Through a Glass, Darkly

by Carol from Minnesota


* * * * *

“For now, we see though a glass, darkly; but then, face to face:
Now, I know in part; but THEN, I shall fully know -- even as, also, I am known.”
(I Corinthians 13:12)

* * * * *

**Please Note: This story contains situations which some may find offensive. I am not an advocate of what is sometimes called “strong” language; but due to the nature of the story, I felt I could not entirely exclude it. I have hopefully softened, to some degree, the blow of its assault on the “reader’s ear.” Apologies to anyone who may be offended.

PROLOGUE

He felt as though his lungs were about to burst. The muscles in his thighs -- the ones used for running -- had turned to putty. Such are but a few of the physiological reactions of the human body, when pushed beyond endurance, when chased and hunted, not unlike a fox relentlessly pursued by hounds.

“Blood” hounds. Wanting HIS blood....

There was no help to be had from his surroundings. This was a Sunday afternoon in a small southern town in the heart of the Bible Belt -- a town which seemed still to observe the old “blue laws,” when all the stores remained closed for the Lord’s Day so that all the pious people, ‘round about these parts, could stay home and contemplate the holy message which they had heard in church that morning.

It also appeared that several of these single story structures had been long abandoned and would not open on Monday or Tuesday, either. The tired dingy street, in fact, appeared to be entirely deserted, devoid of any living beings.

Apart from himself, of course. And apart from his pursuers, whom he knew could not be very far off.

He could run no more. Despite the danger, despite the certainty of being caught, his body needed to stop... Just for one little moment!... please, dear God in heaven...

Ah!!! One of the locked storefronts had a recessed entry-way. He could duck in here. Even as he did so, he knew it would be useless. The space was small, and there was no outlet except back onto the sidewalk. Even worse, he was surrounded by the glass of an old fashioned showcase. He would not be hidden, at all. He doubted that he could do little more than momentarily confuse his pursuers. Then they would be at him again.

The sound of his breathing was deafening to his own ears. He tried to control his panting, and listen for them. At first he heard the clatter of their shoes on the pavement and a couple of yelps -- yes, these folks really did sound like pursuing dogs! -- and then, nothing. Nothing but a swooshing sound against the eardrums. His blood pressure must be dangerously high! Or was he imagining it? In his fear and exhaustion, was he losing his sense of reality?

He tried to hold perfectly still, thinking that any motion observed through the glass would instantly give away his position. However, he did cast his eyes around, taking in as much as he could see.

He glanced up briefly at the females on the other side of the window, these fair young girls with their frozen smiles, showing off their summer finery. How cool they looked! Mannequins do not sweat. How could anything not sweat -- even store-front statues, he wondered -- in this miserable, melting heat?

Still he could hear nothing. And that worried him. He could not have gotten away so easily! They had been too close behind.

Suddenly he had a dreaded feeling that he was being toyed with... that they were there! Right with him!

Did he dare risk moving? He thought he might try rotating his head... slowly... very, very slowly...

And as he did so, he noticed for the first time how much the glass that surrounded him was reflective. If he altered the focus of his vision from inside the showcase to its surface, it seemed quite mirror-like. He could see most of the stores across the street. So he kept his head still, and scanned the street....

Omigosh!

He felt as though his heart had stopped beating. There, on the glassy surface, at very close quarters, appeared several faces!

One particular one -- surrounded by the others; a face so sweaty and distorted -- for one brief instant, he did not even recognize it. But there was no mistake... it was a visage well known to him. It was the face of...

Detective Philip Gerard.

He slumped down against the glass. His vision began blurring but he could see that some of the faces were grinning in their triumph: they had caught up with him. He was as good as dead, right here and now. Then he blacked out -- from exhaustion, from sheer fright, from the physical blows, even; it did not matter the reason that he lost consciousness.

But before he did so -- before the rough grabbing of his arms, almost from his shoulder sockets -- before they dragged him and pushed him and shackled him and kicked him to the ground, only to drag him to his feet and kick him down again -- his last conscious thought was of that one particular face he had seen in the glass...

The sole face which was recognizable to him, distorted in the glass by conflicting emotions of anger and disgust, and... and...yes, of terror... the face of Gerard...

Was his own.

