"A Special Gift"
Written by: Phil Turner, Mitch Nozka, and CoronetBlue — Director: BOBBYNEAR
Supervising Producer: Lea Ames — Post Production: Brixius — Creator: Roy Huggins
GERARD'S NIGHTMARE - 5:45 A.M.
In utter darkness a heart is heard beating rapidly. The sound is accompanied by raspy breathing, as if someone was
struggling for air.
"Captain Philip Gerard has been shot..." a voice says, distorted and fading in and out, "...has been shot...has been
shot..."
An image in black and white flickers hazily at the edge of consciousness.
The heartbeats accelerate, becoming erratic. The breathing grows quicker and much louder.
CHICAGO - GERARD'S BEDROOM - 6:00 A.M.
Gerard wakes and sits up in a sweat. His breath is coming in short, hard bursts. He bows his head, shaking it to clear
it. Then he looks over at the unoccupied space in the bed beside him. On the other side of the room he sees empty
coat hangers in the open closet. Gerard rubs the back of his neck where the muscles are tense and sighs with discon-
tent.
"Sara," he says.
The alarm on his bedside table goes off. Tiredly, he reaches over and shuts it off, then swings his legs over the side
of the bed. He begins to unbutton his pajama top, revealing an ace bandage wound around his ribcage.
OUTSIDE GERARD'S OFFICE - THAT SAME MORNING
Fugitive Task Force members Eve Hilliard and Eddie Miles are sharing a moment together over their morning cups of
coffee.
"So, what's with Captain Congeniality these days?" Miles asks, sitting on the corner of a desk.
"Didn't you know? His wife left him," Hilliard replies. "She took the kid with her."
"Ouch," Miles says.
Hilliard stirs her coffee. "And I don't think the Captain's been getting much sleep since he returned to work," she
adds.
Miles glances towards the elevator, then jumps off the desk. "Oops, here he comes!" he says under his breath.
"Morning, Captain!"
Gerard grunts in answer and strides directly into his office, shutting the door behind him. Hilliard and Miles exchange
significant looks. In the next instant, the door to the office opens and Gerard, mug in hand, heads for the coffee
machine. He returns with a steaming cup and again shuts the door after him. Before Hilliard and Miles can resume
their conversation, the door reopens and Gerard's head pops out.
"Eve...I want to see you in my office," Gerard says, all business. "Now!"
INSIDE GERARD'S OFFICE
As Hilliard enters, Gerard takes off his suit jacket, wraps it around his chair and sits down.
"What have you got for me on Kimble's whereabouts?" he asks, without looking up.
"Nothing. No new witnesses; for all intents and purposes he's vanished," Hilliard says looking at her clipboard.
She changes the subject. "Captain, I keep thinking that if I hadn't taken leave right when I did, none of this—
Gagomiros, the shooting—would ever have happened."
Gerard lifts his eyes. "Don't blame yourself, Eve. You had nothing to do with it," he says shortly. "Besides, this whole
experience has been an eye-opener." He taps his pencil on the desk. "Something's going on that shouldn't be, and
believe me, we're going to get to the bottom of it. It's just unfortunate that whatever Agent Gagomiros knew went
with him to the grave."
"Captain," Hilliard ventures, "I'm willing to concede that your years of experience have given you a greater insight
into the criminal mind than I have. But tell me, at the end of the day don't you ever find yourself thinking that maybe,
just maybe, Kimble is on the level about Ben Charnquist?"
Gerard pauses before responding. "Eve, you're a good agent," he says. "One of the best that I've seen. But, take it
from me—don't let yourself get emotionally involved. Kimble wants us to believe in his deceased one-armed man so
that we'll divert half of our resources into pursuing the so-called "leads" he feeds us. What we have to keep focused on
is that the person we're sworn to bring in is Richard Kimble. That is the one fact in this whole case. Kimble is an
escaped fugitive—and we're the law. He runs...we chase him and, if we get lucky, we catch him. That is the only truth that
should matter."
Eve nods doubtfully.
