Screeching, a flock of geese broke from the tall marsh grass and flapped noisily skyward. Richard Kimble watched them take flight and silently envied the ease of their escape from this morass of a Louisiana swamp. With the swollen clouds overhead dropping intermittent rain, he had been running and hiding for three days through the vine-tangled undergrowth, fleeing a pack of bloodhounds and the half dozen law officers driving them. The lack of sleep, food and water was beginning to take its toll on him. But he didn't dare stop. Whenever he'd paused for more than a scant few minutes, the distant barking had returned, a tireless and incessant reminder that his pursuers were still back there, still coming.

He didn't know just when the marshland had begun giving way to the foothills and scrubby chaparral. It didn't matter. Somewhere, somehow, he would have to find fresh water, and soon. Impossible to drink what little rain had fallen. And nothing on the ground to collect it in.

Breathing heavily, Kimble hurried on. A cold, damp shower of rain had returned by the time he came upon the pond. More of a large puddle, it lay between two sheltering rocks, the raindrops forming myriad rings on its surface. Kimble collapsed beside it and eagerly scooped up a double handful of water. He brought it within an inch of his mouth before disconsolately letting it drain away again. The water had been oily to the touch, smelled of alkali and probably contained enough micro-organisms to kill a healthy ox. The ache in his throat made him sorely tempted to risk drinking it anyway, but reason won the argument, and he forced himself to get up, to move on.

The tree growth thickened as he went deeper into the hills, thankful to at last leave the bayou behind. Now if he could only manage to lose those dogs...

He spotted the buildings after he'd topped a small rise. A tightly-clustered group of long white bungalows nestled amid the trees, with a narrow one-lane road beyond that wound away into the hills. A motel. With no cars in its weed-grown parking lot. It might be closed for the off season. But if he were lucky, it would at least have fresh running water. Kimble almost ran down the leaf-covered slope. One of the rear windows stood open, and he quickly pried loose the screen, pausing only to be certain the shadowy room was unoccupied before climbing in. With a silent prayer that the water hadn't been shut off, he found his way into the bathroom and twisted the handle of the old-fashioned cold water tap. After the protesting squeal of old pipes, he was rewarded with a cool, gushing stream. With cupped hands, he drank eagerly until it seemed his stomach couldn't possibly hold any more, then he continued to splash the water over his face, neck and arms. On an afterthought, he reached to flip on the light switch, pushing the door closed as a precaution. The stranger in the mirror stared back at him with incredibly tired eyes, a grimy face and a bristling day growth of beard. He reached to pull open the medicine chest, his first impulse merely to avoid sight of the mirror. But he was surprised to find the cabinet inside filled with toiletries: toothpaste, soap, deodorant, and a pair of lady's razors. Nylon stockings hung dripping from the shower curtain rod. So the motel wasn't closed after all. And the window had been open because...

The click of a key in the outer lock triggered a long-ingrained instinct in Kimble. He slapped off the light and jerked the bathroom door part way open, but needed only a glance to tell him it was too late to try for the window. The outer door was already coming open. He reached for the shower curtain and pulled it aside, hoping against hope that there would be another window, but the shower had a solid tiled wall. Voices came from the outer room. Kimble pressed himself to the wall and listened, scarcely daring to breathe.

"Well how was I supposed to know I should've let him put the gas in the car? I've been pumping my own gas in California ever since I can remember."

"Char, this isn't California."

"We should've asked where--" The first voice stopped suddenly in mid-sentence. "Ann--"

"What?"

"The window."

Deciding there was no further use in delaying the inevitable, Kimble pushed open the bathroom door and stepped out into the room. The shorter of the two women made a furtive move to reopen the front door.

"Please don't do that."

She froze for a moment, then reached out again as though she were going to try running for it anyway. This time it was her companion who discouraged her. "Do what he says, Char. He might have a gun."

The one by the door dropped her outstretched hand. "We don't have very much money," she said nervously.

Kimble glanced at the open window and in a tired voice, said, "I'm not armed and I don't want your money."