* * * * *

Through a Glass, Darkly

Iola, Mississippi. About 60 miles due south of Memphis, and at least 45 years behind the times. Population, approximately 325 and counting. Downward. There is nothing in Iola to retain anyone. No industry, no business, no nothing. Close enough to the “Mighty” Mississippi River to absorb its unrelenting humidity, but too far away to be part of its attraction.

Iola, Mississippi. No shopping malls, no recreation centers, no place for the few young folk left to “hang.” Sometimes, young minds can be creative and productive. There have been a couple of those in Iola. Most of that sort pack up and leave for good, as soon as they are able.

Those unlucky enough not to be able to leave, for one reason or another, have to manufacture their own recreation. Some of those activities are... well, creative, yes. Productive, no: for too often, these youth are caught in the remnants of the small town pettiness of most of the so-called adults. Old fashioned, centuries-old prejudices, jealousy and hatreds no longer considered Politically Correct, still thrive in certain pockets of the world -- Iola, among them.

Detective Philip Gerard, held captive by his own handcuffs and some sort of rope, had ample time to think about young people with nothing better to do than to harass and torment and chase someone who was “black like me.” Powerful they were, these young white youth: mighty, and mightily destructive. Assured by those of the narrow-minded older generations in town that “their way” was right, the kids were firm in their belief that such bad behavior was justified.

They had made no bones about the fact that Gerard was being singled out for their particular type of ministrations because he was black. Only they did not say it so politely. They had driven away with him, from what remained of the center of town, in the back of a rusting pick-up. Then they had brought him to the edge of an old run-down estate, manhandled him out of the truck and into a broken down shack of indeterminate age. But Gerard had missed most of this, having been blindfolded. He was also in and out of consciousness, sometimes aware of annoying insects flying and buzzing and crawling around his face.

“Know where you is, niggah?” one of them had taunted when he was awake. “This heah be slave quarters!” His remarks were punctuated with the giggles of others -- how many of them, he could not tell. “And that’s what you is, boy - you’s our slaaaave!”

The youth began drawing the words out even more than his own natural drawl, in a cruel mockery of a stereotyped, uneducated southern black accent. He and his friends whooped and taunted their captive, and struck him some more -- until the man stopped struggling and screaming. Then they left him alone.... just lying there.

But with a pulse, and breathing.

“After all,” one of them rationalized, “we’re not murderers, or anythin’ bad like that. Riiight?”

They smiled, echoed “Right!” etc.

But not all of them agreed with this obvious “humanitarian” gesture.

“What’re ya, scared or sumpin’, Billy? Ya chicken?” one of them taunted him.

“No; I just meant...well...” Billy shifted his point of view. “ We’re just doin’ what must be done, huh?” He tried to take a high moral ground, while not losing standing with his peers.

But his gesture hardly signified. After all, if they did not eventually beat the “niggah” into final stillness, they still had his gun.

“Niggahs ain’t not to carry guns,” one of them mumbled. “Uppity niggah needs to be taught a lesson!”

* * * * *

Gerard’s favorite uncle, old Thaddeus Gerard, had always said that he (Philip) had been living a privileged life compared to how it had once been for black folk, back in the days of outright, “legalized” segregation.

In the present, during occasional episodes of name-calling and other slights he had suffered due to his race, the younger Gerard had not felt particularly privileged. He had felt discriminated against. And rightly so.

But this! Iola’s youthful “welcome” was a new level of hard core racism for him. One which, up until now, he had only read about or seen on TV during Black History Month -- or which he had only heard about from older folk like his Uncle Thad. He recalled the hurt in uncle’s eyes when, on one occasion, he had accused the ancient gentleman of “whining about the old days.” Now he understood them better!

First-hand experience can be a most effective teacher.

Gerard struggled against his shackles, sensing the bright light of the day under his blindfold (from the direction of at least one obvious window; the rest of the room seeming to be quite dark); feeling the harsh floorboards underneath him in the brutal heat; feeling the steady tickle of sweat between his shoulder blades, wishing that he could translate that salty fluid into something to drink, because his mouth was dry as sawdust. Only not as pleasant tasting. The rancid gag took care of that, along with any moisture that his mouth could have otherwise produced.

