"Cri Du Chat: A Fugitive Novelization"
Written by: Carol from Minnesota — Creator: Roy Huggins
Part 1 of 2
Author Acknowledgements and Dedication
My husband's thoughtful responses to my questions while I was writing this story are perhaps surpassed only by his incredible knowledge of geography, especially evidenced in Part Two. Guidelines and input from the " " Season 2 staff have been much appreciated; future authors, take note! Thanks especially to FreeToFly, whose feedback has been invaluble, particually in making sure that Canadian infirmation is accurate and authentic. It has been a genuine pleasure (Hope that doesn't embarrass you too much!)
Dedication: "Cri du Chat - Part 1" is dedicated to the memories of great trips to Canada over the years (especially with my husband and kids) that made me fall in love with the country i nthe first place, as I remain today.
Cri Du Chat - Part 1
The ancient green pickup ambled slowly toward the Canadian border crossing from northern Maine, USA, and came to a wheezing halt. The bored agent looked up from inside his station, stood stiffly, and took his clipboard outside to the truck's occupant who, with his gray moustache and battered beret, clenched his teeth even as he tried to hide it.
"Evening, Louis. How's the arthritis?
"Merci; I am just fine. One hundred per cent."
Scott Coburn, Canadian Customs Officer, doubted that Louis Renaud was "one hundred per cent" but would not embarrass the old fellow by saying so. They smiled warmly at each other, as they always did whenever Louis crossed over from the States to return home, as he had done every few weeks for years. The tiny outpost, a port of entry in far eastern Canada, was isolated enough, and the comings and goings infrequent enough, that Scott would have noticed if Louis had NOT crossed. The mandatory questions, brief as a routine in this longest of friendly, largely unprotected border between nations in the world, were even more perfunctory with Louis. Scott had long known his name and where he was born.
"Anything to declare? Carrying any drugs or firearms?"
"Just the usual. Automatic assault weapons, homemade whiskey, a couple of adolescent migrant pot farmers..."
Scott's smile broadened. "Come on, Louis! You want me to record that?"
"No, I have nothing to declare. Oh, except this —" and Louis turned to the small bag next to him, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and tossed it to his friend. Only his aim was off, and the pack tumbled out the window and onto the ground.
"There's that grimace again," thought Scott as he bent to pick it up. "He must be in a LOT of pain tonight." He decided to let Louis keep his dignity and cut off an apology for the dropped cigarettes. "Ah, you wouldn't be trying to bribe a customs officer, would you?"
"Bribe you? Moi? Can I not give a small gift to a friend? How DARE you, sir; you insult the dignity of the Renauds." Louis purposely thickened his French accent in comical mimicry of Maurice Chevalier. "I hereby challenge you to a duel —"
Scott raised his eyebrows and threw out his chest, ready to accept —
" — only already I am late, and I want to be home for supper," finished Louis.
Scott exhaled audibly and returned his posture to normal. "Ah, then. We shall have to make it another time."
"Until then, mon ami."
"Until then."
They saluted each other as Louis drove off, Scott squinting in the lengthening shadows as he watched the old truck sputtering its way up the slight incline of the road. He strolled back inside and smiled at his new partner, Marc Peters. Sometimes the two agents chatted, sometimes not. There might be long periods of a comfortable quiet. It all de-pended on their individual masculine moods. They had known each other superficially for the last few months, pretty much drawing the same working shifts in the afternoon and evening hours.
"So how goes it with the family, Marc?"
"Same old, same old." Marc turned it back on Scott. "Monsieur Renaud giving you a hard time?"
"No more than usual."
"Hey, I thought you were trying to quit." Marc noticed the cigarettes tucked in Scott's breast pocket.
"Oh, these! Yeah, I try to quit, then I start up again. Hard to kick."
"Well, just keep it outside, or in your own office."
Scott decided that it was probably not smart to admit to his partner that Louis had given the cigarettes to him. He was not sure whether the young Mr. Peters might be as inclined to blink where Louis was concerned. He wondered, as he had so often, if Louis saved his border crossings for him, or if he ever crossed when others were working, wondered what their relationship was with Louis, wondered if anyone else ever really checked him out.
In fact, Marc was more of a stickler than Scott ever was. But he knew that Scott enjoyed Louis. They had been friends for a long time. And so when Louis made his border crossings, Scott was the obvious customs agent to send him through.
"I sure wish Louis wouldn't give me cigarettes, though," Scott thought to himself. "I'm sure he can't afford it."
Yet Louis had continued to bring them now and again, and Scott continued not to want to hurt his feelings by refusing them. It complicated the matter that Scott HAD been trying to quit. He waved to Marc and walked back to his own deserted room and shut the door. He looked thoughtfully at the pack and almost unwrapped its cellophane before tossing it into the waste basket. Then he sighed, took it out, and put it back in his shirt pocket. Cigarettes were bad for him, he knew. But throwing them out seemed somehow disrespectful. Scott felt foolish even thinking that. He knew he would succumb to a drag later on, even as he determined not to.
He sighed again and went outside, looking past the fluttering flags of Canada and New Brunswick and up the road where Louis' truck was still visible way off in the distance, laboring up the grade. He had been hoping for a longer conversation with the funny old guy. But he seemed to be in a hurry today. Scott was tired and bored. He was close enough to a comfortable retirement that there was no thought of quitting his job or even requesting a transfer at this point. A transfer might come anyway, because there was talk of closing such small outposts, for budgetary reasons, in both countries.
As it was, Scott felt that the times were very few when there needed to be more than one Agent at a time. But that, too, would affect jobs. The argument for keeping this post open was that that would put a hardship on those who lived in such a remote area to travel great distances away. Scott hoped he could just stay put until his retirement. He wondered if that would come before or after the aging Louis could no longer make the crossings. Either way, Scott would miss him.
He thought again about the truck and its contents. Louis' flip "declaration" was typical, but he had to admit that "migrant pot farmers," teenage or otherwise, was a new one. As a customs officer Scott certainly had the right, and the responsibility, to check anything that he had the least suspicion about. That included Louis' jumbled collection of odd pieces of wood, dusty crates, the smelliest canvas tarpaulin Scott had ever seen, and who knows what else.
