By : Betsy J. Bennett
CHAPTER 2
The brutal nightmare hit hard and if he were honest with himself, not unexpected. Over the past several months, from exhaustion, or the security he’d discovered at the clinic, from the burgeoning love he felt with Olivia, his dreams had been gentle, and rarely remembered but after a trip to the prison, which in no way could have been considered cathartic, what could he expect but to be haunted by the fears he had lived with for so long? This one punched as hard as anything he’d ever had while an interstate fugitive.
It wasn’t Reistling he saw, that would have been expected. It wasn’t the bang of the gavel like a gunshot from the high desk the judge ruled behind like a throne with all the powers of a deity. May God have mercy on your soul.
No, this dream was a macabre version of when he had been on the run, part of the fears he had been living with minute by minute, trying to stay alive that returned to taunt him. He felt the hard, cold metal from the gun at his neck, the desperation of the convicted murderer holding him captive, forcing him to do things he had no interest in doing. He knew Gerard was out there, no friend at the time, but a man obsessed with his capture, with getting him to Michigan City and the electric chair. He needed to run and he couldn’t.
Then, in the way of dreams, the situation changed, there were gunshots, a barrage of fire and the killer went down. And from where he stood, hidden in a copse of high pines, he saw Lieutenant Gerard holster his weapon, and with a sheriff and half a dozen other armed men, run up to check the body, undoubtedly thinking the dead man was Richard Kimble, and that his long fixation was finally over.
And he wondered if Gerard had been disappointed or relieved when the corpse had not been his. Gerard was a friend now, had been instrumental in helping Kimble clear his name, but there had been years when Gerard had hunted him, when he had held the loaded gun, when the handcuffs Kimble wore had been his.
Breathing deeply, Kimble sat up on the side of the bed, hands on his knees, his face cupped in his palms, desperately trying to clear his mind of the terror he had faced, terror that he needed to convince himself was no longer real. His lungs ached as he continued to gasp, pulling in air, hoping to find comfort as he practiced his calming routines.
There were many times over the past few years when a shout at night from a nightmare, when a whimper from terror as he tried to find desperately needed sleep, would direct hunters toward him, and end even his transient illusion of freedom.
“I’m free,” he muttered silently, “I’m free.” It didn’t work. He wasn’t sure it ever had, but it was the best lifeline he had.
The window, by his side of the bed, was opened a crack, letting in sharply biting cold air that felt good on his feverous shoulders, his sweat-soaked back. For years he slept fully clothed, often even wearing his shoes. When he had to run there was no time to grab slacks, to search for socks. How many times had he been forced to abandon packed suitcases? Livi with her loving, was trying to break him of that habit.
Without turning on the light, and wide awake, Kimble mentally drifted back into the nightmare, his mind not yet willing to relinquish the terror, although his body was calming, his breathing less labored. He wondered if during those years Gerard often expected to find him dead from some backwater sheriff’s department ambush. He wondered if Gerard still did.
“You ok?” Livi asked, reaching over, rubbing his back. Her hands were warm, supportive, radiated the depth of her compassion with a touch, even as her voice was sleep ruffled. The woman was a healer in everything she said and did.
He turned back, kissed her gently, his love for her new, surprising, and so encompassing he couldn’t quite work his mind around it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”
If he could give her any gift to prove his love, it would be long nights of uninterrupted sleep, with pleasant dreams, so she could wake refreshed and return to her clinic to see her patients. The woman was notorious for working seventeen hour shifts, for thinking a two hour nap enough to get through a twenty-four hour day. As a doctor, he felt the same, but cherished the time lying beside her, holding her, loving her, and yes, sleeping.
The sun was still an hour from rising, but diffuse light from a false dawn shifted in through the window, and in the corner, by his insistence, a small ridiculous nightlight glowed boldly. He was of two minds regarding darkness. At night, he often felt safer, more easily hid. At night, though, he often felt more vulnerable. There was no safety at night. There was none during the day.
“I’m safe,” he muttered, and only wished he could believe it.
Her hair was down, floating around the pillow, a dark blond fall that made him feel intoxicated every time he touched it. There was a tieback around here somewhere, her hair didn’t like being confined, and he picked them off the bedroom carpet, probably a dozen every week. She didn’t disappoint. Livi reached into the bedside table and pulled out another tieback, quickly restraining her hair into a makeshift ponytail. He could have told her not to bother.