He was also acutely aware of the putrid, acidic smell of the place, which (among other things) was strongly evocative of old urine. Maybe he was not in a shack. Maybe it was an outhouse! Certainly smelled enough like one. Combined with the gag, the odor made him want to throw up. Literally. He was afraid that if he did, he would choke on his own vomit and die. What an ignoble way to go!

He wondered if his captors were anywhere around. He guessed not, for he had been left alone for... how long had it been? No real way to know. The light which crept around the edges of his blindfold told him it was obviously daytime. But which day? How long had he been held? In between bouts of losing consciousness, he had sensed periods of darkness. Was that the passing of night? Or had the blows to his head been that severe?

One thing he was fairly sure of -- the trickles of moisture on his forehead were not all from sweat. There was a stickiness that made him sure it was blood. These hopped-up kids meant business! And he knew they would be back. Gerard struggled anew against his bonds, cutting into his wrists and ankles and neck as he did so. But he also knew that he had no choice.

He did not know that, above his head, a pair of video cameras -- precariously propped on a high shelf and pointed downward -- were recording his every move.

* * * * *

Gerard’s struggles continued on until the light from the window had moved across the room. Several hours, at the very least. They had trussed him up pretty good.

But they were not professionals, and they had made some mistakes which could work in his favor. For one thing, they had fortunately cuffed him in front and not behind his back. Much easier to try to work himself free. Once Gerard forced himself to calm down and think, he was able to wiggle his right hand enough to be in a position to tug against the rope that was cutting into his rib cage. There! Now at least, he could breathe a little easier.

Soon, he realized that it was this particular rope which was holding him against... it appeared to be a massive table leg, to which he had been bound. OK, now; if he could somehow tip the table over...

No good! The table leg was rough, and primitive. Rubbing against it was surely giving him splinters... and it would not budge, not even a little.

Maybe it had been built into the floor... same time as the building. Maybe it was not a table, but a... bunk bed post? Surely, as old as this place was - and he had no doubt it was old -- it had not really been old slave quarters, had it?

Probably it was just some old hunter’s shed, or an outbuilding. But then again, in this part of the world, one never knew. It could actually be a part of history... a grim part, to be sure.

And here he was, caught in it! The structure’s latest slave, as that kid had said.

He knew he was wasting energy, that he should rest in between struggles. But he also knew instinctively that his time was running out.

He staved off panic by forcing his mind to concentrate on what had become an old familiar feeling... a personal vendetta of his own. Anger welled up in him, as he thought of how he had come to be in this predicament. It was Kimble’s fault. As was everything else lately, whenever something went wrong in his life.

Always, his nemesis, Richard Kimble!

* * * * *

Of course, Gerard also swore at himself that he had been an idiot for chasing down the latest Kimble tip on his own, to this God-forsaken spot, with no back up and no one to know his whereabouts. But it had been a lazy summer weekend... and he had been unable to legally mandate, entice, or otherwise rouse any of the other members of the Task Force into overtime action.

Gerard figured that it was practically a straight shot south from Chicago to Memphis; a little over 500 miles, and then not much farther to Iola. It had sounded like a duck shoot; easy pickings. He would come home a hero, solo in the spotlight -- the quaking Kimble in tow.

* * * * *

As it turned out, the tip had proved correct. Far easier than Gerard had suspected. He would not even have to obtain any local search warrants, for he had stumbled across Kimble right out in the open, in a run down diner at the edge of town... calmly seated at the counter... unsuspecting...

Gerard knew that it had been but a split second after Kimble seen him, that the fugitive had taken off at a dead run out into the street, abandoning his back pack with whatever meager belongings he had. Gerard admired Kimble’s reflexive bolt, in spite of himself.

But he had seen Gerard too late. “FREEZE, Kimble, or I shoot!”

Richard skidded to a halt, obediently, downcast and beaten. It was a delicious moment for Gerard, and he loved every minute of it.

“Hands behind your head!”

Richard slowly and painfully complied, his chest heaving. Out of breath, and totally out of luck. Slowly, he turned and raised his eyes. The two of them looked at each other, the one pleading for understanding, the other smug and triumphant.

“I didn’t kill my wife,” Kimble said softly, futilely, yet once again.

“I... don’t... CARE!” Gerard spat back at him, tired of Kimble’s denial of guilt. “Now, turn back around!” Gerard reached for his handcuffs.

