Haunted
By : S.L. Kotar and J.E. Gessler
Chapter 2
“I’ll call a taxi.”
That’s what Phillip Gerard said out loud. He might have said, “I’ll sprout wings and fly,” because there were no payphones anywhere the eye could see.
What did I come here for, anyway?
He might have been asking himself why he had come to Bennington as surely as why he had chosen to walk to the Battle Monument.
Crossing the street, he walked against traffic, remembering what he had taught little Phil.
“The right side is the left side.”
It was a play on words: “right” substituting for “correct.”
No matter. Phil, Jr. and Frances after him, had not remembered. Like children of all ages, they walked where they walked, regardless of danger. Not being a child, but rather an officer of the law whose duty it was to obey the rules, he walked on the proper side.
Valise in one hand, the other loose at his side, the headlights of a passing car picked up his shadow and cast it out in front of him. The sight of it stopped him for a moment, froze his footsteps. For all the world, he might have been a fugitive. Carrying his belongings in one hand and hitching a ride with the other. How often had Richard Kimble presented that image? Shoulders hunched a bit, thumb ready to hold out to an oncoming car, desperate for a ride. A ride to where?
“Down the road.”
“Out of town.”
“Wherever you’re going.”
Chilled to the bone, hungry, lonely. Depressed. Homesick.
The hunter had counted on that.
Call your sister. Call Donna. Listen to a friendly voice; absorb her words of comfort. Just long enough for me to get a fix on your location.
It wasn’t often the hunter had the opportunity to tap the Taft phone line. It required a court order and they were hard to come by. It had been easier during the first year when emotions were high. Judges listened to him then.
It’s his birthday.
It’s her birthday.
It’s Christmas.
Once. Only once he had come close and he had missed his opportunity. The judges weren’t as interested, anymore. The odds were longer. He had miss-guessed too many times. The hunter had become the problem, not the hunted. Richard Kimble was old news. Don’t bother us anymore.
Bother.
The word stuck in his craw.
Why doesn’t someone bother to stop and give me a ride?
Phillip Gerard wasn’t feeling like a hunter. He was feeling like the hunted. Richard Kimble had set the stage and he was playing his part.
Chilled to the bone.
Gerard was cold; almost freezing. The wind cut through his suit coat. He hadn’t thought to wear a heavier coat. It hadn’t been this cold in Indiana.
No overcoat. The fugitive had left it behind. When he looked out the window and saw the police car slow down as it passed his $2-a-night room to let. Get out. No time to pack. Or, when he had been spotted by the teenager who recognized him from the detective magazines he read. Run. Leave the suitcase, the overcoat, the underwear and the toothbrush behind. Those items he had so carefully collected. The hair dye so recently purchased. All gone. Money wasted.
Hungry.
Gerard was hungry; almost starving. He had eaten nothing on the plane. Had skipped breakfast because he had hoped to eat at the airport before boarding. But nothing had appealed to him and he decided he would order a full meal at the hotel. But he was a long way from the hotel. Perhaps it was no longer safe. You never knew. One day too long; one wrong decision. The clerk was suspicious. Maybe for the wrong reason but it didn’t matter. He’d wave in the cop on the beat. That guy in Room 12; I don’t like his looks. I think he passed bad money. He hadn’t, of course. I’m sorry, mister. Then the telltale flicker of recognition. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before? Good money, bad fate.
Lonely.
Gerard was lonely; godawful alone. The police – his people – had not met him at the airport. They hadn’t been notified or they didn’t care. He was the pariah, now. The man no one understood. A man outstanding in his field: the empty pumpkin patch. Alone with two large, rotting, uncarved, unnecessary gourds. As friendless as the Man in the Moon. He looked up. That bright orb shone no more; it was covered in cloud. Or, more likely, it was the dark of the moon. He couldn’t remember whether he had actually seen it before or not. A man out in the dead of night, walking a deserted road. No one to turn to; no one to listen. Find a room, turn on the radio. Listen to the sound of another human being. But the music is recorded and the DJ isn’t talking to anyone in particular. He’s just rambling into a microphone. No comfort there. Look around. The walls closing in. Walls, like policemen, closed in. A thought un-thought in a previous lifetime. Experience was a bitter teacher.