Quite frankly, he did not want to get Louis into any trouble, and he was afraid of what he would find. Besides, he rationalized, there had never been any difficulty with Louis. He was certainly not a national security risk. At best Scott would expect to find some evidence that he was doing something technically illegal in both countries — US Customs never stopped him, either! — something that, perhaps, made him some money for his personal use. And likely not much of that. This time of day... Scott mused, would Louis' wallet be filled with US or Canadian currency?
In another time and another place, Scott WOULD have checked the back of the truck every so often. And he knew that he would have been the first one to berate any other agent who failed to do so, if he had any niggling doubts at all. But at this stage of his life, he could not be bothered.
So he went back inside, sat down heavily, dug the cigarette pack out of his pocket, and almost pitched it into the trash again. And then he pursed his lips and unwrapped the cellophane.
Louis Renaud continued on his way, chuckling to himself, raggedly and wickedly singing snatches of "Every little breeze seems to whisper Louise" in a hokey parody of a French caricature that he personally despised.
Had Scott Coburn checked the contents of the truck bed, he would have found an awful lot of wadded up newspaper in an otherwise empty crate. Most certainly, a search would not have turned up any automatic assault weapons or adolescent migrant pot farmers. Homemade whiskey he was not so sure about. He would have been chagrined, but probably not surprised, to discover the hunting rifles in one of the crates along with the boxes of ammunition that Louis had not declared, inexpertly hidden among an awful lot of oddly shaped knives.
But had he checked under the crumpled, rancid folds of the tarpaulin, he would would have been flabbergasted to discover (aside from a couple of animal cages, one of them occupied), the tall figure of a man, lying with his eyes closed. A man who of late had been known by several names. But on both sides of the border — especially in the United States — he was better known as Dr. Richard Kimble...
They were after him. This time, they would catch him!
Richard Kimble was on the run. He crashed though the tall jungle-like foliage, panting heavily, nearly blinded by the intense sun, and by the rivers of his own sweat leaking into the corners of his eyes, burning and blurring his vision. His pursuers had a pack of dogs aiding their chase. He tried to lose them by slogging through a partially dried creek bed, hoping they would lose his scent in the scant water, knowing what a slim chance that would be.
He tripped on a rock! He pitched forward and fell face down in the putrid muck, choking and coughing and sputter-ing. Richard did not dare to think what could have happened if his head has struck a similar rock, hoping that his dampish detour was worth it, hoping the moisture would at least cool him. All it managed to do was make him more uncomfortable.
Yet still they came. The barking grew louder and more threatening. "If the creek doesn't throw them off," he thought, "I am finished. This is really it." He simply could not continue running. In his dizziness and exhaustion, the very landscape appeared almost to move, to change before his eyes. He felt his own pulse. It was racing so fast, he could not even count it.
The dogs suddenly began yelping even louder. Now he could hear among them a funny, high-pitched yowl. THAT one seemed to be calling out to him. The others were clearly out for blood. This spurred Richard to scramble up an embankment in a frantic search for cover. He tripped again, on an exposed tree root, and fell to the ground —
— and thereby noticed a small depression in the ground under a small bush. "If the creek HAS confused the dogs," he reasoned, "I might be able to pull some of the underbrush over me,
and they won't notice me —"
But it was useless. The yelping dogs were even closer, joyous as they neared the end of their pursuit, with that one animal having a decidedly different pitch than the others. Richard shivered in utter terror, even as his skin blazed hot. In another futile effort, he at-tempted to pull the brambles around himself. They felt scratchy. Unnaturally so. Scratchy... lke ... almost like...
"Wool?"
Richard blinked in the blazing sun, blinked again, and —
It looked like night time. He seemed to be in a small room, on a low, narrow bed. His became aware that his hands were plucking at an old blanket.
Had he been dreaming, then? And where was he?
He looked around, coughing up the mucky water from when he had fallen face down in the creek. It seemed to him that a whole armada of clipper ships, from out of the night time fog, were headed straight toward him. He blinked to make them go away. And still they came: an entire Navy, ancient and immediate, ominously bearing down upon him, lying there in the darkened room.
(Clipper ships in the darkened room?) He must still be in the throws of a dream.
But no! He was NOT dreaming! He knew that, because he could still hear the dogs. Even the one with the high pitched whine. He was not imagining THAT! He must be delirious, then — hallucinating! No. That's silly. He could clearly feel the scratchy wool blanket, feel the unnatural curving of his spine on the small sagging mattress. He was safe in bed — SOMEBODY'S bed — and the dogs were merely the product of a nightmare.
"NO! The bed — the darkness — THAT is the delusion! The dogs are real. I CAN HEAR THEM! I AM NOT IMAGINING IT! WHAT IS GOING ON?"
"WHY DON'T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE?"
Too late, he realized that he had shouted this last statement out loud. And he realized that there were other times, as well. He just didn't remember when, or where...
His doctor's mind raced in spirals, trying to analyze what was wrong with himself... almost hoping the dogs WOULD finally catch him... would find him there in the scorching sunlight, quivering with fear, hiding in the little depression under the inadequate bush and the scratchy brambles...and put an END to this, once and for all —
Marie, young and dark haired and beautiful even in her lab coat, looked up from her counter when the bell tinkled above the door. She smiled ironically at the interloper who had entered, carrying a small, black, wet bundle of fur, dripping the pouring rain onto her clean floor, and did not say hello. Rather, she more or less picked up in the middle of virtually the same conversation that she had shared with him many times.
"And so? You bring ANOTHER wild stray?" she said in gentle French.
"No, my dear," responded Louis. "The stray, she is tame. It is I who am wild."
"Well THAT is certainly true." Marie's laughter rang as musically as the bell, but was virtually inaudible for the small, thoroughly soaked feline who let loose with loud meowing — certainly seeming wild enough, at that. Louis had trouble holding onto her.
"Louis," she continued, "ANOTHER cat? Where do you find them?"
"Marie, you are my favorite grand niece."
"Don't try to sweet talk me. Uncle Louis, I am your ONLY grand niece!"
"That is why you are my favorite! Because you are so special!"
