She wore a pant suit. Of course. It was a chartreuse thing with crystal buttons along the sleeves. Wide trouser legs swished around three inch heels.
Kathy caught Sam's expression and winked while opening the car door.
"You look wonderful, Doctor."
Kathy settled back in the passenger seat. "Please. I get to slough my lab coat for one party. No titles tonight."
"You look wonderful then, Kathy."
She patted his arm. "Atta boy. You clean up nicely yourself. You and I have a similar sense of humour, which will make schmoozing up hospital sponsors remotely bearable. Normally I bring my husband but he's working—and much too straight laced to have fun at this kind of event."
Sam snickered. "We can spike the punch when no one's looking."
Kathy beamed. It was the start of a beautiful friendship.
"I have to be honest, though," said Kathy.
"Oh?" Sam took his eyes off the road to glance at her.
"I half hoped inviting you would give Richard the push he needed to come too. That with you there he'd feel comfortable."
Surprise was a flushed dart along Sam's skin. He recovered after a beat.
"I hoped so too." Gerard sighed. "I even stopped by his place. He wouldn't bite. Maybe we can save him a plate of those mushroom cheese puffs he likes. He can't have the broccoli though because it sits poorly…"
He trailed off at the sight of Kathy's narrowed eyes and upturned ruby lips.
"What?"
"Nothing." She pretended to root through her clutch. "I just wish he'd known you before all this happened. I've been meaning to tell you how much I appreciate someone having his back."
"Yeah, yeah," Gerard groused. "Get in line."
Chicago Memorial didn't skimp on cost. By the time Kathy and Sam arrived at the country club, the outdoor party, spread like fireflies in glittering jewels across the green, was in full swing. A live jazz band played up tempo hits underneath warm orange and yellow lights.
An impromptu dance floor had spawned between the stage and little tribe of food tables. Guests mingled with flutes of champagne, their laughter hitting Gerard the moment he stepped out and around his car. He opened the door for Kathy.
Her eyes were just as wondering when she got a full view of the festivities. "After being stuck in stuffy labs all day, I suppose doctors party the hardest."
Gerard laughed. He offered his elbow and was thankful for no valet service so he could take his time walking across the parking lot.
"When was the last time you danced?" Kathy asked.
"Oh no." Gerard slashed his free hand to the side. "You'll be lucky to get me to clap."
Kathy delightedly ignored him by making her first order of business dragging a U.S. marshal onto the dance floor for a slow, swaying thing somewhere between a waltz and an eighties prom.
"Shoo." Gerard shook his head around a gusty exhale. "I need a stiff drink."
"You remind me of a cowboy," Kathy said.
"So do you," said Sam before he could stop himself.
Kathy just laughed.
"My wife divorced me three years ago," said Sam. "Hadn't danced with her for at least that long before we split."
One manicured brow went up. "Are you telling me you haven't danced with a woman for almost seven years?"
Gerard nudged her into a turn underneath his raised arm.
"Well, well, well," said Kathy. "Look who still has some moves."
Sam was thankful for his tuxedo's high collar. It hid a tomato flush betraying his otherwise impassive face. They sashayed to another song and then Kathy looped him around tables and colleagues.
She only introduced her date as "Sam," for which he was immensely grateful. He'd researched these people, knew the lives of those who asked, "Do you work down in autopsy? You look awfully familiar."
To which Gerard replied, "I'm a friend of Richard's. You've probably seen me hanging around."
"That must be it!" they laughed.
It was at the third hour of the party—and Sam's second bourbon—that a gargling engine, which didn't quite fit with the crisp and pristine atmosphere, puttered into the lot. Its noise carried just under the conversation of guests. Still, Gerard swung to the source.
And wouldn't you know it: one cobalt Model T sat in a space near the curb. Several older doctors murmured their awe, speculating who it could belong to.
There were those crow's feet again. They crinkled around Sam's eyes and broke the placid façade. He didn't even need to see the driver hop out before waving Kathy over from a dessert table. She licked strawberry sauce off her fingers and trotted to his side. Her face too lit up at a hunched, suited figure joining the party.
White haired colleagues ambushed him to rave about the vintage truck and where did he find parts? The paint job is original?
"Alright, gentlemen." Kathy rescued Kimble with a hug. He held onto her for a second. "Let's get some of this delicious food into Richard, hmm?"
