Ahead of the Press Publishing

Haunted

By : S.L. Kotar and J.E. Gessler

Chapter 7

 

Zilox returned with the news that the story and the sketch would run in the “Metro” section of the newspaper.

“Hardly front page news,” he added, lest Gerard be upset.

“Hardly,” he agreed. “And you didn’t tell him about me?”

“No. And he didn’t ask.”

Gerard jammed a hand in his pocket.

“Reporters who don’t ask already know. He put two-and-two together pretty quickly. That’s unfortunate but as long as he keeps his mouth shut, we should be all right. Tomorrow I’d like to discuss filling up your jail cells with actors and finding a one-armed man of roughly the same size as Fred Johnson. But it’s late and I’m sure you both have work to do –”

“Actually, the captain put us at your disposal. If there’s nothing else, I think we’d both like to call it a night. Did your office arrange for a hotel room?”

“No. There wasn’t time. Do either of you know an inexpensive place I can stay for a few days?”

“You can come home with me,” Zilox offered. “I’ve got a spare room you can have.”

“Fine. It’ll save the department some money. As you may expect they don’t appreciate the unwanted cost of tracking down a fugitive.”

Markum made his good nights and hurried outside, Zilox and Gerard taking more time. Walking to the car, both men shivered in the cold, casting plumbs of misty condensation skyward.

“The air is cold but it’s crisp. At least we won’t have to worry about snow holding your man up.”

“It’s different in Indiana,” Gerard acknowledged, bringing up the collar of his coat, then walking several paces off to stare into the night sky without being troubled by the streetlamp. “You may think you can predict the weather but it always fools you. And just when you get used to one weather pattern it turns topsy-turvy on you. Hardly ever the same day twice in a row.”

“You originally from Indiana?” the local man asked, indicating his companion get in the car.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“You seem a little… intense for the Midwest. I thought maybe you were from Back East.”

“Obsessed, you mean. That’s all right; you can use the word. I’ve heard it often enough. I wouldn’t describe myself that way, but I like the word intense. I’ve always been that.”

Starting the car, Zilox pulled on the headlights, watching as two parallel beams shot into the darkness. When he didn’t shift into gear immediately, Gerard looked forward.

“What’s wrong? Did you see something?”

“No. I investigated a case, once. Father going to work. He was in a hurry, got in his car and started ahead without looking. There was a little kid with a tricycle, too low for him to see over the front hood, right in front of him. He ran over him.”

“Those things happen.”

Zilox turned his head and gave him an angry stare.

“That’s a little casual, even for you, isn’t it?”

Gerard tapped his fingers on the window sill.

“You went home, shut yourself in your room and cried your heart out. Then, you got drunk and went back to work, swearing you’d write up a report so damning your superior would have to recommend the driver be charged with negligent homicide. He either didn’t, or the D.A. refused to press charges on the grounds it was a regrettable accident. We all have a case like that early in our careers. Some policemen can’t take the pressure and quit. Others become what those outside the profession tend to call ‘hardened.’ Some do; others – the good ones like you and me – learn how to control our emotions. Bury them until we fall asleep at night and then relive them a thousand times. I just didn’t see the point of commiserating because I presumed you knew all that and didn’t need to hear me repeat it.”

“Sorry. You’re right. I just made a damn fool of myself.”

“No, you didn’t. We all fight our emotions. I haven’t been very good at it, myself, lately.”

The officer pulled the car away from the curb and headed it down the street. Because he didn’t bother turning on the heat, the air inside remained cold.

“Do you ever feel sorry for him?” he blurted after turning onto a wider street and stepping on the accelerator.

“Kimble, you mean? That’s an interesting question.”

“One you’d rather not answer? Because if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear it.”

Gerard reached into his coat and removed a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Zilox who took it, then struck a match. The driver leaned to his right, Gerard held the flame over the smoke, then lit his own. Rolling down the window, he tossed the spent stick outside then re-shut it.

“No, I don’t think I feel sorry for him. It’s more that I… regret two wasted lives – that of his wife, naturally, and that of his. He could have done a lot of good, but instead he gave in to a moment of dark passion and struck out in anger. Did he mean to kill her? I’m not in the business of making those judgments. The D.A. argued that he did and the jury agreed. That’s where my speculation ended.”

“Would you have been satisfied with second degree? Or, even accidental homicide?”