Marie grinned and shook her head. She couldn't do a thing with him. He had her hooked, and they both knew it. Just as they both knew she would take in the stray cat, just as she had taken in all the other animals, whenever he found one. And he had an incredible capacity to find them.
"What am I to do with her? We have no room; you know that!"
But even as she said it, Marie opened the half door and led Louis and his charge into the back room where the already barking canines were provoked into making the new cat's visit all the more unwelcome, just as they had done with the other one. Marie looked over the already full cages, and bit her lip. Some of the animals were doubled up, healthy but waiting to be adopted. And there were the others — not just dogs, but raccoons and other assorted wild life in various stages of recovery, courtesy of Grand Uncle Louis.
Then there was the Seal Point Siamese with the white patches that had come in not long ago. Poor thing! She seemed in such pain as Marie was unable to relieve. Well, there was no hope for it. The Siamese and the black cat — still a kitten, really — would just have to get along in the same cage. Fortunately, they seemed willing enough to try, if reluctant. As Marie opened the cage door, the Siamese fir-ball rolled her blue eyes at Marie and gave an especially mournful meow.
The little gabled building, attached to Marie and Louis' residence, was the nearest thing that their small town had to a veterinary clinic, and Marie Renaud was currently the nearest thing to a veterinarian. As long as she euphemistically operated as an animal shelter, the animals kept coming. Marie had long since taken more and more functions from Louis as his arthritis worsened. But she had only the skills of an assistant. There was no money for further education, and in any case no way she could go away to school and leave Louis to his own devices, even if the money was forthcoming.
"How is my other stray coming along?" Louis asked.
For a second, Marie thought: Which one? Because there were so many. But then she realized that he was referring to the tall, two legged one.
"I think he is still in a bad way," replied Marie. "He cries out, but he rambles incoherently. I cannot understand most of it."
"But you can understand some of it?" he pursued.
"Well, yes, but...I don't..." she trailed off, wondering why he asked so intensely, wondering again who the man was and why he was even here in the first place, seemingly afraid of them both. Still, delirium could do that to a person.
Louis went back to the little appended room in the back. Yes, the "stray" was certainly thrashing around in his sleep. But Louis thought that, over all, he looked rather better than he had when he had first arrived... how many days ago was it, now? Good thing that the little bed was there. Some years ago, it was placed here to accommodate a human care taker who could not leave an animal in acute crisis alone over night. It served them well, now.
Marie appeared in the doorway. "Louis, how well did you know this man before you brought him here?" "What do you think?"
"I don't know what to think. You bring him here in the back of your truck, sicker than I don't know what... Louis, I am afraid for him, afraid for YOU, afraid for ME. Is he in some kind of trouble?"
Louis' eyes clouded over. "Marie, get me a glass of juice for him, won't you?"
Her own eyes grew dark at the deliberate evasive response, but she went and got the juice. Louis' new "pet" was taking fluids better, but he still looked dehydrated. Solid food was not quite on the menu yet. Meanwhile, Louis talked to him gently and took his temperature, noting that it was still elevated. When Marie returned, he ground up another couple of aspirin and stirred them into the juice, hoping that enough would dissolve and not just cake on the side of the glass. Louis hesitated only a moment and then ground up an orange colored antibiotic as well.
•••••
Richard stirred from his nightmare, still groggy. There were those voices again, whispering in the dark. He had heard them several times before — HOW long ago did it start? Were they real, or was he imagining those, too? Fantastic thoughts of "foreign spies" came into his head. Spies who came and poisoned him from time to time. Were they working for Gerard?
"No, that is ridiculous," Richard thought. "Why would French spies be working for Gerard? That HAS to be a dream... doesn't it... ?"
Richard now had periods of calm wherein he decided that he was frankly delusional, and this might simply be a part of it. He no longer tried to distinguish reality from fantasy. He just accepted whatever came.
The clipper ships never seemed to get closer. They neither threatened him nor rescued him. So while they were puzzling and disturbing, they had become somewhat less a matter of concern. The pursuing dogs could still terrify. Yet they did not seem any closer, either. "Maybe if I continue to lie low, they will not find me."
•••••
Richard had no concept of the passing of time. A mustached gentleman with an accent helped him to sit up, helped him to drink something nasty tasting.
"Well, how are you feeling?" asked Louis.
"Uh — better. I think. Some...better..." Richard coughed through his reply.
"Good! You can talk!"
"Yes..." Richard nodded with a weak smile. **"Who IS this guy?"** he wondered suspiciously.
Marie, arms folded, observed intently from the doorway. Louis looked at her and dismissed her with a nod of his head. But this time she refused to budge. He looked at her for a long minute, shrugged, and turned back to the man on the bed.
"Now then," said Louis. "What shall I call you?" (Not: what is your name?)
"Ri..." (I almost goofed!) "R-Rob... uh.. Rob..." In his weakened condition he hesitated, trying to think quickly...
"ROB STRAYER! That is what I shall call you!" Louis smiled broadly at them both.
Marie understood the appellation immediately. Its meaning dawned on Richard much later, after he had gotten to know Louis better.
After a time, "Rob Strayer," every muscle in his body aching, fell into a fitful sleep. Louis tiptoed out of his room, and Marie followed, accosting him in the hallway.
"Uncle Louis!" she accused. "You don't know him at ALL!" "Shhh! Do you wake him up, after all he has been through?"
"What HE has been through? What about what you are putting US through?" Marie had not lowered her voice. "You just up and invite him here, to a sick bed, with no thought to our safety. DO you know him? Even a little?"
No response.
"And you call him by a name that is obviously not his own?" she continued.
No response.
"And it does not occur to you, sick as he is, to take him to a town with a hospital so he can get proper care? Or even to a doctor?"
"You know how I feel about that!" he barked.
"Uncle Louis, be reasonable. You cannot just find a person wandering along the road and invite him to ride in your truck.. That is what you did, no? You know nothing about him — do you? Whether he is dying of AIDS, Bubonic Plague, Mad Cow Disease? And what is up with 'Rob Strayer?' " she twisted the pseudonym sarcastically. "Even the animals we do not assign names! What about him? For all you know, he could be a burglar, or a child molester, or,"
Suddenly, a possibility occurred to her.
