Ahead of the Press Publishing

Haunted

By : S.L. Kotar and J.E. Gessler

Chapter 8

Three days. Three nights. Tempers grew thin. The officers of the Lawrence, Kansas police force grew restive. They didn’t like the stranger hanging around their precinct. He had the aura of death about him. The first day had been exciting and they had all taken turns looking out the windows into the street for a mysterious, dark-haired man on a mission. The second day they had willingly exchanged their uniforms for those of street thugs and filled the jail cells, each hoping to be the first to see the infamous murderer-physician. The third day the one-armed man they had hired to play Fred Johnson complained he felt as though he really were locked up and demanded more money, or to go home, or both.

The first night Phillip Gerard slept on a cot in the officer’s break room. The second night, he tried to make himself comfortable positioned between two chairs in the hall outside the lavatory off limits to visitors. Officers made trips there and whistled or hummed, pretending to overlook him. They flushed the toilet several times. The odor coming from the confined space was unpleasant. The third night Gerard slept on his feet, dozing on and off for five minutes at a time.

The morning of the fourth day, Captain Tyler was ready to call off the project.

“Kimble’s not coming. Either he didn’t read the newspapers or he smelled a trap.”

“He’s coming. I can feel it.”

“Right now, the feelings of my men are more important to me than yours. You’re making them uncomfortable; disrupting discipline. I think we’re through with this charade. I’m sorry it didn’t work out, but you can’t say we didn’t try.”

“No. Of course not. I appreciate everything you’ve done. I’ll be sure to include that in my report.”

“You’ll leave, then? This morning?”

“If that’s what you want.”

Tyler held out his hand.

“I admire your dedication.”

Gerard understood the word “dedication” had many meanings and an equal number of synonyms.

Taking his overnight bag with him, he left the police station without a word to anyone. Discouragement hung heavy on his shoulders, making him stooped. Gone was the brisk two-step he habitually used. Lawrence, Kansas had wrung it out of him.

He thought he ought to call Marie and tell her he was coming home. He had only telephoned once the entire time he had been away. She had put her best voice on for that phone call. He doubted she would do it, again. If the toll had been heavy on him, it weighed twice that on her. She was almost as tired of the whole mess as Richard Kimble.

Gerard hadn’t eaten breakfast. For the past three days and nights he had hardly eaten anything at all. The last full meal he remembered eating was the hamburger Officer Zilox had prepared for him. And he had consumed it without ketchup and onions. Suddenly, what he wanted more than anything was a burger with a fresh bun, ketchup and onions. He was done paying penance. He had done nothing wrong. In reality, he had done everything right. He didn’t want to be hungry and he didn’t want to be blamed for an idea that should have worked.

Was Captain Tyler correct? Was it just as simple as the fact Kimble hadn’t read the newspaper? That was the logical answer. The fugitive was in Seattle or San Diego, laying asphalt on a county road. Or, keeping the books for a trucking firm. Or any number of odd, low paying, miserable jobs. He hadn’t had time to get to the library. Or, the Lawrence Post was too insignificant a newspaper to be carried by out-of-town libraries.

Gerard had counted on it being otherwise.

It was early: breakfast time. But he didn’t want eggs and hash browns, or pancakes with a side of sausages. He wanted a hamburger. At the crack of dawn there was only one place to get one: an all-nite diner. He began to walk. Up one street and down another, scanning all the businesses on each block for any indication he might find what he wanted. Having crisscrossed any number of streets and gotten himself thoroughly lost, he grit his teeth in frustration and searched for something smaller but more obvious: a taxi stand.

Locating one on Highland Avenue, he indicated the driver roll down his window, then leaned in toward him.

“I’m looking for someplace I can buy a burger and fries. I’ve been up for the past two nights and I don’t want breakfast.” Correctly reading the man’s countenance, he added, “I’m just a working stiff who needs a real meal, not some teenager’s idea of cold cereal and a piece of fruit. I’m not starting my day, I’m ending it. Know any place around here I can buy something like that?”