“It wasn’t accidental. When a man picks up a potentially lethal weapon and uses it, that’s intent to kill. If he had been convicted on second degree, I wouldn’t have been taking him to be executed. So, if you don’t mind a selfish answer, then, yes, I would have been satisfied with that because I wouldn’t be here, now. I’d be living a normal life and Richard Kimble wouldn’t be…”

“Haunting you?”

“He wouldn’t be haunting me,” he finished.

“Are you going to catch him this time?”

Reading more into the question than may have been intended, Gerard responded, “By playing a dirty trick on him? In my book, there’s no such thing. I’d do worse if I had to.”

Zilox took a curve hard, sending both men tilting to the right. Gerard’s cigarette went flying from his lips and it took him a moment to retrieve and snuff it out before his companion spoke.

“I don’t think you would. You’re lying to yourself to sound tough.”

“Then, you underestimate my… obsession.”

Zilox let it go because they had taken the conversation as far as it would go and still remain civil.

“My wife left me six months ago. The place is a mess. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Being a policeman’s wife is tough. And no, I don’t mind.”

“Your wife ever think about leaving you?”
“We’ve… had our moments. Most marriages do. Any children?” he added because his comments sounded bland and unsympathetic.

“A little boy. We named him Stanley; after her father. She took him with her. Moved back in with her folks. That’s why I’m working nights. I can’t sleep, anyway, so I thought I might as well get paid for being up.”

“That’s a thought.”
Zilox made a right turn onto a narrow neighborhood street, made two more turns then pulled into the driveway of a mass-produced ranch house. It reminded Gerard of how poorly those hired “to protect and to serve” were paid for putting their lives on the line. Not like a physician, who was also in the business of saving lives. They were paid, as the fellows in the precinct said, “with a wheelbarrow filled with money.” The difference between the two occupations being, no one ever put a snub-nosed .45 into a doctor’s back, or called him “pig” to his face.

Which failed to explain the discrepancy.

Getting out of the car, he took a long look at the property, aided by the light from a nearby streetlamp.

“The yard looks nice. Grass mowed; hedges trimmed. Leaves raked. Even those mums in the window box; recently planted?”

“Thanks for saying so. My Dad always taught me that it was the man’s job to keep up the outside of the house and the woman’s to tend to the inside. I guess I took it to heart. It still gives me pride to keep up appearances. I appreciate you noticing the mums. The frost’ll get them soon, but I thought they added a little color after the leaves fell down. In the spring we put in red and yellow pansies and blue bachelor’s buttons.” He gave a little laugh. “Guess that’ll be about right. Hadn’t thought about it until just now.” Leading his fellow law enforcement officer up the cement sidewalk, he indicated a small circle by the door that surrounded a flagpole. “I put the flag up in the morning and take it down before I go to work. It’s disrespectful to leave it up after dark. Unless you have it lit. I always meant to install an electric outlet by the door and bury a cord for a spotlight, but never got around to it. It’s funny how you save the little tasks until it’s too late and they never get done.”

“There’s no reason you can’t do it, now. I think that would be nice.”

“Do you? Maybe I will, then. Or, maybe I’ll sell the house. It’s too big for just me.” Unlocking the door, he stepped inside. After Gerard entered, he shut it, taking care to pull a chain lock into place. “This is home, such as it is. Want a drink?”

“Sure.”

“What’s your poison? Beer or scotch?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

“I usually fix myself something to eat when I get in. Not breakfast, but supper. Know what I mean? After work you want a real meal. I eat breakfast about 2 P.M. Ever work nights?”

“When I was younger and just starting out. I did the same thing.”

Motioning Gerard follow him, they went into the kitchen. As promised, the counter and sink were full of dirty dishes, silverware, pots and pans.

“I’m sorry about this. I had a mind to invite you home this morning. Should have cleaned up. Then, I figured if you already had a room reserved it’d be a waste of time. Burgers OK?”

“Fine. I’ll tell you what: you make the meal and I’ll wash the dishes.”

“Why would you wanta do that?”

“Because I didn’t have a room reserved and I appreciate the offer. Like I said: my captain doesn’t like to cover all the expenses I incur out of the departmental budget. I usually find myself sleeping on a bunk in the back of the police station. Or asking around for a cheap motel and skipping dinner. You’re more than generous.”