The huddle of doctors chuckled at some joke Richard made as he left. Gerard, however, ceased taking in much of this happy scene—
The scarf. He's…he's…
He was wearing that blasted scarf. The two tone thing Sam gave him for Christmas. Kimble caught his eye through the melee and nodded and Sam had to clear his throat against some sand in his eyes.
He'd swear to that sand, later.
Then the surgeon and Kathy joined him and he could breathe properly.
"Sorry I'm late," said Richard. "Took me forever to get those wheels aligned."
Kathy squeezed his arm—"you're not eating enough"—and covered up the sand in her eyes by going to get Richard a plate of food.
The two men watched her go. Gerard sniffed and seemed to be examining the scenery.
"What is it with rich people and golf?"
Richard smiled. "Never was one for golf. Used to drive Charles nuts."
"Right." Gerard slapped his friend's arm. "You and sports."
"Does it help if I mention I like water polo?"
"No it does not." Sam wrestled back a grin. "It really doesn't."
Richard snorted and this felt normal, being shoulder to shoulder with an ally against the world, watching couples dance and clusters of men mime their golf swing while chowing down on shrimp. Even in April the Chicago air was a tad crisp, their breaths steaming into the night.
More sensitive coworkers stopped by to offer condolences and their gratitude that Kimble could make it to the party. Richard looked quiet and shy for one conversation and then squared up, handshake rock solid, to cater a board member or corporate sponsor.
He's been a chameleon all along.
Richard Kimble had clearly been the consummate masque actor long before his fugitive days.
Sam only left his side twice that night: once to use the restroom and when Kathy pulled Richard onto the dance floor. She threw her head back, laughing at something Richard said.
I'm going soft. Sam smiled a tiny, genuine smile.
The whole drama might have been avoided or done in harmless secret if Sam hadn't gotten lost after his second trip to the bathroom off the kitchen, this time to clean up some ice cream on his sleeves, and run smack into one of the wait staff.
"That was my bad, son!" Gerard braced the redhead waiter by the arms. "Are you alright?"
The young man, college age, nodded and shook Sam's offered hand. "No problem, sir! It's been busy all night and I'm wound up. Enjoy the party."
"Thanks! The rib eye is delicious."
"I'll tell the chef."
Both waved goodbye, Gerard patting the man's back, and they parted without incident.
Exiting the building, Sam slowed. His eyes widened. Surely he'd imagined it. For such a trim waist, the boy's lower back had bulged out, an odd angle.
"A gun," Sam breathed. "That kid has a gun in his belt."
Even then, Sam hesitated. There was no law against owning a gun. Maybe he had a dangerous route to walk home. Maybe he was a security detail disguised as a waiter.
I'm overreacting.
Then he saw a lanky woman pass holding two trays. The A-line skirt and black tights didn't quite hide a bulge against her thigh.
The bulky cook emerged to replace the ham tray with a cheese pyramid. It looked amazing, distracting guests from a strange shape in his apron.
Gerard's eyes darted for the catering van. There! Silver Catering Company. Their motif was a silver sea horse against the backdrop of a spouting fountain. Sam catalogued every detail of it in his mind.
Though Richard now sat alone on a bench, toe tapping to the band, when Gerard sought his eye, he rose to his feet. Drops of sweat fell from Gerard's temples and he stared, brows working, at Richard.
The doctor's face tightened with worry. He mouthed a word, the wide, single syllable of Sam's name.
He's so far away. The dance floor and dessert hub stood between them. I'll never get to him in time.
The wait staff all glanced at their watches and put down whatever they were doing. The young man from minutes earlier made eye contact with the cook and bobbed his head.
Sam, on instinct, reached for his belt.
Immediately, the cook dropped the ham tray and withdrew a Glock. He aimed it at Gerard. Sam raised his own in reply.
Guests screamed. The lawn cleared around the two men.
"See!" yelled the not-waiter to the cook. He withdrew his own automatic. "I told you he was a cop! I felt the gun when he ran into me."
And under different circumstances, Gerard might have snickered. That they'd found each other out in a moment of unplanned tripping.
"Our cover's blown if the cops are here," said the girl.
Sam went cold. They thought he was CPD, uncovering…whatever crime this ring was up to. Just by being a federal agent, he'd put all these doctors and dates in a lethal position.
"Put the guns down!" Gerard ordered.
The redhead's eyes blazed. "I don't take orders from cops."
