"The Running Man"
Written by: 2Brazil2 and CoronetBlue — Director: Julia R.
Producer(s): Lea Ames and CoronetBlue— Post Production: Brixius — Creator: Roy Huggins
THE PROLOGUE
A HIGHWAY ENTERING SOUTH CAROLINA - 9/16/01 - 4:00 P.M.
"If it is to end for the running man, this is the way it will be."
The words play over and over in Richard Kimble's mind. Words he has heard before, on television or in a movie. He can almost see the man on the screen, hunched like himself against the rain, shoes sloshing through the puddles.
Kimble turns to look into the distance behind him where the hulk of a beat-up car, it's hood raised, has been aban-doned by the side of the road. It is the rust bucket, which has carried Kimble this far before wheezing its last. The wind is increasing, causing the pines on the shoulder of the highway to bend over as though bowing to some kind of weather god. Headlights of oncoming traffic flare in the camera lens. Kimble holds out his thumb in the vague hope some kind soul will take pity on him. Cars splatter water as they pass by, but no one is stopping for a hitchhiker. Kimble pulls the hood of his jacket close to his face and moves farther away from the edge of the road. Ahead he sees a sign welcoming visitors to South Carolina.
"If it is to end... if it is to end..." he would like to be among friends. The hope of finding Chuck Brixius and sanctuary from a nation on the alert for terrorists spurs Kimble towards Myrtle Beach. The countryside is giving way now toramshackle houses. He passes a car junkyard, a paint shop, an abandoned gas station. He trudges along, avoiding the deepening pools ofwater.
Kimble ducks his head as a sudden burst of wind drives stinging pellets of rain into his face. Then he spots a neon sign, glimmering through the downpour. "Carson's Cabin" it spells out in red letters. Below that, a sign advertising ham-burgers, fries, cokes. He angles into the small parking area in front of the concrete block building. Only two vehicles are there, one a battered sedan, the other a shiny blue, almost new pick-up. In his haste to get out of the rain, Kimble does not notice the police cruiser parked at the side of the diner.
INSIDE THE DINER
There are only two customers in the small diner. A heavy-set young man, little more than a teen-ager, sits in the middle of the five booths. Beyond him, the back of a man's head with close-cropped hair shows over the seat of the last booth. A television on a shelf behind the counter is glowing green with a weather map spread across its face. The weatherman is talking about a tropical storm off the coast. Kimble pulls off his dripping jacket, and sits down wearily in the first booth.
"A cup of coffee," he tells the waitress who comes am-bling over to ask if he wants anything to drink. When she returns with it, she splashes some over the edge of the mug.
"Sorry", she mumbles, and stands there with an order pad.
"A grilled cheese sandwich," Kimble says, choosing the cheapest thing on the menu.
He has just finished the sandwich and is picking up his replenished coffee cup, when the man in the far booth stands
up. Fear suddenly grips Kimble. The man is wearing a state trooper's uniform.
Kimble quickly empties his pocket of change and lays it on the table. He puts on his jacket, trying not to bolt for the door. He opens it slowly, deliberately. Outside, he glances over to his right, and now he sees the police cruiser. Hearing a noise behind him, Kimble spins around, fear jabbing at his insides again. But instead of the trooper, the heavy-set young man steps outside.
"Hey, man, y'all walkin' in this kinda weather?" he asks with a quizzical expression. At Kimble's nod, he motions to the pick-up. "Get in, I'll give you a lift."
INSIDE THE CAB OF THE TRUCK
Kimble slouches down in the passenger's seat as the young man forces his bulk behind the wheel.
"My name's Junior Johnson, after that race car driver. My daddy was a big fan of them racin' cars. Don't y'all know Gabrielle's comin'?" The boy's soft, slow speech is almost unintelligible to Kimble's northern ear. He starts to hold out his hand, but it is trembling so badly he shoves it back into his pocket.
"I'm Paul. Paul Kelly. Who's Gabrielle?"
"Man, where y'all been? Ain't you been listening to the radio or TV or nothin'? Gabrielle's that hurricane that's been millin' around in the ocean just off Jacksonville. They don't know if it will touch land here or not. You better git to a shelter if you ain't got no place else. My fam'ly's headin' for one just as soon as I git home."