The driver grinned, easily identifying with the man’s plight.

“Sure. If you don’t mind a short drive outta town. Say, half a mile. There’s a trucker’s stop. Those fellas like to avoid goin’ through cities, so the diners servin’ them set up out there.”

“I don’t mind at all. Thanks.”

Instead of getting in the back as protocol indicated, the detective in inadvertent disguise crossed around the front of the taxi and got in the passenger seat. The cabbie didn’t seem to mind. Starting the engine and cranking up the heat, he pulled into the scant early A.M. traffic and drove northwest. Stepping on the accelerator, he had his fare out in the open before he knew it. Ten minutes later, the cab rolled up outside a small, dilapidated, long and narrow flat-board building that hadn’t been painted since before the Great Depression. A neon sign on a pole indicated the name of the joint was “Lo-i-‘s –iner.” Three of the letters were dark and the neon buzzed in the still morning air.

Pointing to the sign, the driver chuckled.

“Can’t remember the last time all them letters was lit. It’s been so long, the locals just call this place, “‘Lois’ Inner.'”

Gerard quickly filled in the blanks.

“Louie’s Diner. I think I like Lois’ Inner better. It has… more class.”

“You’re all right.”

Reaching into his billfold, Gerard smiled at a joke of his own. If the cabbie knew he was actually a cop, nothing on Earth would have dragged that compliment out of him. He handed over three dollars, two for the fare and one for the tip.

“Thanks, pal. Want me to wait?”

Appreciating the compliment on any terms, Gerard shook his head.

“No. I may be a while. But, I appreciate the offer.”

Grabbing his flight bag containing the change of clothes he had not bothered wearing, he offered the driver a salute by putting two fingers to his forehead, then sauntered slowly to the entrance. Pulling back the door, a brass bell tinkled and he was assailed by the odors of grease, beef, bacon and fried potatoes. His mouth watered.

Seeing no one at the counter, he passed up the tables with their laminated red-checkered tablecloths and settled himself on a stool at the counter, opting for a view of the grill rather than the clusters of dried weeds and broken chards of glass in the cobblestoned parking lot.

“Be right with you,” a voice from the back called.

Although out of sight from the speaker, he waved an “OK” and picked up the stained menu with the curling edges from the napkin holder and began to peruse it with the interest of a starving man. All that changed in an instant.

“Get some sleep, Jim. I’ll see you back here tonight.”

“Sure thing, Louie,” a second voice called. “The receipts and the cash are tallied and locked in the safe. It was a quiet night.”

Gerard was no longer hungry. In fact, the idea of food suddenly repulsed him. He felt his face flush and buried it in the menu the way a man would who had trouble seeing.

Twenty words in three sentences. There could be no mistake. Not in one thousand years. Not in a lifetime.

It had never occurred to him that Richard Kimble would come into Lawrence and take a job while he scouted out the area, but that was what he had done. Rather than go directly into town and make up some excuse to see the one-armed man for himself, he had bided his time. Listened to the local gossip; perhaps gone on his off hours to walk around the police station. A man on the run could never be too careful; must always be aware of a trap. As it turned out, he was right. What he had no way of knowing was that his patience had paid huge dividends. He had out-waited the captain of police.

What he also had no way of knowing what that Fate had dealt him a cruel hand. He had been too cautious. Death, in the form of his mortal enemy, had come calling.

Calm. Be calm, Gerard warned himself. Kimble may be new here, but ‘Louie’ already trusts him – well enough to let him handle the cash and put it in the safe. Don’t tip Louie off.

    Think fast.

    But by the time his mind had patiently issued its warning, the lieutenant already had his plan worked out.

It did not involve burgers, fresh buns, ketchup or onions.

The next meal he ate might very well be steak, mushrooms and champagne.

He’d leave the common man’s meal for another time. One that was less momentous.

Louie stepped in from the rear. He was a heavily-built man wearing what had once been a white T-shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. He had more hair on his chest than his head. Nodding at his customer, he slid the loop of an apron over his thick neck, and let the material hang loose without bothering to tie the strings in the back.