"Uncle Louis! He is from the States, isn't he?"
And yet another conclusion jumped her from behind.
"Oh, Louis! You DID offer him a ride... didn't you? You snuck him into the truck and hid him. Tell me you knew he was
there. Tell me you did not FIND him in the truck." Her mind raced overtime with the possible international legal
complications of all this. And the possible danger
they could be in.
"Marie, you are my very favorite grand niece..."
"You are not going to tell me anything at all, are you?" she fumed.
Louis twinkled at her in reply. She threw her hands up and stormed out. There was no talking to him. At least the stranger, whoever and whatever he was, could do them no harm in his present condition. Louis, for his part, watched her dramatic exit with a thoughtful expression.
•••••
Richard woke up. (No! Not Richard! Who am I, now? Rob something. Try to remember!)
His mind tried to piece together why someone else would pick out a name for him. And it was STILL dark in that strange little room, with its phantom barking dogs, with the clipper ships coming at him in the fog. He was very groggy, but restless enough to want to try to walk. He remembered to sit on the edge of the bed before attempting to stand, so that he wouldn't lose his balance. Nevertheless, he was unsteady when he did get up. He almost bumped his head on the bow of one of the many boats that floated toward him —
— and gasped in surprise and relief as he solved at least one mystery. "There ARE clipper ships!"
And so there were. Dozens of them, everywhere, on shelves and suspended from the ceiling. Ships of every size, expertly carved by hand in wood, each one unique. Richard was delighted! Seeing them for what they were lifted his spirits immensely. He took a moment to study the craftsmanship, taking one of the models from a shelf and turning it around and around to admire the detail.
And then sobered as he wondered why everything still looked foggy. His vision was blurry. Terribly so. He returned the ship to the shelf. Maybe if he turned on a light, he could at least clear his vision a bit. He found a wall switch —
— and turned it off almost as soon as he had turned it on. The light blinded him!
It occurred to him — maybe it was always dark because the people who came and went kept the light off on purpose, evidently aware that it hurt his eyes.
The people who came and went ...
The man and woman, who switched to English when they spoke with him...
Had been real, too. And they had been speaking French. He did not know the language but figured he understood enough at least to recognize it. He sat back on the bed as he turned THIS around in his head.
As he sat there, he could hear an occasional yap! from some room not too far away. So the dogs were real, too. He had KNOWN they were, somehow, but could not sort it out in his confused mind until now.
Not that even now he understood much of anything! Who were these people that were obviously helping him? Why were they speaking French? And where, exactly, WAS he? Another bout of coughing seized him. He lay back down again, aching and exhausted and troubled.
Nevertheless, he slept better than he had in quite a long while.
Some time later, Richard Kimble blinked in the blinding light and looked around. The "jungle" looked more like a
•••••
coniferous forest, and it was not quite as hot as it had been. The barking dogs were after him again, and that fright-ened him, but this time he lay still in his hidden position, somehow knowing that they would not find him. In any case they were not yelping nearly so much as they had been — had they ever really been barking that much? Now it was more of an occasional Yip! Yip! which sometimes set the others off, sometimes not. The high-pitched one intrigued him. THIS one was not chasing him. It was calling out to him, crying for him, crying — like a baby? A child?
No — it was a cat! Of course! But what was a cat doing with a pack of dogs? A cat obviously in pain. His curiosity got the better of him. He pushed the scratchy wool underbrush aside as he slowly awakened, and tried to stand up. He HAD to know the source of that meowing and barking. The coughing returned but was not quite as intense. He smiled at the clipper ships which had become his friends in this strange, dark little room. He would like to take one and sail away on her. Somewhere safe.
The pain cut into his eyes in the intense light as he made his way down the hallway, barely seeing, as he tried unsuccessfully to shield his eyes with a hand. Foolish to be doing this, he knew, but he was too restless to stay in bed any longer. Anyway, his French care-takers could maybe clear up a few things for him in his still-foggy mind. Following the barking and wailing, he found the room with the animals. And Marie, who jumped when she saw him.
"Oh, you are up!" she said. "You must be feeling better."
He nodded. She immediately turned out one of the overhead lights, her concern for him momentarily overcoming her fear. "Let me get you some sunglasses —" and she left the room for the front office, reached under the counter from her purse, and brought him a dark pair, which he put on gratefully.
Marie tried to suppress a smile but could not contain it, and she burst forth with her melodious laughter. He was puzzled.
"Well, now!" exclaimed Louis as he walked in. "Do you not cut a dashing figure!"
Richard looked down at himself, in the pajamas that were far too small — obviously they were a pair of Louis' — but was he THAT funny looking? Surely they had both seen him wearing them. Marie, still much amused, handed him a mirror, and he dimly saw what they saw — his hair rumpled, his beard ragged... and his eyes adorned by the prettiest pair of feminine frames he could imagine.
"I guess I do look pretty silly," he grinned sheepishly.
"I think we can do better than that, no offense to Marie's exquisite taste." Louis went and found him a pair of his own sunglasses, of a more masculine style, and returned Marie's to her.
"I will find a clean comb somewhere. The beard we can tackle later, Rob." As Louis said this, the smile disappeared from Marie's face. Richard became concerned. He remembered that he was supposed to be Rob Strayer, but he noticed that only Louis called him that. And he still could not piece out why Louis had assigned him the name.
"I have to buy some groceries, Louis," said Marie. "In any case, your friend must be getting an appetite by now." She could not bring herself to call him Rob. Or even Mr. Strayer. "I will pick up a comb as well." And with that she donned her sunglasses, looking dazzling in them. She gazed at them for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
As Marie left, Louis offered Richard a stool.
"Thanks. I am a bit wobbly." The cold metal of the stool felt good. Richard realized that although his temperature was lower than it obviously had been, it was still somewhat elevated.
"Uh — Louis, isn't it? Louis, I - uh —" Richard struggled.
One of Louis' talents was reading minds.
"You want to know how you came to be here."
"It had crossed my mind."
Louis was about to respond when at that moment a jingle sounded from the outer office. "Wait here. And do not make a sound."