Homesick.
Gerard was homesick for a home he no longer had. Home was a waystation on an unending road. Unpack a bag, wash the dirty clothes, drink the coffee left in the pot since morning. Off to bed, to dream no more. Nightmares weren’t dreams, they were the past, the present and the future come haunting an overwrought soul. Running blind. Running with eyes open. Running with one eye ahead and the other behind. He is out there. Not, When will it end? but, How will it end? Nothing will ever be the same. Everything has changed. Why had it come to this? If only…. If only, what? No pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. No acceptable answer. Starting again was out of the question. Picking up the pieces was a euphemism when you didn’t know the picture you were completing.
He felt the headlights before he saw the shadows dance. Without thinking, he stuck out his thumb. The car rolled to a stop behind him. He turned and ran toward it. Not a prayer answered, but a chance to take a chance.
Dare to be human for a minute or an hour.
“Where you going?”
“Up ahead. I’m looking for a public phone.”
It did not occur to him to ask to be taken to his hotel. That would be telling.
“There’s a café up ahead. I can drop you there.”
“Thanks.”
Turn your head away. Who knows who the driver might be? An off-duty cop. Someone who studied the faces on wanted posters.
Two miles down the road, or twenty. It didn’t matter. Music on the radio. Canned. Better than the latest news report. Fugitive reported in the vicinity. Be on the look-out. Beware of strangers. Don’t stop to pick up hitchhikers.
The driver wants to talk.
“I’ve been visiting the Bennington Monument.”
“You must be from out of state.”
A chill of a different type.
“Why do you say that?”
Try to sound anonymous.
“No one from hereabouts calls it that. It’s the ‘Battle Monument.'”
“I like history.”
Answer an open-ended statement with something else.
“Me, too. I bet I know everything there is to know about the Revolutionary War.”
“I admire that.”
Flattery keeps his mind diverted.
“My great-great grandfather fought in the Battle of Lexington and Concord.”
“Really? Did he dump tea in Boston Harbor?”
Try to sound knowledgeable.
“Not that I know of. It would make a good story, though. Wouldn’t it?”
A nod of the head.
Another mile or another twenty.
“Here’s the café.”
“Thanks for the ride.”
“Check out Old Bennington while you’re here.”
“I’ll be sure and do that.”
The car drives away. A sigh of relief.
Live to run another day.
It’s night.
Open the door. The jingle of a bell. A shudder. Don’t draw attention to yourself. It’s all right. No one looked up. No recognition in their eyes. Take a stool or sit at a booth? Heads or tails? Heads I lose, tails you win. Sitting at a table is unfriendly. I’m just a regular guy. Position yourself by the pie case. It’s three tiers high. Almost enough to cover the face. Slough. A regular guy who’s tired. It’s been a long day. I’ve just come from work.
“What’ll you have?”
How much money to spend? Money is hard to come by. Minimum wage jobs. Left the last place before payday. A week’s labor for nothing.
“A hamburger and onion rings.” Onion rings cost ten cents more. “Make it fries, instead.”
“Coffee?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
That’s another five cents. But asking for water sounds… cheap. Suspicious. Like you can’t pay the bill. That raises suspicion. Everyone drinks coffee. That pie looks good. Can’t afford it.
Gerard had money in his wallet but he wasn’t feeling like a police detective. He was someone else.
Someone dead.
But the dead didn’t eat and he was hungry. Starving. You never knew where your next meal was coming from.
The burger sizzled on the grill. Bubbles of fat popped. Hardly a filet mignon with asparagus and a vintage wine. What did a gourmet taste like? Who remembered?
The bun was stale and the fries were over-cooked. They matched the raw burger. No one complained in a café. A fugitive ought to know. He had eaten in enough of them. Sometimes, he even worked in one. “Why do you wash your hands so much? You’re wasting towels.” A tell-tale clue: a doctor was here. For a man obsessed with your capture to find.
Old habits die hard.