Finishing his preparations, he checked the grill to see if it were hot enough by dropping a bit of liquid grease onto the surface. It hopped, jumped and ultimately fizzled itself into oblivion. Satisfied, he offered Gerard a stern but not unpleasant face, indicating he had been in the business a long time and knew how to size up a customer.

“You didn’t drive up in a private car and you didn’t get off the bus. You mighta hitched but your coat ain’t dirty. You look tired, so you worked all night.”

“Very good,” Gerard marveled, wondering how so astute a man could have been so mistaken about hiring a wife killer. He had found that too often in his work: ordinary citizens who, under the influence of some magic he always failed to detect, gave Richard Kimble more than the time of day off a dollar watch. They offered him faith, respect, consideration and sometimes love. They believed him innocent, when twelve men and women who knew him less intimately – and in this case longer – gave him the electric chair.

Shifting positions on the stool which had grown uncomfortable, Gerard offered Louie the same sort of noncommittal expression.

“You’re good, but your assessment isn’t quite complete. I stopped by earlier this morning. A few hours ago, and had a hamburger with all the fixin’s; a double order of fries and a slice of that peach pie there,” he indicated, pointing his elbow to the circular glass case on the counter that displayed crumbles of an apple pie and a peach pie missing one wedge. It had caught his eye the moment before, standing out like the gap in a smile of a six-year-old who had just lost a front tooth.

“And you came back for more?” Louis guessed, less certain.

“Actually, the cook behind the grill and I had a long conversation.” He curled his shoulders as if confessing what else he had to say was embarrassing. “I was feeling low. You know how a fellow gets. I’d been out of town almost a week and hadn’t bothered to call my wife in all that time. I should have, I know. But somehow, business has a way of… wearing a man down. When you’re a couple of hundred miles away, you sort of forget you have other obligations.”

He cleared his throat and looked down at his hands.

“Anyway, your cook and I – nice guy – we talked about it and I guess I spilled my troubles out to him. He told me to buy her some flowers; maybe a box of candy. Tell her I missed her. I didn’t have much faith in his advice but I did what he said and you know what?” He spoke quickly to prevent Louie from interjecting a comment. “It worked like a charm and I got the fatted calf welcome. It was then I realized I hadn’t left your man a tip. Made me feel like a heel. I owe him.”

Gerard dug out his billfold and removed a $5 bill that he made sure wasn’t extended far enough for Louie to grab.

“I took a taxi back here – the driver’s coming back for me in about half an hour – because I’d like to give him this. As a thank you. Tell him everything worked out. Is he around?”

Louie absently opened the back of the pie saver and removed the apple pie plate.

“That’d be Jim. Just hired him two days ago. Liked him right off. He’s a drifter sort, but he’s got an honest face. Know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“You just missed him. He left a few minutes ago. Maybe you heard him?”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“He’ll be back tonight.”

I doubt it.

    Gerard smiled. “Endearing” was not a role he played well.

“That’s too bad. I kinda wanted to give him this money, myself. Do you think it would be all right – does he had a room nearby? I could catch him before he lies down.”

The request was a little off the beaten path, but $5 was a lot of money and Louie figured Jim had earned it.

“There’s an apartment building a ten minute walk from the diner. You’ll see it if you go out back. Used to be a big stop-over for the truckers, but mostly now it gets drifters.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot.” Slipping off the stool, then stomping his leg that had fallen asleep, Gerard slipped the $5 bill in his pocket. “If the cabbie comes back for me, tell him to wait. I won’t be long. Mind if I go out through the kitchen?”

“No. Go ahead.”

“Thanks, again. And, I enjoyed that burger,” he added in a friendly tone, failing to bring to mind the last time he actually enjoyed one.

Spinning a quarter on the counter to pay for the priceless conversation, Gerard walked through the rear of the building which amounted to little more than a storeroom, then eagerly drew in a deep breath as the outside wind blew in his face. The smells of grease, beef, bacon and fried potatoes had turned his stomach.