Gerard opens a file. "While we waste time speculating on ghosts, Kimble's trail is another day colder," he observes,
with a trace of temper. "My gut is telling me he's left the state. You and Eddie go down to the airport again,
ask around."
"On it, Captain," Hilliard says briskly and leaves the office.
CHICAGO - A BACK ALLEY - 2 WEEKS EARLIER - 7:30 A.M.
The camera is looking down the length of a dank, narrow alley. A stray sheet of newspaper blows about. The camera
moves in slowly as the first rays of sunlight fall upon an overflowing dumpster. Scattered around its base, attracting
flies, are bags of garbage, cardboard boxes and loose refuse. In the shadows is a pile of clothing. Two boys come
along, playing with a basketball.
"Pass it to me!" pleads the younger boy.
The older child laughs and dodges out of reach, dribbling adroitly.
"Pass it, Dexter, come on!" cries the younger boy, attempting to grab the ball. Dexter pretends to shoot high for a
basket. The ball comes down near the dumpster and rolls to a stop in the shadows. The children dash to retrieve it.
Beside the ball, the mound of clothing stirs...and groans.
The boys halt.
"I ain't gettin' it," says the younger one nervously.
"Awww, he's just a wino," Dexter says with disgust and steps over Ben Charnquist to pick up the ball.
They hurry off with it down the alley, casting a backward glance to be sure the wino is not following them.
FLASHBACK - A CLINIC SUPPLY ROOM - 4 DAYS BEFORE
Richard Kimble breaks the glass of a medical supply cabinet and reaches in to withdraw two vials. He reads the labels.
"...a derivative of curare, for use in surgery," we hear Kimble thinking, grimly. "Perfect! A mega-dose of this and he'll
be numb as a cabbage in 48 hours." Kimble grabs two packets of syringes for injecting the drug.
RETURN TO THE BACK ALLEY
Charnquist is coming to. He rolls over onto his back and blinks as the sun slants into his eyes.
We continue to hear Kimble thinking, "In four days Charnquist will be behind bars, recovering from the worst
hangover of his life!"
Charnquist moans loudly, enraged at his predicament. His good arm flails against the cardboard boxes as he tries to
right himself.
"Kimble, you son of a... !" he cries, then gasps as he feels his broken nose with a shaky hand.
An elderly man with a bag of groceries passes, keeping his distance.
"What're you lookin' at?" Charnquist jeers at the man. They watch each other as the man continues down the alley.
"Never seen a ghost before?" Charnquist calls after him.
The man quickens his pace and Charnquist laughs. The laughter triggers more pain and he winces. Then a look of remembrance passes over his face. Charnquist feels in his pocket. His eyes narrow and he produces
Gagomiros's gun.
"That bastard..." Charnquist mutters venomously, fingering the gun, "tried to kill me..." He breaks into a fit of
coughing.
He struggles to rise, digging the butt of the gun into the brick wall behind him for support. He stands, bracing
himself, and catches his breath. Cars pass in the street beyond. Charnquist leans his head back against the grimy wall
and looks upward. He summons his regaining strength.
"I'm coming for you!" Charnquist shouts.
Startled, a pair of pigeons takes to the air above him.
DETROIT - S.K.P. CONCRETE CONSTRUCTION YARD — TUESDAY A.M.
Kimble is passing the chain-link fence of S.K.P. Concrete. He sees a "Help Wanted" sign posted there and stops to read
it. A pickup truck pulls into the yard. The driver is a black, middle-aged man. He gets out, puts on a hard hat and goes up the steps of the construction trailer. Deciding to apply for work, Kimble follows behind him.
THE CONSTRUCTION OFFICE
Inside the office another worker is punching in his time card. Behind the desk a dispatcher is handing out an assign-
ment to the black man. Everyone looks up as Kimble enters.
"What can I do for you?" the dispatcher asks.
"I'm here to work," Kimble says, pointing to the "Help Wanted" sign outside. "Do you have anything?"
"Work we got...and plenty of it," the dispatcher says. He turns around to the back office and yells, "Hey, Ralph!