"Shelter?" Kimble asks.
"Yeah, the schools are set up so people can go to 'em if their houses ain't safe." Junior replies. "Want me to let you off at one?"
"No... No, I need to get to Myrtle Beach. My girlfriend lives there." Kimble lies. "Oh, so that's it!" Junior exclaims. "What a man won't do for a girl! She pretty?"
"Yes, but better than that, she's nice. And smart, too—the best friend I know." Kimble is really referring to Chuck. Junior grins at the the thought of a pretty girl who is also nice. Kimble guesses that not many pretty girls have been nice to him.
"Okay, that bein' the case, guess I can take you there," Junior says agreeably. "I live in town myself."
SANDPIPER WAY, A RESIDENTIAL STREET - DUSK
"You can let me out now. I can find my way from here." Kimble says, looking up at the street sign marking Sandpiper Way. This time he is not trembling as he holds out his hand and Junior takes it.
"Sure you want out here?" the young man asks dubiously.
"Yeah, I'm sure. Thanks a lot, Junior. You're one helluva guy, giving me a ride in this weather." The rain has already caused water to flood over the curbs, and Kimble has to mind his step as he gets out of the pickup.
Kimble watches until the red tail lights of the truck disappear around the next corner. He searches for a number on the nearest house, and sees #335. He remembers Chuck's is #96, about three blocks down. He jams his hands into the pockets of his jacket and starts walking, bracing himself against the wind.
Kimble's eyes burn with hope. If anyone might know where the One Armed Man was, it would be Chuck Brixius. And if anyone could keep him safe at a time like this, it was Chuck.
As he approaches #96, Kimble checks cautiously for parked cars with occupants who might be police keeping surveil-lance. There is no one about. The white house with the red roof where Chuck's mother lives is dark. Plywood has been nailed over the windows for protection from the storm. Kimble heads for the guest house, where Chuck helped nurse him back to health nearly a year ago. Kimble knocks. At first there is no answer. On his third knock, the door parts a crack, then it is flung open.
"Dr. Kimble—Dr. Kimble! What are you doing here?" Chuck asks, astonished. "You're supposed to be in Canada!"
THE STORY
INSIDE THE GUESTHOUSE
Chuck lowers his voice. "Come in, quick!" The wind blows a gust of rain inside with Kimble. Chuck closes the door and takes Kimble's drenched jacket. "Have a seat on the couch. What's happened?"
"Is Gerard looking for me in Canada?" Kimble asks, grateful to sit down in familiar surroundings for a change.
"I don't think so. Everyone's been busy dealing with the Sept. 11 attacks. There's been 24-hour news coverage. That's how I happened to see you in Ottawa."
"CNN. I saw that clip," Kimble affirms, wondering how many other people recognized him as easily as Chuck did.
"Why did you come back? You were safer there," Chuck states, pulling up a chair. "Here people have suddenly become suspicious of their neighbors, and the transit authorities have started checking papers."
"I had Canadian friends to protect, I was endangering them," Kimble replies ruefully.
Chuck notices that Kimble has lost weight since his last visit, and he has aged more than the passage of time would suggest. "Let me get you something to drink. Are you hungry?" he asks, concerned about the appearance of the man sitting in front of him.
"I had a sandwich just a little while ago, but coffee would be good. Anything warm."
Chuck busies himself heating water on the hot plate. Kimble sees that the computer has been wrapped in plastic sheets, and there are bulky black trash bags sitting on the bookshelves. Only the police scanner and a battery radio are left on the desk.
"I haven't had access to a computer for some time. Has anyone on the message board seen Charnquist recently?" Kimble asks, afraid that while he has been ill, the trail has grown cold.
"You don't know? The website's gone. Someone exerted influ-ence on my web host and at the end of last month they kicked me off." Kimble's eyebrows arch. "But I was prepared for some-thing like that," Chuck continues. "I found a Canadian host over the summer and built another site, just in case. . The new message board went up a week ago. I think we'll be safe there. But to answer your question, no. No one has seen Charnquist since Haventown. He seems to have gone un-derground. The theory is that someone higher up has put out a hit on him."