Quickly assessing where the flop house was, and assuring himself Richard Kimble had already made the trek “home” and was probably preparing for a nap before hitching a ride into town, he high-stepped up the hill, using a dirt path to guide his way. It was, as Louie indicated, a ten minute walk. He made it in seven.

The old, shabby building with a “Rooms To Let” sign crookedly placed in the picture window, was enough to depress any man’s spirits. The roof sagged, weeds festooned the yard and paint peeled. It was a depressing place to end a run, if, indeed, that was Richard Kimble’s destiny. Another sign, this one newer than the one in the window, advised, “Borders, use back entrence.” Wincing at the misspellings, some peculiar scratchings caught his eye and he crossed to it for a closer look. Someone with a pencil had made corrections, adding an “a” to the word “borders,” and writing, “entrance” over the last one.

Taking a photograph of it with his mind’s eye, Gerard nodded in satisfaction. Just as American soldiers in the late war had written, “Kilroy was here,” so, too, had Richard Kimble announced his presence.

It was all falling into place. Not the way he expected it, but no surprise there. The race he and Kimble had run was filled with the unexpected. It was only proper it also ended that way.

Heeding the command, Gerard walked around to the rear. A door, slightly ajar, listed on rusty hinges. No problem getting inside; it wasn’t locked. Nor could it have been if the tenants had desired.

Resting his left hand on his revolver, Gerard cautiously opened the door with his right. He found himself staring down a long, narrow corridor with two doors to either side. All were closed and no sounds came from within.

The lady or the tiger?

    One step inside, then two. Ear clocked, he listened. For the sound of snoring or a toilet being flushed. Or a transistor radio. Opening the wrong door would be tantamount to alerting his prey. That, he did not wish to chance.

It occurred to him that three out of the four rooms might actually be empty. If rented by transients, they might have been up early and already departed the premises the way ghosts abandoned a crypt when called to haunt a new abode. In that case, he need not worry. But like all good cops, “Worry” was his middle name.

Trying the knob on the first door to his right, he found it unlocked. Cautiously inching it back, he determined not only was it empty, it had likely been that way for some time as his face struck a thread of spider silk. Cautiously wiping it away, he withdrew and tried the next. No spider web but same result. That left two choices, both on the left.

The side of the devil. As a left-hander, he had heard that admonition often enough in school. In the first grade his teacher had tried tying his left hand behind his back in order to force him to use his right. The technique worked well enough that little Phillip learned to write right-handed, but went no further. When not observed, he reverted to his natural side. They had tried the same thing at the police academy, warning him that no cop shot with his left hand. It had something to do with holsters, as he recalled. He refused to change and ordered one for left-handed draw out of a police catalogue.

And then he heard it. A shoe being dropped to the floor. The sound a weary man made after being on his feet for a long and dreary night shift. His heart rate accelerated and he paused a moment to let it settle.

Gliding over to the correct door, he put his ear to the wood and listened. No further sound came forth. The man inside had either taken his other shoe off before Gerard came in, or he had removed that one with more care. Gun in hand, he knocked. Softly. The door opened and a tall man with jet black hair and sleepy eyes greeted him.

“Good morning, Dr. Kimble.”

The eyes transformed into ones expressing a startled expression.

Startled.

    Caught unawares.

    The same word Richard Kimble had used to describe the one-armed man who had inadvertently drawn him to Lawrence, Kansas five years later.

The startled look turned to one of sadness and he stepped back as though welcoming a patient with a bad prognosis into his examination room.

“I knew you were here,” he began. “I felt it.” Gerard crossed to the opposite side of the room while the fugitive gently closed the door, leaving one hand on the frame a second before turning inward.

“Just as I knew you were here. Somewhere. Watching and waiting.”

“What about Fred Johnson; the one-armed man? Was he here? That sketch –”

“No. That wasn’t a trick. He was here.”