We've got a job applicant here!"
A tall, huskily built man comes into the room, puffing on his cigar. "You want work?" he asks, eyeing Kimble. "Tell me, you got any construction experience?"
"Yes, I do," Kimble replies confidently. "My uncle had a construction company and I used to work for him."
"Well, fair enough," Ralph says. "What union are you with?"
Kimble looks blankly at him. "I'm not in a union. I'm between jobs right now," he answers, trying to hide his anxiety.
"Sign says union applicants only," the big man states and takes another puff on his cigar. A moment passes. "Alright,
we're short-handed. You're hired. What's your name?" he asks.
Relieved, Kimble says, "Pete Rayburn."
"Okay, Pete, I'm Ralph Stempkowsi—the S. of S.K.P. Concrete." He turns to the dispatcher. "Give Pete a W4 card," he
says. Then, indicating the black man, he adds, "Meyers, here, will get you a hard hat and take you out to the yard
foreman for your assignment."
Meyers smiles genially at Kimble, who nods in return. The worker standing by the time clock gives Kimble a curious
stare.
Stempkowski turns and heads for the back office, then pivots and says, "Oh, and Pete...if anyone asks, you're in the
union...got that?"
"Yes, sir," Kimble readily agrees.
Stempkowski returns to the back office, a trail of cigar smoke wafting after him.
MONTAGE - ON THE JOB
Kimble, in a hard hat, is introduced to the foreman by Meyers. The foreman instructs Kimble to take and stack bags
of concrete onto pallets. Kimble is soon covered in concrete dust. He crosses the yard, skirting a forklift coming in to get the bags he stacked. He teams up with Meyers to load 50 pound bags onto the bed of a truck. Kimble works up a
sweat and stops to take off his hat and wipe his brow.
THE CONSTRUCTION YARD - AFTERNOON
"You need to get yourself some work shoes," Meyers comments, looking at Kimble's feet.
"What?" Kimble asks, trying to keep the dust out of his mouth.
"Your shoes won't last the day," Meyers explains. "I can tell you don't do this for a living," he chuckles.
"I need the money," Kimble says, bending for another bag.
"Yeah, I hear that," Meyers says taking the other end. They distribute the weight evenly, then hoist it up onto the
truck. "It takes forever to make it, then it's spent before you know it. Some days it seems like I never get a dime. I'm not complaining, though—I like working for S.K.P."
"How long have you been here?" Kimble asks, picking up his end of the next bag.
"20 years last month," Meyers says, proudly. In one smooth motion, the two men hoist the bag onto the truck. "By the way," Meyers says, dusting off his hands and raising his right to high five Kimble in a gesture of friendship, "the name's Wilson Meyers." He accompanies the greeting with a wide open smile and Kimble realizes that this is a man it's hard not to like.
"Pete Rayburn," Kimble says, smiling back. "There's nothing wrong with steady work."
"Amen to that," Meyers agrees heartily. "Say, Pete, there's a watering hole nearby where I generally stop after work.
Care to join me there for a drink when we get done? My treat."
"Sure, that would be great," Kimble says genuinely.
CHICAGO - TASK FORCE CONFERENCE ROOM — AFTERNOON
Gerard, Hilliard and Miles are seated around the big conference table going over reports. Hilliard glances up from a
file which Gerard has just passed to her. She sees that Gerard is looking particularly haggard.
"Maybe you should consider taking more time off, Captain," she suggests. "No one would think the worse of you for
it."
"To do what, exactly, Eve?" Gerard counters. "There's nothing I could get done at home that couldn't be done better
here. Anyway, I'm not about to hand you my job on a silver platter, if that's what you're thinking."
"She just meant you could use some rest, Captain," Miles says in Hilliard's defense. "If it were me, I would have taken
off at least a month."
Gerard snorts. "Rest is one thing I do NOT need. Nowadays, when I fall asleep memories start to return. Post trau-
matic stress syndrome or some such. All I want to do is put the shooting behind me...get on with the present. But, my
subconscious thinks different."