“You shouldn’t have gone back to the prison.”
“I know. But I had to. If there had been closure there, it would have been worth it.”
“No closure, only nightmares. But I will do my best to prove to you you’re safe, that you have nothing to fear.” She shifted, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her chest against his back, warm, comforting, and life affirming. Her lips nipped his shoulder blade, small kisses, as if she too could never get enough of this intimacy which had developed between them.
“Livi, go back to sleep.”
“I will only if you do.” Her voice was sultry, still spoke of sleep, of her dreams which he could only pray were pleasant.
He shifted on the bed, leaving her as he stretched muscles, the action unconscious, as if he needed to hop a train, or run long enough to jump into the back of a moving produce truck. He had to physically restrain himself from going to the window, pushing back the curtains and checking for police snipers. “I don’t think I can.”
“You want to tell me of the nightmare? Sometimes it helps to talk.”
“No.” He wanted to keep her innocent of the fears he had faced. She had gone though back editions of the newspapers, read the facts, the suppositions, the outright fabrications, but none of that captured his fears, the terrors he had lived with.
“I’d be happy if I could forget.”
“I know. I want that for you too. So, promise me you’ll never go back to that prison.”
“That prison or any other prison. I promise.” He grinned, knew he’d never lie to her. “And I am sorry I woke you. It must be bridal jitters.”
Her grin was honest. “I thought that was my prerogative.”
“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. I do. I have a right to be nervous.”
“It’s going to be fine, Dr. Kimble.”
He swallowed, found it difficult. His mouth was dry, but this was important, so he turned back to the bed, took her hands, wrapped them in his, holding on tight enough so that his fingers didn’t shake. “Promise me you’ll keep your maiden name. The name Kimble…”
Her eyes were clear, her expression open. “Is clean and honorable.”
His skin was sweaty and he had shifted away from her ministering. He had mentioned nightmares, but obviously the residuals hadn’t completely dissipated. “Your patients are used to you as Doc. Ollie. You’ll never get the patients to change.”
She grinned, a woman used to getting her way. “I’ve never been married before. I want everything that goes with it.”
He bit his bottom lip, wished desperately for a cigarette. He had given up the ugly habit weeks ago, but the cravings persisted, especially when stress returned, black and so familiar. “It’s important to me that none of the ugliness I’ve experienced attaches to you.”
“There’s no ugliness anymore. Only what you dream, but in the daytime, you can hold your head up. You can face life a free man.”
He crawled back into bed, sitting up, his back against the headboard, wrapping her in his arms where he knew she was the other half of his soul, the reason he would go on living. “Livi, when I was on the run, I wondered if it would ever be over, the running, the fear, the shadows that brought nightmares.”
“I’m sure you did wonder.” Subtly, but not so carefully that he didn’t notice, she placed two of her fingers on the thumping carotid at his neck. His pulse was too fast.
His hands, wrapping around her back, trembled. “I was afraid to die at first. For years, after the conviction, I was afraid. What if Helen was in heaven, and I wasn’t with her? What if she blamed me for not being there when a madman broke into our house and killed her? Maybe I could have stopped Johnson before he hurt her. I’ll never know the answer to that, but I should have been there.”
There was no sound in the house, it was absolutely silent, for regret made no noise. “No. Don’t blame yourself for what-if’s. That only leads to more pain.”
“I’m sure by my actions after the stillbirth that I hurt her.” He shook his head, as if shaking memories no longer pleasant, or never valid.
She had never met Helen Kimble, but she knew Richard, perhaps better than he knew himself. “No. Don’t say that. Don’t even think that. I’m sure that’s not true.”
“And Livi, what you don’t understand is, I can’t believe I ever loved Helen, as much as I love you right now.”
She reached up, wrapped an arm around his neck. “We have a future together. Let’s put the past behind us.”
His smile was fleeting, and self-mocking. “Easier said than done. What if by loving you, I hurt you?”
“You won’t. You couldn’t. You’re a good man, Dr. Kimble.”