The taller woman, Ann, was staring at him oddly. "Have I seen you somewhere before?"

"No. Look, I only came inside for a little water. The window was open. I'll leave the same way. Just forget that you saw me, all right?" He'd started over the sill when the sound of barking dogs echoed from somewhere in the distance. He hesitated, listening for their direction, then was gone before either woman could say anything more.

Ann Foley went to the window to watch him disappear into the trees, and found her companion, Charlene, beside her, watching as well.

"Where did you think you'd seen him before?" she asked. "On a wanted poster or something? Looks like a derelict to me."

Ann reached to pull down the sliding window."No, it wasn't a poster. I think I saw him in the papers a few years ago. But I can't remember..."

A strident knock at the door startled both of them. Charlene hurried back to answer it, opening it to a tall man with thinning hair and a tan raincoat. Several other people hovered just behind him, including the portly motel manager.

"Forgive the intrusion," the tall man said, and flashed Charlene an impeccably shiny police badge. "I'm Lt. Philip Gerard: this is Sheriff Becker of the local police department. We'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind. Nothing to worry about."

A little dismayed, Charlene stepped back from the door to allow their entrance. The man who came in behind Gerard, Becker, was younger, stockier and reminded Ann of a stereotypical Marine recruit.

"We have reason to believe there's an interstate fugitive in this area," Becker said as Gerard unfolded and handed Charlene a worn-edged wanted poster. Ann moved closer to peer at it, and knew immediately where she'd seen their visitor before. In the papers, on the TV news and in all the magazines two years ago. Dr. Richard Kimble...

"Sheriff Becker's dogs have tracked Kimble to this immediate vicinity," Gerard told them. "Has either of you seen anything?"

"No." Ann cut off Charlene's intended answer, taking the poster from her. "We haven't seen anyone. But we did hear the dogs barking a few minutes ago." Charlene gave her a questioning look, but Ann ignored it.

"Well if you do see or hear anything," Becker said, "give us a call at this number." He handed Ann a small white business card. "Kimble's a dangerous man -- a convicted murderer. Killed his wife a few years back."

"Yes," Ann said hastily. "I read about it in the papers. But as I recall, there was never any conclusive proof that--"

A sudden commotion at the still-open door interrupted her. A uniformed man stepped inside to address Becker.

"Dogs picked up a trail again," he panted.

Becker nodded, then turned back to Gerard. "You coming?"

The lieutenant shook his head. "If it's all the same to you, I think I'll have a look around the motel grounds."

"What for?" There was an offended note in the sheriff's voice. "The dogs are tracking him north."

Unimpressed, Gerard said simply, "Yes, I know."

Becker and his men trooped out of the motel room without comment. Gerard, before taking his leave, nodded politely and said, "Good evening, ladies."

When the door had clicked shut after him, Charlene's bottled question was immediately uncorked. "Are you crazy? Why'd you lie to them? That guy was here. It was him!"

Ann sank onto the ratty chair that was the room's only furniture other than the bed. "I followed Dr. Kimble's trial," she said, aware that her voice was trembling. "I don't believe he killed anyone."

"So now you're a jury?" Charlene was indignant. "You just made me some kind of an accessory to purjury!"

"No I haven't. You can only commit purjury under oath."

"Thanks. I'll remember that."

Ann closed her eyes and waited for the nervous tremors to go away. Maybe Char was right. Maybe it had been crazy to lie to them. It might be possible to prove Kimble had been in the room, if the dogs trailed him back to their window. But they'd been heading north...

A new click of the door latch made her look up -- in time to see Charlene heading outside toward the departing police officers. Ann hurried after her, but by the time she'd caught up, Char had already stopped Sheriff Becker. Gerard was nowhere in sight.

"I didn't remember until just now," Char was saying when Ann caught up to her. "But I did see someone, from our window, about 10 minutes before you came. He was running that way -- into the trees."

Becker turned suspicious eyes on Ann. "You see this fella too, ma'am?"

"I'm afraid not."

"In that case," Becker said to Charlene,"I'll have to ask you to go with my men to the station, make a positive ID. Just a formality. You understand."