He passes another folder across the table to Miles and Hilliard and pins them both with
a hard look.
"Let me tell you...I've been there...once," Gerard says, "and once was enough."
Task Force member Victor Gutierrez taps on the door, then enters.
"Captain," he says, "we've got a confirmed lead on Kimble...from Detroit P.D."
"Detroit?" Gerard asks skeptically.
"Inspector Horan from the Department's Fourth Precinct recently took a suspicious statement from an individual at
the scene of an automobile accident," Gutierrez informs him. "It seems this guy gave him a false telephone number."
"So what...we're supposed to run around chasing every person who doesn't want to give their number to the cops?"
Gerard says and shrugs. "That's a local problem."
"There's more," Gutierrez continues. "This man took charge in assisting one of the victims...a kid."
"Sounds like Kimble's MO alright," Gerard says. "Did this mystery man's description happen to match Kimble's?"
"Yup," Gutierrez says with a smirk. "Inspector Horan has made a positive ID."
Energized, Gerard rises and grabs his suit jacket. "This is it!" he exclaims. "As of now we are bound for the
Motor City."
DETROIT -THE WATERING HOLE COUNTRY-WESTERN BAR - 4:00 PM
"I know it's nothing to brag about," Meyers says, gesturing at the simple western decor as he and Kimble take a seat,
"but we're all on a first name basis here, and that counts for a lot in my book." Country music plays in the back-
ground. Meyers waves and smiles to another worker sitting at the bar. Kimble recognizes him as the man who was
punching his timecard in the office earlier.
"So, what brings you to Detroit, Pete?" Meyers says to break the ice.
"Nothing really...a needle in a haystack," Kimble replies obliquely.
A mature woman in a checkered square dance skirt comes over to take their orders.
"What'll it be this afternoon, Wilson?" she asks, wiping the table and looking interestedly at Kimble.
"Rhoda, meet Pete!" Wilson says gregariously. "We'll be having double the usual."
"Coming right up," Rhoda responds cheerfully. Her full skirt swishes as she walks back to the bar.
"Tell me, Pete," Meyers asks by way of conversation. "Why are you working construction? You don't seem like a
construction kinda guy to me. I'd have pegged you as the management type."
"No, actually, I'm the odd job type," Kimble replies. "I just happened to see the Help Wanted sign and as a result here
I am, nursing some calluses."
Meyers laughs. "You're lucky, then. Stempkowski isn't known for hiring walk-ins. The boss is a stickler for observing
every union regulation in the book. Doesn't want to tangle with the union people. Happened once, and now he has
a paranoia about it. But the men respect him. He's kept S.K.P. going all these years."
Rhoda returns with their drinks and a basket of pretzels.
"Thank you, lovely lady!" Meyers says, appreciatively.
"Need anything else, I'll be right over there," Rhoda tells them and leaves with the empty tray.
"Yes, sir, S.K.P. has been good to me and my family," Meyers says, taking a long sip of beer, though his expression
lacks its former enthusiasm.
"You've got kids?' Kimble asks.
Meyers' face lights up again. "I do indeed—two girls," he says pulling a wallet from his back pocket. He withdraws a
recent photograph and hands it to Kimble. "Tylia and Teshia."
"Twins!" Kimble says, studying the photo. "They're beautiful, and I bet they're smart, too."
"Oh, you know it," Meyers says, but his expression clouds.
"Wilson, is everything alright?" Kimble asks.
"It's my daughter, Tylia," he says. "Teshia's never been sick a day in her life, but Tylia..." He sighs. "She's needed
doctors right from the start. She was born without all the bones in her left leg and side. Every year they have to do
another bone graft." He gazes around the room as if looking for an answer. "After 15 years, the insurance company
just doesn't want to pay up anymore. But, I want her to have those grafts—as many as it takes. One day she'll walk as
good as her sister."
"Surgery like that is plenty expensive," Kimble acknowledges sympathetically.