The doctor’s shoulders sagged.

“They let him go?”

“The police never had him. If they had, I would have kept him.”

“Why? You don’t believe in him.”

“You do.”

“But… how did you know what he looked like? That he was the one?” Kimble took a step nearer, hesitated as if unaware of the protocol, then reached into his pocket. Gerard reacted immediately, the implication clear that his first thought was that of a weapon.

“No gun,” Kimble demonstrated, holding out the pack of cigarettes. As Gerard relaxed, he added with a half-smile, “Not my modus operandi.”

“That doesn’t eliminate the possibility.”

Kimble knocked several cigarettes up, hesitated, then offered one to Gerard. He took it, then returned the gesture by taking out his match book, removing the last match and striking it. As the flame jumped up, Kimble came closer and lit his cigarette. With the match burning down the stem to his fingers, Gerard did the same then tossed it, and the matchbook, into an ashtray on the dresser. Kimble started to react, realized his mistake and held up his hands.

Notwithstanding, Gerard asked, “What were you going to say?”

“Never leave a matchbook that might be from the bar you worked at, or the last shabby motel you lived in. Gerard might find it and trace you through it. But….”

“I’m Gerard.”

“Yes.”

“I appreciate the warning. Even if it was against me. In fact, it’s quite a compliment.”

“I’ve said it before. Not to you, naturally. That you’re brilliant.”

Gerard smoked a moment before asking, “Do you mean it?”

“How can you doubt it?”

“I’m obsessed. That’s what they say.”

“You’re that, too.”

“Do you mind if I sit? We probably won’t have another chance like this. Before I call the police.”

“You are the police.

“The local ones. They like to be involved. But only,” he added after a pause, “when they think there’s a chance of success. Otherwise, I’m run out of town. On a rail.”

Kimble debated following up on the statement then let it ride. Pointing to a chair, he said, “I wish I had something better to offer.”

Gerard accepted as his prisoner walked around the room before settling on a corner of the bed. He pointed his cigarette in Kimble’s direction.

“That’s another thing that would have given you away. A neatly made bed with hospital corners.”

“I also said you probably know me better than I know myself. I think that’s true. I only wish you knew everything. Because if you did, you’d have to believe I didn’t kill my wife.” When Gerard altered his line of vision by staring down at his burning cigarette, Kimble added, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“About how I recognized your one-armed man? Your… Fred Johnson? I didn’t recognize him, exactly. How could I?”

“I was hoping his face was familiar; that he was one of the men you interviewed in the days after… Helen’s death.”

“No. That wasn’t it.”

“But it was something?” he prodded, bouncing lightly on the bed. “Tell me. It can’t hurt anything, now.”

“Hurt anything? No, I suppose it can’t. It was…” Gerard changed his mind and reformed the sentence. “Two things, actually. I thought the man in the sketch – the police artist created it from the description the two beat officers gave him. They were the ones who found your ‘Fred Johnson’ in the warehouse. I thought he had an evil face. Not surprising, actually. He was a thief and an arsonist.” Putting the cigarette in his mouth, he ran a fingernail under one on the opposite hand. “Something you said. Five years ago. That your – fantasy – looked startled. That description has stayed with me. I didn’t make the connection immediately, but it’s been in the back of my mind since they showed me the sketch. Now, I remember. ‘Startled’ is an interesting word. It’s unusual. A man who’s just murdered someone may look evil; he may appear angry, or upset, or even smug. But not startled. The man in the sketch looked startled. That’s what convinced me.”

Kimble got to his feet, realized he had nowhere to go and remained standing, but rooted to the spot.

“Then, you believe me?”

The urgency in his voice was palpable. Gerard shook his hope away.

“I didn’t say that. I can’t believe you. Dr. Kimble, I didn’t find him. I looked high and low for your one-armed man. I interviewed literally dozens of men; asked twice as many more. ‘Did you see a one-armed man in the area? Getting off a train? Hopping a bus? Hitching a ride out of town. You obviously have to believe I left that one stone unturned but I didn’t.”