His heart continued racing, and his body felt restless, the need to be someplace else, someone else. The shirt he wore would have to be changed before he went into work, it was starting to stink as sweat and terror seeped through his pores. “It’s what I fear, more than I fear my own death, that something from the past will return, attack the people I’ve come to love. It wasn’t easy for Donna, Len, Ray or my father while I was a fugitive. Someone always thought they could gain noterority by assaulting them even if it were only words at a grocery store, or mocking at a gas station. For years Ray couldn’t hold a job. The one time I went back I thought he was lazy, that he was somehow jeopardizing his own career, but that wasn’t it at all. The only thing he’s ever done wrong is wear the name Kimble.”
“Stop it. Let’s not dig any more bodies from the past. We have the clinic and our patients who need us. Richard, we have our love. Nothing is going to change that.”
“Livi, so many times I’d think you’d be better off without me, but God help me, I can’t leave you. You have to understand that. Even if it would be better for you, I can’t leave you. It would kill me to walk away, and I’m too selfish to do it.”
“I don’t want you to walk away. Richard, don’t you know I need you too? I’ve never faced a death penalty, never been on the wrong side of a lieutenant’s gun, but I’ve never lived either. With you Richard, I’m alive and happy, and I don’t want anything else but what I’ve got right now, my clinic, our clinic,” she corrected, “and your love.”
He pulled in a deep breath, held it and let it out slowly. His pulse was starting to regulate. “The nightmares won’t let me be. I wasn’t expecting love, wasn’t looking for anything more than comfort I found a dozen times before, in other women’s arms, momentary peace so I could get through the night, forget for a few minutes the hell that followed me. But that’s not what I have with you. I need you.”
“Good. You’ve got me. We’ll be married in two weeks, and we can forget the past.”
Her eyes were wet. Why, when he was confessing, when he felt the need to weep, were her eyes red?
“Livi—“
“Tell me anything you need to. I’m here. I’m listening. There is nothing more important to me right now than trying to understand the pain you went through.”
“So many times—“ he stopped, tried to find the words for his confession. She waited. Her heart was shattering in slow motion, pieces breaking off in bits of his pain, but she would wait, show by her patience how much she trusted him.
“There’s no forgetting the past. As the years went on, I realized I wasn’t afraid of death anymore, only of dying with my name soiled. I could put myself in danger to protect someone, I couldn’t turn my back on need. Over the years, I wasn’t always running, I want you to understand that.”
It was a lie, and she knew it. Even though he had found temporary haven for weeks or even months at a time, he could never completely relax. And yes, she knew him, knew he had helped every person he came across, and she suspected that sometimes he might have been craving death, a release from the constant terror he carried with him so he would help someone, putting himself in a gun’s cross-hairs. “I understand. But Richard—“
He shook his head, gently put his fingers over her lips, forcing her to be silent. She felt his trembling, minutely, but she knew when he held a scalpel or suturing thread or took blood pressure than his hands were absolutely steady. She was a doctor. She healed. This pain being forced out of him in agonizing drops was out of her realm of experience, but still she wanted to write a prescription, Take my heart and we’ll feel better all the rest of our lives, or something equally as trite. But if she knew anything as a physician, so many wounds were psychological, and she had no idea how to help, except to be here, to listen, to refuse to judge, to convince him he was safe and loved and needed.
“Before we marry, you need to know this. I don’t want you going into our marriage blindly.”
Kimble stood, took trembling steps away from the bed, his back to her, his shoulders rounded, his head hanging. Love rippled through her, this time wrapped in shared pain, for she could see how much he hurt. He wouldn’t look at her, hoping to keep this one barrier between them, an artificial wall she would ignore or crash through.
“There’s nothing you could say that would make me change my mind.”
He had been wounded when he appeared in her clinic looking for a janitor job, but she’d hoped he’d gotten over that, but maybe the exoneration wasn’t real to him. He shivered again, spoke as if he hadn’t heard her. “For years I was terrified of the name Richard Kimble. When someone said it, I was recognized and in trouble. When I heard it from the tv or read it in the newspaper, the chances were greater that I would be recognized, hunted, trapped. When some lawman or vigilante shouted it, I was in serious danger, and that it would be days, perhaps only hours I had to live. For six years when I was Richard Kimble, I only knew fear. It’s ugly when you realize the thing that terrifies you the most is your own name.”
She thumped him once, with a closed fist, on his back, the action light enough that a fly could have escaped unharmed. Still, he felt it, as if she had stabbed him. “Then you listen to me: I am not ashamed or afraid to be Mrs. Richard Kimble. When will you understand you can hold your head up and be proud of that name?”