"Sure." Char sent her friend an apologetic glance, but one that said all the same that she was doing what she thought was right. It was hard to blame her for that... Ann watched her follow one of Becker's uniformed deputies to a waiting squad car (several had now pulled into the motel's overgrown parking lot) and drive away with him.

Becker and the other officers had already vanished into the trees in the direction Kimble had gone. Lt. Gerard, presumably, was somewhere on the grounds in search of an elusive clue. Ann hoped he didn't examine the window to their room too closely.

She didn't know how long she'd been standing in the wind-blown lot, staring at nothing.in particular, when something near a storage shed beyond the police cars caught her attention. A man, peering cautiously around the corner of the lean-to, watching the cars. Ann recognized his rain-soaked clothing, and the beard stubble... He must have lain down a false trail into the woods, then doubled back to the motel.

"Looking for something, Miss... Foley, wasn't it?"

Ann jumped. She saw the figure near the shed dart back out of sight before she turned to face Gerard.

"No," she answered. "Why do you ask?"

He shrugged. "It's a policeman's habit to ask questions. For instance, what are you and your friend doing out here alone?"

Ann forced herself not to glance toward the shed. She began walking slowly in the opposite direction and was gratified when the lieutenant fell into step with her. "We're not alone," she said resolutely. "We're together. We had corresponding vacation times, so we decided to take a trip. We wanted to see some of the country."

"That's rather unusual, isn't it? Two women traveling alone?"

Ann smiled indulgently. "We manage."

Gerard said "M-hm," as though he doubted the plausibility of that. They passed the motel's paint-peeling office and paused beside its rusted patio table and tattered sun umbrella. The storage shed was out of sight now.

"Can I ask you a question, Lieutenant?"

He seemed mildly surprised at the request, but nodded his assent.

Ann looked him in the eye and said, "Why do you do it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why do you follow this man back and forth across the continent as though nothing else on Earth made any difference? I mean, forgive me, but don't you have anything better to do?"

He scowled at her, obviously annoyed. "You really are familiar with the Kimble case, aren't you?"

"Enough to know there should have been far more than a reasonable doubt about his guilt. The evidence was circumstantial. There was absolutely nothing to prove -- really prove -- that he'd killed Helen Kimble. How can a jury in all conscience invoke the death penalty in a case like that?"

The lieutenant's expression turned to one of longsuffering self-confidence. "I don't write the law. I merely enforce it. And the law declared Richard Kimble guilty."

"Well what if the law is wrong? What if he really didn't kill her?"

Gerard shook a cigarette from a rumpled pack of filter tips and answered as he cupped his hand around a match to light it. "Take some advice from an expert on the law, Miss Foley. Don't believe everything you read in those bleeding heart news magazines." He drew on the cigarette, shook out the match, and folding it neatly in two, placed it in one of his raincoat pockets. "Kimble's guilty. Believe me. I know."

"The letter of the law," Ann quoted. "That's all you care about, isn't it?"

"You might say that, yes."

The sound of a car engine starting drew his attention instantly away. Ann could see the suspicions flashing across his face. Becker's men were all following the dogs: there shouldn't be any other cars leaving... He started back to the parking lot, right hand slipping a .38 police special from under his coat as he went. Ann followed, and reached the lot in time to see one police sedan careen wildly out onto the road in pursuit of another. Gerard, having rapidly outdistanced Ann, was driving the second. The first, she knew, had to be driven by Richard Kimble.

The better part of an hour dragged by while Ann sat in one of the rusted patio chairs and waited. The sheriff's trackers had not returned, nor had Charlene or the chubby manager, who'd apparently followed the deputies and bloodhounds off on their wild goose chase through the trees. When the sound of an approaching car came from the road, she walked out to meet it, hoping it would be Charlene coming back from the station. But the squad car that pulled into the graveled motel drive was steered by Lt. Philip Gerard. Behind the wire screen divider, wearing handcuffs and looking incredibly tired, was Richard Kimble.