Hands jammed in his pockets, Kimble’s voice grew angry.

“So, because you didn’t find him, that means he doesn’t exist?”

“I’m afraid it does.”

“But, you recognized him!” he cried in desperation.

“I’ve never seen the Mona Lisa, but if you described the painting to me, I’d recognize it.”

“The Mona Lisa exists!”

“And so does Fred Johnson. The sketch proves that. What it doesn’t prove is that he was in Stafford, Indiana, on September 17, 1960, or that he broke into your home and murdered your wife.” Gerard got to his feet and Kimble backed away. “What it does prove is that after your escape you saw a man with one arm and subconsciously worked his face into the memory you conjured. It’s as simple as that.”

Kimble extended his hands, palms up.

“Help me look for him, Gerard. You can catch him if anyone can. Interview him; break him down. Make him confess the truth.”

Gerard slowly shook his head.

“I know that’s what you want. It’s the – dream – that sustains you. You have to realize it’s not possible. I’m sorry.”

With a cry of sheer misery, Kimble stumbled toward the dresser and slammed his hand down upon it. The ashtray jerked upward and in a fit of passion, he swept it off the top. It crashed to the floor with a dead thud.

“You had better get packed.”

Eyes wet and bloodshot, the fugitive bitterly shook his head.

“There’s nothing I want here. Nothing I’m going to need where I’m going.”

“All right. Put on your jacket. We have to leave.”

He did as directed, then shuffled toward the door. Turning back with his hand on the knob, he searched his adversary’s eyes, found no solace there, and went out. Taking no chances, Gerard followed, keeping several steps between them.

“I need a telephone. To summon help.”

“There isn’t one here. You’ll have to use the one at the diner.”

Hand on his service revolver so Kimble understood there was no point trying to make a run for it, the two men retraced their steps to Lois’ Inner. Entering through the back door to avoid any confrontation with patrons who may have arrived in the interim, Louie looked up in stark wonder as they worked their way into the front. Except for the owner, the place was empty.

Eyes fixated on Gerard’s gun, he demanded, “What’s this all about?”
“I’m afraid I deceived you, Mr. Louie,” Gerard began, motioning Kimble to sit on a stool at the counter. “I’m a police lieutenant and this man is my prisoner.”

Staring dumbly from one to the other, the owner finally made eye contact with his former employee.

“Is he telling the truth?”

“Yes,” came the miserable reply.

Snapping his head around to stare at Gerard, Louie stated through gritted teeth, “You lied to me.”

“I’m sorry about that,” he replied in cold fabrication. “If I had told you the truth, you wouldn’t have helped me. People never do. They choose to believe what they think they know about Dr. Kimble, not the actual fact he’s a convicted murderer. I’d like to use your telephone, please.”

“Go to hell.”

“In that case, I’m commandeering it on official business. And if you try and interfere, I’m very much afraid you’ll be arrested and charged with aiding and abetting a wanted fugitive. Depending on your rap sheet,” he guessed, “that’ll be good for several years in prison. Presuming you don’t want that, I suggest you go over by the door and keep a lookout for Captain Tyler. He’ll be coming with two or three of his officers and he won’t be in an agreeable mood.”

Making a despairingly furtive gesture to the man he knew as “Jim,” the café owner did as he was told. Gerard picked up the telephone behind the counter and waited for the operator without bothering to dial “O.” She quickly came on the line.

“What is it, Louie?”

“This is not ‘Louie.’ My name is Lieutenant Gerard and I’d like to speak with Captain Tyler of the Lawrence police.”

“Just a moment,” the startled voice responded. In just that fast, the call was patched to the station. He heard her explain, “I have a Lieutenant Gerard on the line for the captain.” The transfer did not take long.

“Captain Tyler speaking.”

Gerard smiled. It held no warmth. It might even have been described as evil. The second part of the description, that of being startled, he saved for the local cop.