"Son—you are gonna wish I was just a cop before this night is over."
The older man, the chef, lowered his gun with wide eyes. "Why would the FBI be investigating us?"
Oh for the love of…
"U.S. Marshal's Office." Sam flashed his badge with an apologetic look to all the doctors wearing faces of sudden recognition. "Place your weapons on the ground."
They ignored him, of course. Five bullets shot his way. Guests huddled under the tables, screaming.
A bull elephant, powered by a jet rocket, blasted Gerard off his feet before the bullets could. He landed in a heap next to the empty stage. He was so convinced that only a jet pack wearing, enraged elephant could cause such a stars-in-his-vision impact that he didn't understand the man's face bending over him.
The face looked horrified. The body attached to the face shielded Gerard from further gunfire.
When Gerard got with the program, he shoved his human shield off. "Richard?!"
"I just saved your life." Kimble trembled a little where he'd fallen in the grass. "You're welcome."
Gerard slapped him upside the head, he was so outraged. "You could have been shot!"
"So could you."
"Kimble—I'm the agent. I'm trained for hostage situations."
Richard stared. "They were going to kill you."
"I would have ducked the bullets—"
"There was a millisecond window."
"—And it doesn't matter because I'm the one who puts my life in danger."
"…But…they were going to shoot you."
"Agh!"
This hushed fight went on for another minute before Sam realized Richard wasn't being stubborn. He just didn't get it. By now Gerard had started to shake too, out of sheer frustration. It took him three tries to holster his gun.
We both have jobs where the lives of others depend on our split second decisions. Gerard made his wondering peace with that after a few minutes.
The three staff were been joined by more "waiters," fanning out in a rough circle to prevent guests from getting to their cars or off onto the golf course.
A human cage.
They stole jewellery from women's necks and wallets from men at gunpoint. Guests were forced out from under the tables, standing in rows.
"You just stay over there." The cook pointed his gun at Gerard. "I won't miss a second time. If you let us finish our business, we'll walk out of here. You'll never see us again. Capiche?"
Sam got to his feet, ignoring Richard's protesting taps at his back. He made sure to angle himself in front of his friend. "I'm not here investigating you. It's just a case of wrong place, wrong time."
The younger man smiled, tearing the tennis bracelet off a weeping woman. His expression was saccharine and brutal. "Then why don't you eat a crab cake and pretend we were never here?"
That was exactly what might have gone down had sirens not exploded in the distance. Someone had called before the looting started. The thieves only froze a moment before calmly continuing. No, sirens didn't alarm the gun-waving thieves at all—
But they jump started Sam's pulse.
"Sam?" Richard whispered, like he could read this change in bpm with his mind.
"We've seen their faces. They're letting us see faces."
Kimble frowned. "So? All the better to identify them when this goes to court."
Gerard swallowed. "No, Richard. They're going to kill us all before the police show up."
Richard was silent for a very long time, long enough for Gerard to grow concerned. He clutched the doctor's forearm. Had one of the bullets injured him? Was he in some kind of shock?
Gerard was already berating himself. "Richard? You okay?"
"This…is going to sound like a callous question, but there are over seventy guests present. Do they have enough ammo for that?"
The two friends watched ten or so wait staff cart stolen goods off to the catering van in tubs. Some had machine guns.
Gerard shook his head. His gun and its lone clip suddenly seemed like an eye dropper against a tsunami.
"There are other ways to murder people, Richard."
"I know."
"Sorry." Sam went white. "That was tactless."
Richard sighed, but it was a fond sound. "I'm used to it."
Sam slapped him on the back of the head again, gentler this time. Poole would have called it a hair ruffle. He wished he had his cellphone to call the gang.
Note to self: take cellphone everywhere, even to parties.
Everything went eerily calm. None of the guests put up a fight or played hero. They were smart people, these doctors—they knew that the wisest course of action was to go along with this robbery. Sam took the opportunity to breathe and mentally photograph faces.
Richard's closed-mouth rumble of humour brought Gerard's surprised eyes to him. "What's so funny?"
Kimble grinned. "Everyone pressured me into having a social life and look where it got me."
"Better than playing water polo."
Years later, Gerard was never able to explain that spark in Richard's eye or why it inflated his own chest with such ballooning hope. He tried, in words to friends and therapists, but it was something so utterly theirs that it made Sam's top five list of cherished memories. That he'd been able to ignite such joy, mirth, in someone whose life he'd nearly ruined.