Kimble takes the steaming cup Chuck offers him, and slumps far-ther down in his seat.
"Don't worry, Dr. Kimble... we'll come up with another tip. There are a lot of people helping who have contacts all over the world."
"Chuck, there's someone else I need you to keep an eye on. Matthew Ross." Kimble takes a sip of the warm but bitter brew, and revives somewhat.
"Your father-in-law?"
"He knows I'm innocent, so why has he tried to have me killed? I think he may be covering up his own involvement in Helen's death."
Chuck considers this. "I can try to track down everything on Ross Industries." "Good start. We have to suspect everyone," Kimble tells him.
"I don't know if you know," Chuck says, "but Gerard has new mug shots circulating. They show what you would look like with a beard and/or mustache, and they're pretty realistic. That's how I spotted you so quickly on CNN."
"Then the mustache will have to go." Kimble runs a hand over his upper lip, contemplating what his next disguise should be.
"There's no time for that now," Chuck says. "We've got to get out of here."
"What do you mean? Do the police know I'm here?" Kimble asks, poised to go into hiding again.
"No, it's Gabrielle. This place sometimes floods, and there are a lot of big old oak trees around. They have a habit of falling if there's a high wind. The radio just reported winds of 75 miles an hour, that's a category one hurricane. We need to go to the emergency shelter before it gets any worse. I'll load the car, while you finish your coffee." Chuck is being authoritative, which surprises Kimble.
"What about your mother... is she coming with us?" Kimble asks, puzzled.
"My mother's been in the hospital," Chuck answers, gathering up the trash bags. "She had a heart attack, then had to have bypass surgery."
Kimble's expression is instantly compassionate. " Chuck, I'm sorry. How is she?"
"She's doing really good, better than the doctors expected. Because of the storm, they released a lot of the patients, as many as they could. So today I took her over to her sister's. My aunt can look after her," he explains. "Then I came back home to board up the house, and see what I could do to protect all my computer and radio equipment." Chuck grins. "If you'd come a few minutes later, you would have missed me!"
BEACH ROAD, HIGH SURF - EVENING
The car, with Brixius driving, inches its way down the beach road to the shelter. The wind along the shore is far worse than it was back at Sandpiper Way. Surf pounds against the pier and blows over the highway. Even with the windshield wipers go-ing, it is nearly impossible to see. Chuck grips the wheel tightly to keep the car on the road.
The storm makes a high-pitched wailing sound. Suddenly a large billboard rips loose ahead of them and summersaults across the highway. It lodges in the concrete sea wall, partially blocking their way.
"I'll get it!" Chuck shouts, leaping out of the car. The blast hits him with hurricane force. Chuck grabs hold of the sea wall to steady himself.
"Let me help!," Kimble calls, rolling down a window.
"Stay in the car!" Chuck orders, fearing for Kimble's health. He reaches the sign and bends down. The metal frame has buckled
and twisted on itself. In a moment he is able to push it aside sufficiently to allow room for the car to pass.
Soaked to the bone, Chuck runs back to the car and gets in, slamming the door.
"Got it!" He says breathlessly. The car jerks forward and maneuvers around the sign. At the next intersection it turns off the shore road.
OUTSIDE MYRTLE BEACH MIDDLE SCHOOL - NIGHT
The car enters the lighted overhang at the front of the school. Kimble gets out and tries to open the back door, but a gust of wind is pushing against it. He dodges around to the other side to help Chuck. They begin pulling out boxes stacked on the rear seat, one containing flashlights, batteries, the police scanner and the radio, two more with bottled water and some food: crackers, granola bars, candy and canned meat.
Kimble looks at Chuck with a wry grin, "You did remember a can opener, didn't you?"
Chuck flashes him a smile in return, "Yeah, hurricane prep 101. I've done this before for Hurricane Floyd. Same shelter, too."
In the trunk are the black trash bags, with pillows and a couple of blankets in them. The two men pile the boxes near the double doors of the school, and go inside carrying the bags.