Ann started to turn away. She didn't want to watch Gerard's triumph: didn't want to see the demoralization she knew Kimble must be feeling. But the lieutenant's voice halted her intended flight.

"Miss Foley," he said. "Go ahead of us and open the office door, will you?" With the .38 back in his hand, he'd opened the rear door of the black-and-white and motioned Kimble out. When Ann hadn't moved to obey his request by the time they reached her, Gerard said, "Miss Foley? Did you hear me?"

Ann's glance travelled from him to the gun and on to Kimble, who was staring at the ground. She said, "I don't want anything to do with--"

"--Open the door, please, Miss Foley," Gerard interrupted. "I'm going to require a few minutes of your time to help secure my prisoner until the sheriff's team returns. After that, I have a question or two about that rather convenient diversion you arranged for me a few minutes ago. Shall we?"

At his last statement, Kimble's eyes had come up to meet hers, questioning. Ann, both intimidated and angered by Gerard's tone, turned and headed for the motel office.

It was just as shabby on the inside as out. The unlocked door led them into a bare-floored parlor that smelled of cigar smoke and old linoleum. It harbored four green vinyl chairs that had seen better days, a chipped formica coffee table with a layer of year-old Time magazines, and the check-in counter with its obligatory rack of postcards. The door behind the counter had been propped open with an old paint can. The Budweiser clock beside the keyslits on the wall was 20 minutes slow.

"Over there." Gerard pointed to one of the chairs with his .38, and Kimble gratefully collapsed into it. He looked as though he would gladly have remained there, Gerard and the rest of the police force notwithstanding -- anything just to be able to rest for a while. Ann wondered how long he'd gone without sleep -- or food.

"There should be a kitchen in the back," she said. "I'll see if I can find some food."

For the second time, Gerard's commanding voice stopped her. "That's noble," he said, "but unnecessary. He'll be fed at the police station."

Ann's frustration finally boiled over. "He'll be fed now -- unless you want to handcuff me, too." She stalked around the counter and through the propped-open door. It led into a windowless kitchenette, where the buzzing overhead neons revealed a small breakfast table with one chair, an antique refrigerator and stove, and a stained porcelain sink surrounded by grimy yellow tile. Making a mental note to keep driving next time until a better motel came along, Ann found reasonably fresh bread and lunch meat in the wheezing refrigerator, and began putting together a sandwich.

She returned to the motel lobby minutes later with the prepared sandwich and a pot of hot coffee, and was somewhat surprised to find Kimble and Gerard in the midst of a conversation.

"None of your theories can alter the truth," Kimble was saying wearily. "I didn't kill Helen. I didn't kill anyone."

"No, of course you didn't." Gerard had stationed himself at the lobby's front window, the .38 still in hand, and was glancing periodically through the greasy venetian blinds. " I'm beginning to believe, at least, that _you_ believe that. Unfortunately, that doesn't make it any less a lie."

Ann put the coffee pot down on the counter and reached under the shelf for a package of styrofoam cups. Her hand accidentally brushed a box of blank reservation cards and sent several tumbling to the floor. Bending to retrieve them, she happened to glance up at the underside of the counter -- and saw a small revolver hanging from a nail there, just inside the wooden molding. She stuffed the cards hastily back into their box, pulled out the styrofoam cups and stood up.

"Would you care for some coffee, Lieutenant?"

"Hm?" Gerard seemed to notice her for the first time. "Oh. Yes, thank you." He'd taken another cigarette from his pocket and lit it with his free left hand, blowing clouds of foul-smelling smoke into the already-dank little room. Ann sat a steaming cup of coffee down on the window sill beside him, then returned to deliver another one with the sandwich to Kimble. She sat the coffee down on the dusty table in front of him (he couldn't take both things with the handcuffs on), handed him the sandwich, and took the neighboring chair. He ate without much enthusiasm, eyes seldom straying from Gerard's imposing presence at the window.