"It is...but it's not your worry," Meyers says, tucking the photograph back into his wallet. "We're celebrating your first
day on the job, so drink up!" Meyers lifts his beer to make a toast. Kimble follows suit.
"To friendship," Meyers says, his dark face shining with conviction.
"To friendship," Kimble echoes.
DETROIT - GERARD'S HOTEL ROOM - FRIDAY 1:45 AM
Gerard is in bed going over the paperwork on the case for the umpteenth time. He catches a possible omission, makes
an irritated noise and reaches for his cell phone. He dials and waits a moment.
"Eve...I hope I didn't wake you," he asks.
"It's nearly 2:00 in the morning, Captain," Hilliard replies in a drowsy voice.
"Oh...well, we can deal with it tomorrow...go back to sleep,"Gerard says.
"Are you sure? I'm waking up now," Hilliard says.
"No, no that's okay. I just had a question about the nurse you interviewed at Mercy Hospital who spoke with Kimble
in the corridor," Gerard says.
"Uh huh," Hilliard says, yawning.
"Did Kimble show her any identification?" Gerard asks.
"No," says Hilliard, half awake.
"She let a total stranger just walk into the child's room?" Gerard pursues.
That's right," Hilliard drones, falling back to sleep.
"Good night, Eve," Gerard says.
"'Night, Captain", she answers, hanging up.
Gerard closes the folder and adds it to a pile of others on the night stand. He takes a deep breath, punches up his
pillow to make it comfortable, then turns out the bedside lamp.
It is quiet in the room, with only the sound of light traffic outside.
Gerard tries unsuccessfully to relax. He rolls over, tosses, then changes position again. At last Gerard turns the lamp
back on and sits up in bed, checking his wristwatch for the time. He rolls his head forward, back, and from side to
side to loosen the stiffness. Finally, he reaches for the remote. The TV sparks to life. From the set a police siren is heard
accompanied by rapid-fire dialogue between two rookie cops. The blue light from the screen flickers on Gerard's
impassive and sleepless face.
THE MEYERS FRONT HALL- SUNDAY AFTERNOON
Kimble has just arrived at the Meyers house.
"Pete!" Meyers says enthusiastically, ushering Kimble into the front hall. "Welcome, to our abode, be it ever so
humble."
"Thank you for the invitation," Kimble says. "It was very nice of you to have me over for Sunday dinner."
Meyers goes to the foot of the stairs.
"Company's here, come down you two!" Meyers calls. He turns to Kimble. "We got back from church a little while
ago, so they're already dressed for the Lord, but these teenagers think they can never primp enough!"
A woman with a round, pleasant face comes into the front hall.
"Winnie," Meyers says, putting an arm around her. "My wife and my treasure," he beams, introducing her to Kimble.
"Pete Rayburn," Kimble says, shaking her hand.
"Wilson tells me how much he enjoys working with you, Pete," Winnie says hospitably.
"Well, that's mutual," Kimble tells her. Then his eyes are drawn to the stairs. Two girls are descending, both alike in
their bright-eyed features. Teshia steps down gracefully, keeping pace with her sister. Tylia, the shorter teen, swings
her left hip awkwardly. Her lower leg bows out as it takes her weight. Kimble watches, trying to disguise a surgeon's
concern.
Meyers looks on with delight, his paternal pride momentarily outweighing any sorrow at his daughter's handicap.
"Now, show your manners and say hello to Mr. Rayburn," he instructs.
"Hi, Mr. Rayburn," the twins giggle simultaneously, pleased and self-conscious at once.
"Dinner's ready, if that's alright with you, Pete," Winnie says.
"Sure, lead the way," Kimble says.
AROUND THE DINNER TABLE
All are seated, heads bowed for grace...except Kimble. He looks at each of the Meyers, then bows his head.
"Father, we thank you for good food, good health and good friends," Meyers intones. "And for all these blessings
may we be truly grateful. Amen."
There is a chorus of "Amen" and then Winnie passes a large casserole dish to her husband. "I'll do the honors, today,"
Meyers says. "Hand me your plates."