INSIDE THE SCHOOL HALLWAYS AND GYMNASIUM
They follow the arrows to the gym at the rear of the building.
A slender, gray-haired woman, probably a teacher, sits at a folding card table outside the gymnasium door. In front of her is a yellow legal pad. Seeing how wet Chuck is, she says, "Really coming down now, is it?" She hands him a pen. "We need you to register. Just sign in here. Name and address."
Chuck signs in and hands the pen to Kimble, realizing he doesn't know Kimble's new identity.
Kimble scrawls "Paul Kelly" and what could be "Oak Street" in undeci-pherable medical handwriting.
The woman turns the pad around saying, "You'd better go park your car on the west side lot—no trees over there. The rest rooms are just down the hall. We still have water and electricity, but I don't know how long that will last. You can
have your radio on, but keep it low—some people are trying to sleep. Put your garbage in the bins over there." Having delivered her litany of rules, she sits back in her chair and picks up the paperback she has been read-ing.
Kimble surveys the room. A coffee urn has been set up at the near end with styrofoam cups stacked nearby. He looks for another door and sees a fire exit at the back. Brixius guesses Kimble's intent.
"I always check for an exit... hopefully it won't be needed," Kimble tells his friend in a whisper.
There are only about thirty-five people in the gymnasium. Most are wrapped in blankets, or on cots, apparently sleeping. One little girl is standing up beside her parent's cot, finishing the remains of a late supper with the help of her brother. Somewhere a baby whimpers, but quiets when its mother gives it a bottle.
The two newcomers pick out a place along the far wall, away from the other occupants, and drop their pillows and blankets. Then they walk back through the hallway to retrieve their boxes.
"I'd better go move the car now," Chuck says.
Kimble nods his head and hoists a box, returning to the gym. As he crosses the linoleum floor, he hears a voice call softly from the corner of the room.
"Paul. Hey, Paul Kelly. It's me, Junior Johnson."
Kimble turns with the box in his hands and spots the large form of Junior sitting on a folding chair.
"I see y'all come to the shelter after all. Is your girlfriend here? I'd like to meet her."
"Junior, good to see you!" Kimble says, aware he must make up another story, another lie. "No, when I got there, she wasn't home. Probably already left for a shelter. I followed your suggestion and got a lift here. Two rides in one night, that's luck."
"It's the storm." Junior answers. "People here like to help each other out in a crisis."
Kimble smiles and moves off. He sets the box down by the trash bags and starts to dry himself with a blanket. When Chuck returns with the other boxes, he offers him the second blanket.
"Better wrap up in this. Those clothes aren't going to get dry on their own and you could really catch a cold," he says, unable to keep from dispensing medical advise.
Chuck pulls off his t-shirt, covers up tightly in the blanket and sits cross-legged on the floor. Kimble props himself
against a pillow. The sounds of wind and rain hitting the roof of the building are soothing to his ex-
hausted mind and body. His eyes close.
Sometime later they fly open as he feels someone leaning over him.
"Thought ya'll'd like to know, the radio says the hurricane is goin' on by us, headin' northeast. Prob'ly go on up to New England, they say, or maybe Nova Scotia or Newfoundland. We oughta be able to go home by morning," Junior says confidently.
"I'm glad to hear that, Junior," Kimble says, yawn-ing. Beside him, Chuck has fallen asleep and shows no signs of waking. Kimble sits up. "Is your whole family here?"
Junior eases himself onto the floor with a huff.
"Yeah, and my neighbors." He motions to the sleeping forms by the gym lockers. "We live in a trailer park, which ain't no place to be in a hurricane. Say, I sure am sorry not to meet your girlfriend. Ya'll are, too, I 'magine. Y'all are lucky
- girls don't give me the time of day, much less go out with me," he rambles in his soft voice. "Most people just pass me by, like I don't even exist. But you're different. I feel like I can talk to you."
"There are a lot of good people in this world like yourself, Junior. Maybe you just need them to see you for who you are. 'Junior'—that can't be your real name. Is it?"
The young man's face lights up. "No, it's Fred. Fred Johnson."