“This is Lieutenant Gerard. It may interest you to know I have Richard Kimble here, under arrest. You didn’t believe me when I told you he’d come and now you’re going to look like…” A fool. “You’re going to have egg all over your face. You might even call it a black eye for your department.”

A pause while Tyler controlled himself, then, “Where are you?”

“At – I believe it’s called by the locals, ‘Lois’ Inner,’ otherwise known as Louie’s Diner. Right outside town.”

“I know where it is.”

“Excellent. Then, you can send a police car and several men to take my prisoner into town and lock him up. I happen to have it good authority you have five empty cells, so putting him up until I have the extradition papers signed shouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience.”

“How did you find him?”

“It’ll all be in my report.”

The implication wasn’t lost on the ranking officer.

“It’ll take me half an hour. Can you hold out that long?”

I’ll wait until hell freezes over if it takes that long.

    “I think so,” he responded, instead. “We’ll be here.”

Tyler dropped the phone down. Gerard did the same with an opposite emotion.

Revenge, it was said, was sweet.

He did not have long to savor his victory. Louie, who had moved back from his watch place, struck Gerard squarely in the face. Although he should have been expecting such a move, for experience had taught him the most unlikely people thought it their sworn duty to help the fugitive, Louie did not fit that bill. Rather, despite the owner’s hostile response at their arrival, he hadn’t expected him to be one who fell under Kimble’s influence.

Instead, he was the one who fell. Less startled than his nemesis, for he had watched Louie sneak toward the lieutenant, Kimble nevertheless trembled at the violence. Taking a step toward the fallen man, Louie shooed him away.

“Get out of here. I gave you your chance.”

“He may be seriously hurt –”

“Yeah; his pride will sting all the way back to where he came from.” Shaking his head while looking from Gerard to Kimble, Louie finally smiled.

“I knew there was something right about you, minute I set eyes on you.”

“What – what do you mean?”

“That you’re a murderer –”

“Convicted, but –”

Ignoring the protest, he indicated Gerard, ”

Now him, he fooled me. I didn’t read ‘cop’ on him. His story was just crazy enough to be true. I missed that…” He struggled for the word and finally came up with it. “Edge. I don’t like cops,” he added with enough verve to make the doctor shudder.

“Why not?”

“I did ten years for arson. I was treated bad. When I got out, I swore I’d keep my eye out for… men like you. Give ’em a hand whenever I could.”

“Because I’m innocent?”

“We’re all innocent.” Louie laughed, giving Kimble the distinct impression he meant the opposite. “Go up to the house and get your things; you’ve got time. You heard Tyler. You’ve got thirty minutes. That means more like an hour. He sounded mad as a wet hen. He won’t hurry. He also knows you won’t be here when he an’ the boys arrive. He’s the one who sent me up an’ he knows I’ll kill him if I get the chance.” He kicked the prone body of Gerard. “He’s also hopin’ I’ll kill this fella. I mighta, but I don’t want to do Tyler any favors. I liked the sound of smugness in this cop’s voice. He’ll do a lot of squalling’ when he wakes up. That’s twice I’m gonna win today.”

“Louie, if you’re doing this because you think I’m guilty –”

“Take twenty from the register. That’ll get you a ticket outta here plus some cash to get you back on your feet. The bus line runs past the house. Make yourself seen an’ the driver will stop for you.” He winked. “He won’t ask no questions an’ he won’t remember pickin’ you up. I let him eat here for free an’ he don’t like cops, neither.”

Awed by the fact he was being aided for the wrong reasons, Richard Kimble had no choice but to accept the gifts and run. To do otherwise would be suicide. Pausing only long enough to take the money from the till, he darted out back and ran the distance to his room without once looking behind. If his conscience bothered him, he wasn’t in a position to argue. And, in a perverse sort of way, there was some satisfaction in knowing Gerard’s arrogance had saved his own life. Without that, the man on the run would have been consigned to guard the unconscious detective until help arrived.

They both lived in a world of irony.

Link to HAUNTED Chapter 9