Richard turned and looked down as though something would magically appear, a hole that could swallow him up, or maybe something that he could jump off -- a cliff or something -- Anything! -- before the cuffs went on. And of course, in this flat miserable town, there was nothing like that. No such means of escape.

It was a tableau almost frozen in time. A snapshot, as it were, of Great Moments in Crime-Solving. The Mighty Kimble, brought low, his head bowed, eyes closed. The Mighty Gerard, successful at last, about to become a Legend, his eyes drinking in the sight of his prey, humbled thus before him, before he cuffed him and marched him off at gunpoint.

But Gerard had been too full of himself, too full of his capture of Kimble, not to have tunnel vision. And so he had not seen the teens sneak up behind him....

...and tackle him. And snatch his gun. And strike him with... something! A baseball bat or a pipe, maybe. It was all a blur. For one moment, some detached part of him glimpsed and understood why it is that some victims are hard-pressed to describe their assailants, and why they are unable to give any useful details about what had happened.

But one thing was crystal clear to him.

“Noooo!!!!!!!” Gerard yelled, as Richard scrambled away. The assaults raining down upon his own body, at that moment, felt almost secondary to his loss of Kimble.

He tried to shout to the kids that he was a cop, and that Kimble was a murderer. They were having none of it.

“No colored fart ain’t no cop!” one of them shouted back. They did not -- they would not -- believe him. Absolutely refused to.

Being a professional, Gerard had briefly had the better of them -- had at least been able to duck some of their repeated blows, and had gotten away and run down the street -- only to be cornered, exhausted and bleeding, in the recessed store front.

And so now, here he was, gagged and blindfolded and tied up in some stink hole of a place, helpless in the face of their certain return.

Gerard realized that these mixed up teens were confident in their belief that anyone who they perceived as their Own Kind, regardless of what he had or had not done -- that a white person who had broken the law, even if he had committed murder -- was, in their eyes, better than any black person, saint or sinner, all of whom they were pleased to call “niggah.” And Gerard also realized that, No Way, were these kids going to allow one of the anathematized race to hunt down ANY white man, for any reason.

Yes, even murder.

“Kimble’s fault I’m here!” Gerard mumbled to himself in his mind, yet again. His anger gave him renewed strength in his struggles to escape.

* * * * *

Gerard continued to make slow progress. The rope encircling his ribs having been loosened, the one that cut into his neck fell a bit more slack. If he could only be sure it would not ultimately strangle him! Funny that he did not think about that, when he was trying to tip the table over. “You’re losing it, Gerard!” he rebuked himself silently.

Resentment over Richard Kimble welled up inside him again. If Kimble had not been such an illusive target, if he had not been such a plum prize, ripe for the picking, Gerard would have told someone else about his tip. But Gerard had been personally and professionally rebuked often enough, with verbal and written warnings, that chasing Kimble had become a liability as well as his life’s quest. The only way out of his dilemma was to capture him, once and for all.

Gerard had been told enough times that he was “obsessed” with the man’s capture. Obsessed! Well, of course! How else to be successful?

But he took such chastisements seriously, and played it cool. When he got the Kimble tip, he decided that he would lengthen the lazy summer weekend by using a rare Vacation Day, and spend the time in travel. All alone, on his own time. And if of course, he “just happened” to run into Richard Kimble...

And so once again, Gerard acknowledged bleakly that he was truly alone. Without any back up, either in Chicago or locally. No one knew where he was!

* * * * *

Suddenly, some part of the ropes fell loose, and the bonds holding his wrists to his legs grew slack. Good, good, good! Now he could raise his arms. Even though he was still cuffed, he could use his fingers and thumbs to work loose his blindfold and even untie his gag. His mouth and eyes were sore... but OK. Or at least, basically intact. He took in his bleak surroundings, growing dimmer by the moment.

Either because of the decreasing light, or because his vision was blurry from his eyes having been blindfolded, or because he just failed to look up, high enough...

... he failed to see the video cameras.

As Gerard continued his scan of the room, he was dismayed to learn that there appeared to be no source of water. He discerned that the entire structure consisted of this one sparse room. He understood dehydration well enough to know he needed water, and soon. But he would not be getting it here.

With some effort, he worked his arms around to the place on his person where he had secreted a key to his handcuffs, for just such an emergency as this. No such luck. It was not there. Those miserable kids had obviously found it!