Kimble stiffens with surprise. The look in his eyes says, "My God, I've found Fred Johnson—at least a Fred Johnson."
THE GYM - MONDAY SEPTEMBER 17, 6:30 A.M.
The storm outside is dying down. A clock above the door shows it is six-thirty in the morning. Kimble and Fred have talked and dozed and now are fallen silent, each lost in his own thoughts.
A commotion brings them out of their reverie. A man in a deputy's uniform, wet and disheveled, is standing in the door-way talking to the gray-haired woman. He enters the gym and slides into a chair. Seeing that Kimble and Fred are among the few men awake, the woman runs over to them.
"The deputy has been hurt. Can either of you help while I call 911? Better come now, pleease!" She draws out the last word in distress.
"Come on, Paul," Fred says, struggling to get up. "What's the matter?" he asks, seeing that Kimble has remained seated on the floor.
Kimble's hand goes up to cover his eyes. The familiar, paralyzing fear has him in its grasp again. He wonders if he can even move, much less stand. He takes his hand away from his face, his gaze shifting to the man by the door. Obviously in pain, the deputy is holding his left arm in a tight grip.
It might be another hour or more before an ambulance can arrive. The physician, the healer, in Kimble prevails. He cannot stand by while someone is suffering, even if it is an officer of the law.
He looks down at Chuck who is beginning to rouse from a deep sleep, then accompanies Fred and the registrar toward the entrance.
"The nurse's office, can you get in there? A first-aid kit or something," Kimble requests. The woman hurries off to search for one. Keeping his face down, Kimble begins to gingerly probe the man's left forearm. "What happened?"
The injured man looks up at him with a painful grimace. "We were getting off duty and I let my partner out at his house, then started for home myself. Had to stop because there's a big tree fallen across the street just outside the school. I got out to move it, and another limb came crashing down. Think it broke my phone." His right hand touches the instrument clipped to his shirt. "I radioed the station to tell them I was coming in here."
"It looks like your arm is broken, as well," Kimble says, trying not to sound too professional. He gestures to the man's left hand, "Better take that watch and wedding ring off, your hand will probably start to swell."
"I found this, will it do?" the gray haired woman asks, hastening back with a first-aid kit.
Kimble opens the white metal box and checks its contents. Bandages and tape, antiseptic, a pair of scissors, but no pain killers of any kind. He looks at Fred, "See if any of your folks have some pain medicine. Tylenol or Advil, if you can't find anything stronger."
"Sure enough," Fred says, happy to oblige.
Kimble instinctively murmurs the comforting words of a trauma doctor. "It's going to be all right. We'll find some-thing to ease the pain until you can get to the emergency room. I know it hurts." He stops as he looks sideways at the deputy, and thinks the face and voice are familiar. Oh, God, yes, from the pier at the shrimp boat docks! The cop who at first had been kind to him, offering to find him a place to stay.
Fred returns with a pill bottle in his hand. "Is this okay? One of my cousins had these."
Kimble reads the label, Tylox. He tries to move behind the deputy, so his face will not be in a direct line of sight.
"Are you allergic to anything?" he asks, as a precaution. "Ever had a bad reaction to pain medication?" The officer shakes his head, trying to hide a grunt of pain.
"Then take one of these. It'll help. Ma'am, get him a glass of water, and see if you can find me some magazines, or a newspaper."
A strange request, but she runs off to obey.
Kimble removes adhesive tape from the kit and cuts off several long strips. When she come back, the deputy swallows one of the pills while Kimble selects two magazines and gently folds them around the man's arm, securing them with the tape.
"A makeshift splint." Kimble explains. "Does anyone have a scarf, or anything we can use for a sling?"
Several of Fred's very large kinfolk have come over to see what is going on. Chuck is standing behind them. The mother of the whimpering baby pulls a cotton crib blanket from around the sleeping child and offers it.
Kimble folds it into a triangle, then ties it around his patient's neck to hold the arm in place. He turns to Fred again, giving him the pill bottle. "When the emergency techs get here, tell them he took one of these. Show them the bottle."