The smile returned, was far more healing than the one just moments before. “You’ll like my sister. That’s what Donna says. But Livi, I want you to keep your name. Be Dr. Olivetti. Don’t let any of the ugliness from my past hurt you. I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt you.”
“You won’t. You couldn’t. Richard, I’ve seen your compassion, how you treat people, how much you care. You could never hurt me. We’ve started our life together. I’m not going to let anything interfere with that.”
He turned around, let his lips rest on hers for a moment, before taking the kiss to another level. She was responsive, his mate in everything that mattered. Kimble breathed deeply, and now in the silence of that pre-dawn bedroom when his pulse raced, it wasn’t from the nightmare, but from the loving they shared.
Richard Kimble stuck his head out into the waiting room. It was full as usual, with the twenty chairs occupied, with additional people standing against the walls and loitering on the sidewalk outside. These were his people. Although he’d only been here a few months, he’d found a home here, with the poor, the downtrodden, the ones whose past was not discussed in front of police, or ever. He cared about their health, their families, and heaven help him, even their dogs. This place was as far removed from his previous life as possible, but he was learning to be comfortable here. For long stretches of time, he found himself happy, for the first time in years.
For a second as he stared into the waiting room, the past intruded, as it had a habit of doing: the need to run without looking back, to change his name, to escape the police, leaving behind so many who had become friends. His pulse spiked, his breathing became ragged and he wondered if anyone noticed. Livi would, but she was busy. He struggled to slow his heart, to regulate his breath. There was nothing to be afraid of. Not any more. Best to let the ghosts of days gone by rest forgotten.
“I’m free. I’m free.” It was his mantra. He recited it silently until he could believe it, even if that were artifice, a lie he told Livi. He had more than his fair share of episodes from his former life that he refused to acknowledge, at least not in the daylight. Nightmares, that was another story.
No, he wouldn’t think of the past. Not when he had a future ahead of him. What was it Donna had said? You’ve got a second chance. Take it one day at a time. Start today.
At least it was a nice day for beginnings. October was in full swing, and the morning, although decidedly cold, had morphed into one of those golden days, warm, sunny, with the leaves just starting to turn, and a hint of crispness in the air. Maybe he should be doing this in the spring, when everything was green, and the promise of brighter days ahead shown in the faces of children anticipating summer vacation, in pansies and tulips realizing winter couldn’t keep them hostage underground any longer.
But he was not willing to wait. He’d lost too much time. Too much of his life had been ripped from him. It was time he started living again, not hiding in shadows, not wishing for resolution from a man obsessed with his capture and a blood-thirsty state who, beyond all logic, demanded his name on a death certificate.
He was so happy nothing was going to reach him, not even the hours of work he had ahead of him. Although he loved his career, he desperately wanted the day to be over so he could return home to the woman he loved. On one level, he understood he was safe now. For years he didn’t think he’d ever be safe again.
He met Dora Ann’s gaze and lightly shook his head, a “not yet” look that she understood. He was not ready for the next patient. He recognized the woman he was looking for and curled his fingers, indicated he’d like to speak with her. She was a large woman, moved like an army drill sergeant. She kept her extended family under tight rein. He’d hate to have to cross her for anything.
“Ruth, may I see you for a minute?”
The large black grandmother got to her feet and followed him. The two of them, the white doctor who for years had faced a death row conviction and the black woman who had sometimes worked three jobs to keep food on the table for her growing family had formed a friendship, started before they realized she was “great grandmother” to the puppies he’d delivered a few months back.
“You need me?” he asked, when he got her in an examination room. Dora Ann hadn’t bothered to hand him a chart, and she would have, had Ruth been waiting for a physician.
“No. My youngest Julian, he’s with Doc Ollie. He be out soon.” She had a complex family tree that he found impossible to decipher, and from what he could tell many of them from any number of generations were her youngest.
He offered her the stool, the only place beside the gurney to sit. She shook her head and so he sat himself. He rested his elbows on his knees, interlocked his fingers, looked to the corner of the exam room, seeing only his ugly past, before he looked up at her, met her eyes directly. “I need help, and I don’t know who else to ask.”
She crossed her arms over enormous breasts, and when she spoke there was a trace of entertainment in her tone. “What’s your problem, Doc?”