“Die” being the operative word.
Wolf down the food. Eat it all, it’s paid for. Waste not, want not. A rhyme from childhood. No child to read it to. More pain. And you thought you were over it.
No pie. It was probably stale, too. Small comfort.
There’s no place like home.
If only there was one.
No rest for the weary.
Been there, done that.
Pay phone in the corner. Call a cab. Go to the hotel. Get some sleep. There was work to be done in the morning. Get it over it. Wrap up loose ends. Put an end to it. The End.
Stop it!
Suddenly, he did not want to go to the hotel. He had a feeling it was compromised. Unsafe. Listen to your instincts. Nothing lost if you’re wrong; everything lost if you’re right.
Phillip Gerard felt ill. Sick, somewhere. Hard to define. Sick in the heart. Write it off as indigestion. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Tomorrow never came. Tomorrow was over.
He had waited a long time.
Not like this. Not for this.
For what?
What’s the matter with me?
Marie said it. He wasn’t my son. He wasn’t anything to me at all. He was a convicted murderer. Time to pay the piper. It’s not my fault.
He died a hero.
Back to that.
There was no question of going to the hotel. Go to the phone and call a cab.
I have nothing to fear.
But fear, itself.
“Drive me into town. Drop me off at the nearest motel.”
The cab driver took him for a ride. It didn’t matter. He didn’t want to go where he was going, anyway. He could afford the fare. He wasn’t a fugitive. He was something else, entirely.
Richard Kimble was dead and he had just lived a night of his life. For penance, although he had done nothing wrong.
“We called at your hotel room this morning,” the detective stated, eyes narrowed in annoyance. “When you didn’t come down, we went in to inquire. The clerk said you never checked in.”
“No one met me at the airport,” he replied in return.
Phillip Gerard had a headache. He had tossed and turned with indigestion all night and he was in a foul mood. To make matters worse, the walls of the cheap motel room on the outskirts of town were thin and every time he heard a voice, bed springs squeal, or the toilet flush, he had awoken in a cold sweat. He wanted matters over and done with.
“By the time we got there, you had gone.”
“Yes, well, I know a lie when I hear one.”
Clearly surprised by the animosity, the detective’s partner jerked back his head.
“First of all, you’re in our city, now, not your own. You may take that tone with your men, but we don’t appreciate it in Vermont. Second, we expected you’d come in here with bells on your toes.”
“Why is that?”
“We read all about you. There was a big write-up about the Indiana cop who was chasing this fugitive: Richard Kimble. The man who got away.”
For a moment Gerard looked confused.
“No. I didn’t see it.”
The two Bennington officers winked at one another.
“Probably just as well. It wasn’t exactly anything your mother would want to cut out for her scrapbook.”
“I don’t have a mother.”
What he meant was, “My mother isn’t living,” but the two opted to take the statement in its more literal interpretation.
“I’ll bet you don’t. The stork brought you, fully grown, to the Stafford precinct where you set up shop as a homicide detective.”
“Are you trying to be funny? Because if you are, I don’t appreciate it. I’ve come a very long way on a very serious matter. I’d like to get on with it, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. We’ve got him on ice. All packaged up right and proper. A temporary coffin, you understand. Nailed up tighter’n a bread box: with a bright red ribbon around it. He won’t be escaping from you, again.”
Gerard’s mouth quivered at the corner.
“I was led to believe he – the body – was to remain in the morgue until I arrived. I have to… identify the remains.”
“What for?” The first detective shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “We mailed you the fingerprints.”
“I never received them. Where did you address the envelope?”
“To the Stafford police station. With your name on it. Someone else probably opened it and filed it away.”
“They wouldn’t do that.”
“Because you’re the only one who handles the Kimble material?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve given you one answer. I don’t have another. The coffin is sealed. That’s regulations. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be able to get it on the train.”
“Yeah,” his partner agreed. “You’d have to carry it home on your back.”
Gerard looked from one to the other.
“I’m warning you both: if there’s really a red ribbon on the coffin, I’ll have your badges.”
The second man puckered his lips and whistled.