The deputy is looking at Kimble intently. "Thanks for fixing me up—my arm feels a whole lot better now. I can tell you've done this before. Say, are you a doctor? Seems like I've seen you someplace round here, maybe at one of the hospitals?"
Kimble moves a step closer to the door. "No. I just applied basic first aid. Glad it helped." He looks down the hallway, fear glittering in his eyes. "I've got a girlfriend I should be checking in on, now that it's light out. I'm in town to see her." He gives Fred a quick glance over his shoulder. "Bye, Fred, thanks again for the lift," Kimble says, heading for the entrance to the cafeteria.
He is almost there, when the deputy calls out "Hold it, Kimble! Don't move!"
Kimble freezes, his heart pounding. When he turns, he sees that the deputy has risen to his feet and has a pistol in his right hand.
"I remember you now—down at the pier, we picked you up in that yacht. Put your hands on your head," the man in uniform orders. His voice is sharp, commanding, no kindness in it now.
Kimble stares at the officer as he slowly raises his hands. Strangely, the gut-wrenching fear has left him. He is just wary, waiting to see what the man will do.
Fred has been watching this weird scene unfold, his eyes wide with confusion. He can not understand what is happen-ing to his friend, the man who had talked to him as an equal, man to man. Without stopping to think about it, Fred steps forward, and pretends to slip on the wet linoleum, sending his big body in a feet-first slide against the deputy's legs.
The deputy hits the floor alongside him, landing on his broken arm, the gun skittering out of reach. He lies there groaning, almost unconscious from the pain.
Fred sits up. "Hey, man, I'm sorry. I slipped!" The rest of Fred's family and neighbors cluster in the doorway to get a better view, unwittingly cutting off Kimble's escape. Kimble looks towards the fire exit and sees Chuck waving at him.
With all eyes on Fred, Kimble ducks behind the group and joins Chuck, who holds the exit door open for him.
OUTSIDE THE SCHOOL
There is only a light drizzle falling, and intermittent wind outside. The worst of the hurricane has passed. Debris litters the lawn. Two power lines are dangling from a pole, but do not appear to be live. Traffic is backed up on the street where the fallen pine still lies across the road. No one is watching the rear of the school.
"Here," Chuck gives Kimble his jacket and thrusts a small plastic grocery bag into his hands. Kimble takes them and places a hand on Chuck's shoulder.
"Gerard will be on the way, as soon as a report is filed," he says. "I doubt he can prove anything—but he'll certainly try." His eyes fill with sorrow at the ordeal Brixius may face.
"Good," Chuck says gamely. "Maybe I can keep him here, throw out some bogus clues and make him suspect I've got you holed up somewhere nearby. "
"He could subpoena your computer," Kimble says worriedly. "Then he'd have access to your email and files."
"No chance," Chuck answers. "I erase my emails, and he won't find anything in the files. I can take care of myself, Dr. Kimble. But you should go."
"Chuck, no one could ask for a better friend than you. I hope someday I can repay you." Kimble enfolds Brixius in a heartfelt hug.
They hear the wail of an ambulance siren coming up the street, and Kimble turns and walks off in the opposite direction. Casually—so as not to attract attention. Chuck watches him leave for a moment, then turns and re-enters the building to get his things.
CHICAGO - TASK FORCE CONFERENCE ROOM - 8:30 A.M.
Captain Philip Gerard and Art Zimmerman sit at one side of the table, watching ongoing coverage of the tragic events of Sept. 11 on the monitor.
"Just us again this morning, eh, Captain?" Zimmerman says, cautiously sipping his scalding coffee.
"My core staff is still requisitioned to deal with terrorist reports, the F.B.I. is severely undermanned and it doesn't look
like we'll be getting Eve back for another week or more," Gerard relates sourly.
"Can't expect to accomplish much with just the two of us," Zimmerman com-ments.
The Captain is getting tired of Art's lack of ambition. He knows Zimmerman is just marking time until retirement. He wonders how long he can keep putting up with it, but he needs Art's experience. And right now he has no one else.
"Anything new come in over the weekend?" he asks.
"Nope," Zimmerman answers, watching the screen. "Just some woman in Canada who thought her intruder was Richard Kimble."