Louis left Richard behind the door, which he closed firmly. Richard began sweating again as he heard Louis' jocular booming voice and a softer one, conversing disturbingly in French. Louis suddenly burst back in the room, finger to his lips in the classic "shhh" gesture. He took a yippy little dog from one of the cages and brought it back to the outer office. After several minutes he returned.
"Pardon the intrusion," Louis apologized. "We are a small community. It would be hard to explain your presence."
"Louis —" Richard was afraid of what he was thinking.
"just now with the customer, and with Marie — you are all speaking French, right?"
"Yes. " Louis' eyes grew darker. "You really do NOT know where you are!"
"I'm thinking I must be in Canada." He received a slight nod in reply. "Louis — how did I get here?"
"Let me ask YOU something — how did someone who knows about medicine allow himself to get so sick?"
THAT brought him short! Richard could feel his pulse quicken — he'd said too much!
"You DO have some medical knowledge," said Louis. A statement, not a question. "I too know something. But not nearly so much as you do."
Richard grew uncomfortable, then turned white. "Louis knows who I am!" he thought. He forced himself not to panic. Louis had not mentioned the name Richard Kimble. Maybe he had cried out something in his delirium, something which gave away his medical knowledge.
"I was a medic in the military." Richard looked at Louis through his blurry vision, trying to see how this announcement is received.
Louis gazed back intently. "A medic. Of course." One corner of his mouth gave way to a barely perceptible smile. "Tell me...Rob...what do you remember of getting sick?"
"I — don't really know," he responded truthfully. "How did I get into Canada?"
Louis turned to walk along the row of animal cages as he talked. "You were in rough shape when I found you. I do not think you would have lasted much longer." He offered nothing further.
Richard was aware that his question had been adroitly side-stepped. He was not sure what to make of that, and so let it drop. Still full of concern that Louis might know his true identity, he was just beginning to realize how much of Louis' conversation was full of evasion — recognizing ironically that it mirrored much of what he had learned to do himself — of necessity, since becoming a fugitive. He got up and walked along side Louis as the older gentleman looked into each cage, murmuring something to each animal.
"Louis, I want to thank you for taking care of me."
"Marie — she deserves most of the credit."
"I will be sure to thank her also, when she gets back."
"You know, Rob, she thinks you are a dangerous character." Louis turned and looked at him quickly. Are you?"
Richard flinched, then grinned — too quickly — and said, "No! No, of course not."
Louis turned again to the cages. "No, of course not," he echoed. "She naturally wonders why you suddenly turn up here, a 'Stranger in a Strange Land,' with no money, no identification... "
"My wallet —" Suddenly Richard came more fully alert and aware than he had remembered being in some time. "Uh — about this Rob Strayer business —"
"My gift to you!" Louis gave one of his best broad smiles. "Use it in — ah — good health, eh?" "But Marie must —"
"Do not worry yourself over Marie, Robbie my boy. She might grumble — BUT she will do what I say. And I say — to say nothing!" His accent grew by leaps and bounds as he spoke. "Shhh! Do not tell anyone!" Louis grew conspirato-rial, put his arm around Richard's neck and spoke in a whisper. "Marie, she is secretly in love with her Grand Uncle Louis!" and he laughed the stereotypical chuckle of the leering, romantic Frenchman as only conjured up by an old Hollywood movie.
And that is when Richard knew for sure that he must take everything Louis said with a large grain of salt. And that he could probably trust him.
Marie he was not as sure about. He suddenly became fearful that she had not gone to buy groceries! "Louis, I can leave —" Richard began.
"Do not be ridiculous," Louis growled suddenly. "Where would you go? You who only think MAYBE that you are in Canada? How would you get anywhere? How much French do you know? Marie and I, we speak pretty good English. Like many French Canadians, we speak it a lot better than some Americans! But that is not everybody, way out here in the—Gaspé. Do you know where that is? Do you even know what Province this is? This you did not think of, eh? It is obvious from your face that you did NOT think of it until this moment.
Richard realized that in fact he really had no idea where he was. Quebec? He wondered if it were true that he might not get along because of the language. Or was Louis simply trying to scare him for his own purposes? Richard had been under the impression that Canadians — including French Canadians — all spoke English, at least to some extent.
Anyway —" Louis dismissed the whole idea with a sweep of his hand — "You are in no condition to travel." "That's certainly true," Richard conceded.
"Besides!" Louis became Maurice Chevalier again, totally disarming. "What I need now is the camaraderie of another man. Marie, she is charming, and she IS in love with me, but she is — oh, you know, so — female! You know, do you not, that we live with each other?" Richard smiled weakly. "For years, I am surrounded by her presence. Marie is tenderhearted, always taking care of the sick and abandoned, like some of the animals, like you —"
Inexplicably, Louis' mood shifted as suddenly as his topic. "It is not only America that has its problems with health care. You think that socialized medicine is so wonderful? It is a disaster! You should try it sometime!"
Richard did not understand Louis' position and did not respond. Obviously, it was something that Louis felt strongly about, and Richard did not want to offend nor antagonize him. Richard was aware that American medical community was deeply divided on the issue of health care reform. Some suggested that they adopt the Canadian way. Others were adamant it would not work in America; otherwise, why would some Canadians feel the need to travel south and see American specialists? And yet, the American military had a "socialized medicine" program of sorts for its own members and their families. He suspected that some American physicians who were the most opposed to it felt that way for mainly monetary reasons. Personally, Richard was on the side of at least looking at the system that Canada and other countries had tried, before rejecting it out of hand, considering the problems some Americans had with affordability and access to adequate health care.
Louis' voice continued to rise as he took off on another of his favorite personal themes, putting his own interpretation on it. "Do you think the United States is the only country that has the attitude problem against her minorities?"
Richard could not have fit in a word in, even if he had wanted to. Louis was on a roll. "Do you know there are French Canadians who want to form their own nation? Do you know there are Mohawk Indians who feel the same way? And some who have actually tried? Yes! Even now, there are lawsuits pending in the courts. In 1996, a number of Indians took over Ipperwash Provincial Park in Ontario and declared it to be sovereign! Did you know that?"
Richard did not.
"Canadians are supposed to know everything that happens in America," Louis continued. "How many Americans know anything at all, or care, about what happens in Canada?"
Richard had to concede with chagrin that he, personally, knew very little.