_If I hadn't eaten in days,_ Ann reflected, _I think I'd be more ravenous than that. Then again, if I were facing death in some Indiana prison's electric chair, maybe I wouldn't be all that hungry after all._

She stared at the dog-earred copies of Time on the table, and noted that the layer of dust covered them, too. An idea forming, she reached past Kimble's steaming coffee and took the topmost magazine, an issue with LBJ on the cover and blurbs on "The Great Society" and "The Escalating Vietnam Conflict." Gerard gave her a wary glance as she settled back in her chair, then went back to his vigil, puffing on the cigarette.

Ann glanced briefly at Kimble, and idly began tracing a finger through the dust on the Time's cover. In a moment, LBJ's grinning visage had been overlaid with the words: GUN UNDER COUNTER, L SIDE, and beneath that, HOSTAGE.

She opened the magazine and pretended to read, making certain the cover faced Kimble. Several minutes had passed before she was sure he'd noticed the message. She saw his gaze travel to the counter and then nervously back to Gerard, the question clear in his eyes. How to reach the counter and the gun while still under Gerard's scrutiny? He quietly finished the sandwich, leaned forward, and reached for the coffee, the chain between his wrists rattling slightly on the tabletop as he picked it up with both hands. Ann calmly obliterated the message and tossed the Time back onto the table.

"Shouldn't they be back by now?" she asked conversationally.

Gerard grunted. "They'll be here."

Several more minutes crawled by on the face of the Budweiser clock. Ann fidgetted, wondering why Gerard hadn't asked those promised questions about her diversion. She'd wanted to help Kimble, but being arrested for aiding and abetting hadn't been an intended part of the bargain. Now she was probably about to get herself in even deeper.

A sudden groan snapped Gerard's attention away from the window and back to his prisoner, who had just doubled over in his chair. Ann, for a moment certain the lunch meat had been bad after all, went straight to Kimble's side, ignoring Gerard's shouted warning that she stay away. Incredibly strong hands gripped her, and a moment later, she found herself spun to face the lieutenant with Kimble's arms encircling her and the chain of the handcuffs taut across her throat. "Drop the gun, Gerard," Kimble's voice said just behind her ear. "Do it."

Disbelief clouded Gerard's grim face. "Don't bluff me," he said levelly.

Kimble inched toward the counter with Ann in tow and worked his way behind it until they were beside the manager's hidden pistol. "Don't be afraid," he whispered to her. "Get the gun."

Unable to stop her hands from trembling in spite of his assurances, Ann reached under the counter and pulled the little gun off its nail.

"Give it up, Kimble," Gerard said from behind his .38. "You won't hurt her and we both know it."

Ann brought the pistol out from under the counter, and in one swift motion, Kimble's hands had dropped to take it from her and bring it up again. He pointed it at Gerard with both hands on the grip. "Don't force me to test your theory," he said to Gerard. "Drop the gun and kick it over here."

Ann watched conflicting emotions march across Gerard's face like mental roadsigns. And the questions... How had Kimble known the gun was under there? Why had she given it to him? And most of all, could he be certain Kimble wouldn't harm a hostage? In the end, his doubts about the latter apparently won out. He bent to place his weapon carefully on the floor, and with his foot, gave it a disgusted little shove toward them. It skittered across the dented linoleum and thunked against the counter.

Cautiously, Kimble opened his arms to allow Ann room to duck under and out. "Go pick it up," he told her, keeping the manager's pistol aimed on Gerard. Ann obeyed, and placed the .38 on the counter beside the postcards.

"All right," Kimble said to Gerard. "Now give her your keys -- to the handcuffs and the car."

The lieutenant bristled. "You won't get any farther than you did the first time," he insisted. "Becker and his men will be back here any minute now."

"Just give her the keys," Kimble repeated. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "And Gerard... Shut up."

The table-turning intimidation seemed to have the desired effect. Scowling, the lieutenant fished two sets of keys from an inside pocket, reluctantly handed them across to Ann, who used the smaller pair to unlock and remove Kimble's handcuffs. He pocketed the keys, and handed the cuffs back to her.

"Lock him to the heating pipe, over there," he said. Gerard's protest was cut short by Kimble's impatient gesture with the gun. "And hurry. We have to get out of here."