Finding an apron hung from a nail on the back of the kitchen door, Gerard tied the strings around his waist then searched for the dish pan and drying rack, finding them under the sink.

“Turn on the radio,” he advised, running the tap water until it was hot. “Noise fills up a room. It makes you feel less lonely.”

“Now, you’re sounding more like a fugitive than a cop,” Zilox observed, doing as Gerard suggested. Adjusting the volume to low, the confined space hummed to life with the strains of a soulful Country and Western song.

The officer’s comment set his mind wandering and as he squirted the liquid yellow Joy dishwashing detergent into the basin and watched the bubbles rise, Gerard thought of another time and another place….

 

He heard it before he saw it. A small transistor radio, playing classical music. He might have missed it altogether for that wasn’t the sound he was listening for. If the record hadn’t skipped and played a segment of Beethoven’s “Fifth” again, it wouldn’t have caught his attention. But the notes, repeated a second and then a third time before the DJ caught the mistake and gently tapped the needle, jarred his senses. Turning toward a room he hadn’t intended on looking into, for that wasn’t the apartment number he was looking for, he turned the knob and found it locked. That fact, not unusual in itself, had somehow piqued his curiosity, and with a loud knock and the warning, “Police! Coming in!” he had put his shoulder to the door and shoved it open. There, not five feet away from him, stood Richard Kimble.

It was a moot question which man was more startled. They both would have qualified for the honor. Recognition, however, came instantly.

“Kimble! Stay where you are!”

With the expression, How did you find me? on his face, the fugitive dashed for the window. Equally fast on his feet, the lieutenant raced the few steps and grabbed him by the shoulders before he was half way through. With a cry of sheer panic, Kimble turned, reached out and pushed him away. The force, greater than Gerard anticipated, loosened his grip and his quarry escaped onto the worn and rusted 1920s fire escape staircase. It swayed wildly under his weight and the force of his jump.

With a choice of leaping back into the room and the ostensive safety of a solid floor, or chancing the careening pre-World War I staircase and a fall that would surely break his neck, Kimble had opted for possible over certain death. Holding the railing with both hands, he leaped down two steps at a time, stumbling twice, then finally losing his balance and falling an entire flight before reaching the landing on the floor below. Still too high to jump, he started down the next flight.

Drawing his service revolver, Gerard held his hand steady, getting the man in his sights. Although the angle was bad, the killing shot was certain.

“Stop, or I’ll shoot.” Kimble stopped and looked up, his face streaked with fear. “I mean it. Stay where you are. We’ll get a ladder and come and get you.”

The fugitive’s wild eyes went from his tormentor’s face to the ground below. Without being able to hear his thoughts, he transmitted them clearly.

Gerard, or risk falling?

What chance do I have?

    And then, making a split second decision, Kimble looked back.

Shoot me, then. If I’m dead before I hit the ground, so be it.

    And for Gerard, another split second decision.

He’s leaving it to me. He knows I’ll shoot.

    He fired his weapon. Kimble slipped and fell another flight. Pausing to rub his skinned knee by instinct rather than intent, he gritted his teeth in pain, then looked back up.

You missed.

    He started down a third flight. Gerard fired another shot. It pinged off the iron railing. The stairs swayed with even wilder intent. Miraculously, they held. Kimble made it to the bottom and limped away. Down an alley.

Leaving the room, Gerard raced down the rickety wooden steps of the century-old boarding house. He slipped once on the threadbare carpet, nearly lost his balance, caught himself and hurried down. Kimble had disappeared when he reached the alley.

Right, left, straight ahead?

He never learned which way Richard Kimble had gone because he never found him.

Close. Closer. Closest.

    Close enough to feel the fugitive’s exhalations on his face. Near enough to have touched him, grabbed him, held him. Within easy gunshot range. And he had missed. Twice.

Although he had not achieved marksman status at the Police Academy, no one else in his class had, either. Of those finishing in the second tier, he had been number two. He might not have been able to hit the figurative dime at 100 feet, but he had effectively disabled his target every time. Missing a man at close range was impossible.

Not impossible, he corrected himself. Because it happened.

    Why it had happened was the question.

Had him in my sights.

    Did I miss on purpose?

    Impossible….

 

“Lieutenant?”

Startled out of his reverie, Gerard looked up.

“Yes?”

“Burgers are ready. Pull up a chair. You want onions? Ketchup?”