That spark was worth the world.
"I won't tell Kathy you play water polo," said Sam, voice thick, "if you don't tell the gang that I watch musicals."
"Or that you can knit," said Richard.
Gerard almost fell over in surprise. "How—"
Richard held up the two tone scarf. "I'm not stupid."
"No." Gerard kept his eye on the staff and hand on his gun. "That you are definitely not."
"But I accept. Deal."
Richard shook Gerard's hand. Both had sweaty palms but neither mentioned it. Sam felt more than saw Kimble tense at his side.
"What?"
"They're almost done with the guests."
Gerard's eyes were grim. "I know."
"I…I have a plan."
And that made Gerard's top five list of most beautiful phrases. Warmth rushed over him, the comfort of not having to face this alone.
"I'm all ears."
Richard, to Gerard's never ending shock, went red. He got self-conscious over the most bizarre things.
"Well," said Kimble. "We're in a crowd of doctors, people who have backgrounds in ER and triage assessment, people who can think on their feet."
Eyes lowered while he thought, Gerard nodded. "Okay. Big brains a plenty. I see the advantage. I'm just not sure how to use it. We can't pretend to be injured."
"Of course not." Richard put both hands on his hips. "They'd probably just shoot that person, if they're going to off us anyway."
Gerard's heart panged. He wondered if that feeling would ever go away either.
"Follow my lead," said Richard.
"Wait—you can't just leave without telling me what you're going to…Richard!" The doctor walked sedately out from behind Sam's protecting shadow and over to the young redhead. "Richard!"
Sam had rarely felt so helpless. So he obeyed and followed several feet behind. He had the fierce impulse to fist a hand in that scarf and leash the doctor away from the danger.
"Excuse me," said Richard quietly, neck hunched a little, hands clasped and out where the gunman could see them. "I just thought you should know that I'm not here for pleasure, as a guest. I've been sent in cooperation with the…Marshal's Office…to assess a patient zero, one who escaped from prison recently."
The redhead scratched at a mosquito bite on his neck. "Patient zero? Sounds bogus."
Richard blinked. "It's very real, son. Patient zero means she was the first to be infected. There's been an outbreak in the suburbs here where the prisoner is hiding out and this is…"
He glanced at the guests and then leaned in. Unconsciously, the redhead leaned in too. Richard lowered his voice to a conspirator's whisper. "This is a fancy form of quarantine. We didn't want to alarm anyone until the investigation is complete, so we sent them invitations to a party. You chose a bad group of people to rob."
The youth went ashen faced.
"What's wrong?" The cook sauntered over, Glock at the ready. "What's going on here?"
The redhead didn't take his eyes off Kimble. "They're all…infected?"
Richard sighed a burdened sigh. His voice was just loud enough to carry. "Tragic, really. It starts with itchy lesions on the neck, then progresses to boils in the respiratory tract and from there, well. Brain damage."
The cook kept his unblinking gaze on Kimble, assessing, trying to find deception. Richard looked genuinely aghast.
"How are you not infected?" asked the cook.
"My partner and I took a special antibody injection before coming." Richard nudged Sam. "It's kept us immune. We were planning to give everyone else the antibody through a special toast at the end of the ceremonies but, alas, you started stealing…"
"Wait a minute." The girl came over now. Her jaw was cement. "Are you telling me that all of the things in those tubs are infected too?"
"Wallets, necklaces." Kimble ticked off his fingers. "Cufflinks, earrings, chequebooks—anything that people touch with their hands, really."
Gerard woke from feeling like he was watching an Oscar winning film to step forward. "I see it's already started on you, son."
The redhead's hand flew to his neck. "No. No! I gotta get out of here!"
"Keep your head on!" The cook shook the young man roughly by the chest of his uniform. "We finish the job. I don't trust this liar."
As if appearing from the dessert table, Kathy squeezed between the lines of doctors and doubled over, coughing. She'd put lemon cream in her mouth and it dribbled over her chin.
"See?" Richard pointed, his eyes fighting that spark again. "There's our patient zero. The boils pop in the lungs, see, and then the pus—"
The redhead covered his ears and ran off to the kitchen, shrieking.
That did it: doctors were on their knees, swaying. Some itched at their necks. One genius heart surgeon had taken the strawberry sauce and dabbed it in splotches on his face. Wails filled the golf pitch.
