Author's note: This references Episode 21, "Ride of Terror". It's not really necessary to watch that first, but it might help.

STATENVILLE

When he walked into his office that morning, the file was still sitting in the middle of his desk. Garrison had hoped that it would somehow disappear overnight, and the whole thing would just go away. This wasn't going to be easy.

He reached for the intercom on his desk. "Connors, would you find Chief and have him report to my office, please?"

As he waited, he read through the documents one more time. They'd come yesterday in a thick envelope from the U.S. District Attorney's office in Georgia. They detailed the murder of a guard in a 1939 Statenville Prison escape, the incident that had gotten Chief convicted of manslaughter and sent to Federal prison. One man had gotten away. Chief was caught. Having to relive the whole experience again was not something Garrison wanted to put Chief through. But he had no choice.

"Warden."

Startled, Garrison looked up at Chief standing in his doorway. He was always surprised at how silent his scout could be, even in this old building with its creaky wooden floors. "I wish you wouldn't do that."

"Do what?"

"Never mind. Come in. Sit down. And close the door."

Chief just stood there, probably sensing the waves of anxiety pouring off of him.

"It's okay." Garrison tried to smile. "Come on in."

Chief did as he was told, closing the door behind him and easing into the chair in front of the desk.

Garrison reached for a sheet of paper that was sitting in his out box and studied it for a minute, still trying to figure out how best to approach this. "I have your latest firing range scores. Impressive. You could probably teach a few things to the new recruits." Chief remained silent, so he continued. "But your obstacle course times are down. Are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"None of your old wounds are bothering you?"

"I said I'm fine. Cut the crap, Warden. Why am I really here?"

With a sigh, Garrison tossed the training report back into his out box and picked up the thick file folder in front of him. Might as well jump right in. "This came yesterday, from Georgia. They've captured Amos Hardy."

A muscle twitched in Chief's jaw. "Took 'em long enough."

"He goes on trial next week. They need you to testify."

"Ain't gonna happen, Warden."

"Legally, you're still a Federal prisoner. You don't have a choice."

"How about I just sign a paper or somethin'."

"Evidently they need you in person, in front of a jury."

Chief sat motionless for a brief minute. When he spoke, the calmness in his voice was chilling. "We had a deal, Lieutenant. I ain't goin' back."

Garrison tried to sound reassuring. "It's just to testify at the trial. They're not going to keep you..."

"What? You think they're just gonna let me wander loose? I'm a con." Chief stood, ready to bolt. "They ain't puttin' me in that hell-hole again."

Garrison realized it wasn't anger he was seeing. It was fear. Something he wasn't used to seeing in Chief. "Take it easy. Sit down."

The dark eyes bored a hole in him.

"Please. Sit."

Chief's eyes narrowed, he drew in a breath, and returned to the chair. Garrison continued. "You may still be a Federal prisoner, but you're in my custody. And I do have some say in how you're treated."

Chief cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "You on the level?"

"No one is going to put you in a cell, I promise. I know this won't be easy, but it should only take a few days, a week at most."

The silence lingered for a moment. Chief studied his face, as if looking for something he could trust. "Is Pryor testifyin'?"

Colonel Frank Pryor, now an officer in the intelligence service, had been the warden at Statenville at the time of the escape. Earlier that year, when their mission had been to rescue Pryor from a Nazi POW camp, he'd been lucky Chief let him live.

"No, he's not on the witness list."

Again, the silence hung in the room.

"They caught the other guy yet?" Chief finally asked.

"What other guy?"

"Hardy's buddy on the outside. You don't think he got away all by himself, do ya?"

Garrison flipped through the file again, seeing if he'd missed anything. "I don't see any mention of an accomplice. I'll see what I can find out." He closed the file and considered the young man sitting in front of him. The jaw muscle still twitched, and his hands sat motionless on his thighs.

"Don't you want to see Hardy get what he deserves?"

Chief looked him in the eye and almost smirked. "Him offin' that guard was probably the best thing that coulda happened to me."

"What do you mean? It got you convicted of manslaughter."

"Got me sent up to Atlanta. Much classier hell-hole."