I want Richard Kimble.

    I want to stop questioning myself.

    Zilox retrieved a package of buns from the bread box. Taking two out, he noticed the corners, where the two slices met, had begun to grow mold. Pinching off the green-black spots with his fingers, he offered one. Gerard took it.

“I’ll eat it plain. Thanks.”

He would have preferred onions and ketchup. Refusing them served as his penance. For missing two dead shots.

When they finished eating and had downed four beers between them, the pair of policemen said their good-nights and went to bed.

“That room there is empty,” Zilox offered. “It was Stanley’s room. I left it the way it was in case he came back. For a visit, or something. If that bothers you, there’s the couch in the living room.”

“This is fine, thank you.”

Turning on the light, Gerard stared around the room. It had been decorated for a boy of about six years, he guessed, with cowboys and Indian action figures, photos of baseball heroes thumbtacked to the wall and a bedspread of what appeared to be the Creature from the Black Lagoon coming up out of the water.

Smiling in wry remembrance of Phil, Jr.’s tastes at that age, the sense of familiarity brought no comfort. In fact, the more he considered the resemblance the more it bothered him. Unable to account for the depression that suddenly enveloped him, he crossed to the window, drew back the red curtain with hundreds of small Cardinal’s emblems on them, and pulled up the pane.

The view looked out upon the back yard. The line between a crude home plate and pitcher’s mound ran directly under the clothesline, forcing the father-son team to take down the rope before playing ball. He absently wondered how many times they had forgotten to string it back on the pulleys and took the brunt of Mrs. Zilox’s ire over it.

Beyond that was a large oak three, still clinging tenaciously to its leaves. In the lower branches he thought he detected some wooden slats, likely the floor of a treehouse. Here, as in the front, the grass was neatly mowed.

Unable to put a finger on exactly why the room depressed him, he dropped his flight bag on top of the dresser and considered changing into pajamas. The idea of undressing, however, made him feel uneasy and he abandoned the thought, telling himself the two beers had gone to his head and when the alcohol wore off he would feel better.

Removing his coat and suit coat, then unfastening his tie, Gerard stared at himself in the mirror. Time had been good to him, he mused. At 47 years of age, he may have been taken for a few years younger but not older. His hair was thinning but adequate and long enough to require combing; the lines around his eyes present but not craters as they were on some other men his age. He was physically fit and capable of beating younger police officers on the handball court. He had an adequate, if not generous salary and was well-respected among his peers. He had solved his fair share of homicides and discharged his weapon numerous times in the line of action. After each “hit,” he had been through the Police Review Board, passing each with the recommendation, “Appropriate Shooting” decision. He had never killed a man.

The fingers of his left hand snapped and he blew air through his front teeth, a habit he thought he had abandoned years before. That was it: why he felt so down. The bedroom of the six-year-old didn’t feel as though little Stanley had been taken away by his mother; it reeked of death. As though the child were never coming back and his bed and toys had been preserved as a monument rather than awaiting a return of its occupant, on a permanent, or even temporary basis.

He’s not dead and even if he were, what’s it to me? I don’t know him. I only just met his father several hours ago.

    But once he had made the connection there was no way he could sleep in the room. Taking Zilox up on his invitation to sleep on the couch, he quickly departed the bedroom of the missing boy and went into the living room. Using the arm of the couch for a pillow and his coat for a blanket, he covered himself up and waited for sleep.

Sleep did not come.

Instead, his mind turned to Richard Kimble. How hard it must have been for the Kimbles to face their empty house and the bedroom they had surely decorated for the baby. Pink and blue, or perhaps yellow and green-painted walls, with a soft, plush rug, the spacious area would have contained a cradle with a swinging arm holding dangling Winnie the Pooh characters or farm animals that made sounds when the baby tugged on them. There would be a bassinette, a changing table, a dresser and possibly even a playpen for the eventuality of the baby learning to crawl.

Stuffed toys, most, but not all gifts from friends, would fill a toy chest. There might even be a small table and child-sized chairs where a little girl could serve tea and a little boy could play with soldiers or dinosaurs. Without doubt, birth announcement cards had already been purchased and “grand tours” to show off the infant to family and colleagues planned, with dates already selected in pencil. Receiving blankets, baptismal gowns, tiny clothes with feet in them, booties and socks stored carefully away in drawers; bottles with separate rubber nipples and washers, with a sterilizer on hand ready for use in the kitchen.