Ann clamped one of the bracelets to Gerard's right wrist, led him to the wall, and locked the other to the designated pipe over an ancient cast-iron radiator.

"All right," Kimble said gruffly. "Now out the front door. Stay in front of me. Do as I tell you and no one will get hurt. You understand?"

Nodding, Ann opened the door and headed outside. She heard Gerard shout Kimble's name and something more as they walked away, but she couldn't make out the words.

Minutes later, as she steered the 'borrowed' squad car down the bumpy Louisiana road with Kimble in the passenger seat, Ann was surprised to see him roll down the window and toss out the revolver.

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

He gave her an apologetic look. "I'm sure. And I'm sorry if I scared you back there. I had to convince Gerard you were an unwilling accomplice. Otherwise, he could charge you with-" "--Aiding and abetting a fugitive. Yes, I know. And it's all right. I understand."

He nodded, and rubbed his eyes tiredly with a thumb and forefinger. "Just drop me off a few miles up the road," he said. "When they catch up with you, tell them--"

"Don't worry," Ann told him. "I know what to say. I'll convince them."

Kimble seemed unsure of that. "Gerard's not an easy man to convince. He may still try to prove you interfered with a police officer in the line of duty."

Ann considered that for a moment. "Well, I guess that's a risk I chose to take when I led him away from you in the parking lot."

Kimble watched the rear view mirror warily. "So you did distract him deliberately."

"Yes.

"You mind if I ask why? I mean,why help me? For all you know I may be guilty of all the things Gerard says I am."

Ann found herself watching the rear view mirror too. "I read a lot about your case," she said in response to his question. "The trial was a legal disaster on several counts. Even if you'd been guilty, invoking the death penalty based on purely circumstantial evidence would have been a gross miscarriage of justice. As it stands..."

"As it stands I don't happen to be guilty," he said. "But I can't prove that until I find the man who is."

Ann steered the car onto another connecting highway. Rain had begun to dot the windshield. "You'll find him," she said.

Kimble stared morosely out at the fleeing white lines on the pavement. "I've got to," he said. "He's the only chance I have."

Ann spotted something on the road ahead, and let up on the accelerator. "It can't be a roadblock," she murmured. "Not this soon." She turned the windshield wipers on and peered harder, still unable to make out the large shape they were approaching.

"It's not a roadblock," Kimble said. "It looks like a bus."

Ann slowed the car still more, and finally pulled to a stop several yards down the road from the bus, which they could now see was parked in front of a roadside diner. "They're stopped for dinner," she said. "You could get on." Puzzled for a moment by his hesitation, she searched hastily through her jacket pockets for the money she'd placed there when she and Char had gone grocery shopping earlier. "I have a little money," she told him, and pressed the small wad of bills into his hand. "Take it. It's not very much, but at least it'll get you out of here."

He gazed at the money, then stuffed it hurriedly into a pocket. "All right." He glanced nervously back down the road again before turning back to her. "I want to thank you..." he began awkwardly.

"Forget it. I just wish I could have done more. I mean that."

With a forced smile, Kimble brushed a self-conscious hand over his ruined clothing, then got out of the car. "I won't forget it," he said through the open window. Then, with a glance at the waiting bus, he said, "Good-bye, Miss Foley."

"Good-bye, Dr. Kimble."

She left the car engine idling as he walked across the highway, shrugging his windbreaker higher against the rain. The temptation was strong to remain there until she was certain he was safely away, but she threw the squad car into gear instead, and pulled back out onto the road to head back the way they had come. Her mind was already rehearsing what she would say to Becker and the police: all the manufactured details of where she'd been forced to drive the car and which direction Kimble had gone when she'd last seen him.

She hoped she could make the story sufficiently plausible -- even for the dubious Lt. Gerard. She also hoped her prophecy about the capture of Helen Kimble's real killer would come true -- and soon. When it did, all the Gerards in the world were going to see that the letter of the law was sometimes very, very wrong.

The windshield wipers clicked steadily in the drizzle. Somewhere on the road far ahead, a siren began to wail...
 

THE END