Startled out of himself, Louis' mood shifted once again "Oh, but now you are thinking that I am the one who is the dangerous character!" he cried. "We were talking about Marie. You must not worry about her. Really!" She may get her feathers fluffed but she comes around to my way. She always has. She truly does live with me. Since she was a little girl."
As Louis reassured Richard, he worried within. Marie HAD always gone along with Louis from a very young age. But now she was a grown woman. For one thing, she did not share Louis' negative feelings about their country. She was quite happy with her French Canadian status, and felt no "attitude problem" against her.
What is more, Marie had become increasingly invested in doing the "right" thing, on correcting old wrongs, in her personal life... which could end up being very bad for Louis, regarding some of his little enterprises. He had always tried to encourage her to be as independent as he was. Was that going to come back and bite him now, in HIS personal life?
Neither Louis nor Richard was aware when Marie had slipped in, listening, nor when she had slipped out again.
"Marie's parents died when she was three years old," Louis continued. "After everyone was gone from her life... She was so tiny, so alone, so lonely. What would anyone do? I just kept her. She became mine. She is the daughter I never had." He shook himself. "I do not know why I am telling you this, Robbie. You must be a good listener."
"Louis, in some regards you sound as tenderhearted as Marie does. One way or another, you really have been taking in strays all your life, haven't you?" Richard said.
"Ah, you ARE a good listener, my new-found friend. Too good!" he said ruefully. It was a rare day indeed when Louis Renaud forgot to dissemble. "Yes, Marie was a stray as well. It was not easy for either of us, at first. She of course missed her mama and papa. I did not know how to be either. I had to learn. By trial and error, as they say. With much error! I never married. And the only child I ever had was a dog."
•••••
This last statement instantly triggers a flashback for Richard.
He and his beloved Helen are running through a park in Chicago. They are out of breath... they pretend to fight... he
wrestles her to the ground...she screams in delight... they laugh and laugh and laugh...
Helen says that she and Richard could get a baby... get a dog... Richard responds, "Wait a minute — did you just say that you wanted... a dog...?"
(Even as he feels himself to be in that time and that place, he worries that he will never again be able to think about Helen without thinking of what is to follow.)
Helen challenges Richard to race back to the house... she runs... he chases her... calls her "Speed Racer"... finds her...
finds the blood... fights with the One Armed Man...
Helen, lying there... he tries to revive her... knows he can't; she is too battered and broken... he is too late...
(All the jumbled images of that horrible day when his wife, and his life, are simultaneously ripped to shreds in a few short moments, forever frozen in tortuous time...)
•••••
Standing in front of the animal cages, Richard grabbed his gut, breathing raggedly. His face was a mask of pain even behind Louis' sunglasses, as a tear slid from under the lenses. The painful memories have hit him far worse than any physical symptoms from his illness.
Louis, misunderstanding, helped him back to the stool.
"Where exactly does it hurt?" he asks, deep in concern.
"No — it's — I'm — I'll be all right."
Louis examined Richard's face. He know that look. He saw it sometimes in the mirror. "You have lost someone dear to you, no?"
"Y-yes."
"Something I said reminded you."
"Yes!" Richard gasped, holding back what he knew would otherwise have been a flood of tears.
Almost in response to this exchange, a mournful meow. Louis turned and walked over to the cage, giving Richard a measure of privacy. "And you?" he said to the Seal Point. "You too are hurting, are you not, little girl?"
Richard glanced up, intrigued that the meowing has pulled him for the moment out of his grief. This was the same high pitched sound that had called to him from his nightmares about the barking dogs. This was the cat that had called out to him. It was calling now! Richard rose again and went to the cage of the unhappy creature.
When the feline noticed Richard looking at her, she stepped up her meowing and seemed to lean forward, although she did not move from where she was lying in the back of the cage. They gazed into each others eyes, as though they understood and could each read the pain of the other.
"We try not to name the animals," Louis said gently. "We get too attached otherwise. But I see you already ARE attached to her. And she to you." (As though he himself did not feel this way about each one of them!) "What would you name her if she were yours?"
Richard looked into her big blue eyes and spoke without
hesitation or thought.
"Helen. Her name is Helen."
•••••
"We give your little Helen medicine," Louis said, "and yet she hurts. She needs more skill than we can give." He looked up. "I wonder, Rob, if you would take a look at her?"
"I am not a veterinarian."
"But you know the healing arts!"
"Louis, If you cannot take care of her, maybe one of your colleagues can.
"I have none."
"You — but you and Marie — this clinic —"
"I have no colleagues. You say you are not a veterinarian. I say it also. Nor Marie." His accent thickened once more. "So you see, Helen has only YOU!"
And with that, Louis removed her from the cage, and away from the presence of the small black cat who was pester-ing her, and brought her over to an exam table. Richard followed in spite of himself. He gently picked her up — and shook his head.
"Louis, I am not familiar with the anatomy and physiology of cats!"
"She is calm with you!"
And so she was.
In spite of his own self doubts, Richard set about assessing her. With his vision blurred, he figured it was next to impossible. He could not truly observe the condition of her eyes, for one thing. Nevertheless, he ran his thumbs and fingers gently over the entire furry surface. Miss Kitty sensed he was trying to help and tolerated this. No pain over her shoulders...her neck...her ears...her abdomen...
...and all at once she jerked and yelped when he stroked her left front leg. Poor kitty! It was obviously broken. He felt a gapping, almost imperceptible but definitely present, midpoint along the... what? Tibia?
"I REALLY don't know cat anatomy," Richard said again. Yet he realized that even with his vision problem, he might be able to set the bone — assuming that were all that was wrong. He had done so with human patients any number of times. Had done it more by feel than by sight.
Helen the Cat looked up at him with trusting eyes and he knew he had to try. Then it would remain to come up with some sort of immobility bandage — how does one cast a cat? — but he decided that maybe Louis could devise something. Also, he would need Louis to immobilize her while he worked, maybe even give her a local anesthetic first. He did not know what a proper dose would be or where the injection was supposed to go. He had to trust Louis to get it right, because if it were wrong it could cause permanent nerve damage. Or worse.