"Smells good, Winnie," Kimble compliments, passing his plate.
"Wait 'til you've tasted it. Then you'll see why I call her the Gorgeous Gourmet!" Meyers says, serving up the casserole
with a flourish.
His deliberate corniness makes the girls laugh. Kimble notes that, seated side by side, the twins are almost identical,
if not for their height.
MONTAGE - SUNDAY DINNER
Without much urging, Winnie prevails on Kimble to have seconds and thirds. Meyers regales the diners with humor-
ous stories, entertaining his two girls as much, if not more, than their guest. Winnie brings in a delicious looking
chocolate cake for desert. Afterwards the girls excuse themselves. The adults remain at the table.
"Winnie, that was fantastic," Kimble says, pushing his chair back. "I haven't had a home cooked meal like that in quite
some time. Here, let me help you clear these," he says, picking up some plates.
"Absolutely not, you're our guest," Winnie says graciously. "Wilson will help. Why don't you take your coffee into the
living room and make yourself comfortable."
THE MEYERS LIVING ROOM
Kimble strolls leisurely into the next room, looking about him at the family memorabilia on display. On the mantle are
photos of the girls. Teshia, he notices is a cheerleader. Tylia, in a long gown, acts a part in a school play. He turns
towards the couch. Then his eye is caught by a stack of mail on an end table. In the upper corner of each envelope is
the medical insignia of a caduceus. He realizes that insurance could not possibly cover so many bills, and that Meyers
must be going into debt to finance his daughter's surgeries.
Meyers enters. Kimble looks up quickly and moves away from the end table.
"Bet you're glad Friday was payday," Meyers says sociably, sitting down in an overstuffed armchair. Kimble nods
politely, still thinking about the bills. "Busy day tomorrow. Big job for S.K.P., from what I hear," Meyers says with
evident satisfaction. "Stempkowski has an order for gravel delivery at a new high-rise. He'll want every vehicle out on
the road."
"Tell you what, Wilson," Kimble says. "After we finish up tomorrow, I'll buy the beer."
Meyers smiles with pleasure. "You're on!" he agrees wholeheartedly.
DETROIT P.D., 4TH PRECINCT HEADQUARTERS - EARLY MONDAY A.M.
The Task Force members arrive at the station, sleep-rumpled and bleary-eyed at being summoned at this early hour.
Gerard walks swiftly over to the desk sergeant. "I want all your intel on the sighting and we'll need every available
backup on alert," he dictates.
"What's happening?" Miles asks the others. "Bad enough to have to spend my weekend on the job, but don't anyone
expect me to be coherent Monday morning," he grumbles.
"You're never coherent before noon in any case," Gutierrez says.
"Some employee at a concrete company thought he recognized one of the new workers as Kimble, and tipped off the
police," Hilliard informs them hastily.
"An informant! About time," Gutierrez says with relish.
"Got it!" Gerard calls out to them, waving the file. "It's Kimble. Come on folks, we're going to apprehend a fugitive!"
The task force falls in behind Gerard as he races out of the station.
ON THE HIGHWAY - MEYERS PICKUP TRUCK
Meyers is sipping take-out coffee as he drives to work. He glances at the car in the next lane. It passes and Meyers
sniffs the air. He looks back again, concerned. He rolls down the window, then leans out, smelling smoke. Meyers
checks his gauges and groans.
"Oh no, not today!" he says, exasperated. Meyers drives the pickup off onto the shoulder of the road as smoke is seen
issuing from underneath.
INTERSTATE 75 - HEADING TOWARDS S.K.P. CONCRETE
Gerard and Hilliard share the front seat of an unmarked Ford Crown Victoria, speeding along the interstate. Gutierrez
and Miles, follow right behind with five police vehicles bringing up the rear.
"Got your vest on, Captain?" Hilliard teases. Gerard returns her comment with a caustic look.
"Just thought I'd make sure, Boss," she says, smiling.
Gerard uses the two-way radio to check in with the other drivers. "Repeat, we have a priority one fugitive alert!