What had they done with all that after the tragic death of the son they had so eagerly anticipated? Packed it up and thrown it all away? Given it to charity? Offered it to another couple luckier than they were? Had they buried the body or had it cremated? Was there a miniscule grave with a marker sitting alone in a Stafford cemetery awaiting the arrival of his parents many decades later? Had they even bothered to name it, or were the words, “Infant Son of Richard and Helen Kimble” chiseled into the cold stone?

But it hadn’t been decades, and baby Kimble did not have long to wait before his mother was buried beside him. Was that where the freshly electrocuted body of his father was to be placed? It struck Gerard that he had never been to the cemetery; never seen Helen Kimble’s grave. It seemed an odd omission and he could not reason why he had never made the effort.

Because it would have seemed insincere, somehow. As thought I were gloating.

    A man doesn’t gloat over the grave of a murder victim, he corrected himself. Then, why didn’t I go?

    What would have been the point? To pay my respects?

    No. As a police officer, he argued, I show my respect by catching the man who robbed her of her life.

    Phillip Gerard was tired yet sleep would not come. He had a very deep-rooted feeling this “dirty trick” of his would bear fruit. That within a week he and Richard Kimble would come face-to-face.

“This time,” he spoke aloud, “I won’t miss.”

To miss in his capture, or to miss with a bullet remained to be seen.

One thing was certain. In either case, he would learn what Richard Kimble’s grave looked like. Whether it was considered gloating or not.

He owed him that much… If “respect” wasn’t the right word, he didn’t know what was.

 

The unidentified photo of the one-armed man ran in the morning edition of the Lawrence Post. There had been some discussion whether to name the suspect for the evening paper, but Gerard had immediately nixed the idea.

“There’s no way you could have known that unless I told you,” he reminded the small gathering of select police officers. “Richard Kimble never named him at the trial because, obviously, he didn’t know it. And it’s only been through – I guess you’d call it luck, or just plain perversity – that he ID’d a man he wanted to believe was the individual he saw the night of his wife’s murder. I have no way of knowing whether this flesh-and-bone ‘phantom’ of Kimble’s is really named Fred Johnson, if it’s one of his aliases, or if Kimble picked out of thin air. But I very much doubt that’s the name he’d give if you actually picked him up.”

Turning to Captain Tyler, to whom he had been introduced in the early part of the shift, he politely nodded.

“How are we coming with finding someone to impersonate Fred Johnson? Remember, he has to have his right arm missing,” he stressed.

“We don’t have any informants to fit that description and I have to be careful how I put word out. If your man’s been on the run for over two years, he knows the streets; can probably spot a rat when he sees one. A few dollars in his pocket and the squealer lets him know we’re looking for a one-armed man to play a part. That’d tip the scales pretty quickly.”

“Yes. You’re right, of course. Kimble would be gone in a flash. Do the best you can. What about men to fill the jail cells?”

“The purpose of that, again?”

“To made it more difficult for Kimble to find who he’s looking for, of course. If there’s only one man, he can come to a decision in the snap of two fingers.” He snapped his fingers to augment his point. Sitting on the corner of a desk, all eyes trained on him, Gerard took in a deep breath and continued. “We want him to walk down the cell block; get as far inside as he dares before we make our move. Remember: he has the reflexes of a cat. One false move on our part and he bolts. You may not think it possible but I’ve seen it happen.”

“The only doctors I’ve ever seen are fat and clumsy,” one of the men quipped. Gerard scowled.

“Don’t underestimate him. I just warned you. He has the instincts of a hunted animal. He can’t afford to take chances. One wrong move and he’s a dead man. So, he has nothing to lose by being ultra-wary.”

The men shifted positions, stared at their captain for confirmation, waited for him to nod, then turned back to Gerard.

“Then, why bother coming at all?” one of them finally asked. “I wouldn’t, if I was him.”

“Yes, you would. Because you have to. ‘Fred Johnson’ is the only passport you have to freedom. But, he’s not worth getting killed for. Running to fight again another day is the better part of valor, as they say.”

     He paused as a young patrolman came in carrying a tray filled with paper coffee cups. The men took one in turn and then passed it around until they all had one. None of them bothered asking for cream or sugar. Black coffee was the working man’s drink. When half filled with Irish whisky it separated the men from the boys.