He stood, went to the exam room door which he hadn’t bothered to shut, and looking both ways, closed the door.
She tilted her head, trying to understand what he wasn’t saying. There were still shadows behind his eyes, and more than once she had seen him twitch at the approach of a uniformed policeman. She understood problems he had faced. She had family in jail, recognized the scars it left long after the prison doors shut behind you. This white doctor had some heavy baggage in his background. “You in some kinda trouble?”
He sat up, straightened his shoulders, but his smile was fleeting. “It’s not what you think.”
“You have no idea what I be thinkin’. What kin I help you with?”
Kimble settled back down on the stool, found himself unconsciously rubbing his ring finger, left hand. It had been years since he’d worn a wedding band, and it surprised him how nervous he was about to do so again. You’d think he was an untried kid.
“You’ve got your pulse on the neighborhood. You know every single thing that goes on.”
She nodded her head, then spoke as if denying the action. “Well, I don’t know about every single thing—“
He lowered his eyebrows, his only comment, and she laughed, said, “Alright, you right. I know every single thing goes on in the neighborhood.”
“I need to hire some people.”
“Legal stuff?” she asked, and he hoped with her question she was teasing, but yes, if he needed something shady or downright illegal, he certainly would have started with her as well.
“Absolutely legal. In case you’re wondering, I’m through getting my name on post office walls.”
“There was a time, Doc.”
For four years he had been on the run, an interstate fugitive. His wanted posters had graced every post office, every sheriff’s office, and from what he could tell, every major newspaper in the continental United States.
“There was a time, Ruth,” he agreed. “No, I need a bunch of help, and I’d like to hire local. I could go through the Yellow Pages, but first, I’m not sure many of those companies would be happy coming to this side of Detroit.”
“Ain’t that the truth. But I don’t know why. We ain’t so scary, are we?”
“Nope. Now that Doc Ollie has you all whipped into shape, I can handle you.”
She threw back her head and laughed over that one. “Seems to me, we the ones that be handling you.”
“You’re probably right about that.”
“So, what can I do for you Doc?”
“I got my courage together and asked Livi to marry me, so it looks like she and I are getting married next Saturday. I’d like it to be this Saturday, but I figure we’d need more than two days to pull this thing together.”
“Now Doc, you gonna make an honest woman of Doc Ollie?”
“Miz Jackson, Livi has always been an honest woman. She doesn’t know what I’m planning. She’s happy going to the courthouse and getting married there, then returning to work like nothing happened, but I’d like a reception, something we can invite the whole community to. I want a block party, inviting all the people who come here, who have become our family.”
“She got no family of her own?”
He scratched his chin, wondered how he could get the information out of her so he could start making calls. “Mother and Father, sure. I don’t know about anyone else. I’ll have to work on that.” He flushed, looked younger than his years. “When we’re together, we don’t talk much.”
For a second time she threw back her head and roared with laughter.
“That’s not what I meant. We don’t talk about her family.”
“I knows what you meant, Doc. So tell me what you need.”
He had thought to make a list, but this too was another facet of his time as an escaped convict, never write anything down that a policeman might find, that might lead to the next place he’d run to, that might lead to his capture. For a second, fear returned, and he had no idea why. This shouldn’t be a scary part. But maybe this was important, this need to impress Olivia, to start their married life off with the joy of a reception, and like any bridegroom he wasn’t sure how to do that.
In the corridor, behind the shut door, he could hear Dr. Olivetti talking with a patient, last minute instructions, as she walked to reception to pick up the next patient and file. Kimble’s fear returned, that she knew what he was planning, that somehow all his plans to make her happy would be a disaster.
Ruth waited. As a black woman living in late-1960’s Detroit, she understood fear, even if she didn’t particularly understand his fear.
He found his courage, or if not his courage, at least his voice. Kimble met her eyes directly. “It’s a rather long list. I’d like food for what, five hundred people?”
“You expecting that many?”
He stood, but the exam room was small, with no place to pace, and no window to check, so he sat again, frustrated, if anything, at himself for not completely accepting the exoneration. “Well, I want the kids invited too, and this is a healthy neighborhood for children, and the bikers, and well, I don’t want to turn away anyone. I’d like a band for the evening, for dancing, and we’ll have to rent chairs and tables and probably outside lights. I want a cake, a big, massive thing that we can cut. And maybe a photographer. I won’t need a lot of pictures, but I’d like one of Livi and I cutting the cake.”