“Are the cops all like you in Indiana?”
No. So much is the pity.”
“Do you want it, or don’t you?”
Gerard dug his heels into the linoleum of the precinct floor.
“Him. Do I want him? Yes. I want him.”
“Then, he’s all yours. Sign here,” the detective scowled, thrusting out an official form, “and we’ll transfer him into your custody. Do you need a pair of handcuffs to go along with the carbon copy?”
He signed the paper, writing his full rank and name: Lieutenant Phillip Gerard. Ripping off the bottom paper, he folded it and thrust it into his pocket.
“What’s the matter with you people? A man is dead. You’re acting as though there’s some cause for celebration in the fact.”
“You’re the one who chased him across the country. He’s – he was – a murderer.”
“He saved two lives. I would have imagined that would mean something up here in the Green Mountain State.”
“What it means is that he doesn’t have to sign any extradition papers to go home.”
“You’re sick.”
“That’s funny. That’s just what the writer of that article said about you.”
Gerard bounced on his toes before answering.
“I want the name of the woman.”
“What woman?”
“The one whose life was saved by Dr. Kimble.”
“Now, who’s sick?”
Taking stock of the two men, Gerard’s voice hardened. He knew what it would take to get what he wanted. He realized they had expected him to play the game: to be the hardnosed hunter described in the article they had read. He had disappointed them. They weren’t looking for humanity, they were seeking a good story to tell around the coffee machine.
“For my report. To tidy matters up. To put an end to it.”
They brightened.
“For your trophy case, you mean.”
“You took the words out of my mouth.”
One of the men scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it over.
Mrs. Louise Coulter, 476 Colonial Lane, Bennington, VT.
“Thank you.”
“Shall we drive you to the train station?”
“That would be lovely.”
They missed the sarcasm.
“Pete, you drive him. I’ve got some work to catch up on.”
“Sure. Come on, Lieutenant.”
Gerard paused to take out a packet of cigarettes. Pete offered to light it for him, but he shook him off, using his lighter, instead. Taking a deep inhalation, he offered his hand, while surreptitiously leaving his lighter on the desk.
“Thanks for everything. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Any time.”
“I hope not.”
Pete smiled. Gerard followed the other man out. Once on the sidewalk, he held up a hand.
“Just a moment. I forgot my lighter. Wait here.”
Swiftly moving back, he retraced his steps to the desk, eyes scanning the interior of the small department. He was just in time to see Pete slip out the back way. It did not tax his imagination to know where he was going.
To remove the red ribbon from around Richard Kimble’s coffin.
The roundabout trip to the train station took twenty minutes. When the police car pulled up to the entrance, Gerard popped the door handle.
“I’ll get out here. No sense you waiting around. I suppose you have… work to catch up on.”
The unnamed officer shrugged. He started to say something but then stopped. As though he were gifted with second sight, Gerard ground his teeth. He had seen the wanted poster rolled up in the back seat. He knew, without further proof, the detective had planned to ask him to autograph it. It was as well for both of them he didn’t.
There would have been a scene. And more than likely, assault with intent to do great bodily harm was a crime in Bennington. And it would have been Phillip Gerard signing extradition papers to get home to serve his time in Indiana.
Home. A word that meant many things to many different people.
Walking into the station, Gerard found the proper authority and handed him the release form he had obtained from the detectives.
“Yes, sir. The coffin has already been loaded. It’s in the second-to-last car. With the mail and the other baggage.”
“Am I to pick up my ticket from you?”
The man looked uncomfortable.
“We weren’t alerted someone was going to escort the body. I have no ticket for you.”
All things considered, Gerard wasn’t surprised.
“I see. Then, I’ll sit in the baggage car.”
“I’ll try and arrange –”
“No need.”
“It isn’t very comfortable. And you have a long way to go.”
“Not as long as the passage getting here.”
The man nodded as though he understood. He didn’t.
“What time does the train depart?”
“Not for another several hours, I’m afraid. You have kinda a long wait.”
“I’m used to waiting.”
He tipped his hat and strolled away.
Link to HAUNTED Chapter 3