No one offered to pass around a bottle of Jameson to up the ante, if not augment their ages.

After taking a sip of his coffee as a rite of passage into their exclusive group, Gerard’s eyes went from one man to the other.

“I’m asking you to keep in mind two things. One, my name is never to be mentioned. Once it is, it’ll spread like wildfire and that would tip the game. Second, capturing Richard Kimble would be a huge feather in your caps. I’m not looking for acclaim. In fact, I’d rather stay in the background. It would put Lawrence, Kansas, on the map.”

“Is there a reward?”

A faint smile flickered over the lieutenant’s lips.

“Yes. Yes, there is. The satisfaction of bringing a wanted criminal to justice.”

“All right,” Captain Tyler spoke to dissipate the sour mood the Indiana cop’s words had elicited. “Where will you be staying, Lieutenant? In case we need you in a hurry?”

“I’m not going anywhere. Now that the cat’s out of the bag, so to speak, I’m keeping a low profile. I’ll eat and sleep here if that’s all right with you. In fact, for the most part, I’ll be –” He hesitated, then let a full smile spread over his face. “Lurking behind doors, hoping to spot Kimble as soon as he sets foot inside the station.”

“That’s up to you,” Tyler reluctantly granted. “Do what you think is necessary. But how is Kimble going to get inside? He can’t just walk in.”

“Of course he can. He’s a citizen like anyone else. Ideally, he’ll wait until there’s a group of people and follow them in. Failing that, he’ll slip behind one or two people so as not to be conspicuous. He won’t expect, or, at least he’ll hope not to be recognized. He’ll claim to be the brother or some other relative of the one-armed man you have in custody. Come to see about getting him out of bail or some such. He’ll ask to speak with him. Nothing unusual or suspicious in that. Let him in. But remember: all he wants is a visual confirmation. Once he gets that, he’ll leave. He doesn’t need to speak with him. In fact, that’s the last thing he wants because I presume Fred Johnson would recognize him as surely as the other way around. It’s in Johnson’s best interest that Kimble be captured. So, Kimble won’t get close.”

Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, Gerard wiped his hands. The officers took that to signify he had finished, and the meeting broke up. When only Gerard and Tyler were left, the captain approached.

“Just out of curiosity, what if all this was true? That we had Kimble’s one-armed man. He’s in lock-up. Kimble identifies him. Then, what does he do?”

Gerard gave him a look that conveyed, Do you expect me to have all the answers? but, in fact, he did. Taking out a cigarette, he offered one to Tyler, who refused, and struck a match for the one he put between his lips.

“He calls me.” Turning his head to blow smoke away from the captain’s face, he took another pull before Tyler spoke.

“You’re his worst enemy.”

“I’m also the only one who’ll listen to him.”

“Why would you do that?”

“To strike a bargain. If he turns himself in, I’ll agree to investigate Fred Johnson.”

Tyler’s expression turned cold.

“That would be a lie, wouldn’t it?”

Gerard had seen that countenance before.

“Oh, I’m full of tricks, Captain Tyler, but I think in this case Richard Kimble has something to go on.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in his one-armed man.”

“I don’t.”

“Then, I don’t get it.”

Gerard ground out his cigarette in the ashtray on the desk. His voice assumed a casual tone as though he were speaking on a matter of no consequence. Or, lying.

“It would be such bad publicity, don’t you see? Bringing Dr. Kimble home to Stafford, there’s bound to be immense publicity. Especially if I bring this supposed ‘man he saw at the scene of the crime’ back with me. The newspapers will be all over it. I’ll have to do something to assuage them.”

“You’re a beast, you know that?”

Gerard gave a disinterested shrug at the insult.

“I’m an officer of the law. A pig.”

“You give us all a bad name.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll have your picture in the newspapers, as well. I meant what I said. There’ll be plenty of accolades to go around.”

“And when it’s all said and done, you’ll be a captain?”

“No. I’ll be a free man.”

Tyler turned on his heels and walked away, leaving Gerard in possession of the field of battle. Which, in military parlance, made him the victor.

It was a hollow victory. Nothing on earth would have made him confess the real reason he would investigate the accused murderer.

Not even to himself.

He didn’t want Richard Kimble going to the electric chair harboring a false accusation against him.

Link to HAUNTED Chapter 8