These things Louis knew about. He was glad to assist rather than be in charge. Between Richard's vision and Louis' arthritis, getting an injection into her was tricky business. But because of the likelihood of her clawing them while Richard worked, they deemed it a good idea. Once the local had taken effect, the process involved tugging the broken ends apart and then snapping them back in place. The worst part for Richard was not knowing how forceful he could be on such a tiny leg. It would go quickly enough, assuming there was no other tissue damage. Richard knew he could not see well enough to read an x-ray, even if a machine were available.
So he had to hope he would not be causing more harm. It seemed to him that Helen — the real Helen — was there, telling him to go ahead and trust his instincts. It was all Louis could do to hold the cat still, even with the anesthetic, but somehow they all managed to get through the procedure. Helen the Cat visibly relaxed.
The bandage looked to be clumsy but effective. Richard recommended keeping her away from the black cat if that were possible, given the crowded conditions.
"I am embarrassed we did not find the break," Louis said. Richard reassured him that it would have been easy to miss. "We have been giving her an antibiotic," continued Louis, "and it turns out she does not need it! We have been using a lot of it, especially lately. I am afraid we are running out." And he opened a medicine bottle, checking the amount. "Have you ever tried to give a pill to a reluctant cat?"
Richard chuckled and looked over at what Louis was doing. Even with his blurry vision, the deep orange color of the pills looked familiar to Richard. Familiar from very recently.
"Louis —"
"Yes, Robbie?"
"Please don't tell me that you've been giving me animal medicine."
"All antibiotics do essentially the same thing, do they not?" Louis cried. "Anyway, it is what we had. And it worked! You were at death's door, Mr. Strayer. Now you are alive!"
From the wheezing sounds that had been emanating from his lungs, Richard acknowledged the possibility that the medicine certainly could have saved his life.
It was also possible that any of several unknown properties of an animal drug could have caused his blurred vision, his sensitivity to light, the dizziness, the paranoia, even some of the disorientation, and the memory problems that he was still experiencing to a degree. Side effects! Maybe even the intensity of the dreams; maybe the hallucinations.
Which was from the antibiotic, which from the illness? He resolved to check the name of the medicine and verify his suspicions with a call to a poison control center when he had a chance.
Another thought occurred to him. The plants he had been working with recently in Concord — could one of them be responsible for his symptoms? How ironic it would be, after injecting Ben Charnquist with a curare derivative — a rain forest plant extract — if he too was experiencing toxicity from exposure to an exotic plant!
In any case, he could not keep taking the antibiotic. He reasoned that it might be wise to get a substitute intended for humans, but he did not know how he could. Yet it certainly could have saved his life, as Louis had said, even over a relatively short period of... how many days?
Louis struggled to get the top back on the medicine bottle, but it fell to the floor. Richard looked on as Louis bent to retrieve the cap. Richard had just observed the gnarled condition of Louis' hands close up, the difficulty he had performing even simple tasks. "Louis, there are new medications for arthritis that might —"
"Do not talk to me of seeking medical help!" Louis shouted, and stormed out of the room.
Richard, perplexed and suddenly very achy and tired again, decided to take Helen the Cat back to the bedroom with him, wrapping the short leash even closer around his wrist. She actually didn't need a tether and went with him gratefully. She curled up awkwardly in the crook of his arm, seemingly unconcerned about her immobilized leg. Soon they were both fast asleep.
•••••
Over at the house, Marie had long since put the groceries away. She had heard Louis' truck suddenly roar out of the parking lot, and she shook her head. But she did not look away from the computer screen before her. Louis had been using it again and had not closed his files. Worse, he had still been on line and probably did not know it. Thisnot only tied up the phone line, but ran up the bill! Out here, on the edge of a small town on the edge of nowhere, they were limited to a long distance internet provider. She had spoken to Louis any number of times, but he just did not seem to understand — he who was forever concerned about money!
In spite of herself, she was intrigued about the sites Louis had been visiting. Some of them were pretty strange, and she wondered anew what slightly illegal activities he might be engaging in with the aid of modern technology.
There was another concern. She had long known that there were some pretty subversive writers out there in cyberspace, ones that fueled many of Louis' long-held misperceptions. Here was one that she had opened before. It was every bit as eloquent in its passion for French Canadians as it was in its inaccuracy about their mistreatment.
Marie knew that her grand uncle harbored a lot of the old hatred and bitterness that many older French Canadians had carried for generations. Louis had grown up when many of Quebec's English citizens held them in disdain. There had been a time when the French were treated as inferior beings, strangers in their own land.
But although the French had had limitations imposed on them by a Canadian variation of a glass ceiling, there had never been the type of "separate washroom" discrimination that had occurred in the southern United States as recently as 40 years ago. Marie resented a particularly inflammatory web site that hinted otherwise, giving credence to the viewpoint of Louis and like-minded people.
Marie also knew that, although it was true that some of the Canadian Indians continued to have current issues with the government, French separatists were now a minority, comprised mainly of people from Louis' generation who would not let go of the past. Nothing she said ever persuaded him to change his differing philosophy.
His issue with medical care was something else.
Marie knew that Louis, for his own reasons, harbored deep resentments and mistrust of the medical community, believing it to be unfair to their part of the world in general and toward French Canadians in particular. This made no sense to Marie. The French received the same treatment as everyone else. So did the natives, for that matter. But in this, as in so many things, Louis' judgment was clouded by his personal grievances and would not be changed.
Marie mused that Louis was forever trying to convince her to embrace his causes. Ironically, she would have gladly done so — if there were any truth to them.
At the same time, Louis was unwilling to listen to Marie when she reminded him that they each had areas in their personal lives that absolutely needed cleaning up. She had a great sense of justice, of turning wrong to right. Some-day, soon, she would tackle her own issues. She knew this worried Louis. But this was something she must do, to satisfy her own peace of mind.
Marie continued to scroll back through Louis' list of recently visited web sites, feeling a little guilty that she was, in effect, trespassing. There were a few site names she had seen before but had not checked out. She did so now, afraid of what she would find, not wishing to be further insulted by them, but unable to check her own curiosity.