“You gonna shove cake in her mouth?”
“Absolutely.” He hadn’t anticipated the question, but he had no hesitation in answering. Helen had been too refined for that, too aware of his dignity. Livi would sputter, but he’d play to the audience. These were people who loved her, would love to see the always professional Dr. Olivetti with cake all over her face.
“Anything else?”
“I don’t know. I had nothing to do at my first wedding but show up. Helen and my in-laws took over.” Nothing to do but pay the bills, for months after. “Do you have anyone in mind I could hire? Like I said, I’d like to keep it local.”
“I can do this. I knows what you need. This won’t be the first wedding I’ve overseen.”
“Great, I was hoping you’d say that.” He reached into his wallet, pulled out a wad of bills. “If this isn’t enough, let me know, I can come up with more.”
By feel alone, and without looking at the denominations on the money, she commented: “With what they paying you here? You can’t be making this much a year.”
“I don’t plan on getting married again. And Ruth, I’ve got money, don’t worry about that. I want this done right. I want to make Livi happy.”
“How about drinks?”
He had that terrified look pass quickly over his features, the kind that indicated this wasn’t something he’d considered. “Beer, definitely, and lemonade, sweet tea, soda, whatever you think. You know this community better than I do. We’ll need plates, silverware I have no idea what else.”
“Doc, you go back to seeing patients. I got this handled. We’ll keep this a secret from Doc Ollie. She won’t know what hit her.”
He put his hand gently on her shoulder, relief shuddering through him. “Thanks Ruth. I knew I could count on you.”
***
He knew child abuse when he saw it, even though it had been rare in his former pediatric practice. The girl, two years old, according to her grandmother, had a broken arm that maybe “Falling down the stairs” could explain, but that explanation did nothing for the cigarette burns along her legs, the belt marks on her back. She also had the classic external features of Downs Syndrome, with short statue, round face, almond shaped, upslanted eyes. Although in pain, the baby grinned while Richard set the arm.
“Someone deliberately hurt this baby.” He tried to control the timbre of his voice, to act professional as he had been trained. To Dr. Kimble hurting a child so loving was akin to murder.
The grandmother looked away, and making a spot judgment, he doubted she had anything to do with the abuse, except maybe, not being able to prevent it. Dessi, the child wrapped her overly thin arms around Kimble’s neck as if she would never let go, even the one in the fresh cast, and that had to hurt. Without looking, he reached backward, came back with a lollipop that he pealed the cover off, and handed to the baby.
“Tell me what I can do to help,” Kimble asked the grandmother.
“Taint nothing you can do can make this child normal. That’s what he says.”
“He? Dessi’s father?”
“Yes.”
“She can live a happy, caring life if she is not abused. I have to report this, you understand.”
“Dr. Olivia—“
“What?”
“He threatened Dr. Olivia when she tried to call, so I haven’t been able to bring Dessi back.”
“He can threaten me all he wants. I’m not letting this drop.”
“That’s what Dr. Olivia said. But he had a knife.”
“I’ve faced criminals with knives before. I don’t let this perfect baby be hurt again. Can you or her family care for her if I get the police involved?”
“Yeah, we can do that.”
Carrying the child, realizing he wouldn’t put her down if he tried, he left the exam room and headed to the front reception desk.
“Dora Ann,” he said when the receptionist finally looked up. “I need the police. If you’re busy, I’ll call them myself.”
“Police?”
He indicated the baby he held. “I’ll speak to them when they get here.”
Dora Ann picked up the phone’s receiver, brought it to her ear. “I’ll call. I can’t promise they’ll come. This isn’t a neighborhood they feel comfortable checking.”
Kimble bounced the baby on his hip and she giggled tightening her arms around his neck in childish enthusiasm, until he was nearly choking. “They were here yesterday.”
“Yeah, that’s right, they come when they want to, when it’s on their terms. They don’t never come when they’re called.”
He considered this, weighed options. “This isn’t something I’m willing to let slide. Tell them it’s Richard Kimble. They all want my head on a platter. They’ll come.”
The fallout, and he was expecting it, came several hours later after the police had taken his statement and left. A huge man wearing shift-worker clothes from one of the local auto-assembly plants bust into his exam room where he was working, and without a word, took a swing.