The cook licked his lips. "Alright. That's enough. Be quiet!"
The doctors coughed and coughed. Foam ran down their chins. Women pretended to cry over their husbands and give fake CPR.
Sam wished dearly that he had a camera.
"Why didn't you tell us?" Kathy railed at Richard. "We're doctors. We could have found a cure—together!"
Richard pretended to wipe his eyes on his sleeve. "We couldn't tell anyone until we had even a hope of treating this! I didn't want to…to let you down."
Second note to self: recruit Richard for the annual Marshal's nativity pageant. And academy training re-enactments.
It was the funniest thing Gerard had ever witnessed—award winning doctors faking sick like they were trying to convince their mothers they shouldn't go to school—until the cook aimed his automatic at Kathy.
"No!" The protest tore from Richard so hard his breath created a cloud in the midnight air. "If you shoot into their bodies, the infection will become airborne. Then we might inhale it!"
Come on. Even I know that one's baloney.
But the cook immediately lowered his arm.
Sam saw his opportunity. He dove for the gun, lifting the man's arm to the sky while twisting it out of his hand. Several shots fired upwards. Richard took the woman down with a pinch to some part of her neck.
Gerard sputtered. "Did you just…?"
Richard shook his head. "She's unconscious."
Gerard almost asked Richard the absurd request of "Could you do it to the other gunmen?" before years of training kicked in and he twisted the cook's arm, gun discharging into the man's shoulder. He dropped.
Sam pocketed the cook's Glock before firing his own at those with weapons up. Six staff collapsed in rapid fire.
The other three ran off to the van. Gerard took off in a sprint that would make his high school cross country coach euphoric. Still running, he shot out the back ties and the driver in the knee before he could hop in.
"The other two are getting away!" Kathy hollered.
She needn't have bothered. A burly surgeon and one lanky nurse took out the last two in football tackles, wrapping the thieves in microphone cording to raucous applause. Chief of OR staff waved police officers over while Kathy handed tubs out to be dusted for prints. Gerard snagged a plastic bag and put the cook's Glock in it.
"Well." Sam walked back and cuffed Richard on the shoulder like they were drinking buddies. "I haven't seen that much action in, well, over a year. I promised you wouldn't be bored, didn't I?"
Kimble quirked a challenging brow. "No. You didn't."
"Oh." Gerard glanced around at the damage and doctors wiping 'boils' off their lips. "This will certainly be a party to remember."
"Deputy," said Richard, "Our lives can never…ever…be considered boring."
A flicker of something on the doctor's face dampened any humour in his words. He rubbed at his chin in a tic that tightened the knot in Gerard's sternum. To anyone else, the gesture was all relief, an absent thing. Sam knew better.
"Aw, Doc. I'm so sorry."
Richard shook his head. "I'm not going home to blood. You were right. I'm still…I…I'm glad I came."
His eyes glistened but he maintained eye contact.
"You saved our hides, Richard. Thank you. I owe you one. Again."
Richard shrugged. Sam's scrunched face dropped.
"Kimble. Look at me. Kimble." Richard finally did. "You deserve to feel safe, just like any other citizen. I'll be here to make it so for as long as it takes."
Heartbeats passed and Gerard saw the argument on his friend's tongue. Not in disbelief that Gerard would keep his promise but that he, Richard, deserved the same treatment as everyone else.
Sure, he knew that from a legal perspective. But personally?
"And you deserve to let go of the guilt surrounding that," said Richard. His fingers sought outwards, just for a moment, and the touch on Gerard's sleeve stole his breath. It was the first contact Kimble had really initiated. "I'm only here and free today because of you."
"I'm not the one who found all that evidence."
"No, but you believed me. You were the only one."
Sam clicked the safety on his gun and holstered it. He shuffled a bit in the grass, watching detectives stream onto the scene. Cuffed thieves were read their right and ducked into squad cars. Statements were already being taken from guests. Hugs exchanged.
Police tape streamed along the parking lot, like the bow on an open-and-shut crime that had only lasted…Gerard checked his watch…forty minutes. It was a massive success, as crime stopping went. No casualties, no missing items. Everyone laughed over the doctors' acting.
Forty minutes for an illusion of peace to be shattered in the man at his side.
Farther away, the two men went unnoticed but for Kathy's quick wave while the detective took her statement.
"I need a stiff drink," said Richard.
"I can help with that."