He next tried to loosen the knots around his ankles (which he had made tighter with his struggles, he had to acknowledge to himself). Once he had his ankles free, he could shake loose the final bonds to the table leg (for that is what it was, and it was built into the walls), and he could try running out of here... wherever “here” was.

Good! He had struggled to stand. He was a bit wobbly. His ribs were sore where he had been bound, and from suffering many blows... He felt his forehead, looked at his fingers, and confirmed that there was dried blood...

He made his way over to the window, high and small, and still admitting some light. There was no glass; it was just open to the air except for a window-sized piece of cardboard, propped up nearby. No wonder the bugs could get at him so easily! Looking out, he did not see any signs of life. Across a grassy meadow expanse, Gerard could just make out a large old house, ruined and crumbling with a caved-in roof, behind some old trees filled with gently swaying Spanish moss. It might be just that... an old house that happened to have shack some distance away. But it also could be more evidence that this really had been a part of some slave quarters!

The thought chilled him. These kids really meant to make an example of him, because he had been chasing a white man. For sure, they would beat him again. They’d punish him for getting loose, and tie him up better next time; those were a given.

But they might do him worse. A lot worse. If he could not make his way free, before they returned...

Cautiously, he tested the door. It did not budge. He looked for the hinges... and saw that there once may have been some sort of peg and the remnants of an old, rotting leather strap. No metal hinge in sight; nor was there a knob, as such. It occurred to him that there was most likely a lock or a barricade on the outside of the door. He pushed at it again... and again. Nothing. Soon, he was hitting it with all the strength his shoulders gave him. He was gladdened to hear a bit of shuddering... but after awhile, it became obvious that that is all it was doing. Surely, it was barricaded.

Briefly, he considered rushing them when they came through the door. But knowing that they had his gun, and whatever club-type weapons they had used, or whether they would return with reinforcements...

Not a good idea for him to be there, when they got back.

He made his way to the window again. With the handcuffs on, how on earth could he raise himself up to that height? Despite himself, he spent another futile several minutes, yet again, trying to get out of them... and finally he gave up on it.

Now that he was standing, he became more aware that his gut was hurting. Also his ribs, his neck... in their blows, they had spared very little.

Light was diminishing fast, now. It was amazing, how fast sunset occurred, the farther south one went. Soon he would be plunged in a darkness that held new terrors for him. Suddenly, he had an image of these boys’ faces, disappearing like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland, with only their evil grins left. He shivered despite the heat.

Gerard looked at his only option for escape, and hoped desperately that he was tall enough, and thanked God that he had kept up with his rigorous physical fitness training. In order for this to work, he would need to prop his feet against the table, “wall-crawl” his way up against the corner of the room with his sore back and shoulders, and hope that this would give him the leverage he would need to somehow “grasp” window ledge with a shoulder or elbow, and pull himself out. Or maybe the angle would be good enough that he could “push off” the opposite wall with his feet, and he could fly out through the window that way, hopefully not landing on his head. He doubted that any such efforts would work. Yet he had no choice but to try.

And so he did... and he crashed mightily to the floor, realizing that he would do so even before he landed. But there was ‘almost’ enough room that he was given a spark of hope, and would try it again...

However, when he had hit, there was a jolting, metallic sound from high above, that he did not expect. And that is when he spotted the cameras, obviously recording him even as the red indicator lights must have been concealed...

Those fiends! He could imagine them, in weeks and months to come, endlessly watching the images of his struggles, laughing and drinking and possibly popping pills as they did so... what would be the final scene of their gruesome little movie? He wondered. Would they dare actually shoot him? Hang him?

Slave quarters! Gerard suddenly began to believe that those kids might just tar and feather him. Literally.

HOT TAR! His whole body recoiled at the thought. He wished mightily that he had not remembered the horrific stories of slow torture from his Uncle Thad.

Fighting panic again, Gerard gathered all his strength for another try at wall-climbing up to the window, even as he realized that the video cameras might also be more than just taping him for posterity. They might be broadcasting his “progress” to them, even this very moment.

He crashed to the floor again, but with renewed strength that he had been closer this time. And he had a better understanding of what he must call upon his body to do. Before the beatings... before they had compromised his strength, bruised his muscles and maybe even cracked some of his ribs... he had been a strong man, fit and muscular. He would need to call upon every ounce of that strength now.