Garrison leaned back in his chair, relieved at Chief's dark humor. "You still need to tell them the truth."

"Yeah, sure, the truth." Chief sighed and rose to leave. "At least nobody'll be shootin' at us."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

They'd flown into Fort Benning, arriving after midnight, then requisitioned a jeep and headed for Statenville. During the five hour drive, Chief had remained unusually still, staring straight ahead into the darkness. Garrison made a couple of attempts at conversation, mostly trying to keep himself awake, but he eventually left Chief to his solitude. As the sun was coming up, he'd pulled the jeep into a parking spot in front of Mamie's Cafe, a little 24-hour place where the breakfast crowd was just beginning to gather. They'd settled into a booth next to the large front window, and Garrison ordered for both of them. It had come quickly, hot and plentiful, and he ate in silence.

Garrison finished the last of his toast and looked up at the sausage and eggs growing cold on Chief's plate. "You have to eat. The rations you had on the plane aren't going to hold you."

"Ain't hungry."

Garrison wiped his hands on his napkin and reached for his coffee cup. "Suit yourself."

"Who're we meetin' here again?" The dinner knife Chief was fiddling with was too heavy and awkward to twirl like he did the switchblade he'd had to leave back at the mansion.

"The prosecuting attorney. I thought you might be more comfortable meeting here instead of at his office in the courthouse." Garrison glanced at Chief's untouched meal. "Evidently I was wrong."

"Nah, it's alright." Chief shook his head and tossed the knife back onto the table. "Just a lot of ghosts, that's all."

"Try to relax. You've handled a lot worse than this."

The little greeting bell tinkled as the cafe's front door swung open. Garrison had his back to the door, but he saw instant recognition in Chief's face.

A portly, gray-haired man in a white three-piece suit and wire-rimmed glasses approached their table. "Lieutenant Garrison, I presume? Your uniform gives you away."

Garrison rose and shook the man's hand. "Mr. Torrence. Thanks for meeting us here. Chief, this is Randall Torrence, the assistant DA handling the case."

The muscle tightened in Chief's jaw again. "I know who he is."

Torrence pulled a chair up to the end of the booth and gave Chief a grandfatherly smile. "Yes, the young man and I have had previous business together."

Chief turned his hard glare on Garrison. "That ain't in your file, Warden?"

"No, it isn't." Evidently there was a lot that wasn't in his file.

"You see, Lieutenant," Torrence explained, "I was the prosecuting attorney who sent him to Federal prison four years ago. I'm probably not one of his most favorite people."

"Got that straight."

"Chief..." Garrison gave him the 'knock it off' glare. "Remember, you're not the one on trial here."

"Yeah, right..."

Torrence looked Chief directly in the eye. "Keep in mind, son, that I'm also the one who got your sentence reduced from first degree murder to manslaughter. I doubt you'd be here today if the DA had gotten his way."

"Whaddya want? An award?"

"Chief."

"It's alright, Lieutenant, he has every right to be angry." Torrence sighed and pulled a file from his briefcase. "But we're here to send Amos Hardy to the gas chamber. If we can set aside old animosities, I'd like to get started. I have to be in court in an hour."

Randall Torrence spent the next 45 minutes reviewing all the procedural details, while Garrison took notes. Chief had turned sideways in the booth, leaning against the window and stretching his legs out along the bench, bluffing a nonchalance Garrison knew was only a carefully controlled facade. Chief never took his eyes off of Torrence, as if the old man were a rattlesnake about to strike.

Finally Torrence gathered up his materials and slid them back into his brief case. "Any questions, gentlemen?"

In one easy, fluid motion, Chief slid out of the booth. "I need some air."

Garrison nodded his approval. "No sightseeing, okay?"

As Chief headed out the door, Torrence's eyes followed him. "Do you trust him, Lieutenant?"

Garrison watched through the window as Chief leaned against the hood of their jeep, staring down the street at something only he could see. "I do," he finally told Torrence. "I trust him with my life every time we run a mission. That trust isn't a part time thing. Or a one-way street. It's taken a while, but I think he's learned that. He's a valuable member of my team."