Confidence is high," he reminds them.
S.K.P. CONCRETE - KIMBLE'S POINT OF VIEW
Kimble climbs into the cab of a gravel truck. He closes the door and starts the engine. Stempkowski waves for him to
move the truck out of the yard. Kimble pulls the truck forward and joins the line of gravel trucks heading out onto the
highway.
As he gets a few blocks away, Kimble sees in the truck's side-view mirror a group of police cars pulling into the
construction site. He continues to drive, his expression tense.
S.K.P. CONCRETE - GERARD'S POINT OF VIEW
Gerard and the task force swerve into the yard of S.K.P. Concrete. The patrol cars arrive and surround the yard,
blocking the entrance. Gerard and Hilliard emerge from their car, weapons drawn.
"F.B.I.!" Hilliard shouts to the surprised workers in the yard. "Nobody move!"
Police officers exit their vehicles and stand beside them, weapons and badges in full display. Gerard proceeds to the construction trailer and throws open the door.
"Who's in charge here?" he barks to the occupants inside. Stempkowski appears in the doorway, sees the gun and
refuses to be intimidated on his own turf.
"I am," Stempkowski says, towering above Gerard on the steps. "Ralph Stempkowski—the S. of S.K.P." He takes a puff
of his cigar. "Who the hell are you and what's this circus all about?"
Gerard flashes his police identification. "Captain Philip Gerard, Fugitive Task Force. You have a wanted man working
for you." He snaps his fingers at Hilliard, "Eve, show him the photo."
Hilliard pulls a photo of Dr. Kimble from her jacket pocket and holds it up so Stempkowski can see it. Stempkowski's
expression shows recognition.
"That man is no fugitive," Stempkowski says defiantly. "That's Pete Rayburn, one of my workers, one of my good
workers!"
"And where is Rayburn now?" Gerard asks impatiently.
"He just left with the rest of the trucks. He was driving number 24. They're heading west on 12 Mile Road," Stempkowski
answers reluctantly.
Gerard turns on his heel and makes for the other officers. "Kimble's headed west!" he shouts, motioning for them to
get in their cars. "We're looking for truck number..." He pauses, forgetting the number. He looks over at Hilliard.
"Number 24," Hilliard says.
"You heard her!" Gerard yells. "And clear that entrance!"
Gerard and his team enter their vehicles. While they wait for the police to mobilize, Gerard picks up the radio and
puts in a call to the police dispatcher.
"Set up a road block on 12 Mile Road," he says.
12 MILE ROAD
The caravan of gravel trucks slows as they approach an unexpected police barricade. The lead driver sees officers with
shotguns motioning him to stop.
"Stay in your truck!" an officer commands.
Gerard and his task force pull up behind the caravan, exit their vehicles, draw their weapons and proceed down the
line looking for truck No. 24. They approach the trucks carefully, one by one: No. 12, No. 43, and then they spot No.
24. Gerard points his weapon at the driver's door.
"You're under arrest, Kimble," Gerard says, triumphantly. "Put your hands outside the vehicle...do it now!"
The driver complies.
"Now, open the door from the outside and step out slowly," Gerard continues.
The door opens and the driver steps out and stands beside the truck. Gerard looks at the man he is arresting. Before
him, clad in work gloves, jean jacket and hard hat, is a middle-aged black man.
For a moment Gerard is incredulous. Then he asks, "Is Pete Rayburn with you?"
"No, just me, nobody else," Meyers says honestly.
Gerard drops his weapon. "The owner, Stempkowski, mislead us," he says, shaking his head in frustration. "We've
been on a wild goose chase." He starts to walk back to the cars. "Stand down!" he shouts to the police officers.
"Search the cabs," he tells his team.
"Do you think Kimble's here?" Hilliard asks.
"Not a chance. But, we'll scour the area," Gerard says. "And we'll post an APB and make sure that all surrounding
agencies know that Kimble was involved in the recent death of an F.B.I. agent in Chicago."