Fighting pain and nausea, he had another go at it... shinnying up the wall... almost to the window.... one more stretch, and... yes! This time he knew he had it...

And at just that precise moment, the door shuddered, and in piled his tormentors.

One of them reached across and smacked Gerard’s own gun down onto his already bruised belly.

And so he again came crashing down, to their uproarious laughter.

“Thought you’s gonna git away, huh, niggah?”

The earlier imagery of grinning Cheshire Cats could not have been more apt.

* * * * *

They ordered Gerard to kneel on the floor, his own gun waving in front of him. He tried desperately to think of a way to get it from them, but in his heart, he knew it was hopeless. He knelt as ordered, obediently, downcast and beaten. It was a delicious moment for the young thugs. Obviously, they loved every minute of it.

“Hands behind your head!”

Gerard slowly, painfully, complied, chest heaving. Out of breath, and totally out of luck. Slowly, he raised his eyes. They all looked at each other, the one pleading for understanding, the others smug and triumphant.

Suddenly, Gerard had a flash of remembrance of seeing his own image reflected in the glass in the recessed store-front. Somehow -- in that moment, for whatever reason -- he had... somehow... he had... expected to see the face of...

Richard Kimble! -- there in the glass, hunted down like an animal...

And in that moment -- that brief remembrance of that other time, when he HAD seen Kimble’s face reflected in glass... already doomed, bound for the death row at the prison in Joliet, on the transport van before it crashed -- in that moment, Gerard understood that Kimble’s dilemma had become his own.

This time, he himself was the hunted... he, the captured!

* * * * *

The tiny shack’s ancient wooden door burst open again.

“Well, shoot; Ah wouldn’a believed it, if Ah hadn’a seen it with mah own eyes!”

“Sheriff Groodner! We was just --”

“Yeah, Ah know what you punks ‘was just!’ ” the florid-faced, beefy lawman barked back. “Now put that fool gun down, afore yahs hurt somebody!”

One of the kids tried for the door. But he was stopped at rifle-point by Deputy Fugate.

“You cops got no right in here!” one of them cried. “This land is owned by --”

“Ah gotta warrant,” Groodner sighed. “Fugate, get these -- delinquents! -- outta mah sight, and down ta the station. Gotta few questions Ah gotta ask ’em.”

They all filed out, dejected. If there was a sheriff’s car nearby, Gerard had not heard it drive up. Nor, obviously, had the kids.

But Gerard, it seemed, was not yet quite in the clear. Now he had to deal with the sheriff, who was looking at him in the gathering darkness with... what was this awful expression on the sheriff’s face? Were the shadows and poor light giving him a sinister look? Or was this the embodiment of what Grandpa Thad had called “the hate stare”?

“OK,” Groodner said, with what seemed to be a rather menacing tone, “ya gonna tell me what the devil you’re doin’ here, boy, where ya obviously do NOT belong.” Groodner had not lowered his own gun. Instead, he leaned up against the now-closed door, staring at Gerard, with the aid of a flashlight shining into his face.

* * * * *

Deputy Fugate reappeared in the doorway. “Uh -- Sheriff --” he began.

“What the Sam Hill are ya hangin’ around here for?” growled Groodner. Get them little monsters down ta the station, like Ah said!”

Fugate shifted his eyes back and forth between Groodner and Gerard. Clearly, he was uncomfortable leaving the Sheriff with this man who, moments before, had been at the mercy of the youths. After all, they didn’t know yet what the guy had done to rile them. Then again, Groodner could sometimes be kind of.... funny about certain things. Wrote his own rule book; interpreted “the law” to suit himself; had said Mississippi’s recent tribute to B.B King was “horse-hockeys,” no matter how talented a jazz musician...

Well... Fugate guessed that THIS black guy couldn’t do much to Groodner, the shape he was in -- shucks, he was still in handcuffs! -- and for sure, the deputy reasoned, he was going to have to do something with those kids. Then Fugate shrugged and slowly shuffled out, closing the door behind him. Now Gerard was alone with Groodner, who repeated his demand that Gerard tell him why he was in “these parts” at all.