Not all of the sites had to do with French Canadians. One was the American FBI home page. Another was dedicated to criminals wanted for everything from armed robbery to murder. It contained warnings, legal information, rewards for information leading to capture. And descriptions of the fugitives from justice...
...including photographs.
•••••
The rain had ceased by the time Louis returned from wherever he had gone blazing out earlier. But the ground was still wet, and he tracked mud back into the house. For once Marie ignored it, which surprised him, just as the locked door had surprised him.
"Rob is getting much better," he told her. "In a day or so he will be well enough to leave. I will be taking him to meet a friend."
"Does his 'friend' have only one arm?"
Louis sagged. Suddenly he felt old.
"This precious Rob Strayer of yours is a notorious wife-murderer in the States," Marie hissed.
"What made you come to that conclusion?"
"Never mind. We are not safe in our own home! Louis, how could you do this to us?"
"I feel safe enough."
"Well, I don't!"
Louis was not thinking clearly, still stung by Richard's earlier innocent remark about seeking medical care, hurting because of the flood of feelings it stirred in him, and embarrassed that he took it out on Richard. He was not happy to learn that, somehow, Marie certainly seemed to know who their boarder was.
For her part, Marie had waited until Louis came home, wanting some explanation from him, something to reassure her that she was wrong about the identity of the man in the little room in the clinic.
•••••
Richard awakened to soft mewing. He was disoriented, but this gradually cleared to some degree. However, he real-ized that his other symptoms continued to wax and wane, and his memory had large holes in it.
Helen Kitty was not crying out in pain and loneliness as she had been. Instead, she was rallying her protector, telling him it was time to be up and about.
"You are absolutely right," he told her. "Meowl," she responded. The cat lips were close enough that, had he wanted to, Richard would have been able to kiss them... and Richard ached with far more than the feverishness of his muscles.
Purposely, he willed himself to get up. Helenkitty looked up at Richard expectantly, and he somehow knew she was asking him to feed her. He donned Louis' sunglasses and took the cat in his arms and went to find Louis or Marie, but did not locate either of them. However, he did find some cat food and a dish.
Helenkitty seemed nervous in the room with all the other animals, so he brought her back to his own room and set them on the floor. He noticed that the rain had seeped in from the inexpert construction of the little added room, and it created a slick spot on the floor. He moved the dish to a drier location and thought about finding a mop, but decided that the work would not be good for him. He would try to remember to tell Louis about it.
Richard surveyed his room, scanning the crowded clipper ships again, wondering about them, wondering why there were so many. He noticed his own clothes on a hanger, clean and pressed and neat — had they had been there all along? On a tiny dresser he found a comb, scissors, razor, shaving mug, soap and towels, and a basin for water that were obviously intended for him. Richard looked at himself in a dusty little mirror and grimaced at the shaggy and unhygienic condition of his beard. He decided that his vision was beginning to clear enough — or else he was getting used to it! — that he would risk a shave.
After a month or more without, it was a painful process. On a whim, and as a tribute to the generosity of Louis,
he decided to see how he would look in a moustache. "What do you think?" he turned to Helenkitty for her appraisal. "MOW!" she complained. "Yeah; I guess you're right," he replied. "It's crooked."
He was beginning to regret that he had called her Helen so readily. It was too painful, too disrespectful... and too dangerous. Helenkitty would do for a name until he thought of a new one. He finished up his job with a trim.
As he ran his hand along his smooth chin and jawline, he became aware of a couple of little areas that stung. It had been hard to manage, having gone without shaving so long, and with eye sight compromised — wearing sunglasses, no less! But he needed to feel like a man. The nicks would heal, he told himself. The moustache was not perfect; but even with impaired vision he could see that it had once again changed his appearance.
Helenkitty finished her meal, and with a grace known only to the feline animal world, managed to jump back on the bed even with her cast. She began licking her lips, and her leg just above the cast, as Richard finished cleaning up. He went over to get his clothes. Time he rejoined the human race!
But he had forgotten the water on the floor, and his feet went flying from under him in an ungraceful swoop. He struggled to regain his balance. But he failed. Landing partially on the little bed, well away from the cat, he bounced with a racket off the noisy springs and slid onto the floor.
Fortunately he was not injured. "Do I look as ridiculous as I feel?" he asked Helenkitty who, amazingly unafraid, had watched this little tableau unfold. She gave him a regal, withering glance. "We are NOT amused!" she replied. And with that, she tilted her chin at him and then resumed grooming herself. Richard just sat there and had a laugh on himself, grateful that he had not slipped while he'd had the razor next to his throat! Then he got up and got dressed.
•••••
At the Renaud residence, Louis and Marie were trying to understand each other, and failing. She was afraid of Richard, afraid to go back to the clinic with him there. She wanted him OUT. Louis was just as emphatic that their guest be allowed to stay.
"Anyway," Louis said, "Rob is too sick to leave just yet."
"They have doctors in the prisons to take care of that," countered Marie.
"I will NOT turn him over to the authority of any government!"
"This government you dislike so much does not have a death penalty!"
"But in America they do. He will face that if he is sent back."
"Canada would NEVER turn him over to the States to face a death penalty! He can rot in jail here, and we will be safe."
Louis was not sure if Marie was right about the lack of a death penalty in Canada. He did not know the law, did not care for the law, did not trust its enforcers to obey them. For her part, Marie did not understand why Louis was determined to protect their strange boarder. It seemed like there was more to it than Louis was saying. She began to think that maybe there was money involved...
"Louis! Can it be you want the reward?"
"Marie! How can you think such a thing?"
But long used to his way of thinking, she noticed that he had not denied it.
She wondered to herself how such a reward would work across international lines. Then she decided that would probably not matter to a resourceful man like Louis.
Marie was as loyal to her Grand Uncle as she was to her country. She did not want him to get into any legal trouble.
She had to find a way to protect him, but it was too much for her. Suddenly Marie jumped up and threw on a jacket.
"Where are you going?" Louis demanded.
"To check the animals. Somebody has to take care of them, remember?"
An obvious jibe to his having suddenly stormed off earlier. But Louis thought about it a few moments, did not trust her motives, and followed her to the clinic office. She had her hand on the telephone.
"What do you intend to do?" he asked.
"I have already done it," she whispered.
TO BE CONTINUED...