Both men whirled around. The male waiter wiped bile from his chin and brought an arm up to level with Richard's eyes.
The redhead! Rookie mistake forgetting about him.
Gerard would have lambasted himself, loudly and violently, but his mind finally registered that the raised hand held a gun. A young detective ran over, not much older than their perp, and tried to wrestle this last thief to the ground.
The gun discharged.
A cold wave foamed along Gerard's ribs.
He felt the world go grey, losing colour. Losing heat. Losing balance.
With a hand fisted in Kimble's blazer, he dragged the doctor down in his collapse. Richard stumbled to his knees. Whenever this happened with Cosmo or Biggs around, one of them usually screamed, "MEDIC!"
Instead, Richard immediately tore his suit coat off to wad it against Gerard's side. He swore and babbled off something to himself, something about wishing he had a syringe and bullets dangerously close to arteries.
"Just keep breathing," said Richard. "Deep breaths. I know it's hard."
"Never boring, Doc. Never boring."
"Sam…"
A dangerous twist to Kimble's lips didn't match his doctor's mask. Gerard pushed past the pain and his uneven breathing to pat his friend's bloody hand. Richard nodded even though he didn't take his eyes off the wound.
The detective knelt beside Richard. "Your man got away onto the golf course. He seems to be rallying for another, more…personal attack. Rather offended by however you fooled him. I'll station someone with you."
"No need." Fingers a blur in their tremors, Sam handed his gun to Richard. There was only one bullet left but it would do. The doctor stared at it like it would bite him, weighing it in his free hand. "I'm safe. No one better to treat a gunshot wound than a doctor, right?"
The detective hesitated.
"Go," Gerard insisted. "That boy's a loose cannon and we need to find him. Deputy Gerard, by the way, U.S. Marshal's Office."
In a daze, the detective shook Sam's hand. He had kind eyes, with that slight and perpetual tilt of concern good men bore. It said he didn't sleep well at night because of the ones he swore to protect.
"Howard Chernov," said the detective.
Sam liked him instantly.
"How are you still conscious?" Richard barked. He'd gone into "surgeon mode." The pressure of his hands on Gerard's ribs sent him into a buck but he didn't make a sound.
"Sheer stubbornness and…experience, Doc. Not…the first time I've…been shot. I'm sure it won't be the last."
Richard threw him a startled look. Gerard gestured to the gun.
"You know how to use…use that thing?"
In answer, Richard switched off the safety and pulled back the slide.
Gerard hid his impressed shock behind a hiss of pain. "Never mind then. I should know better. You never cease to surprise me."
"Gotta keep you on your toes somehow."
"Treating two bullet wounds in two months isn't enough for you?"
"Nah. That's a normal Tuesday. Now thieves. That gets the blood pumping."
After a long second, Chernov's brows went high, mouth agape. His eyes flitted between the two men. "You trust this man, Deputy?"
Sam's mouth snapped shut. Did he? Besides water polo and an affinity for stale donuts, what did he really know about Richard Kimble?
But then Gerard thought of those micro movements, body language Gerard could read better than the doctor's own in-laws. He thought of late night calls and the tears Richard never showed but Sam felt under his skin. About a long car ride from the hotel that night. He thought about the fact he knew more about Richard's darkest chapter than anyone alive.
He thought about that stupid hoodie.
And the words slipped from Sam's mouth with the ease of breathing:
"I trust Richard with my life."
Kimble's hands paused and then started back up.
Chernov nodded. "Alright. The EMTs are almost here. Thanks, Deputy. Doctor."
Richard nodded, face strained. He didn't even seem to notice the young detective leaving.
"Richard, I've got to apologize."
"We went over this. You're not to blame for this schmoozer party becoming a crime scene."
"No, I mean…" Sam's lids fluttered. He fought the black curtain by weakly gripping Richard's wrists in some automatic response to pain and regret at doing this to Richard. At leaving him alone. "I…I don't think I can…"
"Gerard? Gerard—Sam? Stay awake. Come on. Sam!"
Just before unconsciousness swept Gerard away, a familiar face spotted Richard and ran over in delighted surprise.
Detective Kelly?
Kelly raised a rifle. Instead of putting up both hands, Richard kept his grip around the jacket and the wound. He stared back with silent fury. Pride hovered on Sam's lips.
Pair of steel on that man.
Long…long-hated words followed Gerard behind the black curtain:
"Doctor Kimble—freeze!"