leaves a trace. Gerard can check the phone records. So homesick you think your insides are going to burst and you call your sister just to hear a friendly voice. “How’s Dad? How are the kids?” Just keep talking, Donna. You want to hear her voice. Someone who knows you’re innocent. “I’m fine, Sis.” Give it the old college try. If she believes it, maybe you can, too. “I’m in Minneapolis; I’m staying in a mountain cabin; I’m washing cars. I’m tutoring an autistic child. I’m staying a week; I’m leaving tomorrow. I saw a blurb in the paper – a one-armed man. Love you. Bye.”

Two minutes; three. Get it out in a hurry. Time it in your mind. Happy birthday. Merry Christmas. Wish you were here. Wish I was there. The bullet I took in the shoulder is killing me. I’ve got a cold that’s turning into pneumonia. I’m fine, Sis, just fine. No, I don’t know when I’ll call again. Too risky.

The bear went over the mountain to see what he could see. Three nights in the woods. Starving. Cold. Hot. Ants crawling up your legs, mosquitoes biting the hell out of you. Aren’t you ever going to come out at a road? The body of a man found decomposing in the woods. Bloodhounds baying in the distance. Helicopters overhead. Duck before the pilot spots you. Fall down a ravine, twist an ankle. Running; limping; walking, crawling. Half man-half beast. Wash your hands because that’s what you were taught; defecate in the bushes because you’re half way to Nowhere. Drink out of a stream; try and get your hands on a razor because no one’s going to hire you if you look like a tramp.

Wash your clothes in a coin laundry unless you left without them. Goodwill stores, Salvation Army. Once, you were a gentleman. How are you ever going to get civilization back?

Cry yourself to sleep.

Rich man, Poor man, Beggar Man, Thief. The Four Stages of being a fugitive.

Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief. Neither, nither; either, ither.

 

Lost on a railroad car. Gerard slammed shut the rolling side door. He had been right all along when he advised Donna Taft to tell her brother to turn himself in. Richard Kimble wasn’t what he was. What he had failed to add, because it wasn’t any of her business, was that he wasn’t the man he had been, either.

Where did the nightmares end and the living begin? Or, more accurately, the nightmares ended when the living ceased. Which offered no consolation.

He went back to the chair and dozed. The next time the train stopped he crossed to the door at the front of the compartment and tried the knob. Still locked. With the ire of a man unjustly convicted, he pounded on it until a timid voice inquired, “Who’s in there?”

“Lieutenant Gerard. Police. Open up, you fool!”

Hearing the sound of a key being inserted, he stood back, ready to pounce should the conductor take a look at him and decide he belonged where he was. Instead, the man dumbly inquired, “What are you doing in there?”

“Sitting with a corpse. What do you think I’m doing?”

“No one told me there was a man in there.”

“Well, now you know. Where are we?”

“Just outside Cleveland, Ohio.”

“How long before we get to Indiana?”

“Another day. Where are you going?”

“Stafford.”

“We’re only stopping there to let off baggage.”

“Do you suppose I can get off, too? Or do I have to wait for a passenger stop?”

The man bristled at the sarcasm.

“How far does your ticket take you?”

“Are you an idiot? I just told you I’m escorting a body to Stafford, Indiana.”

“Why?”

Because he had no answer, Gerard didn’t give one.

“How long are we stopping here?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“I have to get out. And report in,” he added although that was a lie. It fell somewhere between beggar man and thief. “I won’t be long. Under no circumstances is this train to leave without me. Do-you-understand?” To underscore his order, he took out his badge and shoved it under the man’s nose.

The conductor stepped back as though fearful of contamination.

“I don’t have any authority to hold up this train.”

“Then pass word to the engineer.” His expression tightened. “If you leave without me, there’ll be no one to oversee the removal of the coffin and you’ll have to take it with you to the coast. And back.” He smiled. It was an evil expression. “Do you believe in ghosts? Because I’m keeping one at bay.”

The railroad employee folded his hands.

“I’ll pass word up front. We’ll wait for you. Sir.”

Amazing, what a threat like that would do.

Gerard worked his way past him and carefully trod down the three high steps to the platform. Crossing hurriedly into the waiting area, he looked around for a shop or a Traveler’s Aid where he could obtain some toilet articles. Finding none, he went to the lavatory, relieved himself, then tarried at the communal sink. The streaked mirror revealed deep pockets beneath his eyes, while the growth of brownish-grey stubble added ten years to his chronological age. Repulsed by the image he did not recognize, he washed his hands and face, did his best to smooth his hair, then returned to the waiting room. Those coming and going had already departed, leaving the room deserted.