"Let's get going!" Gerard calls to the officers. "We've got to stop Kimble before he leaves Detroit!"
INSIDE GRAVEL TRUCK NO. 24 - MOMENTS LATER
While police finish their search, Wilson Meyers sits in the cab of the truck trying to absorb what has just happened to
him.
FLASHBACK -THE HIGHWAY NOT FAR FROM S.K.P. CONCRETE - 20 MIN. BEFORE
Meyers is walking along the road. He sees the caravan of trucks approaching. Kimble is driving a truck near the rear.
As Kimble sees Meyers he slows. Meyers waves.
"Hey, Wilson!" Kimble calls to him urgently. "Get in!" Meyers runs alongside the truck and opens the passenger door,
swinging inside.
"Thanks, buddy," Meyers grins. "The boss would have my hide for being late this morning, but it's that old pickup of
mine..." Before Meyers can explain further, Kimble interrupts.
"Look, I've got an errand to attend to. It can't wait," he says tersely. "You take over." He indicates the wheel.
"What...now?" Meyers asks incredulously.
"Yes, now!" Kimble says, preparing to jump from the cab. Meyers takes the wheel. Kimble slows the truck as much as
he dares. Then he looks hard at Meyers. "My gloves. I left them in the glove compartment. They're yours!" He jumps
clear of the cab.
"Pete!" Meyers calls after him, concerned.
"I'm okay," Kimble calls back, running and dodging through the oncoming traffic. In seconds he is gone from sight.
RETURN TO INSIDE THE TRUCK
Puzzled, Meyers rubs his hands over the rim of the steering wheel to help himself think. He hears the police cars start
up. He looks down, shaking his head. No, he can't say anything...he trusts his friend. Then his eyes focus on the gloves
he's wearing. Meyers recollects Pete's instructions. He leans over and flips open the glove compartment. Inside is a pair of gloves
and underneath them is Kimble's paycheck. Meyers frowns, worried that Pete has forgotten it. He picks it up and sees
that it has been endorsed on the back. Beneath Pete Rayburn's signature are the words: "To friendship."
The trucks rumble into life again as the gravel caravan begins to move forward. Carefully, Meyers folds the check and
puts it in his jacket pocket. His eyes mist. Then he starts the engine.
THE ON-RAMP TO INTERSTATE 696
Kimble stops running and catches his breath. He has a stitch in his side and is bending over to ease it when a vehicle
slows behind him. A dark blue van passes him by, then pulls over to the side of the road and stops. The van's sliding
door opens.
Alarmed, Kimble poises to run.
"Need a lift?" says a sweet voice.
Kimble hesitates momentarily, but then notices the lettering on the van: "Angels Express." He comes up to the door
and looks inside. The van's passengers are a group of nuns returning from a religious retreat.
"We're not going all the way to Heaven," says the nun, " but we can take you as far as Cleveland."
"Cleveland's fine…Sister," Kimble says thankfully. He ducks his head to enter the van.
"Give him some room," the Sister says. The nuns repeat the suggestion, happily rearranging themselves. Kimble slides
the door shut and the van drives up onto the interstate.
GERARD'S NIGHTMARE - THE FOLLOWING NIGHT
In utter darkness a heart is heard beating rapidly. The sound is accompanied by raspy breathing, as if someone was
struggling for air.
"Captain Philip Gerard has been shot..." a voice says, distorted and fading in and out, "...has been shot...has been
shot..."
An image in black and white flickers hazily at the edge of consciousness. It is the interior of Gerard's Ford Explorer. The heartbeats accelerate, becoming erratic. For a moment there is another image...the back of a man's head.
"Come to the S.E. corner of Roosevelt..."
The breathing grows quicker and much louder.
Then, backlit by the light from the windshield...a profile...clearly recognizable.
CHICAGO - GERARD'S BEDROOM
Philip Gerard awakens bolt upright in bed. Beads of sweat dot his brow. He has seen the face of his rescuer and it
terrifies him. The camera looks directly into Gerard's eyes as he says two words: "Richard Kimble."
END OF EPISODE