Gerard painstakingly began to tell the story of how he had come to Iola Mississippi. “Hrumph!” he was interrupted several times. “Well, Ah wouldn’a believed it. Still don’t! What’re ya doin’ on some fool manhunt, without backup? ‘Spect me ta believe a story like that?” he thundered.

Gerard, indeed, had some explaining to do.

As he spoke, Groodner lowered his gun a bit, but did not put it away. “You’re damnable lucky that we came along when we did. Tommy and his friends looked like they’as about to string you up. Or worse!” He started a deep chuckle, then cut it off. “So you’re a ‘tective! Fellow lawman! Ah’ll need a name, an a’course Ah need ta see some ID.”

Gerard assured him that would be no problem....

...uh... just as soon as he located his wallet. The kids probably had it. But he was, Gerard said, in fact the head of the task force that --

But Groodner broke him off. He still wasn’t satisfied, and said so.

A yet-fearful Gerard shifted his tack. He looked upward and pointed out the video cameras, which were still operating.

“Oho!” the sheriff said, gleefully. Ah’ve been keepin’ mah eye on these kids for quite awhile. This is the evidence Ah’ll need.” He chuckled. “Cain’t wait ta watch the looks on their faces when Ah play back their own arrest for ‘em! Mind ya,” he was quick to point out, “they’s good kids. Mighty good! Went ta school with mosta their parents. But they gotta stop foolin’ around with stuff that’s nonna their business! This’ll help straighten ‘em out! Give ‘em a warnin’ they won’t soon forget!”

Gerard swore under his breath that these kids deserved a lot more than a warning. But he did not want to antagonize the sheriff in any way. For the same reason, he was squeamish about appearing to be evasive by asking, too soon, about any medical attention for himself -- which so far Groodner had not offered to obtain. Gerard instinctively felt he needed to time it just right! Instead, he held off on that and asked Groodner how he’d happened to know where the teens had held him captive.

“No place else ta go! Ah used ta come out here, m’self, when Ah was their age. Used ta be a rumor that this was all that was left standing of slave quarters of an old plantation. Prob’ly not; too long ago. More likely, a left-over migrant worker shack. Still, ya never know. So anyhow, us guys’d come out here, drinkin’ beer, peein’ on the walls (hee! hee!) Smells like these kids still do that --” he broke off. “But that’s neither here nor there. Lucky thing for your sorry hide that Ah found ya when Ah did,” Groodner repeated, self-importantly.

“Well, I can’t thank you enough, sheriff,” Gerard babbled. “That was wonderful police work. I really do appreciate you rescuing me when you did. But I cannot help wonder, sir; how did you happen to come looking for me at all?”

Gerard wanted the whole story. But he sensed that he had to be very careful how he asked about it. He hated calling the sheriff “sir.” But if he needed to play the part of a humble black who “knew his place,” if he needed to build up the sheriff’s ego with phony compliments to get the story out of him, so be it.

* * * * *

Down the road apiece, heading into the darkness of late evening, an old Trailways bus wheezed along in what one lone Traveler hoped would be the least likely direction he might be thought to be headed. Maybe he would try switching back a couple of times, on other buses in other directions. Or since his funds were again running dangerously low, he might go back to hitching rides.

For the present, he thought he was OK. He just figured he needed to make tracks, and fast, and a bus ticket was therefore worth the price. It was hard to think straight right now. Tired and jittery, he thought about his actions earlier in the day. One part of his mind regretted what he had done. But on the other hand, so far as he could tell, he had done the only thing possible under the circumstances.

Another man -- someone who had long given him chase -- had himself been in deep trouble. A brief try at reasoning with the assailants had been unsuccessful. When the Traveler had tried, one of them stopped his beating of the man and menacingly held up the gnarled walking stick in his direction.... and so he had prudently taken their advice, and had gotten out of there.

The Traveler had tried to phone the local authorities. But once he told them that the man in trouble was black, the attitude shifted to one of unconcern, and he sensed that his call had availed little. He could not believe that, even this far into the Deep South, such prejudice could still exist, in this day and age! Especially from a professional, whose law-upholding members supposedly knew better. Or so he would have presumed.

On one level, it was tempting to let his tormentor’s fate twist in the wind. A just retribution, for all that he had suffered at his hands.

But such was not in the Traveler’s nature. And so he had felt trapped -- in quite a different regard than usual.