With a quick glance around, he took in the hard-wood benches, the crumpled cigarette packets carelessly tossed onto the scraped linoleum, the butts piled high in the ashtrays. Day-old newspapers, rolled into cylinders, a discarded map of the United States and several candy wrappers made up the remainder of the decorations. Stifling a shudder, he went to a vending machine, inserted a dime and selected a Hershey bar. Annoyed that it cost twice what he would have paid at a drug store, he dropped it into his pocket and returned to the train. The conductor was waiting for him.

“Where can I get some coffee?” he demanded, coming aboard with less enthusiasm then when he had disembarked. “And a sandwich?”

“I can get you something from the staff lounge.”

“Then, do so. I’ll wait,” he added, correctly assuming that if he returned to the baggage compartment without the requisite items he would never receive them. The man hurried away and the train lurched ahead with such a forward lunge Gerard almost lost his balance and tumbled overboard.

Rubbing his skinned elbow, Gerard steadied his balance, then gripped the handrail. Smoke from the engine, swirling around the cars, nearly choked him. When the conductor returned twenty minutes later, he accepted what was offered and returned to his private car. Private, except for a coffin and its contents.

 

A loud rapping on the door brought him out of the semi-lethargy into which he had fallen.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Stafford, next stop. I’m coming in.”

Although he didn’t need the warning, Gerard assumed it wasn’t for him as much as it was for any lingering spirit. Standing to greet the porter, whom he did not recognize, the two nodded wearily at one another as though they were adversaries rather than employee and passenger.

“I’ve been instructed to tell you there’s a morgue wagon waiting at the loading platform. Do you want to sign the bill of lading?”

Gerard withdrew in surprise.

“No. Let the attendants sign it. They’re the ones picking up the coffin.”

“I assumed you were family of the deceased. That being the case –”

Hoping he was performing the act for the final time this trip, the detective removed his badge and displayed it to the porter.

“Police. Not a relation.”

“Oh. Sorry. I wasn’t told this was a state case.”

“How long until we get in?”

“Fifteen minutes, Lieutenant. Is there a formal transfer that needs to be witnessed, or will a signature do?”

Snapping his fingers, Gerard held out his hand and took the paperwork. Noting it was a three-part form, he handed it back.

“Either the driver or a member of the family, if one is there, can sign for it. You complete whatever transaction the railroad demands, then send the bottom copy to the Stafford police department. By mail will be sufficient. Here’s the address,” he added, handing the man his business card. The porter curiously stared at it.

“Phillip Gerard. Do I know that name?”

“No.”

“I thought maybe it sounded familiar. Who’s the stiff?”

“That’ll be all. Don’t lock the door on your way out. I’ll be disembarking as soon as the train stops.”

Touching his hand to the brim of his cap, the porter back-stepped out, leaving the quick and the dead together for the last time. Rather than stand on ceremony, however, Gerard stepped away and did not turn back to face the last mortal remains of Richard Kimble. They had shared a long journey together. That bond was now severed.

When the train pulled up outside the platform, Gerard grabbed his overnight bag and the lunch pail, gripped them together in one hand, rushed to the door to the second-to-last compartment, opened it and hurried out. The last thing he wanted was to be caught inside when the sliding door opened. It wasn’t the morgue attendants he dreaded but the possibility the Tafts had come to greet the train. Meeting them was a second nightmare he didn’t care to face.

After three days of near constant movement, his legs felt rubbery beneath him and as he began the long walk to the parking lot they nearly buckled. Awkwardly regaining his balance, he paused to transfer the metal box to his right hand before hurrying on.

Forgetting the fact he had driven a police car to the station, Gerard silently rued the fact he had not asked Marie to bring his car and leave it for him. Hailing a cab, he gave the driver his home address on Maple Avenue. His original intent, so long ago now it seemed an age, had been to go directly to the precinct and report in. That plan no longer held any appeal. Not only was his appearance unkempt, he didn’t want to face their quizzical stares or answer the questions of the men awaiting his return. That would have to hold off until morning.

Pressing himself back against the worn fabric of the rear seat, he closed his eyes as a signal to the cabbie he didn’t want to talk. The tactic worked for no words were exchanged until the vehicle pulled up outside his house. Reaching into his billfold, he paid the man with a five dollar bill, muttered, “Keep the change,” and got out.