Gerard sits up. "I'd like to see that." Zimmerman obliges by shuffling through a folder and passing him the document.
Gerard reads it closely. "This is from over a week ago," he complains.
"R.C.M.P. apologized for the tardiness of the report, but they've been a little busy themselves since Sept. 11." Art chuckles to himself and blows on his coffee. "Only a Canadian would be polite enough to think that required an apology."
Gerard looks up from the report. "This doesn't sound like our boy. I don't believe Kimble would stop trying to pin his wife's murder on the One Armed Man and run away to Canada. I'd need corroborating evidence—a second sighting.
There is a knock on the door. An aide pokes her head in.
"Video for you, Captain. Came in the mail." She gives it to Art and quietly closes the door. Zimmerman pulls it out of the mail pouch.
"It just says 'Kimble'," he notes.
"Well, put it in the machine. Let's see what we've got," Gerard instructs. Together they watch the CNN broadcast of the memorial service in Ottawa.
Suddenly Art hoots. "God! That's Kimble, facial hair and all. You were on the money, Captain!"
"He IS in Canada!" Gerard exclaims, angry with himself for having discredited the earlier sighting. "The 'good' Doctor has turned coward on us after all and gone into hiding!" The phone rings and the Captain picks it up.
"Task Force, Gerard." He listens for a moment and then leans forward. "Myrtle Beach? But we just got word that Kimble is in Canada!"
Art looks over at Gerard in surprise.
"You hold him and I'll... You don't have him?!" Gerard sputters.
Art rolls his eyes.
"Then put up road blocks, post haste... a hurricane... I see... Not a priority. Thanks for the call," Gerard says, some-what ungraciously.
"He's flown the coop again?" Zimmerman asks, amused.
"Yes, and Myrtle Beach can't give chase because they're trying to clear roads, not block them. Apparently they've had a hurricane down there."
"So what about the Canadian sighting?" Art enquires.
"A Kimble look-alike, most probably. No, Myrtle Beach is the real deal. He's obviously hooked up with Mr. Brixius again. Well, we'll just bring in the computer geek for aiding and abetting and see if that smokes Kimble out."
"Are we leaving for Myrtle Beach?" Art asks, newly enthused.
"You bet we are!" Gerard says, rising.
At the door he is confronted by Assistant Commissioner Jerry Walston.
"Not planning on taking a trip, are you?" Walston asks the Captain coolly.
"We've got Kimble—he's in Myrtle Beach," Gerard replies, trying to suppress his growing irritation with the Assistant Commissioner.
"Then let Myrtle Beach P.D. handle him. You should know that we're not authorizing any travel at the moment, unless it is attack-related."
"But, we really have him this time, we know who he's with!" Gerard protests.
"Captain, if I had my way, you'd be off the Kimble case altogether," Walston tells him frankly. "We have bigger problems facing this country. While you've been in here pouring over clues, the world out there has changed. It's a whole new ballgame. Last week it was the World Trade Center. Next week it could be the Sears Tower. The people of Chicago need you to be vigilant." He narrows his eyes. "The lives of your fellow officers may count on it." Giving Art a slight nod, Walston turns on his heels and strides back to his office.
The Captain stares after him in bleak frustration.
THE EPILOGUE
THE HIGHWAY ENTERING NORTH CAROLINA
Kimble has reached the border into North Carolina. He looks be-hind him at the 'Welcome to South Carolina' sign. His first pri-ority was to put distance between himself and the state troopers. Now he stops to catch his breath and to pull the grocery bag Chuck gave him from his jacket.
Inside he finds some food, money, and a user name and password for the new website. He marvels at Chuck's presence of mind in high
stress situations. Yes, Gerard may have met his match in Chuck Brixius!
Kimble raises his face to the skies. Just yesterday he had been on this same road going south, with hopes of spending the winter in a warmer latitude. Today he is heading back north, no closer to uncovering the mystery of Helen's murder and with the police once again on his tail.
The words from the screen replay in his mind. "I am that running man. But it is not going to end this way. I won't let it," he says softly to himself.
The camera zooms out as Kimble takes a long shattering breath and starts running.
THE END