"I don't know the details of your team, Lieutenant, but it's obviously unusual. How did you end up with...he goes by Chief, now?"

"The Army gave me a list. He was on it, and he had the skills I needed." Garrison drained the last of his now cold coffee.

The old man leaned back in his chair and wiped his glasses with his handkerchief. "I believe you probably saw the same thing in him that I did. He's a very smart young man who's had a lot of bad breaks. The only real education he got was in our estimable criminal justice system, and he made the best of it." Torrence replaced his glasses and rose to leave. "This afternoon in my office we'll go over his testimony."

Garrison rose too, and shook the lawyer's hand. "That won't be easy for him."

"I know. I'll try to make it as painless as possible." Torrence smiled at him. "But I am glad you found him, Lieutenant."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

The Army was springing for a room at Pritchett's Boarding House on a quiet residential street not far from the center of town. The chintz wallpaper was fading, and the colorful quilts smelled of moth balls, but the room was large and sunny and immaculately clean. After they'd dumped their gear, Garrison had gone down the hall to take a bath, then stretched out onto one of the beds and immediately fallen asleep.

Chief washed up, too, with what was left of the hot water, but when he laid down on the other bed, he found himself staring at the cracks in the ceiling, listening to Garrison's soft snoring. He quietly dressed and headed downstairs, out onto the spacious porch that extended across the entire front of the white clapboard house. There was a swing and three rocking chairs, but he chose to sit at the foot of the cement steps. Needing to keep his hands busy, he pulled the dinner knife from his pants pocket.

'Tell them the truth,' Garrison had said. They hadn't wanted the truth four years ago. Why would they want it now? They didn't really care - they just wanted Hardy's head on a spike. If the truth still didn't matter to them, maybe he wouldn't have to explain the whole mess again, in front of a crowd of people. He'd just tell them what they already knew, and that would be the end of it.

As the warm morning light shifted, the tempting fragrance of baking bread wafting from inside the house made his stomach growl. His watch read 12:15.

Chief slipped the knife back into his pocket and followed the aroma into the kitchen. The tall, imposing Mrs. Pritchett was turning loaves of bread out onto cooling racks, her face, apron and large hands dusted with flour. Her grey hair was escaping in wisps from its neat little bun.

When she saw him in the doorway, her smile lit up her whole face. "Good afternoon, young man. Are you rested after your long trip?"

"Yes, ma'am." Chief couldn't help but return her smile.

"You must be starving. I'll get you some lunch. I have all this fresh bread and some nice ham, thanks to Mr. Wilkins." She winked at him slyly. "I know it goes against the rationing and all, but whenever he slaughters one of his hogs, he always thinks of us. Just sit right here at the table and I'll fix you a plate. Where is that Lieutenant of yours?"

"Still sleepin', I reckon." He sat in one of the sturdy wooden chairs, and she set a tall glass of milk in front of him.

"Such a polite young man. You don't have to 'ma'am' me, son. I ain't your grandma. Just call me Annie."

"Yes, ma'am...Annie." He wondered what it would have been like to have a mother like her. Or any mother at all...

She continued to prattle on about Mr. Wilkins and his hogs and cows and chickens, and how she'd have a hard time feeding her boarders if it weren't for his kindness. The plate she served him was piled with warm bread, salty ham, fresh slices of tomato, and a mound of potato salad. Chief was surprised that he ate it all. He was draining the last of his second glass of milk when Garrison entered the kitchen.

"That smell took me right back to my childhood, Mrs. Pritchett."

She gave Garrison the same big, welcoming smile. "Nothing like fresh baked bread, is there, Lieutenant? Come in and sit, and I'll fix you a plate."

"Just a slice of that wonderful bread would be great. We're due at Mr. Torrence's office." He took the thick slice Annie handed him, slathered with butter, and he laid a hand on Chief's shoulder. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be." Chief took a deep breath and stood, laying his napkin on the table. "Thank you, ma'am."

As they headed for the front door, she called after them. "Don't forget. Dinner's at six. And this is fried chicken night."

As they climbed into the jeep, Garrison stuffed the last of the bread into his mouth and started the engine. "Think we could take her back to England with us?"

"Goniff would love her."