Sensing that the lawman was about to hang up on him, he fought his exasperation and knew that he had to take extraordinary measures in order to be believed... or at least listened to!

And that is how he found himself telling the sheriff the one thing which he thought just might get his attention... and thereby increase the odds that the man in such desperate trouble would actually get help.

(Amazingly, the Traveler spotted his back pack, which had obviously been slung out onto the sidewalk in front of the diner. White or not, he had been “thrown out.” Clearly, he was NOT meant to be in this place!)

All these memories of events from earlier in the day, spun around and around in the Traveler’s mind, keeping him awake for hours. One time, he had almost nodded off... but then he was jolted awake as he caught sight of his own face reflected up at him, in the glass window of the bus, eerily reminding him of that other time -- also traveling in evening’s darkened hours -- when he had looked hopelessly out the window of a prison transport, while his tormentor smugly sat beside him...

Until, at last, exhausted, the Traveler shook off the familiar image, and drifted off into an uneasy sleep...

* * * * *

EPILOGUE

Gerard had half an idea just how the sheriff had known --the only way he could have known! -- to come looking for him. But Gerard did not want to admit to himself just who it was, who would have contacted the local law about his dilemma.

For indeed, there was one person, and one only, besides himself and the youths, who had known what was happening to him.

Nah! Must have been one of the kids, conflicted about what he was doing, who clued in the sheriff. For Gerard to admit that his rescuer and his fleeing quarry might be one and the same person, he would also have to admit there was some decency in him, after all. But Gerard had traveled down that road many times before. Such thinking raised niggling doubts. And those, he could not afford to have.

But then again... hmm; perhaps if the sheriff believed that he had been notified by none other than...

“Maybe,” Gerard reasoned to himself, “there is still a way to catch Kimble after all, if I can just get Groodner to believe who I am. Maybe this hayseed lawman would not mind sharing the collar of such a famous fugitive....”

The sheriff was reminiscing again about his own misspent youth. Gerard gently brought him back to the subject. “Did someone tip you off that I was in trouble, sir?”

Groodner chuckled. “Y’ain’t gonna b’lieve this. Gotta a phone call from some guy calling hisself Richard Kimble! Can you beat that? Richard Kimble! That’s that fugitive doctor fellah that was on ‘America’s Most Wanted’ awhile back,” Groodner added, explaining Kimble’s identity to Gerard.

The Sheriff’s laughter grew, and soon he was red in the face from such a hilarious joke. “He was just some drunken bum, obviously,” he continued. “Or some wisecrack’n fool. But when he said some kids was beatin’ on some nigrah, Ah figured that Ah best at least go check it out.” Groodner did not mind stretching the truth a bit in the telling.

“He -- actually TOLD you he was -- !” Gerard jumped up. “How long ago?”

“A’course,” an oblivious Groodner continued in his condescendingly amused way, “Ah hadda get a warrant from the Judge first, so’s Ah could search this place.”

“This idiot gets a call from Kimble,” Gerard fumed to himself, “and because of his prejudice against People of Color, has obviously taken his sweet precious time getting a warrant --”

“Any idea where he was calling from?” Gerard asked, dispiritedly, feeling his prize slip away once again.

“Haw, haw, haw!” Groodner went on. “Richard Kimble! Why do ya wanna know where this guy was callin’ from? Next thing Ah know, you’re gonna tell me that he WAS Richard Kimble, and you’re the detective lookin’ fur ‘im, and he’s the one ya came here ta chase after.”

Groodner’s face suddenly grew stern. “And if ya do, Ah’m gonna haul ya off to jail, and ya can cool yer heels in the same cell those yayhoos are in, and let THEM straighten ya out!!!”

Gerard slumped against the table which he had been trying to utilize to scale the very walls of this place, not so long ago. He knew that, one way or another, this evening
-- here in Iola, Mississippi -- was most likely going to turn into a very long night.

* * * * *
THE END

* * * * *

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story, set in a fictionalized southern town, draws inspiration from behaviors that have been well documented, and attitudes which unfortunately linger in some individuals. We need only look at current world events! These behaviors could yet occur, again and again. History sometimes has an unfortunate way of repeating itself.

This story is therefore a tribute to all those who have suffered at the hands of others -- who hate them for no other reason than that they exist.