Mourning the loss of the pocket money more than he could account for, for he surely couldn’t add it to his expense account, Gerard walked up to the front door and then froze. Although it was only four o’clock, too early for anyone to be in bed, he experienced the awkward sensation no one inside was waiting for him. Feeling more an interloper than the man of the house, he debated whether to knock, take out his key and try the lock, or merely turn the knob and enter.

More afraid than he cared to admit, he sucked in his lower lip, trying to reassure himself he really was home and that his wife and two children were expecting his arrival.

I’m not the one who died, he erratically reasoned. I’m the one who’s alive. I haven’t been gone that long. They knew the return trip would take three days. I called to let them know.

    He experienced no relief from the rationale. Instead, it only served to further confuse him. Stepping back, he stared at the door, almost expecting a black wreath to be hung there.

This can’t be true. Was it me who died and Richard Kimble who rode the train home? Have I somehow transferred places with him? Is Phillip Gerard dead and I’m nothing but… the ghost everyone on the train was so afraid of?

    Irrationally, he tried to catch his reflection in the picture window and failed to do so. The curtain was drawn and no image stared back to deny or confirm his suspicions.

Perhaps none of the past three years had been real. Had he died in the train wreck and everything he experienced since merely the deranged imaginings of a disembodied spirit doomed to wander the Earth because he had not found the one-armed man? Or, had he really met the so-called Fred Johnson after Dr. Kimble’s execution, and instead of fleeing, the once and future murderer had killed him as well, in order to prevent him from pursuing him to the grave?

“What are you doing, standing outside like that?”

The question brought him to his senses in a flash, but relief was longer coming.

“Marie –”

“You look like hell. Come in.”

Clutching the bag and the lunch box, he stepped inside. She shut the door behind him and he glanced over his shoulder in alarm.

Hemmed in. No escape.

    “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. I –”

“What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the metal lunch box.

Suddenly, he did not wish to share that information with her. Stepping aside, he circumvented her, walked stiff-legged to his study and placed the box under his desk. Coming back into the living room, he went straight for the bar.

“I need a drink.”

Although she saw he needed one, Marie responded, “Isn’t it a little early?”

Tempted to ignore the comment, Gerard shook his head.

“I’ve had a very unpleasant trip.”

She softened and joined him.

“Did the police in Bennington give you a hard time?” Because he didn’t know how to answer he merely shook his head. Changing his mind about the scotch, he loosened his tie, then removed his black suitcoat, draping it carefully over the back of a chair. “Don’t bother,” she protested. “It has to go to the drycleaners, anyway.”

He paused in the act of straightening out a wrinkle.

“They’ll take forever to get it back.”

Without hearing him say so, Marie picked up on his thoughts.

“Good God, Phil, you’re not planning on going to the funeral, are you? They won’t want you there and besides, it’ll look like you’re gloating. We’ve had enough trouble from those people.” When he didn’t answer, her voice grew strident. “Absolutely not. I won’t allow it. It’s not as though the man was your friend; he was a wife killer. You, of all people, know that. If you go, it’ll look like you feel guilty. That you – doubt he was guilty. You did everything you could. He made up the story about the one-armed man. You’ve said so often enough.”

“Yes, yes –”

“Please don’t tell me now that he’s dead you’re having second thoughts.”

He debated how to answer and then gave in.

“No. No, I’m not.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. Because I don’t want the ghost of Richard Kimble haunting us.”

He froze as his heart sank.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you look as though you’ve been traveling with a ghost for the past three days. Let him go, Phil.” Hands akimbo, she critically appraised him. “Look on the bright side. It wasn’t you who killed him. How many times did you come close – shooting at him as he ran away? Tracking him over God-knows-how many miles. You and he have struggled over life and death for all these years and yet, when the time came, it wasn’t you. It was an accident. You can’t blame yourself for that. It’s over. Let him rest; give yourself a break. Take a deep breath and remind yourself you still have a life to live.”

“Yes. Yes, I do. You’re right. I’m glad I’m finally home, Marie.” Sinking onto the couch, he held his head in his hands. “I need –” He didn’t get to finish his sentence before the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it.”

Suddenly terribly afraid, she placed herself between the sofa and the front entranceway.

“Don’t answer it.” On his twisted expression she added, “We’re not home. Give yourself that much.”

“I can’t.”

He should have listened to her.

Link to HAUNTED Chapter 5